Practically Perfect - 4. IV. "Perfect pish posh, I'm sure"

IV. Act Two – Gardening

Scene 1: "Perfect pish posh, I'm sure"

 

JANE Held up a clot of soil. "Why do we have to do all this, when Chef gets fresh veg delivered every morning?"

Mary's hand reached out and used Jane's fingers to crush the lump of dirt. "Because life is often more than merely relying on others. Planting a garden is proof that a person has faith in the future."

"How so?" Michael halted in his task of furrowing little postholes in the garden plot.

Mary Poppins placed one generous pinch of seeds in each child's palm. She exampled how to place two or three in the bottom of the prepared depressions and tamp down with soil. She did so while explaining the reasons 'why.'

"We sow the seeds, Jane, Michael, hoping they will grow. It's a challenge and it's up to us. It's a responsibility, and it's up to us how we treat the precious potential that is life."

They had come to the end of a row, so Mary stood with vigor and brushed the loose soil from her pinafore. "Jane, please— if you please."

The girl ran and fetched the big watering can.

"Michael, help her."

Together, brother and sister trudged it over to Mary, spilling only a very little.

Mary added her strength and all three carefully watered the plot.

"You see, children? It's up to us to plant the dormant seeds, and it's up to us to nurture them. Water is love; warmth and sun is patience; and growth is the reward."

The children seemed to know more than kale and angelica were being talked about.

"Yes, Jane and Michael, even damaged seeds can sprout with careful tending . . . . "

P. L. Travers

Mary Poppins Tends a Plot

   

     

˚˚˚˚˚

 

"…Did I?! Seems I remember it was you who picked me up."

"Oh, you do, do you…?"

"Yep…."

 

Just as Fink is being force-fed some food for thought by her, the assembling crowd pushes in to chat with Mary. Smiling greetings and comments about how 'authentic' she looks forces the Display Department Manager to retreat.

An in-store electrician and his apprentice are doing last-minute adjustments at the circuit box, so Fink wanders over to Bruce and Naomi.

"Moment of truth, Achitoff."

"Yes, sir."

Bruce spills a glance on his friend, knowing Naomi is biting her tongue. The young man gets lost for a moment wondering about why Fink has a chip on his shoulder against him.

I work hard, I'm nice, and a failure in Fink's department is a failure on him, right…? And don’t get me started on the car situation, bloody hell.

Naomi distracts his musings.

"You know, Mr. Fink, moments of truth come and go – it's how you lead up to them that matter."

Spoken like Mary herself!

"Yes, young lady, but it's only the consequences that stick around like indigestion afterwards."

"Perfect pish posh, I'm sure." Mary Poppins strides into the group unannounced, and effortlessly points her toes out as she comes to a standing stop. "Time has a peculiar way of blending the now with the then; successes with attempts. We shall soon see about all possibilities. Now, where is Admiral Boom with his booming rooftop cannon when you need him?"

If she were the type to do so, she would have laughed at this juncture, but Mary was not the type. That's for others, and Bruce and Naomi indulge in it freely.

Bruce realizes Mary's mere presence seems to elevate his mood. His chuckles fade into a smile as he recalls the first time she simply 'materialized' in his life; it could not have been more dramatic and memorable if she had actually flown in on an umbrella.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

Fink had resentment in his heart, and a tight place that ached in his lower back. He sat in his office, glasses on, head down in concentration while reviewing a new project.

Why do I let people dump their problems on me? The ones they can't handle on their own.

The man looked up, removed his glasses, and idly contemplated the open window and cool breeze. The season had changed, and so had the wind direction.

Bruce came through the door, barely hitting knuckles on the frame a couple of times. His perfunctory 'knock' was due to his rapt attention on a thick, bound document in his hand. He flipped pages.

"Mr. Fink…. I'm not sure this motor spec is correct. Would you take a look?"

The boy sat, found the area of concern and placed the document in front of his boss.

"What's the issue?" Jerahmeel put his glasses back on.

"The rpm says sixteen a second. That's too fast, isn't it?"

He inspected the motor manufacturer's product information; Fink saw Bruce was correct.

"I wouldn't sweat it, but it'll mean Morris needs to find or make a differential for each motor." He set the booklet down and scanned Bruce over the top of his lenses. "We can always gear down the output, but this is the smallest motor you can use, due to the weight of the 'arms,' so we'll make it work."

Fink closed it and slid the booklet back into Bruce's hands. There was such a momentarily glimmer of admiration on the young man's face, it reminded him all unbidden of 'him,' of his son. That tangent of un-sought-after connection stiffened Fink's demeanor.

He felt himself screw up his face, asking, "How much longer are you going to parade around in costume?"

Bruce's silent-but-crushed expression was oddly satisfying to Fink; stultified stasis had been restored in the older man's heart, and that was how he needed it.

He looked at his watch. "Bruce, you have to get to Blick's before they close."

The young man rose, holding onto his spec book. "Thank you for your help."

The boss watched Bruce go to his workstation, tidy up a bit and slip on his 4-button surtout with the velvet-lined collar and cuffs.

No one is universally loved. Petty jealousies and practical realities see to that.

A clatter arose just outside the studio door. Shadows moved behind the glass and two figures materialized.

Muffled talk soon erupted into clear tones as a man – Richard Orleans – and a woman – an oddly-dressed one at that – entered.

"Good day, everyone!" the woman called out with clarion brightness.

Her eyes fell on the various faces of the studio before the woman's impeccably British accent again rang out. "Might one of you be good enough to direct me to the man in charge?"

Fink was astonished. He laid his glasses on this desk and went to her.

The woman's attire was remarkable – a skirt to her shins revealed button-up boots on sturdy heels. Above the fullness of her dress rode a traveling coat, buttoned to her diaphragm, under which showed a white blouse and velveteen ribbon done into a very tight and flat 'bow' beneath her chin. A hat both low and compact in diameter surmounted her pinned-up curls.

"I'm Jerahmeel Fink, head of the Display Department," he said, striding up to them. "May I help you…?"

"No," she said with spotless composure. "I'm here to help you."

They briefly shook hands. Fink's attention occasionally shifted onto Richardson's somewhat bemused portering of the woman's accoutrements. But, the guest to Jerahmeel's eyes was captivating in her ordinariness – this despite her attire – for she was neither tall nor short; corpulent or lean; young or old. She was however very erect, and faultlessly correct.

"Ah, Mr. Fink. Charmed, I'm sure, to make your acquaintance. Walt sent me…." Her head tilted in the picture-perfect conveyance of a confidential matter, the exact nature of which escaped Fink. "…Saying I was needed."

"Well – "

"And dear man that he is, Mr. Orlean has been taking me around the sundry creative teams for a How-de-do."

"I see. Well – "

"Shall we meet your staff, Mr. Fink?"

Less a begging for leave than a statement of intent, she sailed past the department head and smiled towards the nearest member of Fink's crew.

She began to chat brightly with several people, and Jerahmeel took a moment to inspect the items Richardson carried for her.

An impossibly new looking carpet bag had brown leather straps and appeared oddly weighty; the crook-handled umbrella – strictly speaking, a 'man's brolly' from the days of Fink's grandparents, as ladies' examples always had straight grips – was tightly pleated with folds of the blackest of black chintz. As for Richardson, his cat-that-swallowed a morsel appearance ruffled the husk of Fink's heart like an Indian summer breeze.

Yes, 'Special Events' golden boy, juicy but having an actress in-store for the holidays was Walt Disney's idea, not yours.

The two men began to travel in the woman's wake, encountering Famousites half-confused and half-delighted.

"Ah," her voice rose up in restrained joy. "A properly attired young man. How do you do? Mary Poppins, at your service."

"Bruce Achitoff."

"Charmed."

"Likewise."

"What is it you do in this fine department?"

Richardson interjected, "Bruce is a jack of all trades; Mr. Fink's right-hand man."

Jerahmeel was not particularly pleased with the characterization.

"Very interesting, young man."

Bruce offered, "But Mr. Fink is the only man to lead this team. His ideas are the best in town, and his work is dedicated and wonderful."

Mary flashed her eyebrows at Fink; the man had a feeling he was supposed to interpret that gesture as See, you have nothing to worry from him.

Bruce suddenly asked, "Is this one of the actual costumes from the film?"

She puzzled a moment. "And which filum are you referring to, young man?"

"I…I…." Bruce was floored, but the tension was broken by Richardson starting a laugh, which caught onto everyone except Mary. She raised bemused eyebrows and appeared too polite to inquire about the exact nature of the hilarity.

Notions bounded onto Bruce's drafting board and craned her neck. Loud meows wandered like sirens towards the newcomer's attention.

Mary smiled and stroked the cat's sleek flanks. "What's that…?" she suddenly crooned, bending down.

The woman's expression grew stern as if through concentration; looks split themselves twix Fink and Achitoff. "Oh, yes…? Oh. Yes. I see…. Very serious indeed."

The feline for her part purred in what resembled relief, she too extended glances between Mary and her compatriots of the Display Department.

Mary righted herself and announced merrily: "Now, if you'll kindly excuse me, I must 'pop' in on the Window Dressing Department. Mr. Orlean, will you lead on?"

"Certainly."

Bruce and Jerahmeel watched Mary and Richardson depart.

After the door had been closed a moment or two, and some form of now-magical equilibrium had been restored to the studio, Fink tapped his watch meaningfully at Bruce.

"Oh, Mr. Fink, since you're here…." The boy fiddled with a stack of paper on his desk, pulling out the latest Store Chat. "There's something I've been wanting to ask you…." He opened it to a page and shoved it into his boss' hands.

Fink telescoped it a moment. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"The Want Ads – let me." Bruce took it and read:

 

FOR SALE

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

'63 TRIUMPH, radio, heater, white-walls and two snow tires.

Excellent condition. $1750. Call MD 2-9122.[1]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Bruce closed it and explained: "A guy in the Record Department on Six has it and will let me have it for $1,700."

"So?" Fink did not understand.

"I've gone to Centerre already, and the bank will offer a loan, but they'd like you – my boss – to come down with me and vouch that I have some job security with the store."

Fink was stunned. The expectation and worry on Bruce's face was almost too much to bear, and it made his knee hurt. He reverted to his Midwestern roots: "I'll think about it."

The boy was crushed; Bruce spoke 'Midwestern' just as fluently as his boss and knew the accurate translation was 'I'll tell you no later.'

"Sir, my birthday is coming up, and the guy with the TR3 will not be able to hold it for long. I need your help."

Fink inhaled some steely resolve not to be persuaded. He tapped his watch again at the young man, and repeated: "I'll think about it."

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

A flame flickered on their table. Sputtering unobtrusively in a large red glass candleholder with nylon 'fish net' on the outside, it set the mood for a relaxed yet elegant meal.

POP!

The sound of a cork freeing itself from a bottle of Chianti filled the air.

A waiter – thin, young, lank and with dark smoothed-back hair – smiled at Naomi and Bruce professionally. He set the cork by Naomi, but she passed it to Bruce after sniffing. The waiter angled the bottle over her glass and waited. The young lady insisted Bruce be served the sample sip. Bruce was bemused, but drained it. Both Naomi and the waiter resisted a chuckle.

"Is it all right, sir?"

Bruce shrugged lips. "Tastes good to me."

The young man with the spotlessly white apron around his high waist poured two glasses, set the bottle down on the table and exited the scene. After he departed, Naomi picked up her glass and offered a toast. "Happy 21st birthday, Brucie Boy."

"Cheers."

They drank. Naomi commented, "Can't beat a bottle of Chianti as your first grownup sip."

"Thank you for taking me out."

"It's all right, Bruce. I know I'll get stiffed with the check. I told my folks I won't be back till late."

His face puzzled. "Why?"

"Depending on how much you eat, it might take me a while to pay off the bill by doing dishes."

Bruce half thought she was seriously concerned about it for a moment, but not after she let out a free-natured laugh.

"I do enough dishes at work – don’t want dishpan hands for my supper too!"

"Don’t worry. I brought more than my Bi-State pass; I also have a few dollars if you run low…but I did see lobster on the menu…."

"You know that's out of our working man and woman price range."

"True, but you could do pots and pans as well – "

"Stop it. Goofus."

He laughed.

Settling back, they sipped blood-red wine as well as letting the heady surroundings of the fall evening seep in.

Yellow blobs of gaslight punctuated the air. They came from Victorian lampposts mounted atop low walls of brick enclosing tables on terraces, which fronted the sidewalk up and down the street. Noise drifted from all sides: violin and guitar serenades for various couples dining outside; bands performing in Dixieland and Jazz clubs; laughter wafting from the comedy club where Phyllis Diller was on stage at the moment.

An easy mix of visitors and inhabitants moved about the district at night. Groups of penniless painters and bearded poets lounged on stoops with cans of Falstaff or Griesedieck beer. They observed but did not comment on the other collections of people inhabiting the sidewalks near them. Adolescents looked affluent and at ease in their prep school uniforms, while frat guys in sleek suits and pencil-thin ties stood around smoking and chatting. Some of these college-age students leaned on walls as little boys of color polished their shoes for two bits a pop. Young ladies congregated together too. Their flip hairstyles and mid-thigh dresses said they were out for a night of 'adventure,' hoping to draw the attention of one of the fraternity brothers pausing to have his patent leather buffed.

Yes, Gaslight Square was Saint Louis' own Left Bank. Daytime coffee houses positively bristled with Beat writers, social activists, and artists both performing and visual who enjoyed each other's company and challenging conversation over one or two cups of joe meant to last the afternoon. So too in the bright hours, shoppers with money to spare perused art galleries and book vendors and then stopped to sit on the terraces with al-fresco cups of Irish coffee. At night, the flames were lit and a mellower mood descended like the throbbing rhythm of a Nat King Cole ballad. The smells of candlewicks and gloriously garlic food lured in diners with hypnotic insistence. Such a pair were Naomi and Bruce.

"Did you know," inquired the young man, "that Joe Cunningham, the Cardinal's first baseman, lived right over there when the tornado of '59 ripped through."

"No way."

"Yes. I heard him on the radio. He claims him and 'a friend' were studying bible verses, in his bedroom, when the twister ripped off the roof. They barely got out of the way in time."

She contorted her lips slightly. "Why do you say friend like that?"

"Well, the person was a guy, and it was two in the morning."

"Oh!" Naomi laughed. "That kind of friend. Well, here's to 'em." She lifted her glass to toast. "Nothin' like reading Leviticus in the middle of the night with that special someone."

"Amen."

She put her glass down slowly. "You know…."

To Bruce's eye it looked like Naomi suddenly thought better of what she was about to say.

"I know what…?"

"Oh, nothing. Just a passing notion."

He shrugged.

Girls.

The young man continued. "Anyway, I thought of him because the city developed this whole arts and entertainment district after the damage was cleaned up. They did brilliant, if you ask me."'

"Yeah, I agree. Gaslight Square is like a bohemian Disneyland, only nothing's staged. You never know who's gonna come around the corner."

"I hope it never changes."

"Yeah, me too."

"And it's a straight shot on the Hodiamont Streetcar Line too from the store."

"Door to door, really. Still, it'd be nice to have a car to get around."

"I know what you mean." He got excited all at once. "Did I tell you?!"

"Tell me what?"

"A guy on the Sixth Floor placed an ad in Store Chat to sell a '63 Triumph TR3. It's one he's barely ever driven."[2]

The waiter returned with their first course. Amêijoas na cataplana – or, Portuguese-style steamed clams with spicy sausage, ham and tomatoes. It got placed in the middle of the table, while the waiter deftly said "Enjoy" and left them.

"You first, Birthday Boy."

He picked up the serving spoon and placed a nice portion on her plate.

As he did, Naomi told him, "About the ad, I don’t know what Triumph XYZ means, other than it’s a foreign car.

Bruce served himself. "It's a convertible; two-seater. It's pretty fast, but it's meant for country roads where you have to take lots of curves – low to the ground, I mean."

"And the color?"

Bruce smiled helplessly. "He says it's sea-foam-blue."

She settled into extracting a clam from a shell. "How perfect it would be for you, my 'chum.' A British car for a Brit Teddy Boy – it's a match made in heaven."

"Well, Martin's holding it for me, but it looks like I can't get Mr. Fink to go to the bank and say I have job security, so I guess I may not get it."

She sputtered "That…that – Fink." Then Bruce saw her expression grow sly. "Want me to rough him up for ya?"

He laughed and popped a cube of ham in his mouth. "I can't joke around with you and say 'yes.' You just may do it."

"Damn straight." Naomi ate a bit, nodding with raised fork to indicate that she thought it was good.

Bruce followed suit and they had a few minutes of happy silence punctuated with "Mmm" and "Yeah."

Naomi appeared to have an idea. "Hey, I know how you can get a car."

"How?"

"Just be top salesman Downtown and win the new car the company gives away every year – if not there, then the other four branches are giving away their own set of wheels."

It turned out her 'idea' was a joke. "You know I work 'behind the scenes' and can't be eligible. You on the other hand, you can get the car for me. Just sell a mountain of ice cream if you want to be Polly Overachiever."

While they were breaking up over that, a new smell met their nostrils. The ever-smiling waiter arrived with a huge bowl. Naomi reached out and moved the clams aside for the new arrival.

"Shall I serve you?" He placed a second, smaller bowl down too.

"No," Bruce said. "I think we're good. Thanks though."

A second server arrived with a tray and salad bowl. She set them down too.

"Buon appetito!" the waiter called out as he and the other left.

First the aroma and then the sight of the main meal greeted them: spaghetti alla francese, garlic toast and an arugula salad. The small bowl contained a mound of freshly grated Parmesan and a slotted spoon for helping one's self.

They served each other portions of the French Spaghetti, then sprinkled on some cheese. Arugula glinted wet and mouthwatering beneath a light vinegar and oil dressing in its serving bowl. The garlic bread was half an Italian loaf, split lengthwise, smeared generously on the cut side with softened butter, and then rubbed with a paste of olive oil and minced garlic. A light dusting with dried parsley flakes before sliding under the broiler for a few minutes produced perfection. The pasta on Bruce's plate smelled equally divine – a ragu of ground beef and mushrooms, spiked with bright tomato paste and Burgundy wine.

They ate by twirling forks in the bowls of tablespoons; their contented twinkles caught and intensified by the fishnet glass candleholder's flame.

After a few minutes, Naomi topped off Bruce's wine glass. "Save room for dessert." She hoped this hadn't given anything away.

He joked, "What? You planning on ordering a pizza 'pie' to finish the meal?"

"You never know. We just might."

Bruce screwed on an overly serious frown. "If we order too much, you'll have to scrub the floors too."

"Very funny. You trying to say something?"

Bruce raised his hands defensively; a full grin enlivened his features. "No, just hope you brought enough cash. I might want some French Marble Cake for dessert."

Naomi twirled strands of spaghetti. "You know, I do like my job, despite the sometimes – all right, always – sticky hands."

She chewed while Birthday Boy chuckled.

"Besides," she defended herself, "there are other benefits of the job too."

"Like what?"

"Don't laugh!"

Bruce crossed his heart. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Well, I can study personalities based on what they choose."

"A Rorschach test in frozen cream and sugar?"

"Sorta. Let's try it on you. You tell me which flavor you prefer – Rocky Road or Rum Raisin."

"Rum Raisin."

"Interesting."

"Is it?"

"Very. How about – Peaches 'n' Cream or Butter Pecan?"

"Peaches and Cream."

She laughed. "See!"

"Oh, stop it. You're just taking the piss."

Her expression went blank.

"I mean, kidding around. It's a British term."

She grinned and had another swirl of spaghetti.

"Now it's my turn," Bruce mused out loud. "Which – "

"Mint Chocolate Chip."

"That's your favorite?"

"Yep."

Bruce rubbed his chin like he was deep in concentration; he knew they acted like goofy kids together. He loved it.

"Which flavor do you think Mary Poppins would go for?" Naomi asked.

In unison, they chimed: "Vanilla."

After their long moment of laughter, the young woman said, "Yeah, I've seen her around the store. I find it odd the woman never breaks character."

"I don't. It's not odd, because in Disneyland it's the same. If a character can be seen by anyone of the public, then they are 'on' and in character one hundred percent. It's part of their magical culture, and Walt sent her after all."

"Oh. I see. Still, she's really good at being 'on' all the time."

"I know. It's great, isn't it?"

"Great is not what I had in mind, but I'll let it go."

Bruce used a piece of his garlic toast to sop of some sauce.

"Oh, that reminds me!" Naomi exclaimed reaching for her bag. She rummaged for a moment and pulled out a small tissue-wrapped parcel, which she handed to Bruce.

He puzzled over it.

"Open it up. It's just a little 'Happy Birthday' something from yours truly."

The young man carefully tore into the soft paper and pulled out a small, yellow, antique teddy bear. It wore Edwardian clothes – including a green bowler hat – and had a large bow around its neck. A tag said: "Happy 21st, Brucie. Adopt me!"

Making sure it faced Naomi, he held it close to his warming cheek. "You give me a toy to mark my 'passage of manhood?'"

"A teddy bear for a Teddy Boy – "

"All right. I'll admit it; it's perfect. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Bruce placed the gift on the table so 'he' could watch the proceedings, and then served up a healthy portion of salad onto Naomi's empty plate.

"You know, my mom is a great cook. She makes all sorts of Russian treats."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"Well, borscht, for example. It's not like the Polish variety – which is like a cream of tomato soup. Russian borscht is a rich broth with lots of little cubes of vegetables, including beets."

"That's cool."

"It's more like minestrone than anything else."

"My mom is a good cook too. She makes the stuff she grew up with: catfish and hushpuppies in the summer, lima bean soup and chitins in the winter."

"In the cold-weather months my mom makes piroshki."

"What's that?"

"Well, don’t laugh now, but it's like a sturdy jelly donut, only the filling is meat and stuff. Like, my favorite is beef, mushrooms and cheese. She also makes a veggie one with broccoli."

"Sounds delish."

"Yeah, I often get to take one or two to work for my lunch, the ones my dad doesn't snag first."

"You have any brothers or sisters?"

"Nope."

"You can have some of my brothers; I won't miss 'em."

He chuckled. "How many do you have again?"

"Let's see, James is the oldest at twenty-seven. He's married; no kids. Robert, John and Billy are next at twenty-six, twenty-five and twenty-four. Billy works at a record shop, while Robert and John got good gigs on the construction crew building Busch Stadium."

"And James?"

"He just opened his own shop on Natural Bridge Road selling and repairing television sets. He's happy."

"That's cool. And what does your father do?"

"He's a scheduler at Bi-State; been working there for years and years – stared out as driver. My mom has a part time job at a grocery; a local corner store."

"And you're the baby in the family…?"

Naomi offered him her best shit-eating grin. "Maybe, but you know – I can still whoop your ass."

"Remains to be seen, but I'll let it pass, since you'll be scrubbing spaghetti pots later on for my birthday tab."

"And you, mister? Raised by wolves? Edwardian wolves, no doubt."

"Nope. My folks are White Russians. You know what that means?"

She shook her head, forking in some salad, but rapt on his tale.

"Red Russians supported the Bolshevists; White Russians were for the democratic government and/or restoration of the Tsar."

"Oh, cool."

"My grandparents escaped and settled in France in the '20s. By the time my folks were married in 1938, things seemed grim. They got out just in time, and in 1940 escaped to Britain where they lived for a while, until they could get passage to the U.S."

"Man, I bet the Sunday dinners around your table are full of heroic tales."

"Yeah, true. I think my parents are about the bravest people I know. 'Cause when they got to Saint Louis, they didn't know anyone, and they were almost broke. My dad went to the orthodox church – Saint Michael the Archangel – and they gave him a job sweeping floors.[3] It kept them going. Through church connections he got a job as a driver for Pevely Dairy, and that's when I was born. Later he started working for a bank, and now he's pretty high up at Southside National."

"And your folks – who let's face it, sound pretty traditional – don’t mind you working in an art department, or being a Teddy Boy?"

"No. See, Russians are kinda different. They've got this deep-seated respect for artists, and know I am what I am."

"Popeye?"

"Without the can of spinach. But you get what I'm saying. They just accept my Ted traits as part of my 'sensitivity' and artistic side."

"Yeah, okay. That's cool of them. They sound nice."

"They are. Your family sounds cool too."

"Wait a minute – " Naomi set her folk down. "If your dad's a bigwig at a bank, then why not go to him for the car loan?"

"Because I want to do it on my own, and show my folks I'm their son."

Naomi turned sad.

He quickly added, "I mean, they are brave folks who escaped Nazis with nothing but perseverance and still managed to give me a good upbringing. I don’t want Fink or any of them judging me by how I look but what I do. I want to show my folks I can do it too."

"Yes. I get it."

"You okay? I didn't mean to – "

"I'm fine, Bruce. It's just, well, I guess you and your parents are pretty much alike. That's great."

The waiters reappeared. The more junior of them held out her arms and supported a cake on fire. The other led a chorus of "Happy Birthday to you…."

Bruce rocked back on his chair and had the sputtering illumination placed before him. The glow on Naomi's face was pretty bright too.

A few people – mainly tipsy frat boys and their newfound female companions – joined in singing, and soon it all reached a crescendo.

Birthday Boy blew out his twenty-one candles, almost doing-in their red-flamed table votive as well.

Boisterous applause erupted from as far afield as the other side of Olive Street.

After the waiters left, and after Bruce cut and served two slices of cake, he thought Naomi seemed pensive.

"You really went out of your way for my birthday, Naomi. You're a good friend. No. A great one."

"Bruce, can I ask you a question?"

The no-nonsense tone in her voice made Bruce swallow audibly and nod slowly.

"I admire you and your strength of conviction. How'd you strike out on your own path; did you ever have a – "

She stopped.

"A girlfriend?"

Naomi nodded.

"Yeah, I did. I had a high school sweetheart. She dumped me soon after I started working at Famous. She met a sailor and ran off with him to San Diego. She broke my heart, and that's the period when I morphed into a take-no-guff Ted. I saw that movie Blackboard Jungle on late-night TV, and the presenter said it was a 'dangerous' film, mentioning the Notting Hill riots and how the Teds were blamed. I got some books, found some magazines, and started with a haircut and Edwardian clothes from the second-hand shops. I wanted to invent myself anew." His tone turned mellower. "What about you? Any boyfriends?"

She shook her head. "I was sweet on one of my brother Billy's friends, but that boy never paid me the time of day. So, an occasional crush, but no steadies."

Bruce blinked at the several candles still stuck in his cake, thinking back to the moment when the columns of smoke were still rising from them. When he had tightly shut his eyes to make his wish, did he really just make a wish for that?

His glance settled on Naomi's eyes.

Yes. Yes, I did.[4]