This thing started with a question. We were sitting under the red awning of Sushi Zen in New York, about a block away from Times Square. That’s where we were. And it was tourist season. The table-for-two wait time was expected to be about an hour, but Tom and I were determined to get in at least once before heading back to LA. My husband was sitting astride the bench, his back to the door. I was in front of him, standing so our faces were at about the same level while we chatted. I’m short, ok? I take advantage of every opportunity to be as tall as him.
A young couple had just sat down on the benches next to us, directly behind Tom. The question came out of the blue, and Tom didn’t realize for a moment they were talking to him. “Excuse me.” The voice was a light in tone, contrasting with dark, wooly features. The man was probably in his mid-twenties, with a wild looking mane of long, dark curls and a distinctly Mexican horseshoe mustache. I could see that the blonde woman next to him looked impassive, as though this happened quite a bit. Tom turned slightly toward the couple, as much as he could comfortably twist, but still only enough to bring them into his periphery. “Hi!” The young man continued, with just a touch of unidentifiable accent. “I’m just wondering – are you a competitive bodybuilder, or do you just work out for fun?”
Tom turned back to me and made brief eye contact, with a teensy bit of grin, and slowly gathered himself from the bench. All six-and-a-half-feet of him. He gave a slight shrugging motion as he turned, as if to shake out a tight muscle in his shoulder, then he stood before the young couple. I was trying not to laugh, but the strangers weren’t looking at me, anyway. Tom had his hands on his hips, feet shoulder width apart, back straight but with a bearing slightly like that of a crouching tiger. He looked like some kind of Viking warrior, but in a Hawaiian shirt. He was going to fuck with them.
“My name’s Tom,” he said casually, “What’s yours?”
There was a nervous pause, but the man answered, “Julio.”
“And where are you from, Julio? I’m from LA.” Tom paused, then quickly added, “The bad part. Molly and I are from the bad part of LA.” He gestured my way as he spoke.
Julio was holding up pretty well but was clearly regretting his forwardness. “We’re from Sacramento, sir. Shelli and I. Sacramento California.”
“And you work up there? A professional man, I’m guessing, by the look of you.” In spite of his raw, hippie vibe and tousled hair, Julio did in fact carry polished look.
“Yes.” Pause, then stuttering slightly. “C-c-computers…” Julio was getting more distressed with each question.
There followed a few moments of contemplation. Tom’s blonde curls were buzzed short on the sides, with a shock on top that made him look even taller. His upper body looked like he could just give one good flex and destroy his close-fitting shirt like the Hulk did in the comics, while the muscles in his thighs could be seen through his slacks. He didn’t just stand there, he towered. Inside, I was wondering how much longer I could stand this.
Tom broke the spell. “So.” It was like a single baritone note. He continued, “How long have we been friends?” he raised his eyebrows a touch. “Like, two or three minutes, maybe?” He smiled one of his big, winning grins. “That’s good, because if we didn’t know each other so well, I would have said that, really, why I choose to work-out is none of your fucking business.” He chuckled slightly and shrugged as he said this. “But we’ve gotten to be such good friends now and, you know, I’ve gotten past the fact that you’re from Northern California – I’ve forgiven you that.” Tom glanced around, and continued in a somewhat conspiratorial tone, “However, as we stand here today, and before I answer you, I have a question of my own.” He paused for effect. “Would you like to join us for dinner?”
Julio was confused, but he was beginning to see Tom’s sense of humor in this, and the winning charm of my gentle giant once again prevailed. Julio glanced at his wife, who apparently gave him some unspoken sign, and then said “Of course! We’d love too.”
“One second, please.” Tom stepped over to the maître d’, returning after a brief consultation. “As I suspected. Restaurants always seem to work this way. A table for two takes an hour to seat, but there’s a table for four coming up right away. Good thing we ran into each other, yes? Got us in the door, anyway.”
Shelli was laughing, clearly enjoying the interaction and probably happy to learn this particular trick of the restaurant game. Julio was right behind her, literally and figuratively, as we crowded together near the door. The mood was now very light, and we chatted the few moments it took to get inside. In short order napkins had been placed, drink orders taken, and we were looking at the provided menus.
“I recommend the fugu,” commented Tom, placidly. “It’s to die for.”
“You’ve had it, then?” Shelli was apparently the foodie of the two.
Tom grinned. “Actually, no. But you’ve heard of the dish?”
“Well, it’s a puffer fish, right?” Shelli could sense that Tom was driving at something. “Is it prepared some special way?”
I jumped in. “Tom’s making a joke, Shelli. Most parts of the fugu fish are extremely poisonous. There are only a few chefs who are trained to prep it without contamination, and this is one of them.” I turned to Tom. “What’s his name?”
“Suzuki.” He answered. “Something Suzuki.”
Shelli was curious. “Poisonous? So, it can make you sick?”
“Actually,” Tom responded, “it can kill you. In fact, it will kill you, if you get any of the poisonous parts. There’s no antidote, and it’s basically always fatal. Happens very fast.”
Julio suddenly pointed to his menu. “Here it is, hon!”
Shelli was enthralled. She looked at her husband’s menu, then back at hers. Her eyebrows raised slightly. “’To die for,’ you say?”
It was one of those rare times when a joke’s still funny after it had to be explained. Everyone had a good laugh, and the mood remained until the drinks arrived. When the wine steward had gone, Shelli looked straight at Tom, and said, “You’re getting it, right? The fugu?”
Now, my husband is not a particularly daring man. Yes, he can be bold, and does not lack confidence, but he shies away from anything dangerous. It’s just not him. Today, however, we were on vacation, thousands of miles from home, with our new old-friends (who were on holiday as well) and Tom’s usual caution was already a little on the weak side. Add to that the presence of Shelli, who was clearly throwing a challenge at him, and Tom was transfixed. There was a sort of stare-down between the two, which lasted several seconds, and after which Tom said (without even a glance at me), “Yes.” He paused, “Yes! I’ll do it if you do.”
And that was that. Nobody else at the table was going for it. Julio and I agreed to stand by, ready to dial 911, but we weren’t having the danger fish. When the waiter came around, we ordered our chosen selections – soups, appetizers, salads, rolls – some to share and some not. Then, at the very end, two pieces of fugu nigiri.
“You’ve read the disclaimer?” Asked the waiter.
“Yes.” Shelli and Tom lied in unison.
“Will there be anything else?”
There wasn’t. As the waiter walked away, we all began looking around. All four of us, peering at the people and tables in our area. I realized that we were all doing the same thing: checking for signs that others had ordered the notorious food, or indications that any were suffering the consequences. And also, I suspect, were we wondering if anyone had observed the order at our table. Nothing. Just an ordinary, New York landmark restaurant, filled with ordinary, New York landmark visitors. Nothing to see here.
“So, what do you do, Tom?” Julio was apparently out to even the score on the original questions. Out in the awning, Tom had asked, but not said anything of his own profession. Julio was apparently not the type to let it slide.
“Well, we’re a team.” He pointed back and forth at the two of us. “Molly is a graphic designer, and I write marketing copy. Together we work as consultants for marketing campaigns. Small to medium sized business, mostly.”
“Wow!” Julio replied, “That’s a lot more exciting than what I do. Shelli was a graphic arts major herself, but ended up in sales.”
Shelli chimed in. “Have you worked on anything we might recognize?”
I was waiting for this common question and responded with my stock answer. “Our contracts actually don’t permit us to discuss specific engagements, but yes, you certainly have.” This was almost true and tends to avoid boring shop talk.
Shelli’s face crumpled in mock pain now. “Just a little example?” Then she veered slightly. “How about you make something up.” Shelli’s smile had returned. “How about an advertising slogan for Julio. Pretend he’s… um… a gangster! And he needs something catchy for his business cards!”
I was already scavenging a bit of paper out of my purse, and I started sketching while Tom leaned back in his chair, inspecting the ceiling. Within perhaps thirty seconds, he leaned forward again. He crossed his arms on the table in front of him, and in a low voice said, “Julio, Julio, shoots his guns in the air. And the bullets come down, but we never know where!”
The couple started to crack up, but then paused when I held up my sketch. It was a cartoon caricature of Julio, waving a gun in each hand. Both guns had a flag reading “BANG!” unrolling from its barrel.
I thought management would come to quell the ensuing laughter. “The hair!” Shelli was gasping for air as she spoke, “Yep, that’s him!”
“Like I said,” chuckled Tom as, we settled down a few notches. “We’re a team!”
“Yes, you did!” Shelli said, adding, “But you never did answer Julio’s original question….”
“Which was?” I know Tom had not forgotten, but he feigned ignorance in the moment.
“Why you work out. You do look like a competitive athlete.” Shelly gave a sweeping hand gesture, encompassing Tom from head to toe. I felt a tinge of jealousy but swept it aside for the moment. Shelli was cute. Thin, medium height, with stick-straight natural blonde hair just below her shoulder. Her Scandinavian face was very delicate, with pale, very intelligent eyes. Even face at rest seemed to land in a smile, and she laughed easily. I wanted to see what my husband would say to this attractive young lady who seemed so interested in this subject of his body.
“I do it for beauty.” That was all he said. Knowing him as I do, I understood his statement. There was no vanity here, but anyone else would certainly take it as such. Shelli’s follow-up question (and it looked like she had one) was derailed for the moment by the arrival of soup.
For a minute or two there was only the quiet slurping of excellent miso. I stepped into the empty space.
“So, how did the two of you meet?” I asked.
Julio answered. “We were set up. A blind date.”
This struck me as funny, which must have been evident to Shelli. “What?” she asked, “are blind dates out of fashion?”
“No,” I replied. “This will sound racist, but I mean strictly from your look: pale and fair, dark and, I don’t know, kinda wild looking. You two could not be more opposite in appearance. Perhaps your friends thought to construct a ‘yin-yang’ effect?” This is why I usually let Tom do the talking. He has more tact, and charisma to get away with saying this kind of shit. I was relieved when they laughed.
“Yep!” Shelli was rocking in her chair, giggling. Her soup was finished, and she set her napkin down. “I think that’s exactly what they had in mind! If you knew our friends, you’d agree!”
“I think it was just supposed to be one date.” Said Julio. “It was another couple that took us with them to a show. I think they wanted company because their own relationship didn’t have enough spark to keep the evening alive.”
“But five years later, we’re still together!” Shelli shifted in her seat, and I suspected she was reaching out to her husband under the table with her foot. “Besides, I happen to like our yin-and-yang look.”
“It is striking.” Tom smiled. “You make a cute couple.”
Julio may have blushed, but Shelli kept her stride. “As do you!” She said, “with your difference in size! And how, pray tell, did you meet?”
Tom smiled. “College cheer.”
“Molly was a cheerleader?” asked Shelli.
“We both were.”
“So, you were on a squad together?”
“No,” Tom glanced at me before continuing, “She was at UCLA, I was UCSD. I was in the all-male team. At the time, it was starting to get really big. Competitive cheer had just gotten recognized as its own sport.”
Shelli’s interest had been captured. “So, you met her in competition?”
“Sort of.” Tom liked this story, I knew. And Shelli had accidentally set him onto a path thought he very much enjoyed. “I was with my squad at a competition. UCLA was there, along with others. It was regional. I was waiting for our event – the men’s, I mean – and watched a few of the other events. I hadn’t really done that before, and I became impressed with the beauty of it.”
“You’re talking about the sport. The beauty of the sport.” Shelli had been, I suppose, expecting me to appear in the story by now, but she was catching some of Tom’s energy behind it.
“Yes.” Tom continued, “but coed stunts in particular. They had a stunt fest that day. I was watching these men toss their partners into the air – it was spectacular. And eventually Molly came out, and I watched her flip, twist and land solid. Her partner held his arm steady as a rock. She lifter her foot immediately on landing – everyone else had a pause there. I couldn’t believe it. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, look up ‘cupie’ with ‘rewind.’ Molly was a goddess, and her partner was amazing.”
“I’m waiting for the part where you steal Molly away from the guy…” Shelli obviously expected a punchline, but it wasn’t coming.
Tom laughed as he said, “Yes, I suppose that’s what it sounds like. But it didn’t happen exactly that way. Back at UCSD, I changed direction. I got plugged into Hybrid Cheer, developing my stunting skills. The ladies at San Diego were great, and they helped my confidence immensely. It’s not obvious, but the flyer has as much control of the base as the base does over the flyer. The sport is strikingly symmetrical that way.” Tom tends to get enthusiastic about certain things, and this was one of them. “To me, it’s the interaction of the masculine and feminine aspects of human beings in a nutshell. The base must be strong – very strong. Over and over, he’ll support his partner with one hand, while she displays the balance and grace of the divine feminine. She must pay attention, place her feet and hands just so, maintain posture and repeat the movements exactly, all the while trusting that her base will stand firm, supporting her, waiting to catch her if she slips up. The symmetrical beauty is beyond my ability to express.”
Shelli was surprisingly silent. She was clearly not bored by this, and neither was Julio. They both waited for Tom to continue. I was comfortably sipping my wine, thinking how much I loved this man.
“The beauty doesn’t stop there. Hidden underneath what looks like a simple brains-and-brawn duo is the deeper fact that she must be strong, as well. The flyers train heavily for this, and pack incredible power into a small frame. And the men, of course, must be graceful. In a way, the partners learn these things from each other, and both help magnify each other’s counter-abilities. Like learning to do things with your left hand – the skills are there, if you develop them.”
Shelli finally decided to see if she could get back on track. “So, you went back and impressed Molly?”
Now I jumped in. “Nope. Didn’t happen that way. I was at an event at UCSD and saw Tom doing his thing. He recognized me, said “Hi,” and I immediately fell for him. It wasn’t long after that and I’d talked him into moving to Torrance. It was I who stole him away from the UCSD girls!”
Everyone was laughing now. “They thought I was a traitor!” Tom shrugged. “They all thought I was going to compete with UCLA, but I never did. I had graduated, and the work was in LA, anyhow. It just worked out!”
While Tom had been telling the cheerleading story, most of the food had arrived. We started reaching for our chopsticks and offering to share a piece here and there.
“So,” Shelli began, “when you say you say you work out ‘for beauty,’ what do you mean exactly? I’d thought it was just vanity, but I’m getting a different read, here.”
“Quite.” Tom said. “The beauty of controlled power.”
Shelli deliberately stuffed a piece of sushi roll in her mouth, indicating that she was listening.
Tom elaborated. “You mentioned our size difference. Yes, I’m eighteen inches taller than Molly, and more than twice her weight. We’re both in pretty good shape, but still, I could physically overpower her at any time, if I chose. She trusts that I will not. It’s a bit like what I saw in the cheer partnerships. Only more concentrated. It’s not really a matter of balance, though. At least, not in the same way. Our equilibrium comes about in layers. Hard to explain. It’s a matter of expression, or choice. It’s a matter of contrast, between what could be and what we choose.”
Shelli wasn’t convinced. “I see virtue in that, yes, but I don’t follow your notion that’s it’s beautiful. Why develop strength that you don’t need? I’m playing devil’s advocate, kinda. Physical fitness has its benefits, no argument there, and a well-toned body is beautiful on its own right? Why does it need ‘contrast’ as you say?”
“But it does.” Tom asserted. “All beauty only exists as a contrast of one kind or another. A sunset may have pretty colors, and pleasant warmth. But it’s the night that makes us aware of this beauty. We watch performers on the aerial silks and call it beautiful because they’ve avoided the injury of falling. Again, it’s about contrast. There are many, many different kinds of beauty in the world, of course, but they mostly come down to the balance of forces, and constrained power.”
Julio piped in at this point. “I recognize this, in principle. I remember reading a story in which a man at a car factory used a giant mechanical press to crack the shell of his egg. Every day, eating lunch at his station, he would take out a hard-boiled egg. He’d place it on the surface of this thing – a three-story-tall hammering machine, used to forge and shape metal. He’d rev it up, give it a full head of steam, and let fly! He’d pull back at the last instant, delivering just enough force to crack the shell. Restraint. Power in reserve.”
“Exactly.” Said Tom.
Shelli turned to me. “How do you feel about this, Molly?”
“I feel like a tight-rope walker must.” I answered. “All women do, in some sense. Men are dangerous animals – or can be. They’re aggressive, unpredictable, overreactive, and stronger than us. Evolution has favored the brute and the rapist, and it’s no surprise that these male traits remain with us long after we’ve attempted to civilize our race.”
“Tight-rope.” Shelli was nodding, agreeing with one interpretation, I knew.
“Some women walk a wire over the dangers posed by feral husbands, whose whims are random, scary. But in my tight-rope-act, my husband it my safety net. Predictable, ever-present, and utterly reliable. I trust his strength.”
“And I trust hers.” Tom was dead serious on this point. “It’s her grace that I aspire to learn.”
Shelli was nodding at this point. “Ok, I get it. I think me and Julio have something similar, in our own way.”
“It’s the nature of relationships, I think.” Said Tom. “Contrast.”
At that moment, the final plate was brought to the table. Two pieces of unassuming, plain white fish. Each rested on a slim finger of rice, with a dash of green onion on top. It was the fugu.
As the staff cleared the other dishes, Shelli asked, “Who’s going first?”
“You were the one who challenged me to it,” answered Tom.
“But you recommended it,” Shelli pointed out.
So, they went together. On the count of three. Slowly, without losing eye contact. One bite. The danger fish was gone from the table.
I wanted to ask, “Well? How is it?” And, “How do you feel?” But Julio and I just waited, watching for a reaction. Shelli’s cheeks were dimpling in a closed-mouthed smile while they chewed. Tom was contemplating the experience. The silence remained until the eating game had stopped, each player had had a sip of wine, and exhaled audibly. And then it remained some more. The rest of the restaurant continued its murmur of indistinguishable background conversations, punctuated with the clicking of forks and the occasional ring of cup and dish, while our own little bubble of quiet prevailed.
Back and forth, Julio and I kept checking the faces of our partners, who continued to watch each other from across the table. Somewhere, there was a ticking clock, or perhaps it was the final question theme from Jeopardy, I can’t say for sure. Dread, tinged with anticipation, was creeping in. It had become a competition, for Julio and me. Who would lose their spouse first? Would that be the winner, or loser? How did this game work? If only one of them died, would the other rejoice in victory? I admit, my brain was getting a bit weird with the suspense, but that’s the way suspense works.
It was Shelli who spoke first. “My tongue feels tingly.”
Tom didn’t even blink. “It’s in your mind.”
“Or it’s the wasabi. I think it does that to me sometimes.”
Julio took a sarcastic tone, saying, “Beautiful,” at just the right moment.
All at once, we erupted into hysterical laughter.
***
Outside, Tom and I waited for our ride. He chuckled, saying, “The Belasco Theatre looks out of place in the middle of all these modern skyscrapers. What is that – like, colonial, or something?”
I smiled. “You’re thinking colonial revival, and no. It’s neo-Georgian. Early 1900s. We should go in there.”
“Why?”
“Everett Shinn murals. Studied them in college.”
“You want to call the ride off?”
“No. Not important. I’d probably be disappointed with them, anyway.”
“Ok.”
“You fell in love with her, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did. You’re trying to distract me with your ignorance of architecture.”
“Ok. Maybe, a little. It’ll wear off.”
I laughed. “It always does.”
Sep 5 2022
The Fugu Incident
This thing started with a question. We were sitting under the red awning of Sushi Zen in New York, about a block away from Times Square. That’s where we were. And it was tourist season. The table-for-two wait time was expected to be about an hour, but Tom and I were determined to get in at least once before heading back to LA. My husband was sitting astride the bench, his back to the door. I was in front of him, standing so our faces were at about the same level while we chatted. I’m short, ok? I take advantage of every opportunity to be as tall as him.
A young couple had just sat down on the benches next to us, directly behind Tom. The question came out of the blue, and Tom didn’t realize for a moment they were talking to him. “Excuse me.” The voice was a light in tone, contrasting with dark, wooly features. The man was probably in his mid-twenties, with a wild looking mane of long, dark curls and a distinctly Mexican horseshoe mustache. I could see that the blonde woman next to him looked impassive, as though this happened quite a bit. Tom turned slightly toward the couple, as much as he could comfortably twist, but still only enough to bring them into his periphery. “Hi!” The young man continued, with just a touch of unidentifiable accent. “I’m just wondering – are you a competitive bodybuilder, or do you just work out for fun?”
Tom turned back to me and made brief eye contact, with a teensy bit of grin, and slowly gathered himself from the bench. All six-and-a-half-feet of him. He gave a slight shrugging motion as he turned, as if to shake out a tight muscle in his shoulder, then he stood before the young couple. I was trying not to laugh, but the strangers weren’t looking at me, anyway. Tom had his hands on his hips, feet shoulder width apart, back straight but with a bearing slightly like that of a crouching tiger. He looked like some kind of Viking warrior, but in a Hawaiian shirt. He was going to fuck with them.
“My name’s Tom,” he said casually, “What’s yours?”
There was a nervous pause, but the man answered, “Julio.”
“And where are you from, Julio? I’m from LA.” Tom paused, then quickly added, “The bad part. Molly and I are from the bad part of LA.” He gestured my way as he spoke.
Julio was holding up pretty well but was clearly regretting his forwardness. “We’re from Sacramento, sir. Shelli and I. Sacramento California.”
“And you work up there? A professional man, I’m guessing, by the look of you.” In spite of his raw, hippie vibe and tousled hair, Julio did in fact carry polished look.
“Yes.” Pause, then stuttering slightly. “C-c-computers…” Julio was getting more distressed with each question.
There followed a few moments of contemplation. Tom’s blonde curls were buzzed short on the sides, with a shock on top that made him look even taller. His upper body looked like he could just give one good flex and destroy his close-fitting shirt like the Hulk did in the comics, while the muscles in his thighs could be seen through his slacks. He didn’t just stand there, he towered. Inside, I was wondering how much longer I could stand this.
Tom broke the spell. “So.” It was like a single baritone note. He continued, “How long have we been friends?” he raised his eyebrows a touch. “Like, two or three minutes, maybe?” He smiled one of his big, winning grins. “That’s good, because if we didn’t know each other so well, I would have said that, really, why I choose to work-out is none of your fucking business.” He chuckled slightly and shrugged as he said this. “But we’ve gotten to be such good friends now and, you know, I’ve gotten past the fact that you’re from Northern California – I’ve forgiven you that.” Tom glanced around, and continued in a somewhat conspiratorial tone, “However, as we stand here today, and before I answer you, I have a question of my own.” He paused for effect. “Would you like to join us for dinner?”
Julio was confused, but he was beginning to see Tom’s sense of humor in this, and the winning charm of my gentle giant once again prevailed. Julio glanced at his wife, who apparently gave him some unspoken sign, and then said “Of course! We’d love too.”
“One second, please.” Tom stepped over to the maître d’, returning after a brief consultation. “As I suspected. Restaurants always seem to work this way. A table for two takes an hour to seat, but there’s a table for four coming up right away. Good thing we ran into each other, yes? Got us in the door, anyway.”
Shelli was laughing, clearly enjoying the interaction and probably happy to learn this particular trick of the restaurant game. Julio was right behind her, literally and figuratively, as we crowded together near the door. The mood was now very light, and we chatted the few moments it took to get inside. In short order napkins had been placed, drink orders taken, and we were looking at the provided menus.
“I recommend the fugu,” commented Tom, placidly. “It’s to die for.”
“You’ve had it, then?” Shelli was apparently the foodie of the two.
Tom grinned. “Actually, no. But you’ve heard of the dish?”
“Well, it’s a puffer fish, right?” Shelli could sense that Tom was driving at something. “Is it prepared some special way?”
I jumped in. “Tom’s making a joke, Shelli. Most parts of the fugu fish are extremely poisonous. There are only a few chefs who are trained to prep it without contamination, and this is one of them.” I turned to Tom. “What’s his name?”
“Suzuki.” He answered. “Something Suzuki.”
Shelli was curious. “Poisonous? So, it can make you sick?”
“Actually,” Tom responded, “it can kill you. In fact, it will kill you, if you get any of the poisonous parts. There’s no antidote, and it’s basically always fatal. Happens very fast.”
Julio suddenly pointed to his menu. “Here it is, hon!”
Shelli was enthralled. She looked at her husband’s menu, then back at hers. Her eyebrows raised slightly. “’To die for,’ you say?”
It was one of those rare times when a joke’s still funny after it had to be explained. Everyone had a good laugh, and the mood remained until the drinks arrived. When the wine steward had gone, Shelli looked straight at Tom, and said, “You’re getting it, right? The fugu?”
Now, my husband is not a particularly daring man. Yes, he can be bold, and does not lack confidence, but he shies away from anything dangerous. It’s just not him. Today, however, we were on vacation, thousands of miles from home, with our new old-friends (who were on holiday as well) and Tom’s usual caution was already a little on the weak side. Add to that the presence of Shelli, who was clearly throwing a challenge at him, and Tom was transfixed. There was a sort of stare-down between the two, which lasted several seconds, and after which Tom said (without even a glance at me), “Yes.” He paused, “Yes! I’ll do it if you do.”
And that was that. Nobody else at the table was going for it. Julio and I agreed to stand by, ready to dial 911, but we weren’t having the danger fish. When the waiter came around, we ordered our chosen selections – soups, appetizers, salads, rolls – some to share and some not. Then, at the very end, two pieces of fugu nigiri.
“You’ve read the disclaimer?” Asked the waiter.
“Yes.” Shelli and Tom lied in unison.
“Will there be anything else?”
There wasn’t. As the waiter walked away, we all began looking around. All four of us, peering at the people and tables in our area. I realized that we were all doing the same thing: checking for signs that others had ordered the notorious food, or indications that any were suffering the consequences. And also, I suspect, were we wondering if anyone had observed the order at our table. Nothing. Just an ordinary, New York landmark restaurant, filled with ordinary, New York landmark visitors. Nothing to see here.
“So, what do you do, Tom?” Julio was apparently out to even the score on the original questions. Out in the awning, Tom had asked, but not said anything of his own profession. Julio was apparently not the type to let it slide.
“Well, we’re a team.” He pointed back and forth at the two of us. “Molly is a graphic designer, and I write marketing copy. Together we work as consultants for marketing campaigns. Small to medium sized business, mostly.”
“Wow!” Julio replied, “That’s a lot more exciting than what I do. Shelli was a graphic arts major herself, but ended up in sales.”
Shelli chimed in. “Have you worked on anything we might recognize?”
I was waiting for this common question and responded with my stock answer. “Our contracts actually don’t permit us to discuss specific engagements, but yes, you certainly have.” This was almost true and tends to avoid boring shop talk.
Shelli’s face crumpled in mock pain now. “Just a little example?” Then she veered slightly. “How about you make something up.” Shelli’s smile had returned. “How about an advertising slogan for Julio. Pretend he’s… um… a gangster! And he needs something catchy for his business cards!”
I was already scavenging a bit of paper out of my purse, and I started sketching while Tom leaned back in his chair, inspecting the ceiling. Within perhaps thirty seconds, he leaned forward again. He crossed his arms on the table in front of him, and in a low voice said, “Julio, Julio, shoots his guns in the air. And the bullets come down, but we never know where!”
The couple started to crack up, but then paused when I held up my sketch. It was a cartoon caricature of Julio, waving a gun in each hand. Both guns had a flag reading “BANG!” unrolling from its barrel.
I thought management would come to quell the ensuing laughter. “The hair!” Shelli was gasping for air as she spoke, “Yep, that’s him!”
“Like I said,” chuckled Tom as, we settled down a few notches. “We’re a team!”
“Yes, you did!” Shelli said, adding, “But you never did answer Julio’s original question….”
“Which was?” I know Tom had not forgotten, but he feigned ignorance in the moment.
“Why you work out. You do look like a competitive athlete.” Shelly gave a sweeping hand gesture, encompassing Tom from head to toe. I felt a tinge of jealousy but swept it aside for the moment. Shelli was cute. Thin, medium height, with stick-straight natural blonde hair just below her shoulder. Her Scandinavian face was very delicate, with pale, very intelligent eyes. Even face at rest seemed to land in a smile, and she laughed easily. I wanted to see what my husband would say to this attractive young lady who seemed so interested in this subject of his body.
“I do it for beauty.” That was all he said. Knowing him as I do, I understood his statement. There was no vanity here, but anyone else would certainly take it as such. Shelli’s follow-up question (and it looked like she had one) was derailed for the moment by the arrival of soup.
For a minute or two there was only the quiet slurping of excellent miso. I stepped into the empty space.
“So, how did the two of you meet?” I asked.
Julio answered. “We were set up. A blind date.”
This struck me as funny, which must have been evident to Shelli. “What?” she asked, “are blind dates out of fashion?”
“No,” I replied. “This will sound racist, but I mean strictly from your look: pale and fair, dark and, I don’t know, kinda wild looking. You two could not be more opposite in appearance. Perhaps your friends thought to construct a ‘yin-yang’ effect?” This is why I usually let Tom do the talking. He has more tact, and charisma to get away with saying this kind of shit. I was relieved when they laughed.
“Yep!” Shelli was rocking in her chair, giggling. Her soup was finished, and she set her napkin down. “I think that’s exactly what they had in mind! If you knew our friends, you’d agree!”
“I think it was just supposed to be one date.” Said Julio. “It was another couple that took us with them to a show. I think they wanted company because their own relationship didn’t have enough spark to keep the evening alive.”
“But five years later, we’re still together!” Shelli shifted in her seat, and I suspected she was reaching out to her husband under the table with her foot. “Besides, I happen to like our yin-and-yang look.”
“It is striking.” Tom smiled. “You make a cute couple.”
Julio may have blushed, but Shelli kept her stride. “As do you!” She said, “with your difference in size! And how, pray tell, did you meet?”
Tom smiled. “College cheer.”
“Molly was a cheerleader?” asked Shelli.
“We both were.”
“So, you were on a squad together?”
“No,” Tom glanced at me before continuing, “She was at UCLA, I was UCSD. I was in the all-male team. At the time, it was starting to get really big. Competitive cheer had just gotten recognized as its own sport.”
Shelli’s interest had been captured. “So, you met her in competition?”
“Sort of.” Tom liked this story, I knew. And Shelli had accidentally set him onto a path thought he very much enjoyed. “I was with my squad at a competition. UCLA was there, along with others. It was regional. I was waiting for our event – the men’s, I mean – and watched a few of the other events. I hadn’t really done that before, and I became impressed with the beauty of it.”
“You’re talking about the sport. The beauty of the sport.” Shelli had been, I suppose, expecting me to appear in the story by now, but she was catching some of Tom’s energy behind it.
“Yes.” Tom continued, “but coed stunts in particular. They had a stunt fest that day. I was watching these men toss their partners into the air – it was spectacular. And eventually Molly came out, and I watched her flip, twist and land solid. Her partner held his arm steady as a rock. She lifter her foot immediately on landing – everyone else had a pause there. I couldn’t believe it. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, look up ‘cupie’ with ‘rewind.’ Molly was a goddess, and her partner was amazing.”
“I’m waiting for the part where you steal Molly away from the guy…” Shelli obviously expected a punchline, but it wasn’t coming.
Tom laughed as he said, “Yes, I suppose that’s what it sounds like. But it didn’t happen exactly that way. Back at UCSD, I changed direction. I got plugged into Hybrid Cheer, developing my stunting skills. The ladies at San Diego were great, and they helped my confidence immensely. It’s not obvious, but the flyer has as much control of the base as the base does over the flyer. The sport is strikingly symmetrical that way.” Tom tends to get enthusiastic about certain things, and this was one of them. “To me, it’s the interaction of the masculine and feminine aspects of human beings in a nutshell. The base must be strong – very strong. Over and over, he’ll support his partner with one hand, while she displays the balance and grace of the divine feminine. She must pay attention, place her feet and hands just so, maintain posture and repeat the movements exactly, all the while trusting that her base will stand firm, supporting her, waiting to catch her if she slips up. The symmetrical beauty is beyond my ability to express.”
Shelli was surprisingly silent. She was clearly not bored by this, and neither was Julio. They both waited for Tom to continue. I was comfortably sipping my wine, thinking how much I loved this man.
“The beauty doesn’t stop there. Hidden underneath what looks like a simple brains-and-brawn duo is the deeper fact that she must be strong, as well. The flyers train heavily for this, and pack incredible power into a small frame. And the men, of course, must be graceful. In a way, the partners learn these things from each other, and both help magnify each other’s counter-abilities. Like learning to do things with your left hand – the skills are there, if you develop them.”
Shelli finally decided to see if she could get back on track. “So, you went back and impressed Molly?”
Now I jumped in. “Nope. Didn’t happen that way. I was at an event at UCSD and saw Tom doing his thing. He recognized me, said “Hi,” and I immediately fell for him. It wasn’t long after that and I’d talked him into moving to Torrance. It was I who stole him away from the UCSD girls!”
Everyone was laughing now. “They thought I was a traitor!” Tom shrugged. “They all thought I was going to compete with UCLA, but I never did. I had graduated, and the work was in LA, anyhow. It just worked out!”
While Tom had been telling the cheerleading story, most of the food had arrived. We started reaching for our chopsticks and offering to share a piece here and there.
“So,” Shelli began, “when you say you say you work out ‘for beauty,’ what do you mean exactly? I’d thought it was just vanity, but I’m getting a different read, here.”
“Quite.” Tom said. “The beauty of controlled power.”
Shelli deliberately stuffed a piece of sushi roll in her mouth, indicating that she was listening.
Tom elaborated. “You mentioned our size difference. Yes, I’m eighteen inches taller than Molly, and more than twice her weight. We’re both in pretty good shape, but still, I could physically overpower her at any time, if I chose. She trusts that I will not. It’s a bit like what I saw in the cheer partnerships. Only more concentrated. It’s not really a matter of balance, though. At least, not in the same way. Our equilibrium comes about in layers. Hard to explain. It’s a matter of expression, or choice. It’s a matter of contrast, between what could be and what we choose.”
Shelli wasn’t convinced. “I see virtue in that, yes, but I don’t follow your notion that’s it’s beautiful. Why develop strength that you don’t need? I’m playing devil’s advocate, kinda. Physical fitness has its benefits, no argument there, and a well-toned body is beautiful on its own right? Why does it need ‘contrast’ as you say?”
“But it does.” Tom asserted. “All beauty only exists as a contrast of one kind or another. A sunset may have pretty colors, and pleasant warmth. But it’s the night that makes us aware of this beauty. We watch performers on the aerial silks and call it beautiful because they’ve avoided the injury of falling. Again, it’s about contrast. There are many, many different kinds of beauty in the world, of course, but they mostly come down to the balance of forces, and constrained power.”
Julio piped in at this point. “I recognize this, in principle. I remember reading a story in which a man at a car factory used a giant mechanical press to crack the shell of his egg. Every day, eating lunch at his station, he would take out a hard-boiled egg. He’d place it on the surface of this thing – a three-story-tall hammering machine, used to forge and shape metal. He’d rev it up, give it a full head of steam, and let fly! He’d pull back at the last instant, delivering just enough force to crack the shell. Restraint. Power in reserve.”
“Exactly.” Said Tom.
Shelli turned to me. “How do you feel about this, Molly?”
“I feel like a tight-rope walker must.” I answered. “All women do, in some sense. Men are dangerous animals – or can be. They’re aggressive, unpredictable, overreactive, and stronger than us. Evolution has favored the brute and the rapist, and it’s no surprise that these male traits remain with us long after we’ve attempted to civilize our race.”
“Tight-rope.” Shelli was nodding, agreeing with one interpretation, I knew.
“Some women walk a wire over the dangers posed by feral husbands, whose whims are random, scary. But in my tight-rope-act, my husband it my safety net. Predictable, ever-present, and utterly reliable. I trust his strength.”
“And I trust hers.” Tom was dead serious on this point. “It’s her grace that I aspire to learn.”
Shelli was nodding at this point. “Ok, I get it. I think me and Julio have something similar, in our own way.”
“It’s the nature of relationships, I think.” Said Tom. “Contrast.”
At that moment, the final plate was brought to the table. Two pieces of unassuming, plain white fish. Each rested on a slim finger of rice, with a dash of green onion on top. It was the fugu.
As the staff cleared the other dishes, Shelli asked, “Who’s going first?”
“You were the one who challenged me to it,” answered Tom.
“But you recommended it,” Shelli pointed out.
So, they went together. On the count of three. Slowly, without losing eye contact. One bite. The danger fish was gone from the table.
I wanted to ask, “Well? How is it?” And, “How do you feel?” But Julio and I just waited, watching for a reaction. Shelli’s cheeks were dimpling in a closed-mouthed smile while they chewed. Tom was contemplating the experience. The silence remained until the eating game had stopped, each player had had a sip of wine, and exhaled audibly. And then it remained some more. The rest of the restaurant continued its murmur of indistinguishable background conversations, punctuated with the clicking of forks and the occasional ring of cup and dish, while our own little bubble of quiet prevailed.
Back and forth, Julio and I kept checking the faces of our partners, who continued to watch each other from across the table. Somewhere, there was a ticking clock, or perhaps it was the final question theme from Jeopardy, I can’t say for sure. Dread, tinged with anticipation, was creeping in. It had become a competition, for Julio and me. Who would lose their spouse first? Would that be the winner, or loser? How did this game work? If only one of them died, would the other rejoice in victory? I admit, my brain was getting a bit weird with the suspense, but that’s the way suspense works.
It was Shelli who spoke first. “My tongue feels tingly.”
Tom didn’t even blink. “It’s in your mind.”
“Or it’s the wasabi. I think it does that to me sometimes.”
Julio took a sarcastic tone, saying, “Beautiful,” at just the right moment.
All at once, we erupted into hysterical laughter.
***
Outside, Tom and I waited for our ride. He chuckled, saying, “The Belasco Theatre looks out of place in the middle of all these modern skyscrapers. What is that – like, colonial, or something?”
I smiled. “You’re thinking colonial revival, and no. It’s neo-Georgian. Early 1900s. We should go in there.”
“Why?”
“Everett Shinn murals. Studied them in college.”
“You want to call the ride off?”
“No. Not important. I’d probably be disappointed with them, anyway.”
“Ok.”
“You fell in love with her, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did. You’re trying to distract me with your ignorance of architecture.”
“Ok. Maybe, a little. It’ll wear off.”
I laughed. “It always does.”
By andybrannan • Fiction, Stories 0