Thanks for the ride.” I fold into my friend Angelica Ross’ baby blue BMW, catching the edge of my linen pants on the door handle.
“Did you check the bottom of your shoes? I just had the car detailed. I have to pick up a client on Monday. Some new doctor from San Francisco. First impressions are very important.”
I stifle the urge to tell her that “pick up a client” makes it sound as though she is a lady of the evening, not a pharmaceutical rep.
I open the door and tap my heels like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. “There’s no place like breakfast. There’s no place like breakfast.” I swing the soles of my feet in her direction and wait for permission to be her passenger.
“Good enough.” Angelica adjusts her rearview mirror to check her lipstick and adjust the blond swatch of bangs across her forehead. “You hear about Sadie?”
“How is it that everyone knows about Sadie except me? What do you know?”
“Just that she has been seen with a guy in all the best restaurants lately. You know Sadie. She doesn’t share juicy details about her personal life.”
“Unlike someone I know,” I say, laughing. Only Angelica has a love life to speak of. Actually, Angelica has a dating life. Love is not part of her current plan.
“People with broken-down heaps of scrap metal should not make fun of those with nicely maintained cars who drive said people to breakfast.”
“Guilt taken.” I see Caitlin getting off the bus just as we pull into the parking lot. So does Angelica.
“See. That could be you. Does she still not own a car?”
“She refuses. She says she doesn’t want her personal reliance on cars to add to our nation’s reliance on imported oil. Besides, she used to get parking tickets all the time because she forgot to feed the meters.”
I am not into palm readings, horoscopes, or tarot cards; they all go against my basic understanding of how God works. But I do firmly believe in the power of reading breakfast-food preferences. This, I am sure, is of God.
“I’ll have the huevos rancheros with extra salsa and sour cream, and could I also have guacamole? And breakfast potatoes with bacon…and iced tea.” Caitlin places her order first, though the waitress is looking at me. Last week Caitlin ordered blueberry pancakes with whipped cream and chocolate pudding on the side. Ever since I introduced her to Angelica and Sadie a couple years ago, her eclectic taste in clothes and food has been a source of endless entertainment for us all.
“I will have…hmmm…maybe the fruit platter? What is the soup today…it is too early for that, huh? Oh, dang…give me the Super Cheese omelet.” Ironically, Angelica was voted “most decisive” in our college marketing class and is now a pharmaceutical rep for a company that makes medication for Adult Attention-Deficit Disorder. These days she rarely sticks with anything or anyone.
She once told me that she fell into a rut. And it apparently was the worst experience of her life. I imagined her lying twisted and helpless in a large chasm…but, of course, she was really talking about the kind of rut that is my life. Predictable, boring, and not in need of a PDA or other self-organizing device because every day pretty much looks the same. Sometimes Angelica sidles up and looks at me as though I am the edge of that rut—intriguing and a bit fascinating, but if she gets too close, she might fall in.
“Granola with dry wheat toast, a sliver of skim cream cheese, and coffee with skim milk and sugar.” Sensible Sadie Verity hands her menu to our server dressed reluctantly in ’50s attire. Sadie is a classic. We are all the same age, but Sadie is the only real adult among us. Angelica and I were sure she was older than us when we met her in college at a Bible study through the campus ministry. We started going to the study because we thought we might meet decent guys. It turned out to be comprised of all women. We stayed because Sadie was an excellent leader.
We all watch her when she isn’t looking. She has the body of Alicia Keys with long legs; the affective speech of someone much older, like Maya Angelou; and the calm demeanor of a counselor. It is funny how you imagine yourself a certain way with certain people. When I stand next to Sadie, I want to tug on the sleeve of her impeccable suit and ask her to lean down so I can whisper questions into her perfect ear.
What choice should I make?
Which way should I go?
Why are you friends with me?
The waitress has made her way back to me. She tucks her blond hair with black lowlights behind her triple-pierced ear and sighs. “One egg sunny side up, a cup of oatmeal, whole grain toast, and black coffee.” I hand her the menu but she doesn’t take it.
“The Senior Sunrise Delight.” She slurs this, extreme boredom freezing the function of her tongue.
“I really wouldn’t know.” I nonchalantly examine the salt-and-pepper shakers. They are mini-replicas of Chevys and Fords from the 1950s. I’m willing her to go away.
“Right panel. Big green letters…exactly what you ordered.” Malicious pause. “S-e-n-i-or S-u-n-r-i-s-e D-e-l-i-g-h-t.” Her fuchsia mouth outlines the words as though she were on Sesame Street.
She returns to the kitchen, where she probably makes the cooks cry.
I smile as I imagine how I’ll spend her two-dollar tip.
“Tell us. Tell us. Tell us about your boyfriend!” Caitlin bounces up and down like a child.
A child with a large basket on her head.
Caitlin is third in command at a trendy boutique, Fab, in an eclectic part of downtown where galleries and tattoo parlors share city blocks. Determined to get to the post of second in command at the store, she is always trying to initiate the next big trend. Her goal is to get one big claim to fame so her boss will have to promote her. Today’s stab at fab is a huge rimmed hat…the kind found atop bicycling women on soy sauce labels.
“But what about our spiritual dilemma of the week?” I interject, a strict traditionalist.
“This is more important. Besides, what Sadie thinks of this guy is a spiritual situation. Please, Sadie. Details?” Caitlin nods to emphasize her point and causes her basket to slip to an awkward angle.
Sadie wants to appease her friend but cannot quite get past the hat.
Nobody can.
The busboy has to push the next table over three feet to wedge by her head extension. “What is that, Caitlin?”
“It’s a non. From Vietnam. They are made of bamboo and are quite durable and exotic, don’t you think?” She touches the pinnacle of her new find.
“Anon, Anon,” I say, and only Sadie laughs at my literary joke.
“Yes. A non. The owner of Yi Li’s Tea House had one on the other day, and as I stared at it over my rice crackers and green tea, I knew it would be a hit. Not only is it a great conversation piece, it protects you from the sun in the summer and light rain in the winter.” She is a home shopping network of one.
I can barely make out Caitlin’s expression under the bamboo cone, but we all know she is serious. Sadly.
Sadie, seated next to her, can only see the large sloping side of the hat-mountain. “Well, it would certainly give one a lot of…distance in crowded situations like on the subway or…at a party…” Sadie is trying to be optimistic.
Caitlin nods under her non and adjusts the blue fabric tie beneath her chin. “The only problem is that sounds are muffled. It’s like going through a tunnel.”
The only problem?
Despite her quirky taste in fashion, Caitlin is a glass-half-full gal, God bless her. I shrug at Sadie as Angelica flips up the tip of Caitlin’s hat and gives her a thumbs-down. Angelica does not sugarcoat anything for anyone.
“I have a spiritual dilemma that will be a nice segue into our exploration of Sadie’s love life.” Angelica stirs her coffee rapidly. Half her morning caffeine is now pooled in the saucer. She pauses to weigh her statement and makes a correction. “Actually, it is more of a moral dilemma.”
“Go for it,” I say, though I am frightened about what she might bring up. You never know with Angelica. Shock is her primary goal in any setting.
“Is it okay to dump a guy after a pretty decent first date just because he sells insurance?” She looks up and scans all of our faces for a first response, not the filtered politically correct answer we tend to present in case anyone is listening.
However, on this topic she need not worry. We all reveal our dark sides gladly.
“Yes.” Caitlin chirps innocently. “And no fair. That isn’t a dilemma; that’s a rule.”
“I hate to say it, but yes,” Sadie follows on the heels of Caitlin’s definitive approval. She looks embarrassed.
“Ouch. Way to make us start out the day shallow.” I disappoint myself, but we all have had stalker experiences with insurance salesmen in this town. At first they look dashing in their suits and manly with their briefcases and business cards, but the next thing you know they are downloading your personal address book and crashing your friends’ barbecues looking for new clients. The last straw is usually the “only because I care about you” conversation in which generic man—we call them all Brad—shares with you, over a candlelit dinner, how likely it is that you will lose a limb while feeding a parking meter or poke an eye out when baking quiche, should you ever take up baking.
I shake my head at our lack of compassion. “Okay…but that is the only reason to dump a guy after a good first date.” How do we get to a place of setting up such ridiculous standards for men? Sadly, this one rule rules out about eighty percent of the male population in Tucson. The other twenty percent are physical trainers who rent converted garage apartments from their parents. “On this note reflecting our moral descent, please save us with your news, Sadie. Tell us about a great man who breaks the mold and who, I take it, is not in the field of insurance.”
Sadie doesn’t look as if she is sure she is ready to tell us. Can we handle an adult conversation? “Well…I can say that lately a gentleman has been calling on me.”
“Calling on you?” Angelica says. “Like a telemarketer?”
“I’m dating, okay? I’m dating a guy.”
“Oh, you are so lucky, Sadie. Of course you found a guy. What guy wouldn’t want to date you? You are so…perfect. We are all confused, but you have your act together.” Caitlin has a tendency to turn a compliment into a platform for self-deprecation.
“Hey, speak for yourself,” Angelica says as the waitress arrives with food. But we all know it is true. How is it that women of the same age and basic beliefs can be on such different ends of the “act together” spectrum?
The waitress hands me a black-and-pink deco plate and a coupon good for a senior’s discount at a local movie theater. “Special promotion for a special order,” she says with a side of sarcasm.
I smile again. I guess she will get a tip after all. I tuck the coupon under the plastic map of Route 66 that serves as my place mat.
“The one dating gets to pray,” says Angelica. She does this to avoid our usual system of taking turns. It’s her turn. Angelica doesn’t like public displays of faith.
Caitlin takes her hat off and reveals her matted-down, short, supposed-to-be-spiky hair. Sadie offers a blessing.
Between bites of her sensible meal, she shares a few details. The gentleman, Carson, is a new donor to the Tucson Botanical Society, for which Sadie is the development director. He is sponsoring the creation of a new fountain and night garden designed to showcase a community telescope.
“He is so romantic,” Caitlin whispers to her caloric breakfast.
“He also is…well, a bit…”
“Portly?” Angelica says randomly.
“No,” Sadie sighs. “He is a bit older.”
“What is a bit?” I bring my index finger and thumb close together measuring a small portion along the continuum line of time and age.
Sadie’s downward glance isn’t shame. It is a “they won’t understand” glance.
“Wait. I love The Price Is Right. That game where you have to guess which of the two prices is the right one.” Caitlin claps her hands with glee.
We don’t know what to do with this stroll down latchkey child entertainment lane.
“We can each guess how old he is,” she continues with a big smile.
“Leave me out of this home version,” I say and look at Sadie pleadingly.
“Okay. Sixteen years. For pete’s sake, sixteen years.” Sadie sits up straight with no apologies. “He knows what he wants out of life and he is…a real man. Not a boy pretending.” She peers across the table to squelch anything Angelica might want to add about “real men.”
Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I wasn’t expecting that much of a difference. However, Sadie is beyond men our age.
“Wow—” Angelica starts to share her opinion, but I cut her off at the pass.
“A toast to real men.” I motion with my coffee cup and the others follow my lead. Sadie’s relieved look tells me the discussion is over. Possibly forever.
Snide waitress refills my cup while I am toasting the only stable man of America. “Free refills with the senior breakfast,” she says, so pleased with herself.
I may be the butt of her joke, but I just got me a free cup o’ joe. I smile sweetly at her. Toothy and one moment away from a “har har har” sound.
We all make plans to meet up separately and together in the near future. The sun shines on us as our designer shades slide down our foreheads to settle on our noses at the same time. Well, mine clunk. I lost my Ralph Lauren’s and resorted to borrowing a pair of the large black optometrist glasses on hand at Golden Horizons for folks with dilated pupils or light sensitivity.
“Next month we will really discuss Matthew.” I offer this up as if I don’t say it every month.
They nod seriously as if they don’t nod seriously every month.
As we are about to part, each to her own weekend errands, the busboy with red cheeks and an apron that wraps him like a burrito comes running out after Caitlin. His steps are short from the tightness of the fabric, so his walk is a little bit Geisha—an even funnier visual comparison considering he is waving her non in the air.
“Lady! You forgot your cornucopia.”