The saying “two worlds colliding” has its roots in Kipling, the odd duck responsible for the Jungle Book stories of Mogli and Rikki Tikki Tavi. What Kipling was trying to describe was the feeling of culture shock, the unnerving uprooting of one person’s mindset amidst somebody else’s. When two worlds collide, there is always a subsequent tenuous period. When two worlds collide, often there is misunderstanding. When two worlds collide, the outcome is seldom pretty.

The previous day I had run into some former co-workers I shared job duties with at Chiat/Day advertising, one of whom – a wallflower named Amy – had always captured my attention despite her rather plain appearance and demeanor. There was something undeniable below her surface, a frightened girl at odds with her smoldering sexuality. I’d always thought there might be a way to flip the internal switch on Amy and reveal the woman inside who she kept walled up, but I had a self-imposed rule about not dating co-workers. Call it disaster aversion; the last thing I needed given my speed dating style was to be in an office filled with exes. But now that I no longer worked there I was free to pursue whatever course Amy was willing to take, and when I ran into her at Starbucks I leapt at the opportunity to ask her out for the following night to dinner, something simple, something I could ease her into. Amy’s type couldn’t be rushed, as it would only cause her to retreat further behind the wall she put up. She would have to be calmed coaxed and moved along at a comfortable rate. Amy wasn’t long for the Los Angeles social scene and its parties, clubs, or long rosters of dateable people. She was very un-L.A, unlike myself. We were from two different worlds.


When Amy took me up on my dinner offer I told her I would take care of all the dining details. Nothing fancy, I assured her, but in the back of my mind I thought about how fancy I could arrange things to be without them seeming overtly so, as if to tell her yes, you are in fact worth all of this.

I got us a table for 7pm at Flemings, the venerable steakhouse situated at the convergence of Beverly Hills and West Los Angeles. It wasn’t the best chophouse, but it wasn’t informal by any means. I figured it was just enough to put Amy at ease. Besides, given Flemings’ stature within the Zino Davidoff family of business, it was one of the last places in town that had allowed cigars. Always have your options. As soon as I was off the phone with the restaurant I phoned Amy and left a message telling of our plans, promising to pick her up by 6:30, and to call me if she needed to change anything. If I didn’t hear from her, I’d be by to pick her up as arranged.
________________________________________________________

“Let me go on the record and tell you how phenomenally bad this idea of yours is,” declared Devin between bites of his sandwich. “And I know bad,” he added. “I authored bad. Me and bad are old friends.”

“Don’t you think you are being a tad overdramatic?”

“Hell no! Let’s recap the details: This chick Amy has the hots for you. 100 percent confirmed hots for you. She always has. And you like her too, at least enough to get horizontal with her. Right so far?”

I nodded.

“So already you have a clear path to the finish line. You take her out, be your usual self, let her be her usual self, and then when the time comes you lower the boom. If she’s into you and you haven’t been an ass there won’t be any resistance. And I means lots of fucking. Advantage: You.”

“That’s too easy,” I replied, dismissing his analysis with the wave of my hand. “And you’re missing the point,” I added.

“Missing the point?” he exclaimed, pausing before taking another bite of his sandwich. “You get to dip your wick. What point am I missing?”

“Here’s how I see it: She’s this great, unique person, who with a little help and a little coaching could be this entirely different, even greater person. Think of it – more beautiful, more refined, more graceful.”

Devin put down his sandwich and sat back in the chair, slowly easing it back so he could cross his long legs under the table. “Ah, I see. And what’s better than a decent woman on your arm? A stunner. Somebody who is good in every way. It’s not that it’s making her look better…in the end it’s making you look better.” He dropped his legs in front of him and let gravity plop the front legs of his chair on the floor.

I smiled. “Nice spin, but I think you have it wrong.”

Devin smiled back. “I don’t think I do. You know, it’s funny that this comes from me since I don’t care at all about the different layers people have. I just want to get laid. But dude, either you like them or you don’t. And you like them for who they are right now, not who they could be. Jesus, that’s a classic chick move, the old let’s turn a person into somebody else bullshit.”

“It’s for her own good. She could be a happier and livelier person.”

Devin polished off the last of his sandwich and clapped his hands together to get rid of the bread crumbs. “Aren’t you the magnanimous one? You should listen to yourself. Don’t you think that decision is hers to make? Just because you can do it doesn’t mean you should.”

“When the hell did you grow a conscience? I feel like I’m talking to Michelle or Aaron.”

Devin laughed. “It comes out every so often. It can smell bullshit from a mile away, that’s what usual prompts it.”

I snorted.

“Admit it, I’m right and you know it. Just be careful dude, it’s usually right when we are near the finish line that it blows up in our face.”

The waitress came by our table, dropping the check on the formica table top as she continued on towards the table behind us. Devin flipped the check over and reached towards his back pocket for his wallet.

“I got this,” he said as he eyed the check.

“Holy shit,” I responded, “ain’t this a day of firsts! You take the moral high ground and then you pay for a meal. When was the last time you paid for a meal?”

Devin pointed the tip of the check at me. “Fuck you Becker. I paid last week when we were at the mall for lunch. With Michelle and Courtney and a lot of boring conversation.”

“Yeah, but twice in two weeks. That’s monumental. What’s the occasion? I know you haven’t got any new work lately.”

Devin pushed back again on his chair. “It’s alright, I can handle your barbs. I’ve adopted a new outlook, to spend money when I have it. I have it now, so I’m spending it.”

“What happens when the money is gone and you still haven’t landed any new gigs?” I asked.

“Calm down, we’re talking about 18 dollars for lunch here.”

“Yeah, but a few lunches, some new jeans and a shirt, and a little more gas in the tank all add up.”

“I’m not worried,” Devin maintained. “Besides, the Nivea people said they want to shoot something in the next month, and it’s going into print too so that’s extra money.” He paused and flagged down the waitress. “And there are always auditions. My agent is good in ferreting out opportunities.”

“So what happens when all those opportunities dry up? What do you have to fall back on then? Ever given that any thought?”

“Yeah, I have,” Devin replied. “I guess I fall back on Mom and Pop,” he said sheepishly, looking away.

“That’s no plan,” I responded. “Don’t you think you’re at the point in life where you should do it on your own?”

“What kind of question is that?” he scoffed. “Of course I do. But if hard times fall I can always go back to them and they won’t say no. Why would they? It’s not like they have a shortage of money.”

I shook my head.

"Our parents have enough money to last through their lifetime and ours, and we’re not bad seeds or anything, so if we stopped working today they could support us with no problem," Devin said. "But you always act like you’re ashamed you come from a well-off family, like you want nothing to do with their money. When your mother goes she’ll be the last thing standing between you and –"

“I know! I know! I’ve heard you spin this tale before!” A few people stopped eating and looked at me in response to my raised voice and I embarrassingly smiled in their direction before lowering my voice and continuing. “The difference between us and people like Courtney is they have no qualms or conflict of conscience being trust fund babies. They don’t aspire to greater things. As long as they’re on the family payroll everything is a-okay. I don’t work that way, and you don’t either. Don’t you want something meaningful? Don’t you want something that’s all yours, every last bit of it? You don’t act just because it pays the bills, you do it for a satisfaction you know wouldn’t feel if you were acting on the side while earning your dime from your parents. To throw your thought from earlier back at you, just because you could doesn't mean you should.”

“Funny," he scoffed. "It would make the month-to-month expenses easier to swallow, though.”

“Point taken, but in the end don’t you want to be able to emerge from your struggle and when looking back be able to say ‘yeah, I conquered all that and came out for the better.’ Isn’t that what life is really about?”

Devin covered his eyes with his hands. “All I want to do right now is pay for a lunch without hearing a lecture. Unless your platinum card is burning in your back pocket.”

“Fine,” I huffed, and sunk into my seat.

Devin flagged down a waitress and she left with his money on one of those battered plastic trays the receipt is usually delivered on. As she left she shot Devin an extra look and sly smile, the type that either says “I know you from somewhere,” or “I’d like to get to know you.” Devin caught her gaze and held it.

“Well howwww-dy! She’s not half bad. I’d fuck her. And Reed – listen up, because this is the important part – I wouldn’t try to change her before I fuck her. I don’t even know two squirts about her and she’s good as is.”

“I’ll take that under consideration, Casanova,” I grinned.

Devin swished around in his chair and in response I blurted, “What’s the matter, did the waitress drive-by give you a woody downstairs?”

Just as I delivered the line a woman no older than us walked by the table and slowed as she heard what I said. She turned and delivered a disapproving scowl.

“Yes, this is in fact what guys talk about when we’re out and about,” I joked.

She frowned and walked by.

“Hard case,” I commented loudly.

“Eh, she’ll get over it,” Devin remarked with a wave of his hand.

The waitress returned with our receipt and slid it onto the table while eyeing Devin and smiling. He smiled in kind, added an informal “hi, how are you” and she disappeared to help out customers at another table.

“So what are you doing about graduate school? Figure out where you want to go?”

I pulled out my keys and laid them upon the table, then adjusted myself in the booth. “Yeah, I’ve decided I’m going to chase an MBA. I figure that’s the best thing for me, considering I haven’t figured out just where to focus my career.”

“An MBA is a pretty damn good calling card. Where are you going?”

“If I do this it has to be done right, which means I can’t go to any middle tier programs. I have to aim for the top. People look at your resume and if the letters MBA are followed by a top ten school, then you are half way through the door.”

“That takes serious coin,” Devin commented.

“I know, I’m still working on that.”

“Your mother would pay, you know.” Devin stirred in his seat and looked down the aisle for our waitress. “Any ideas which of the top ten you’ll apply to?” he asked.

“USC because it’s local, and Columbia because the networking you get out of that school is so goddamn good.”

“New York, huh? That’ll be different.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about that.” I paused and stirred what was left of my ice tea with the overly tall spoon they always bundle with the drink. “I think I’m going to try for Stanford too. It was my father’s school and I think he would have liked that.”

Devin paused, then looked one more time for the waitress. “With all the money and all the things your dad gave Stanford through the years, they should roll out the red carpet for you. The family alumni thing alone should get you in no sweat.”

“We’ll see.”

Devin looked one last time around the place for our waitress, then with a look of obvious disappointment turned back to the table.

“What do you keep looking for?” I asked.

“Our waitress. Look at this.” He held up the receipt to show a handwritten note under the check total that read “I’ve seen you on TV in those skin commercials and thought maybe sometime we could get together for a drink or a cup of coffee. No big deal, just a get to know you thing.” Under the note was her name – Julie – and a phone number.

“Who says this kind of shit never happens in real life?” he grinned.
________________________________________________________

I was running late. If I kept this up there’d be no way I’d ever get across mid-city to the side of town where Amy lived to pick her up. Part of me wanted to phone her and tell her to call a cab so that she wouldn’t be left waiting, but the little voice in the back of my head said I promised to pick her up. The BC slacks were a no-brainer; I didn’t know what space age shit they were made of but they never showed a wrinkle. The shirt was proving more of a problem.

“Which one Sophia?” I asked while holding in one hand a plain blue Nautica button-up like you’d wear to the office for a conference call with the boss, and in the other a slim cut D&G shirt with a surprisingly modest print pattern for the Dolce and Gabana guys. We often played this game, Sophia and I. I would hold up my wardrobe choices and she’d sniff at them and bounce them around with her nose. Whichever she showed the most interest in was the piece I’d end up wearing. It was real quality time for us.

Sophia sniffed at the Nautica but didn’t show much interest. The D&G number was easily her favorite, as she batted the arm cuff about with her nose and licked in the mid-chest section.
“We have a winner,” I declared, removing the shirt from its wood hanger and draping it over my shoulders.

“I’m glad we can make these quality decisions together,” I told her as I leaned in and quickly stroked her coat below the neck. She stretched and then licked my cheek.

“What quality decisions are those?” came a voice from behind me as my mother entered the room. She walked a little bit slowly today, with a groggy malaise that accompanies a person who’s been sleeping for most of the afternoon.

“Did I wake you? Sorry about that.”

“No,” she responded, “I just haven’t seen you much today and wanted to check how you’re doing.”

“Good. Got a date tonight,” I smiled.

“Oh? What’s her name?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

She shook her head. “You never change. I thought maybe with age you’d smarten up some.”

“When she’s become important enough to me, you’ll get an introduction.” I smiled. “Maybe I’ll remember her name by then, too.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I know.” I pulled my shoes from the closet before I continued. “Since you are here and it’s fresh on my mind, I wanted you to know I’ve made a decision about college.”

“Oh?”

“MBA. I think it’s the smartest thing I can do with myself right now. I mean, I’m not working and I don’t know if advertising is the end-all be-all career for me. There are so many industries out there and any one of them could be a better fit, but I just don’t know. I figure an MBA will help no matter what path I choose for myself.”

She smiled faintly and slowly approached the closet doors where I still stood. “It sounds like you’ve given it some serious thought, and some smart thought at that.”

“I want you to know that I am only going to target the best programs, and though they will cost a lot, I don’t want your money. I want to pay for this on my own.”

“Let’s see what kind of programs want you first before worrying about the tab, okay?” she replied. She turned and slowly walked towards my bed, a little more labored in her movements, a little more mechanical in her steps than she had been in previous weeks. When she finished making herself comfortable on the bed she continued: “Where do you plan to apply?”

“I’ve been researching the top programs and I whittled them down to three: USC, Columbia, and Stanford. I figure USC will be the best bet because it will allow me to stay close and look in on you.”

My mother waved her hand in protest. “Don’t let those details keep you from going to the very best school you can get into. Don’t automatically relegate yourself to USC if there is better.” She paused and for a brief moment I thought I caught her eyes tearing up. “Your father would be proud that you are considering Stanford.”

“Well, you know the school’s penchant for legacies. Besides, Peter went there too.”

She nodded. “And Peter went there too. I am certain you will fare just fine no matter what institution you end up calling home.” She rose from the bed and Sophia rose from her stay position on the carpet in time, as if to escort my mother to wherever in the house she might go next. “Enjoy your date,” she told me as she started for the door leading to the living room. “And good luck. Maybe you will find your next Carolyn.”

“Gee, thanks for setting the bar so high,” I muttered. I inspected the shoes still in my hands. They really needed a quick buff but there wasn’t enough time for that. Amy was waiting, and if I didn’t hurry I wouldn’t have to worry about any future introductions to anybody because she’d be done with me.

“I have to go,” I told my mother before she made it out of the room. Then, to the dog: “Be good. Watch over her tonight.” The dog leaned forward and tried to move my hand onto the top of her head but clumsily ended up pushing my fingers into her eye. I laughed and grabbed my keys off the nightstand, then kissed my mother on the cheek and made for the car.
_______________________________________________________

Flemings looked every bit as it was described in Zagat’s online review: Warm, inviting, and draped in deep color courtesy of the striped blood red and crimson velvet wall coverings. The crowd tonight was posh, as men in suits entertained dates or tables full of business clients while in hushed corners people not wanting to be in the public eye whispered, enjoying the privacy the room’s engulfing shadows provided. The din of the place was low as we entered, and a young doorman held the large wooden frame doors ajar while telling us to enjoy our evening, as if on command. Inside I smelled the subdued scent of a cigar, perhaps a Fuente, and smirked as I remembered the restaurant’s cigar friendly status.

“Gosh, it’s so nice,” gawked Amy as we approached the hostess podium. Tonight she was radiant: Her hair, more curly and styled than usual, and her face void of the makeup regimen she’d normally show up to work with. Her skin appeared more tan and free of any makeup, as if she was eschewing the blush and foundation for a healthier and more glowing look. She wore an evening dress that revealed a little more leg than she would normally be comfortable with shedding at the office or anywhere else, and the mid-high stiletto was the perfect accent to her freshly waxed and shiny legs. She’d obviously taken more care and put a little more daring into her appearance tonight and it was paying off for her. As we were escorted to our table men passing by stopped for an extra moment to soak in Amy’s essence while others smiled and nodded in her direction. Maybe she did it because of the occasion. Maybe she did it because of me. Or maybe she did it so if for only one night she could live like the other half in this town.

The young hostess pulled out Amy’s chair and delicately sat her with the precision of somebody who’d been trained their entire life to do just that one task. Before she could come around to my side of the table I pulled out my own chair and sat down. The girl tersely smiled with regret when she saw I’d beaten her to the punch. I didn’t know it was a contest. She quickly mentioned some specials not on the menu this evening and disappeared.

I watched Amy as she looked at all the people in the restaurant. Some made eye contact with her and when she smiled they smiled back. I looked at the way she gazed at them, and it wasn’t the same as she’d do at the office. At work her eye contact was fleeting and passive. Tonight it was focused and with purpose. She looked at our fellow diners this evening as equals, not somebody whose lives she had temporarily intruded upon. I marveled at the change I was seeing and it only furthered my resolve to mold her into something else, something better, something divine. I could have watched her all night, just gazing upon her beauty and her newfound sense of presence. But I realized how creepy and perverted that would seem and broke the silence with small talk.

“Ever been here?” I asked.

“Me? Lord no, I don’t think I’ve ever been to a place like this.”

“Never? Not even growing up? Not even to mark some great passage in life, like high school graduation or an engagement or the like?

She shook her head. “Nope.” Then she leaned in a bit as if to offer some bottled-up secret: “It’s too fancy.”

I smiled. “It’s not that fancy a place.”

“Well, in my book it is.”

“It’s always good to broaden your horizons,” I offered.

“I suppose.” She picked up the delicate parchment listing tonight’s menu items and gingerly held it while scanning the choices. “Gosh, I don’t even know what to order.”

“If that’s the case would you permit me to pick for you?” I asked. As soon as I said it I realized how incredibly stupid the suggestion sounded but it was too late to retract it. “If you don’t mind,” I added. She shrugged. “Are you a steak, chicken, or veal person?”

“Steak.”

“Excellent,” I replied as I returned the menu to the table. When the waiter came by I quickly ordered two center cut dry-aged steaks.

“Oh, and a bottle of 2000 Chateau Sovereign Cabernet,” I added just before the waiter turned to leave. He turned and smiled, but it was a condescending smile, the kind that implied, that’s not one of the better ones here.

As we waited on our entrees I learned a number of things about Amy: She had a twin sister who died of Hodgkin’s Disease when they were in 8th grade; she once had a pet pig on the family farm named Brutus; she was Miss Corn Festival not once but twice, and placed 3rd another year; and one time in high school she beat a freshman boy up, prompting rumors to start that she was a lesbian.

I sat back and watched as Amy opened up like a flower basking in the first focused sunlight of the day. It was as if she’d been waiting all this time for somebody to tell these things to and now that she had an audience she wasn’t going to stop. I smiled in admiration as I watched, excited in the discovery that somebody so shielded and so pure still existed in Los Angeles.

She continued talking as the waiter brought our Caesar and anchovy salad. “Outside fork,” I said when she grabbed the fork closest to her plate setting.

“Excuse me?”

“The fork. Your salad fork is the fork furthest out in the setting,” I told her, pointing at the correct fork she should be using.

“Oh,” she responded, blushing lightly as she discarded the entrée fork for the correct silverware.

“It’s so official,” she added.

“When in Rome,” I said, then adding, “they usually give you a pre-chilled fork when having dinner salads like this.”

“Pre-chilled? Whatever for?”

“It helps keep crisp lettuce crisp, and reduces that slimy feeling of having too much dressing in your salad. And that’s probably too much info from me,” I laughed.

She giggled in response. “That’s what I miss about you, Reed; the style factor. There is a serious style void in the office now that you aren’t there. The guys who are there are so, so…plain.”

I laughed and dismissed the obvious irony.

I picked at my salad and continued to listen to Amy tell of her childhood years growing up in Iowa. Most of the time the conversation needed no steering or prompting, as Amy filled me in on the more momentous events in her life. The waiter showed up with my sub-par wine choice, uncorked the bottle and poured a small draw. I sipped and let it run between the cleft of my mouth and my tongue. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the waiter made it out to be. I nodded and he continued dispensing.

“You know, there are many times during the day when I think to myself ‘what are you doing out here girl, you don’t fit in.’”

“How long have you been living in Los Angeles now?” I asked.

“Just over two years.”

“Hell, that’s longevity by our standards!” I ruled.

She smiled timidly. “It’s just…places like this. I don’t see how a person like myself could ever fit in places like this.”

“Have you ever considered stopping that train of thought and just going with the flow?”
Amy looked away. She was beginning to fall back into her shrinking violet self. I had to move fast.

“The problem with a lot of people who feel they are on the outside looking in is they analyze the situation too much instead of jumping in,” I said hastily. She still eyed me with a bit of hurt, as if I’d cut her to the quick. “So much in this town is done in passing, so why not just jump in with both feet and assess later? Besides, so much of it is trivial detail – we’re not earning ourselves a Nobel here – so why analyze. You won’t be making any calls that compromise your character and you don’t have to even worry about if you’re being the real you.” I waved my hand around in the air, calling out the wall coverings and the prim and proper people seated around us. “Not in this place, not around these people.”

“I’m confused. Are you saying I should be phony?”

I shook my head. “No, not at all. I’m suggesting you play up one side of yourself, one that only exhibits one or two specific characteristics.” She still looked confused. “Everybody does it.” I paused. “I’ll give you an example: Suppose I meet a person and in talking to that person I pick up things about their character, such as the way they talk and which words they choose, the way they dress, the way they recline into a chair, the way they make eye contact…the things they say outright that express an opinion on something, and what they don’t say when certain topics are broached. All these things form an opinion in my mind about who they are, and what’s more – the type of person they expect to come into contact with. Now most of the time these people expect to meet someone just like you or me, but to a degree. There is some aspect about your personality or mine that they are expecting to see immediately. So I play that aspect up and bring it to the forefront.”

She nodded in response periodically but I could tell she wasn’t grasping the concept fully.

“Take that last setup I just laid out for you. Let’s put it into real world terms. I meet someone at an upscale party, the type with martinis and people in cocktail dresses and sports coats. I know going in this is a refined crowd or at least that is the personal characteristic they are playing up, and it is the same characteristic they are looking for in me. So I tap into what I know about the arts, literature, fine living, and so on. Maybe if I hit it off with someone I suggest a night at the Philharmonic, not because that’s where this person necessarily wants to go, but because it’s a suggestion they’re expecting to hear from a person who would be at a party like this. When I get to know said person more in depth down the road I can pick something more in line with their actual tastes. If it were a block party or something crass I might instead talk sports and television and then take it to a pool hall for some longnecks and stick. It’s the environment that is the determining factor.”

Suddenly Amy grew visually sad as I made the last statement. “You asked me shortly after we started working if I wanted to shoot pool one night after work. Does that mean you never meant you were interested in doing that?”

“Of course I was interested, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked. But keep in mind, at the time that was the vibe I got from you and what’s more the environment helped determine the activity. If I suggested the opera you would have turned me down. Come to think of it you turned me down anyhow.”

“I don’t know,” she continued, “it sounds so phony.”

“Los Angeles,” I added. “Ta-da!”

Amy grew quiet again, uncertain of what to make of this new information she’d been given just as the entrees and side dishes arrived. Flemings has always been about presentation, and tonight was no different. The waiter and his assistant appeared in their trademark spotless bleach white outfits carrying our steaks on sizzling oversized platters draped in thick white napkins. The assistant draped another large napkin over the table in front of Amy before the waiter delicately laid the steak platter in front of her, cautioning Amy against touching the sides of the plate. “Far too hot, Miss,” he added with a smile. They repeated the fanfare on my side of the table and as they lay the steak in front of me I smelled the salts used to dry-age the cutlets. The assistant then disappeared briefly before returning with an oversized spoon and a side dish of asparagus and a side dish of creamed corn. After a quick admonition to enjoy he vanished as fast as he had appeared.

I decided to change the subject to keep Amy active. “So, two years in this place, huh? How many dates have you been on in that time if you had to put a number on it?”

Amy reached for a fork to begin, and then subsided and looked at me as if making sure she was employing the right fork. I nodded gently and she continued. “Oh it’s not a big number. Two dates, I think.”

I coughed as I put down a sip of my wine. I hadn’t expected such a low number. “That’s it? Two? I’ve been on two dates in the past two weeks, Amy. Were you at least the one who asked them out?”

“Lord no, I couldn’t do that! Where I come from it’s the man who does the asking. The only boyfriend I ever had was the man I married after high school and any time we went out it was he doing the asking. The other times it was just understood since we’d been boyfriend and girlfriend for so long. Besides, if I asked a man out, what if he said no? What if he laughed in my face? I don’t think I could handle that kind of rejection.”

“Welcome to every guy’s life, Amy. It’s not pretty, but it’s not difficult either. The worst thing a person can say to you is no. That’s it. You’re no worse off than you were a night ago when you didn’t have a date.”

“I don’t know, I can’t just shrug it off as well as you can.”

“Well, what’s your technique?” I asked.

She cut a piece of steak and chewed while she thought of a response. Then: “My technique? What do you mean?”

I watched as she transferred a few asparagus spears to her plate and took a little more creamed corn. The noise in the restaurant was growing louder as tables filled and waiters were now more noticeable in their rush to make sure everybody was being taken care of.

“Your style for asking a person out, for closing the deal.” I moved in closer to her. “The body language you exhibit that tells someone you want them and aren’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Amy shrunk back, blushing. She hadn’t given these ideas any serious thought.

I leaned back in my chair and took another sip of the Chateau Sovereign. The flavors of casis and leather were immediately perceptible. “You and I have a lot of work to do,” I replied.

“You don’t have to do this,” she urged, still a little embarrassed.

“Nonsense.” I put down my steak knife. “Show me your technique. I want you to ask me out.”

She put down her silverware and looked around the room. “We’re already out.”

“It’s a hypothetical. Say we just met and things are going pretty good, and now you’re going to ask me out.”

“I can’t just ask you out!” she gawked, the red returning to her cheeks.

“Why not?” I asked. “Give me what you got,” I said as I reclined into my seat. The waiter came by to check on our progress and Amy turned away so he couldn’t see her in this flushed state.

“I don’t know about this Reed, I don’t like this idea.”

“Look, at some point in your life you will have to ask a man out, either because society will have progressed to the point where such a thing is commonplace, or because you are tired of waiting for someone you truly like to ask you out.” I picked up my chair and moved it around the circular table so Amy and I were less than a foot apart. “Come on, let’s have at it.”

Amy took a long sip of wine to bolster herself and started stammering: “Uh, okay…so, it’s like this…er…I was thinking…”

“Good,” I cut in, “start with thinking. Thinking helps.”

Amy frowned before gulping down the last of her wine. I refilled her glass as she continued.
“So…I was thinking – like I said – maybe we’d enjoy each other’s company sometime, like…you know…a date, sometime.”

“Gee, a date, it sounds so official,” I responded.

“Godamnit Reed, you’re making this so embarrassing!”

“It’s not a bad start,” I commented. “Okay, continue.”

“Continue? That’s all I’ve got!” she huffed, her cheeks still flushed as she cut an asparagus spear and washed it down with a rather big swig of wine. “I’m a lost cause, aren’t I?” she sheepishly asked.

I moved my chair back around to my place setting and continued with my steak. After cutting off a hunk and savoring the flavor in my mouth for longer than I should have, I put down the cutlery and answered Amy: “I think I know what your problem is.”“What, besides that I absolutely stink at it?”

“You don’t stink at it, you’re just unrehearsed. I think your problem is in your head; you are placing too much importance on the idea of what a date is, as if it’s some great event. This isn’t the courtship of Scarlett and Captain Butler, Amy – it’s just two people hanging out and enjoying similar interests. That’s it.”

“But what about sex?” she exclaimed. A few people turned in response when they heard her and Amy shrunk away when she realized she had asked the question a little more loudly than she wanted.

I smiled as the people around us responded with scoffs and indignation. Then I said purposely loud, “No Amy, I am not going to have sex with you. It’s only the first date. What kind of slut do you think I am?” Many of the same people turned in their chairs once more.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Amy repeated as she tried to bury her head further into her napkin.

“I’m sorry, I’m having a bit of fun at your expense.” She still hid behind your napkin. “You can come out know, everybody is back to their meal.” She slowly withdrew the napkin and looked around, seeing it was safe.

“That was a mean thing to do.”

“I know. Accept my apologies. It’s not like me to beat a person when already down.” I returned to my steak and between pieces tried some of the corn. Everybody says Ruths Chris or Gullivers’ versions of creamed corn are the best, but I think Flemings can hold their own just fine.

“I realize I never answered your question Amy, the one that led us to all of this: What about sex. Well, what about it? Sex is the ultimate in two people enjoying similar interests, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess, but that’s not what I meant by the question. How can I not get all wrapped up in what a date is about if there’s the possibility of sex?”

“You can’t approach every date you ever go on as having an end event of sex to close the date. Just go with the flow of each date and see where things progress. As soon as you are comfortable with the person, then start thinking about it, but until then just keep the idea of bumping uglies out of your head.”

“That’s a good way of dealing with it, I guess. Is that what you do?”

I shrugged it off. “Me? No, I expect to get laid every time.” I followed it with a loud laugh.

Amy shook her head in disgust. “You’re awful, just awful.”

We cut down on the talking so that we could finish our meals before they grew cold and just as we were nearly finished I poured the last of the wine into our glasses and resumed the teaching.

“Let’s work on your asking out technique some more, shall we?”

“Oh Reed, I don’t know. I’m no good.”

“Sure you are, you just have to be more direct and have some confidence in yourself.” I moved my chair closer to hers once more and I could see her face growing hotter as the prospect of having to run another drill became a certainty.

“Couldn’t we talk about something else instead?” Amy suggested. “Couldn’t we talk about some of the people at work who have asked how you have been and what you’ve been up to?”

“If I want to hear from them I’ll pick up the phone,” I responded. “Right now I want to talk about you.”

Amy shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Think of it this way: Approach it knowing that whether you are the one doing the asking or not, it’s somebody you’d be excited to go out with. The asker and askee are irrelevant here, okay?”

Nervously crunching her napkin, Amy nodded while focusing her vision on a stripe of the crimson wall opposite our view. If she needed to psyche herself out that was fine. Sometimes that is all that’s required.

After a few starts and restarts she lowered her shoulders and buried her chin low. “I’m sorry, I just can’t. It’s not for me.”

I was exasperated. “Jesus, how are we ever supposed to get you laid, Amy?”

As soon as the question was free of my lips her demeanor immediately changed and I instantly regretted it. Suddenly Amy wasn’t subdued, as she sat up straighter and adjusted her posture. The look on her face changed from disbelief to offended, and her body language with it appeared less the victim and more of a person ready to attack. Whatever switch deep within Amy I had activated with those ten words was on, and her pump was primed.

“How in the hell would you know what my sexual needs are? Who are you to speak for me? What if I wanted a dry period for a while?” When she saw me roll my eyes she added. “That’s right, you heard what I said. Why does it always have to be about sex? Why can’t two people just go somewhere to go somewhere? My ex-husband never understood that. For him it was all about getting his rocks off. Before we were married that’s all our dates ever turned into, just another place to have sex without getting caught. And once we were married, he took it upon himself to have sex with me anytime he felt like it – whether I wanted to or not – though when you’re married and have sex unwillingly it’s not considered rape. Hell if I even wanted to tell somebody in town they would just say it’s my ‘marital responsibility.’ So he’d just come home drunk on a Friday night after an evening bowling with the guys and take advantage of me. Rouse me from my sleep. Make me do…things.”

All the color dropped from my face. “Oh Amy, I’m sorry. I had no idea…”

“Don’t patronize me, Reed. Or are you just saying something to play up some side of ourselves because you think that’s what I want to hear?”

Before I had a chance to qualify my remark she continued at break-neck speed. “You try getting a divorce in a small backwards town because your spouse is a selfish drunken bastard who slaps you around and takes advantage of you and see how many people sit there and judge you and make snippy comments after you pass by, like I’m the bad person! You listen to hearsay and talk around the local market that I’m some kind of ice queen and that ‘I must have driven him’ to sleep around with other women! All because I wanted a little respect and to be treated with some dignity! And I come out here to escape that but all I find is more selfishness and streets teeming with people who mock you and judge you just for trying to meet their gaze while you walk down the street. And the men in this town are just the same as the type I left at home. Big city or small town, it doesn’t matter. And what happens when I call up a girlfriend from home to talk and complain about how I don’t feel like I connect with anybody or anything in this place? She tells me I need to get laid. Well I have had enough of trying to find a special connection in Los Angeles. I tried to change but I can’t. I am who I am and the rest of the world will just have to accept that!”

I sat silently and Amy started to cry. “Oh God, now I am crying. Great. It’s ruining my makeup.” Before I could say anything she stood up and ran for the ladies’ room. A few people watched and then judgingly turned their eyes to me.

“Sorry folks, I said something to upset her. I can be an ass like that. I apologize if it interrupted your meal.” A few of the older clientele huffed before re-focusing their attention on their meals.

I slipped a hand into my inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small pad and pen. I wouldn’t have much time to act; Amy surely would come out and want to go home, not desiring to be an embarrassment to herself at Flemings any longer. I clicked the pen’s end and began writing:

Amy, any disaster that resulted tonight is wholly my fault and in no way should you feel responsible. I had no idea those feelings were pent up inside of you, and yet I am touched you chose to share them with me despite the manner in which they were unleashed. You see, one of the great things I admire about you is your authenticity. In this town of phonies it’s a rare find. I should have valued that, but I didn’t. Instead I saw something that wasn’t there, something I wanted to be there, something I thought I could create. And so I thought I could change you, maybe even refine you. Take a beautiful thing and make it more so. But I completely forgot that who you are already makes you a great person to me and that's good enough. I had made up my mind that helping you with this change would make you a better person. But that wasn't my decision to make. I got caught up in the idea that I could do it when instead I needed to consider whether I should do it.

I shuddered as I realized I was using some of Devin’s wisdom from our earlier lunch. I lowered the pen and quickly wrapped up:

Don’t ever change – not for me or anybody else. Only do it when you want to.
I folded the note and quickly slipped it into her coat pocket just as she returned from the ladies’ room. “I’m sorry, I’ve completely ruined dinner,” she said.

“No, don’t blame yourself, this is all my fault.”

“No, I’m embarrassed to be at such a nice place with you and totally ruin it. I’ve called a cab to come get me. I can’t sit here in good conscience and finish a meal and have all these people looking at me. Besides,” she laughed, “my makeup is ruined and I look horrid.”

“You still look fantastic, running mascara and all,” I said. “And that’s no line. Look, let’s get out of here, I can take you home no problem. We don’t have to cut this short.”

The hostess approached our table as I tried to plead my case. “Miss, the cab you called for is here.”

Amy thanked her and took her coat from the back of her chair. I helped her with it, wrapping it delicately around her bare shoulders while verifying the note was still in the same pocket as her purse.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you one last time to let me take you home.” She shook her head. As she brushed past me she started tearing up again.

I sat back down, alone, defeated and with a cold unfinished meal. The waiter came by some moments later and asked if he could clear the meals.

“Will there be anything else?” he asked.

“Do you have any Gispert Robustos in your humidor?”

“I’m sure we do, sir.”

“I’ll have one, then. I suppose you might as well bring the after dinner drink menu too.”

“Very good sir.”

A few people dining at nearby tables looked over at me periodically, and I tried my best to put on a brave face and smile every time before they turned back to their table and made their own gossipy comments.

The waiter returned with the cigar on a silver tray, and in the other hand he carried a squared, squat tumbler partially filled with the golden brown haze of Scotch. “Sir, it came to the attention of the management that your companion left abruptly and in poor spirits. We hope everything is all right. Please accept a Morangie aged 18 year single malt Scotch with our compliments and best wishes.”

I removed the cigar from the platter, smiled, and nodded as the waiter placed the glass in front of me.

“Thank you, that’s very generous of you,” I responded. I pulled the Dupont from my pocket and began lighting the Robusto.

“If I may ask sir, is everything all right?”

“It’s just a date that didn’t go as planned. They all can’t be good ones, you know.” The waiter nodded in agreement.

“Even in this place,” I said between puffs of my cigar, “even in La-La Land, not every ending is a happy one.”