Three days later, Angie stood on the steps of Ss. Peter and Paul’s Church, where she’d gone to light a candle in memory of her grandfather on his birthday. This was one of those special, sunny spring days when the sky was a cloudless, brilliant blue. Against the colorful buildings of North Beach, clusters of easygoing people shopped or dined or played in the park and gave the area the busy, friendly Mediterranean flavor it was famous for.
Angie crossed Filbert to Washington Square and sat on a park bench. For a few minutes, at least, it was an afternoon to enjoy.
“I have a lot of experience with marriage.”
Angie turned at the sound of the loud, gravelly voice. Behind her was a tall bush, and on the other side of it was another bench. She couldn’t see who sat on it.
“I didn’t know you’d been married,” a slurred, younger-sounding voice replied.
“Can’t even remember how many experiences with wedded bliss I’ve endured, son. I’m a marrying man, I am.”
“You like it, do you?”
Angie pressed herself hard against the back of the bench to hear better what the marrying man had to say.
“I do. Hey! See what I mean? The words ‘I do’ just roll from my tongue like butter on a hot cob of corn. The little ladies I was married to, though, they were a problem. Women have these hang-ups, you know.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Anxious not to miss a word, Angie knelt on the bench and leaned into the bush.
“Yeah. About stuff like having a job. Staying sober. Taking a ridiculous number of baths. They forget the ecstasy.”
“I see.”
“I had one wife, every time I’d hop into bed, she’d hop out. Now, of course, she just might not have felt worthy of the marital gift I was about to bestow. But for some reason, she used to say odd things, like I was overwhelming. I never understood what she meant, unless it was my charm. That was one of my shorter marriages.”
“I can understand that.”
“You know, son, the carnal seems to be another hang-up with women. I got a theory. Men and women are different, and I don’t just mean in the obvious way. I’m talking sex drive. I figure from the time a fellow knows it’s possible, he’s raring to go. But the little lady’s sex drive peaks later. Probably posthumously.”
Angie listened to the two guffaw over this a long time. Then the younger-sounding one said, “At least you understand them.”
“I hate to disillusion you, but despite my vast experience, they’re still a mystery to me. So much so—I’m not ashamed to admit—I’d just as soon pay for it. But you know something, even the pros feel unworthy of me. It’s amazing. I’ve got to be one hell of a guy.”
That did it. She had to see this wondrous marrying man. She grabbed hold of some branches and spread them apart, but still couldn’t see through the thick bush. Leaning farther over the back of the bench, she grabbed more branches and was trying to separate them enough to see through when she lost her balance and toppled headfirst over the bench. Holding on to the bush, she belly flopped on top of it, causing the branches to sway under her weight and carry her up to the back of the opposite bench. She looked right into the bloodshot eyes of two scruffy men. They jumped to their feet.
The older one, a seedy but still faintly debonair character in his shiny too-tight striped suit and bowler hat worn at a jaunty angle, proudly puffed out his chest as he smiled down at her.
“There, son. See what I mean? They’re always falling for me.”
Earl ran out of the kitchen and came to a screeching halt when he saw who stood near the entrance waiting for a table. “You back?”
Angie looked around to see if he could be addressing anyone else. No, she was the only one here. “Yes.”
“Which table?”
“How about the same one as last time?”
He led her to the table and even held the chair out for her. She pulled a twig she’d missed earlier off the leg of her slacks and sat. He handed her a menu—the same Columbus Avenue Café menu with the name lined out.
She gave it back. “What’s on the menu today?” she asked.
“T’ree t’ings.”
“T’ree? I mean, three?” she said with surprise. The cook must have taken her advice and expanded the menu. “How wonderful! What are they?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, counted with his fingers, then opened them and looked at her. “Spaghetti wit’ meatballs, spaghetti wit’out meatballs, an’ a meatball sangwich.”
She clasped her hands to her forehead. “I think I need to pay the cook another visit.”
“He’s busy.”
Angie looked around the empty restaurant. “Give me a break!”
Just then another customer came in. A rather plain man, he had short, spiky brown hair—not spiked like a punk, but spiky like someone whose hair had been cut a little too short and who hadn’t ever learned to control his cowlicks, and thick, black-rimmed glasses that rode too high on the left and too low on the right, making him look like his head was perpetually cocked.
He was also tall and surprisingly muscular-looking. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t remember having met him before.
He smiled shyly in her direction. She smiled back. Did he know her?
“See?” Earl looked at her smugly. “What did I tell you?” He walked over to the new customer. “You wanna eat?”
“Um, yes. I believe so.”
“Okay. Follow me.” Earl led him to a table near Angie. “Here’s da menu. I’d recommend da spaghetti an’ meatballs.”
Angie turned around to watch. The customer looked from her, to Earl, to the menu, then folded it shut and handed it back. “Sounds good to me,” he said.
Earl went back to Angie’s table. “You decided yet?”
“How about a new waiter?”
“It ain’t on da menu. How ’bout spaghetti an’ meatballs?”
She held her head. “Not today. I think I’ll pass, in fact.” She stood, picking up her purse. “Tell the cook I suggest he look into polenta. There isn’t a restaurant around that does it really well. The trick is to mix diced roasted green chilies—mild ones—in with it. If he wants to try it, I’ll help.”
She was ready to leave, but noticed that the customer had been listening to her conversation with the waiter. She didn’t want him to get the wrong impression.
“Let me assure you,” she said, “the spaghetti and meatballs are truly delicious. I’m just tired of them.”
“Thanks. I’m glad to hear it. This is the first time I’ve eaten here. I’m new to the city.”
“Well, welcome.” She couldn’t help staring.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. You look a bit familiar.”
He looked at her as if she were mad, then grinned. “I remind you of Mel Gibson, maybe?”
Even his smile and attempt at humor didn’t lesson the sudden uneasiness she felt. “Hunger must be causing my eyesight to do strange things. Sorry. Enjoy your lunch.”
“It was nice talking to you.” He gave her a friendly, almost-puppy-dog smile. Placing his elbows on the table, he steepled his hands, and leaned forward, toward her. “Hurry back,” he said.