the Sequel
I surrendered my red Kia to one of
the fifteen eager parking valets. Carefully, on wine-purple stiletto sandals, I
set out to find the Dohner party. The Willows, a harbor-side restaurant and bar
was just leaning in to the Happy Hour.
I found the group on the water-side
patio fairly close to the bar. After greetings all around, I was seated at the
table with a coveted view of the bay and its moored sailboats.
The summons to this gathering was
predicated on attending a performance by the son of my long-time friend,
Rachelle. Her son, Kent, and his friend were positioned in front of mikes,
ready to serenade the crowd.
I glanced around the outdoor room.
The Willows was known to be a pricey ‘meet market.’ Women with long, frothy
hair wore summery crepe tops showing toned arms. Near the bar, men in business
suits, or dressed in a calculatedly casual way, were all directed toward the
feminine patrons who were at small tables, very purposefully not looking back. There
were more blue-shirted wait staff than customers.
Menus were scattered around our
table.
“What are you going to have?” asked
Rachelle.
“Whatever they’re offering for Happy
Hour,” I replied.
She informed me that happy hour at
The Willows was a less expensive, truncated version of the in-house menu. I
ordered a $15.00 mojito and a $12.00 house salad. Rachelle’s sister, Carli,
ordered the lobster roll despite the $29.00 cost.
“Kent, we can’t hear you,” Rachelle
hollered toward her son. “Turn up the audio; it’s coming out all muffled.”
Kent, doing his best cool jazz persona, shook
his head at her and avoided her gaze.
“Come on, do you think we came here
to listen to fuzzy background music?”
Carli suggested that she was embarrassing him.
“Somebody’s got to tell him,” she
retorted.
Our drinks arrived, all in plastic
cups or in wine glasses, which were on the short and narrow side. The group
grumbled. I discovered that my wonderful seat was not the prize I had thought. The
sun moved out from behind a cloud and bore down on the gathering, directly into
my eyes. When I told Rachelle she should
have told me to bring a hat (like hers) she replied, “I would think that as an
adult you would be self-regulating enough to have thought of it yourself.” I
mumbled something about expected umbrellas, and focused on the fuzzy music.
Our happy meals arrived.
“I smell skunk,” announced Carli.
“I smell skunk,” agreed Rachelle.
The waiter had served the dishes.
Carli stared down at a hotdog roll topped with lobster salad. She sniffed. She
tasted the lobster, then waved her fork.
“Taste this!” she demanded of the
group. “Very fishy.”
She had the lobster roll sent back.
Rachelle addressed her $19.00
hamburger. The flat, wrinkled bun did not bode well.
“This bun is from the supermarket
down the street. When they run out of the good stuff, they send someone over
there to get this.”
She managed to eat half of the
burger and pushed it aside.
“This is boiled horsemeat. Can’t
eat it.”
She proceeded to inform every
Willows worker of her dissatisfaction.
“They’ll sure be glad when we’re
gone,” said her brother-in-law, Ryan.
I ate my salad with its two halved
cherry tomatoes, medallion of goat cheese, and bits of hardened bacon. I poured
the ice and mint bits from my mojito cup into ice water to keep the illusion
going.
Rachelle and I went to powder our
sweaty noses and encountered the musical duo on a break. She let her son have
it about the low caliber of the music as I tried not to listen. When she left I
whispered, “But it’s nice!” and hurried after her.
We returned to our seats under the
heat lamp and endured for another twenty minutes. The best entertainment was
the off-color joke Carli’s husband told. Then I parted with a five, a ten and a
twenty as my portion of the bill.
Waiting for our cars Rachelle
attempted to explain her position.
“I know they don’t like what I
say,” she said airily referring to her family members, “but I have…”
“Standards,” I supplied.
(705 words)
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