andybrannan

Karly stood before the large, storefront window of the apothecary shop for a long minute. She was admiring, once again, the scarves decorating the various objects of the display.  It was early spring, and the seasonal exhibit now rang out in the diverse colors of the impending blooms. There were apple-crate shelves supporting bottles of liquid in rose pink and butterscotch gold, alongside baskets of decorative soaps in violet, teal and candy red. An aged wicker chair supported a carefully disorganized stack of lady’s hats, collected from vintage memories of magnificent theatre, riverboat rides, far away cities and trips to the zoo.

The center of the display was a marionette, in the form of a large, spotted dog.  It was a dalmatian, Karly decided, made from painted wood, with leather for its joints and ears. The dog-puppet was suspended from the ceiling, the strings holding it in mid-flight as it jumped over a pickling crock of dried hydrangeas – a brilliant and colorful obstacle for the starkly beautiful black-and-white dog. The backdrop of the whole thing was a parchment dressing screen, on which were hung several colorful hand fans. Some of these were fully open to show bright painted scenes from folklore and song, others partially folded, their stories collapsing in corrugated abstraction.

But Karly admired the scarves. Not because of their prominence, as they were simply draped about and under the other things which made up the giant diorama. Karly felt that she had seen nothing – not in her entire twelve years – so beautiful as these simple bolts of cloth. They flowed in a random, liquid form over and engulfing the half-concealed objects beneath, a coy game of peekaboo between art and physics; lazy cats melting into the potted plants of a sunny window box.

There were perhaps a dozen scarves in the window. Several were of a light blue, spread about like the reflection of the sky in placid waters, cool and sweet. A few of them were died in broad stripes of yellow – warm, lemony bands flanking a single strip of white, undyed cotton. The were three in different shades of orange, colors which Karly decided to name “freshly pulled carrot,” “washed carrot,” and “peeled carrot,” as they ranged from darker to lighter in shade. 

Then there was the red one.  It was the only one she didn’t like, and the girl wondered why it was even included in the display. It was at once the color of blood, rage, and violence. It looked like the coals of resentment that glowed beneath the kettle of hate, like the burning eyes of some ancient demon, crouching to strike the innocent passers-by from its dark, awful recess.

Karly tried to see the lighter side, scouring her memories for images of happy things in that hue.  Roses, symbols of love, in deep, wine red. But, no, those have thorns – mustn’t forget those awful things. The warmth and safety of a bright red campfire is nice. However, once escaped, the same fire would engulf an entire forest, along with any house which might inadvertently wander into the fire’s infernal path. The beautiful berries of the holly bush, of course, which used to deck the halls at Christmas. Why didn’t we have them anymore?  Oh, yes, Karly recalled: She had eaten a few of them, when she was five or six, and gotten so sick the doctor was called to treat the poison.  She gave up trying to rationalize the choice of window dressing and turned her steps inside.

The apothecary sat on a tall stool behind the counter, drinking from a slender cup while he read the morning paper. Karly stopped abruptly at the sight of him. All describable features faded to grey leaving only a crimson swath: he was wearing one of the red scarves draped loosely about his neck. She felt her face flush slightly, as though an odd breeze, somehow both hot and cold, had brushed her cheek, and the quiet metronome in her chest sped slightly in response.

“Hellooo, there!” The baritone voice had a lilt to it, which lent a disarming lightness in spite of its depth (and the apothecary’s girth.) “What can I do for you today?”

Karly’s heart began to slow a bit, a palpable echo of hospitality ringing after the man’s words. She felt unexpectedly safe, realized she had quickly judged the apothecary by nothing more than a scrap of colored cloth, and blushed again. She quickly gathered her wits and recalled her mission.

“I need tea, please,” pause, “tea for an upset stomach.”

“Oooh,” he nodded, “I have just the thing.” He reached behind him, without looking, and opened a drawer. His hand dipped inside briefly, then knuckled the drawer closed in a single, smooth motion, swinging around to deposit a small packet on the counter. “Ginger,” he declared, “is the mother of all herbs.” He chuckled, saying, “This is my own blend. Drink it hot or cold.”

Karly was peering down the row of drawers now, floor to ceiling, filling two full walls of the shop. “You have so many of them,” she asked, “how do you keep track?”

A deep laugh rolled from the apothecary’s chest, “Well, you know… I’ve been at this a while. I don’t recall everything here all the time, but I always seem to find things when I need them.”

The apothecary drawers, although ranked by size, were of various colors, some with labels, others not. With the miss-matched handles and knobs, the whole array made a kind of random mosaic; a euphonious chatter composed entirely from discordant, clashing voices, like the colorful flow of crowds at the open-air market, blent together in the early light of a summer morning.

“What’s in that one?” Karly pointed at a greenish drawer, with a yellow knob.

The apothecary turned in his seat to look. “Happiness.” He said simply.

“Really? You have a drawer of happiness?”

“Oh, I have many kinds of happiness here.” The apothecary gave a bouncy nod. “There are over a thousand drawers in this shop, most of which are divided into several additional boxes inside. Then there are the jars, pots and crocks on the other wall. In the back room, there are bags and pallets containing ingredients for more things than even I can imagine, and I can imagine a great many things. Many of these are, indeed, some form of happiness.”

Karly had her elbows on the counter, hands under her chin in captive attention. “Like what?” she asked, “What else do you have in here?”

“What do you need?” He shrugged, and continued without waiting for an answer, “I have treatments for all of the common ailments – cold and flu, fever and chills. I have an elixir for arthritis and another for aching backs. I something for the pain one gets in her head from worrying too much, and the same thing can be used to treat menstrual cramps.” He was pointing as he talked, at drawers in the immediate vicinity of the chair.  Now he stood and began to move slowly down the long counter. “I have chamomile and valerian, if you are anxious or cannot rest. I have echinacea, gingko, milk thistle, Saint John’s wort, to treat everything from asthma to gout to problems of the liver. I have ginseng.” He paused. “You know what that’s for?” Karly shook her head. “Everything! All of these ingredients have a variety of uses, and ginseng has the most!”

As he walked, Karly had followed slowly down the long counter, occasionally looking up at the apothecary, but mostly at the counter-top, where she had been tracing the grain of the wood with her finger. She almost bumped into him where he had stopped, at the open flap of the bar gate, stepping out into the room. She looked up, but he was now turning to point in various directions.

“I have potions, ointments, and elixirs for doctors, too. Treatments for colicky babies, and elderly digestion. I have cream for severe burns, powders to stop bleeding, and strong drinks to prepare a patient for surgery. These things make the world a better place, don’t you think?” Karly made noises of agreement into a non-existent pause. “But the usefulness of other things can be hard to see at times – at least to see them in their fullest extent.”

Karly was getting curious again, a fact which must have shown on her face. The apothecary continued, sounding somewhat like a carnival barker extolling the virtues of his marvelous wares.

“I have a drawer over there that has keys to various interesting things, and another that has only buttons.  Somewhere in that corner is a cure for cancer, although I haven’t actually assembled it yet. There are drawers of summer sunshine, autumn leaves, and candied peel for winter’s baking.  In this room are the tears of a parent, and alongside them is the first homerun of the season. The jars hold clean bandages, romantic connections, found socks, future generations of holiday gatherings, and empty space for the thoughts of our elders. Somewhere in this shop are unwritten novels, repaired cartwheels, rodeo rides, bridges to faraway shores, warm regards, the rise and fall of governments – each of them waiting to be placed in the hands of the right person.”

Although Karly was somewhat dazzled with the wonder of it all, she had a nagging question. She asked, “Can we go back to the happiness?”

“Ah. You are interested in that, are you? So, what do you think might be in that drawer?” The apothecary began moving back to his original position, eventually to sit in his ancient, spindly chair with a slight squeak.

Karly thought it over. “I don’t know. Something that makes me happy, I guess…?”

“And what makes you happy, Karleen?”

“Warm things?” It was a questioning sort of answer. “I think happy, warm things.”

The apothecary turned and reached, removing the whole box, and setting it on the counter in front of the girl. “Lucky you.” He said simply.

Before Karly even looked into the drawer, she could smell its contents. She perked-up visibly. “That smells gooood!”

It was like opening a pie cupboard in late December, with the warm, spicy steam of a mince spilling out and caressing your face. The smell was that of a magical, foreign land, whose roads were paved with cardamom shells and cinnamon bark was used for writing paper. The smell was the texture and color of her grandfather’s tweed jacket, seen every Friday when he would take grandma dancing at the speakeasy on 57th Street. It was like hot apple cider, served with rum cake.

Karly was somewhat disappointed when she looked at the actual contents of the box, which had three compartments of dry, brown, crumbly stuff. (But she was still excited.)

“What is it?”

“Cinnamon, clove, and garam masala.” He was beginning to scoop a little of each into a small muslin bag.

“This is ‘happiness’?” She seemed skeptical.

“Is it not? You seemed to like the smell – wait until you taste it.” He smiled, rising and walking a short distance down the bar. He lit a burner under a large water kettle and returned. He explained, “We make a pot of tea, and add a teaspoon of this mix to it. We will let it steep for a while, then add honey and cream. It’s known as ‘chai’.”

While the apothecary set about the rest of the tea preparations, Karly asked a new question. “Why are there so many colors on the drawers? And the knobs have been painted too – why?”

The apothecary looked up and down the row before answering, as though refreshing his memory regarding the look of the shop.  He explained, “The drawers have gotten moved around over the years, for convenience. At one time, all of the drawers of a single color would have been grouped together. There was a brown cabinet, a green cabinet, a lavender cabinet, and the several natural wood colors of course. Because I get into some drawers much more frequently than others, I’ve moved those closer to my stool, for easy reach.”

Karly laughed out loud. “I thought it meant something!”

The apothecary gave one of his deep, resonant laughs. “Well,” he continued, mostly not. A few of the drawers have been painted for other reasons, but very few. The knobs are another story. The handle used to open each drawer is color-coded to indicate who is allowed to open that drawer.” Karly’s mind was racing, her eyes scanning the drawers, as he continued. “The blue knobs, and there are only a few, are available to anyone who is aware of them, anyone who is given any access can use the contents of those drawers.” Karly listened intently, spotting the blue knobs scattered about. “The orange knobs are for the fully trained alchemist, and only they should be granted access to such important things.”

Karly suddenly made a connection, but held back, asking only, “the knobs painted yellow with the white strip – who opens those?”

“Ah – those are for students.  Anyone who has chosen to study under the apothecary, and who has been accepted, is free to peruse the daffodil handles, as we call them.”

“These colors are the same as the scarves in the window!”

“Correct.” The apothecary raised an eyebrow but made no remark as he poured the water into the teapot.

“I love the scarves. They’re beautiful. Well, mostly.” She paused, but then continued in childish disregard of tact. “I don’t like the red one.”

The apothecary let out a robust laugh this time, and asked, “They’re technically pashmina, by the way. But – why not? You don’t like red?”

Karly’s brows knit, and she said, “Well, it’s a scary color. Anger, blood, fire – all scary things. I can’t think of anything that is not at least partly bad. Like, the way red roses have vicious thorns! Red means danger, don’t you see?”

The apothecary nodded, thoughtful for a moment. “What about strawberries, then? I don’t believe those are dangerous.” He smiled before continuing, “You are, in part, correct.” He spoke in a low voice now, in a conspiratorial tone, as though he was about to give secret information. “Red is a very powerful color, with – it’s true – elements good and bad. The saffron-red pashmina is granted to the alchemist of the highest level. It is red, in part, because it is so easily seen, although that’s true of the orange pashmina as well. In the great scheme of things, red is the deepest color, the root, if you will, of all colors. The slowest vibration, of which all other vibrations are harmonics. It is the outermost color of the rainbow, and the last color of the fading sunset.” Karly was rapidly losing interest in the metaphysical lecture and had begun searching for any drawers with red knobs.

She only found one. “What’s in that drawer?” She pointed. “The black drawer, with the red knob?”

In his usual habit of deliberation, the apothecary looked at the drawer, the only black drawer, at the far bottom corner of the wall behind the counter.

“And why is it the only black one?” Karly was getting more curious by the moment. “Is the cabinet it came from gone?”

“No,” A slow sigh, then, “That one seems to have darkened of its own accord. The black drawer is for any and all things, evil.” He gave the tea a stir and put the lid back on.

“Well,” Karly had only the vaguest of notions of what evil might be, but nothing she could think of would fit in that small box. “What’s in it?”

The apothecary didn’t answer. He got up from his chair, walked casually down the length of the counter, and retrieved the drawer. He set it wordlessly between them.

The presence, up close, of the evil drawer was more than a little disconcerting, and Karly was regretting her curiosity. She held her gaze high and kept it there while a lump in her throat rose, then slowly receded again. She felt a wave of dread, fear, anger. Then a pang of inexplicable guilt, and a resignation to follow through with her original inquiry. She looked into the drawer.

“It’s empty!” She said, both relieved and confused.

The apothecary looked into the drawer, tipping it slightly to see every corner. “So it is.”

Karly stared blankly back.

“You see, Karly, this is no ordinary drawer.” He pushed it slightly to one side, but only enough to make a clear space in which to pour the tea. “In this particular box,” he nodded his head slightly, “things come and go. We can put things in it, but we have no guarantee that they’ll stay.” He poured two cups of the chai, adding cream and sugar as he spoke. “This is why only I can open the drawer – we never know what we may or may not find.”

“But why?” Karly was perplexed. “You said it was for everything evil – why have such a drawer? Why keep it?” Then she took her first sip of chai, and abruptly exclaimed, “Oh my God!” looking at the cup in her hands, “This stuff is amazing! Happiness indeed!”

The two laughed for several moments. Finally, the apothecary spoke up.

“Why keep the black box, you wonder? This is hard to explain. Sometimes we need exactly such a place. I think it’s easier if I just show you.”

The apothecary produced a small notepad from somewhere behind the counter and slid it across to Karly. Then he handed her a pen.

“What is your worst fear? Your darkest memory? You have something – we all do. Something you would never tell anyone.” He paused, waiting as Karly thought for a few moments. When she looked back to his face, the apothecary said, “Ok. You don’t need to write it all down, but I want you to put a word on the paper. Or draw something. Or just put some mark – anything on the paper, and you will find that it will become attached to this dark thing that you carry.”

Karly had come up blank, with nothing specific to write. She felt that she wanted to do this thing, however, as though she had some compelling reason for it, a reason that was just a teeny bit out of reach at the moment, a fuzzy shadow in a low corner nearby. Her hand moved quickly on the notepad, leaving a squiggle that she knew, somehow, would mean something to her later.

“Now put that in the box.”

She dropped it as instructed. The little note fell slowly, tipping back and forth not unlike the motion of a falling feather. It fell for a long time, slower and slower, getting smaller in the distance. Now it was just a small, white dab on an inky-black backdrop of empty space inside the drawer of evil. Eventually, it hit the bottom with a loud “clang,” like the locks of a heavy prison door banging together in the still silence of some remote, timeless night.

“Thank you.” Said the apothecary. “You will know when it’s time to come back and look into that drawer.”

She said nothing, sipping her chai in silence, feet swinging below her as she sat, waiting for the apothecary to speak again.

But he did not. Instead, he stood, and returned to the end of the counter, replacing the drawer in its slot. He came out from behind the counter, and walked up to the window display, reaching around the dressing screen. After a bit of rustling about, he pushed the screen back into its proper place, and returned to his stool. In his hand he held one of the blue scarves, which he proceeded to fold carefully on the bar.

Then he pushed it over to Karly, saying, “You’ll know when it’s time to open that drawer, Karleen. Save this, and show it when you come in.”

***

Karleen woke up, the memory of the black and red apothecary box vivid in her mind. She got out of bed, brushed her teeth, then made her way downstairs to the kitchen. She ate a light breakfast, then moved out to the garden to sip her tea and continue the process of waking up, slowly merging her reality with the larger world around her.

The house was too quiet these days. With her youngest in college, and the rest of the family estranged or gone, Karleen feel simultaneously free of her daily obligations and imprisoned by her inner shadows.  And for some reason, today, she was thinking about an apothecary, and black drawer, and a note that she couldn’t quite recall.

Was it a dream? Or was she remembering something that actually happened to her twelve-year-old self? She had so few memories from that time, and even fewer from her life before that. She had lived with her grandparents then, she knew that much, although she was unable to recall why. It was a peaceful time, she thought, even if she couldn’t quite remember to what other part of her life she was comparing.  Curiosity won out, however, and she decided to start her weekend by looking through boxes, long stored in the deep recesses of the closet under the stairs.

The first box held nothing but sheet music from grandma’s piano bench. That was it. Pages upon pages of chords and notes, like so many ants on endless sheets of paper. She stacked them carefully and dumped them back in the box. The second was full to the brim with toys, scrapbooks, photos, documents, awards, schoolwork and an embroidered pillowcase, all of which had been packed be grandma at the end of middle school.

Karleen paused for a few moments to admire Juniper, the exuberant dalmatian of her early childhood, now subdued in a framed print. Then she replaced the contents of that box and moved on.  Next, she discovered grandpa’s collection of hand-painted lead toys. It was a very heavy box, although made somewhat lighter by the presence of several cigar boxes in the bottom. These, in turn, held greeting cards from about a decade of birthdays and Christmases, which gave Kathleen a spark of hope: she had packed this box herself, after grandpa had passed away.

Sure enough, the next box was gold. In it was Missy, her favorite doll, and a tiny, doll-sized blanket. There were candles, which she had kept hidden as a girl since she would be in big trouble if she were ever caught with fire. There were small collections of shells, stones, and a few interesting coins of little collector’s value. But most of all, and at no little surprise, was the blue scarf.

She held it up to the light of the open closet door, seeing how the old fabric filtered the light into so many pinholes. She felt the fabric – was it cotton? Or a very soft wool?  Even after more than three decades of storage, the color was a striking, vibrant blue, the reflection of the sky in placid waters, or the deep cracks in a glacier of ancient ice. Holding it up to her face, she could feel the soft presence of distant hands, working the cloth with care, fashioning it into this device – what was it called? A pashmina, wasn’t it? And there was a smell, under the veil of musty closet and time and dust – a warm, glowing smell – the scent of happiness.

Karleen began to cry. She didn’t feel silly about it, or self-conscious (there was nobody at home, anyway.) She knew that this meant something, and she felt memories sparkling like fireflies under a table of imaginary glass. She felt the memories, not as ones connected to the scarf itself, but deeper, and she knew also that the scarf was the key.

It was time.  Karleen gathered the scarf, her shoes, and her wits, and moments later was out the door.  She was filled with hope that she might find the black apothecary box, and dread that she might find something waiting inside.

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.”