A GOOD TABLE
ISSUE FOUR: March, 2020
A GOOD TABLE
The sidewalk café has red umbrellas over little round tables and metal chairs like paper clips. The avenue bustles with traffic and people on foot. It is warm and sunny, late afternoon, the hour of laying down the burden and seeking refreshment.
The café patrons wear casual attire—thin sandals, tailored shorts, designer blouses for the women, slacks and polo shirts for the men. They are groomed and animated, not loud, like a flock of songbirds perched in a tree. They wave greetings, blow air kisses, and so on, regardless of gender.
Nell walks by, notices an empty table for two, and scans the sidewalk for anything better. The café is crowded, and this is it. She sits and lays claim to the table with her bag. She crosses her legs, adjusts her hair, and checks messages.
Pam walks by. She notices the empty chair across from Nell, who is absorbed in her device. Smiling effusively, Pam swoops in.
“Is this seat taken? Because if someone is sitting here . . .”
“No one is sitting there.” Nell is cold, impersonal.
“Are you sure? You’re not waiting to meet someone?”
“Maybe I am waiting to meet someone . . .”
“But they’re running a little late.”
“Exactly! How did you know?”
“Oh, I’m good at guessing things like that. I can guess that you arrive at an appointment on time. You never forget where you laid your sunglasses. And you always remember to put your keys in your purse.”
“It is crowded here today . . .”
“In that case, do you mind if I sit here . . . temporarily?”
“Help yourself.”
“Thank you!”
“No problem.”
Nell puts the device in her bag. Pam sits, considers where to put her bag, and slowly lowers it to the ground. They watch the passing scene, steal looks at each other, and catch each other out.
“As long as we’re sharing this table . . .” Pam says.
“Temporarily . . .”
“We might as well introduce ourselves. My name is Pam.”
“Happy to meet you, Pam. My name is Nell.”
“Nice to meet you, Nell.”
They decide against shaking hands, break eye contact. A brief silence.
“Can you believe this weather?” Nell says.
“I know! Isn’t it gorgeous? Did you already give the waiter your order?”
“Waiter? I haven’t seen a waiter since I got here.”
“I saw him on the way in. Handsome, aloof, superior in that groveling way.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“How right you are!” Pam says. “I’m guessing you’re a good judge of character.”
“Oh, well, I . . .”
“No, seriously! You could tell right off the bat that I wasn’t going to move into your space without permission. You’re a woman who never gets caught off guard. Am I right?”
“Pam—it’s Pam, isn’t it?”
“Yes! Nell!”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“No-o-o-o! That’s the last thing I would do.”
“Isn’t that Steve?”
“Steve . . .” Pam expects a last name.
“With a new haircut?” Nell looks hard. “Maybe not.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Do you know Steve?”
“I might, if . . .”
“Never mind. It wasn’t him.”
“You probably have tons of friends.”
“Since you mention it, I do know a lot of people.”
“I can tell. I’m a good judge of character, too.”
“No kidding!”
“I’m an introvert who loves to interact with strangers,” Pam says.
“I’m an extrovert who values her privacy,” Nell says.
“I have an acute sense of self linked to empathy for others.”
“On the Maslow hierarchy of needs, I function at the level of self-actualization.”
“Look, the waiter is coming this way!”
“Get his attention somehow!”
“How? Maybe you could stand and casually walk toward him.”
“And give up this table? Not on your life!”
A waiter in a white shirt, black slacks and vest approaches the women. He is handsome, aloof, superior. His mustache is so expertly groomed it looks false. He snaps a menu in front of each.
“Thank you!” Pam says.
“Oh, we’re not together,” Nell says.
The waiter snatches the menus from their hands and stalks away.
“Why did you say that?” Pam says.
“Because it’s true,” Nell says.
“We lost our chance.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“We could have ordered a drink.”
“He’ll come back.”
“I don’t know about you, but a drink would be nice right about now.”
“Are you dying of thirst?”
“No, but . . .”
“Enough complaining, then.”
“Excuse me!” Pam is huffy.
“Wait a minute. Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“I don’t think so.”
“The book launch for Jonathan’s new novel . . . Sarah’s gallery opening . . . the reception for the Mongolian trade group . . .”
“I never go to events like that.”
“Now I’ve got it! We met at Brian and Andrea’s party.”
“Brian and Andrea?”
“You’re the Pam who does environmental installations—fog and sand, little blinking lights, booming bass drums . . .”
“You must be thinking of someone else.”
“You’re not Pam from the Village?”
“Sorry.”
“I could have sworn . . . Oh, well.”
“Wait a minute. Are you the Nell from the Island with twin daughters in preschool?”
“Twin daughters?”
“And the recipe for lemon chiffon pie?”
“Lemon chiffon?”
“I made that pie! It was scrumptious!”
“Well, I’m glad you liked it. But I . . .”
“Of course, I slightly varied the recipe. Instead of beating the egg whites until stiff . . .”
“You must have me confused with someone who knows how to cook.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Another brief silence.
“I heard good things about this place,” Pam says.
“Me too.” Nell says.
“Except they said the service is abominable.”
“No kidding!”
“That is, if we’re in the right place.”
“Trust me. This is the place.”
“How do you know?”
“I come here all the time.”
“Oh, well, then. I guess you would know.”
“But this is as crowded as I’ve ever seen it. There was only one vacant table.”
“So you took it.”
“Of course, I did. Anybody would.”
“Is it a good table?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“You said you come here all the time, so you must know whether this is a good table.”
“We’re sitting here, aren’t we?”
“For now, we are. But things might change.”
“They always do,” Nell says. “Look, someone is waving from that table.”
“Where?” Pam searches.
“It is Steve, after all. There’s an empty chair and he wants me to join them. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Nell grabs her bag and leaves.
Pam quickly raises her bag from the ground and places it on the table. She crosses her legs, adjusts her hair, and checks messages.
Gordon walks by. In white shirt and black slacks, he is a dead ringer for the waiter, but no vest or mustache. He spots the chair, scans the sidewalk café, and swoops in.
“Is this seat taken?” Gordon says.
“You can talk!”
“Of course, I can talk. What are you talking about?”
“Aren’t you the rude waiter who came to this table a minute ago?”
“Absolutely not! I happened to be strolling past.”
“No one is sitting there.” Pam is cold, impersonal.
“Are you sure? You’re not waiting to meet someone?”
“Maybe I am waiting to meet someone . . .”
“But they’re running a little late.”
“Exactly! How did you know?”
“Oh, I have an instinct, a sixth sense. For example, I can tell that you are an introvert who loves to interact with strangers. May I?”
“It is crowded here today.”
“Thanks.” Gordon sits.
“No problem.”
Pam and Gordon watch the passing scene, steal looks at each other, and catch each other out.
“As long as we’re sharing this table . . .” Gordon says.
“Temporarily . . .”
“We might as well introduce ourselves. My name is Gordon.”
“Happy to meet you, Gordon. My name is Pam.”
“Pam, did you already give the waiter your order?”
“I tried. But the waiter, who bears more than a passing resemblance to you, Gordon, snatched the menu out of my hands and stalked away.”
“Strange. I heard good things about this place.”
“Me too.”
“Except they said the service is abominable.”
“Well, they were right!”
“Have you been waiting long?”
“Heavens, no. I only got here a minute ago.” Pam says.
“At least this is a good table.”
“How do you know?”
“I come here all the time.”
“Look, is that Joanna?” Pam waves uncertainly.
“Joanna . . .” Gordon expects a last name.
“Oh, you wouldn’t know them, Joanna and Mark.”
“Joanna and Mark from the North Fork?”
“You’re kidding! You know Joanna and Mark from the North Fork?”
“I was at their wedding. When he choked on the olive, I made him spit it out.”
“That was you? When her dress snagged on the rosebush, I unsnagged it.”
“That was you? Look, Mark is with her. They’re waving to us.”
“They think we’re together!”
“They want us to join them.”
“How embarrassing! Wait a minute.”
They look at each other hard.
“No!” Gordon says.
“Yes! Totally!”
“Right now?”
“No time like the present, Gordon.” Pam grab her bag and stands.
“Right behind you, Pam.” Gordon stands and looks around wildly. “After I say hello to Steve.”
They head in opposite directions. The table is empty.
ROBERT BOUCHERON grew up in Syracuse and Schenectady, and he worked as an architect in New York and Charlottesville, where he lives. His short stories and essays appear in Bellingham Review, Fiction International, London Journal of Fiction, Saturday Evening Post, and other magazines.