By Ken Gause--gausek@cna.org
Date: 25 March 2000
Meeting Emily
Her name was Emily Darbyshire. She had come to the theater with a couple. She vaguely knew the woman, who had been a good friend of her mother's in college. Emily arrived in the US two weeks ago. The company she works for in London transferred her to their New York office. She had promised her mum that she would look up her good friend first thing. She had taken the train down to Washington on Saturday morning and had spent the day wondering around Old Town Alexandria with her hosts. They talked about jolly Ole' England and the snow that had recently blanketed the east coast of the US. Emily explained how happy she was to be in "the New World" with its wide open spaces and strange accents. Being rather shy, she explained, she was concerned about making new friends. Her mother's friend brushed her fears aside. Afterall, a vibrant, beautiful young woman like her would have no trouble making friends. As we all know, the beautiful people never do.
The theater was crowded. The three had arrived at 7:20 for the 7:40 showing of "The End of the Affair," starring Richard Finnes and Julianne Moore. Marilyn, Emily's mother's friend, had suggested they see the picture while waiting for lunch at the Fisherman's Warf. "The critics are raving about the performance of Ms. Moore." "She could win an Oscar for Best Actress." "In any case, it's set in England." Emily had started to say that even though she was English, and pround of it, she was capable of enjoying a film set in America. But she decided to remain silent and accept Marilyn's hospitality.
By the time John parked the car and they got their tickets, there were hardly any vacant seats available. A few end seats, one or two sets of two seats together. No sets of three, however. As they walked down the isle, Emily told Marilyn and John to take the two seats down front. She would take the seat here next to this gentleman, if it was not already taken.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" The English accent took me by surprise and I choked on my coke that I had been happily slurping while answering the trivia questions they show on the screen before the previews begin.
After the coughing stopped, I stood up and removed the coat from the seat next to me, which was situated at the end of the aisle. I still don't know why I stood up. Normally, I would simply remove my coat and grunt to the empty seat. When I finally looked at her, I nearly started coughing again. My knees went weak. I fumbled my words. Instead of saying "No, please take the seat," I said, "it would be my pleasure." She smiled, revealing a row of perfect teeth, which completed the vision that stood before me. She stood around 5'6", straight short brown hair, high cheek bones, attractive figure from what I could tell given her baggy blouse and peasant skirt.
The slide show on the screen was making its way through the same questions that were showing when I entered the theater. I was staring at the screen, but was acutely aware of the creature to my left. Have you ever had the typical male fantasy that you are sitting alone and a beautiful woman sits down next to you, be it in a restaurant, on a plane, in a theater. I guess it has happened to me a couple of times on the metro, but there is no time to do anything about it. I have always hoped that it would happen to me on a plane or somewhere else where time stands still. But it never has. I always get the woman with the screaming child who she leaves in my care while she goes to the bathroom.
Opening gambits rushed through my mind. "Are you from England?" ("No, I'm from Guinea, you moron."). "What's your sign?" "Would you like a swig of my coke?" God had reached down his hand from heaven and turned me into a makeout toad. Everything I thought of sounded so contrived. My palms were sweating. Better not try to take another drink, the cup could slip and spill 12 fluid ounces all over me, her, and everyone within a five foot radius, not to mention all the unfortunate souls down slope from me. I could see it now, the pimply faced usher would be hauling my ass out of the theater. My shame complete.
"Liv Tyler." It was the answer to a Screen Scrambler that had flashed on the screen. She had said it under her breath. Hardly audible. Could she be hoping I would respond? Would she be mortified if I talked to her, a perfect stranger? She had probably heard the joke about how to make a Brit happy versus how to make an American happy (the first you ignore, the second you talk to).
I glanced over out of the corner of my eye and noticed that she realized what she had done and was embarassed. It was now or never. And then I thought "She can't leave if I talk to her. There are no other empty seats."
"Daughter of that Aerosmith singer, I believe." It wasn't Cary Grant, but it would do. She looked at me, a bit startled. I had decided to take my chances and had picked up my coke and was again slurping. Anything to hide my embarrassment in case she totally dismissed me.
"She was in a movie recently. Something about an asteroid heading for earth." The edge had disappeared in her voice, which now sounded almost engaging. It even sounded a bit earnest. She had a natural smile, unlike me who had to use the coke prop once again in an attempt to appear nonchalant. If I kept this up I would run out of soda before the movie started and would have to beat a path to the bathroom before the credits ended (like I did after "Titanic"), thus giving her the chance to make a quick exit.
"Yeah, I saw it. Bruce Willis bought the farm so Ben Affleck could return to earth and live happily ever after with Steve Tyler's daughter." It wasn't the funniest line I had ever muttered. Truth be told, it was rather lame. But she laughed.
"Houston, the Eagle has landed."
Before I could take advantage of the opening she had given me, the lights dimmed and the previews began. We both assumed our movie watching positions, me to my left and she to her right. The moment had passed, or so I thought.
Throughout the movie you could cut the tension between us with a knife. We both constantly fidgeted--right foot over left knee, left foot over right knee, both legs strethched out scrunched down, lean to the left, lean to the right. Occasionally, I would glance to my left only to see her eyes avert toward the screen. Once, during mid shift, my foot grazed her right thigh.
"Sorry," I mumbled certain in my belief that I had ruined her movie going experience.
"Don't mention it, the pleasure was all mine," she whispered.
I looked over and she was looking at the screen, but the grin was unmistakable. The tension had been broken. I sat back and enjoyed the rest of the movie (I would give "The End of the Affair" an average review. I thought the performances were good, but the dialog was a bit stilted.), confident that I would be able to talk with her after it had ended.
As the credits began to role, I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. Time seemed to slow down. Tunnel vision set in. The theater became very quiet. Suddenly I realized that I couldn't hear. My mouth went dry. I could feel my forehead begin to bead with sweat. The time had come.
I half expected her to bolt. Instead she was sitting there quietly reading the credits. My options were many. I could pick up my coat and pretend like I was leaving, maybe making a quick quip like "That's a keeper," hoping she would make the first move. I could spill my coke on her and offer to drive her to a laundry mat. I could offer her a 4 course meal, all expenses paid. I could offer her coffee, tea, or any other damn beverage of her choice. This seemed to be the logical choice given that there was a coffee house right across from the theater.
"Well, did you like the movie?" I looked up to see a man and woman talking to the woman sitting next to me. My pulse was racing.
"It was so sad. But very good. Thank you for bringing me along." She got up and put on her jacket and followed behind her two friends up the aisle. She briefly looked back and then hurried to catch up.
My legs were frozen. I fumbled with my coat and shuffled up the aisle at a creeping pace. "The End of the Affair" had been an apt title for that movie.
I emerged from the theater and quickly ducked into the bathroom. I splashed water on my face. Stared at myself in the mirror. I was getting too old for this. Youth had passed me by. I am nearing 40 and it's time to put such foolishness away in a dark closet bound up in a box with other boyhood things such as baseball cards and secret handshakes.
My pulse had returned to normal. I dried my face, straightened my shirt, ran a hand through my hair, and was on my way back to reality. I emerged from the bathroom only to notice that my shoe was untied. I kneeled down to tie it only to see a pair of shapely legs partially obscured by a peasant skirt emerging from the women's bathroom to my right. I looked up into a friendly face.
"I should have settled for a small coke. But for only a quarter more you get 8 extra ounces. A real bargain for those who are not renally challenged." I was babbling in a vain attempt to be witty. I quickly stood up.
"Your shoe is still untied." She motioned with her eyes. She seemed so composed in the face of my coming apart at the seams. I did notice that she was toying with a thin bacelet on her right wrist, an obvious nervous habit. I relaxed somewhat, she was just a human being.
"Thanks…" I continued to stare at her, having already forgotten about the shoe.
"Emily. Emily Darbyshire." Darbyshire. I turned the name over in my mind. A distant memory of a character in an E.H. Hutton novel named Darbyshire rattled around, tap dancing around the edges of my consciousness. Tap dancing…My untied shoe. The spell was broken. I bent down to deal with my laces.
"Simon Foxx….How did you like the movie?" I conciously moved the conversation to something of substance because I knew that if the banalities continued, the pauses would become strained and the moment would be lost. Her last memory would be of me trying to make small talk while trying to tie my shoe. Someone easily forgotten.
"So sad. But I liked it." She adjusted her wire rim glasses and cocked her head slightly as she obviously felt more comfortable keeping the conversation on a more substantive level. "How about you?"
"I enjoyed it. I have been trying to see it for weeks. It's only showing in a few theaters. Limited release." I felt it better not to delve into my concerns about the dialog and strains in the plot line. Brevity was the best strategy as the conversation hung in the balance. Building a house brick by brick. Slow and steady wins the race. Cliches swam freely in my brain, but thankfully did not trip lightly to land firmly on the tip of my tongue.
"Do you come to this theater often? It seems rather popular. We nearly didn't find seating." The dreaded "We." I could let it hang in the air or I could address the obvious. Tiny neurons were rushing along the synapses in my brain, tramping wildly like a herd of African elephants.
"We? Oh, that's right. You were with that man and woman? They're probably waiting for you." Damn! I had blown it. There was no where else to go in the conversation. All that was left was the farewells and nice to meet yous.
"Emily? Are you ready, we're starving." The lady had poked her head around the corner. I had seen her glance our way once before and then turn back to the man. Obviously, it was time to put an end to Emily's daliance.
"Simon. It was nice to meet you." Emily looked toward the man and woman and gestured her imminent departure. She looked back to me and shrugged her shoulders as if to say that fate had intervened and she must go.
The pause was awkward. How to end our momentary affair was proving difficult. Without thinking, I extended my hand, I think to wave bye. She obviously misinterpreted my intention and grabbed my hand and shook it. Of course, it is a well known fact that Americans like to shake hands. Heaven forbid if she should violate some time honored custom.
I watched her join her friends as they nestled her in between them and engaged her in rapid conversation--probably about food. She glaced back over her shoulder and gave me one last smile. I raised my hand again and gave her a jaunty salute.
I dug my hands into my pockets and skulked out of the theater into the cold night air. I walked around to the back of the theater where I had parked my car. I got in and began to warm up the engine. Being a 1984 Toyota Corolla, it takes about 10 minutes before you can begin to drive without fits and starts. In the meantime, I turned on the radio. The Pachelbel Canon was playing. A great piece to lose yourself in introspection. All I could think of was the old adage that "If there is a God, He doesn't exist in you or me, but in the spaces in between--in the simple act of two people trying to get to know each other." I had had a chance to meet someone new, interesting, and very attractive. Yet another opportunity tossed on the trash pile of history. I couldn't drive like this. I needed to take a walk.
The Shirlington area is not pedestrian friendly. I walked to the far end of the parking lot and around the back of a dimly lit building. It suddenly dawned on me that this may not be too wise so I headed back toward the theater. Across from the theater are a series of restaurants and shops. I did some mindless window shopping until I came upon a brightly lit coffee shop. Unlike the dimly lit cafes where the poetry and java flow freely, this place was sterile and dotted with small green tables and chairs. I ordered a cup of English Breakfast Tea and grabbed a copy of the New York Times.
Forty five minutes or so must have passed while I sipped my tea and perused the paper, my eyes wondering from article to article, catching the gist and moving on. Fighting in Chechnya…The troubles in the Northern Ireland Peace Accords…Some man in Flushing died of a prolonged illness. In the back of my mind I heard the tinkle of the door chimes as some people entered the coffee house.
"What would you like, Emily? I'm buying." I glanced over the top of my newspaper. It was them. Emily and the woman had taken a table not ten feet from me. Because I was in the corner, hidden by my paper, they hadn't taken notice of me when they entered. The man was at the counter looking over the menu on the wall.
I quickly ducked back behind my paper. This wasn't good. Irrationality raised its ugly head. If I walked up to her, it could look like I was stalking her. If I simply got up and left without acknowledging her, I would look like a cad. So, I decided to remain safely behind my paper fortress.
"I'll just have coffee. Brown please." Her voice had the lilting cadence of the North country. She could be from Yorkshire, provided she had spent some time down South so as to smooth out the rough edges around her consonants and vowels. Possibly London.
As I was contemplating her voice, the inside of the paper slipped between my fingers, leaving me with pages 1 and 25 and the rest all over the floor. This wasn't good. If I remained ensconched behind "All the News That's Fit To Print," I would look like a moron. Maybe they hadn't noticed. I would just quickly scoop up the insides and no one would be the wiser. In one fell motion, I leaned over and grabbed the papers, but on the upswing, the sports section came flying out. At the peak of its trajectory, the paper fanned out and most of it landed within two feet of the table where Emily and the couple were sitting. The woman let out a little yelp of surprise. Emily, whose back had been to me, turned around, saw what had happened, and burst out laughing. The man, who was bringing the coffees to the table nearly dropped the tray he was carrying.
"Sorry. Paper just kind of got away from me." (Under my breath, I continued "Poor reading habits,I guess.") I was mortified, embarrassed, totally at a loss for words for this unintended outbreak of information warfare. I was also out of tea. If I ordered another cup, would that send a signal that I expected her to join me. This could be awkward for her. I took an imaginary sip from my cup as I debated what to do next.
Emily said something to the woman and then picked up her coffee, scooped up the scattered sports pages and came toward me. She handed them to me and continued standing. Now that I could see her in the bright lights of the coffee house, I was amazed at how stunningly beautiful her face was. Her glasses sat on the bridge of her straight, yet pert nose that turned up ever so slightly at the end. Her cheeks were still flushed from the night air. Her thick, brown hair was cut just above the nape of her neck and covered most of her ears, leaving the lobes delicately exposed. Her chin was a strong counterpoint to her nose and gentle almond eyes, all existing within the perfect equilateral triangle that defined her face.
I smiled at her, this time with no aid of a prop, and asked her if she would like to continue our conversation. Much to my delight, she slid into the chair opposite me.
For the next hour we talked. We talked about politics (her family is Tory, but she has Labor leanings), religion (she's Anglican, of course), culture (rock and roll with a dash of classical), life (she has one, I don't), literature (she's heard of Baudelaire, but prefers Pushkin), sports (she can score a cricket match, obviously not human), and movies (she's an Aussie fan bless her heart). She grew up in Hampsted Heath, a tiny hamlet outside of Manchester. Her father's family has a farm in Yorkshire where she spent many of her summers as a child, helping tend the sheep and milking the cows. This, of course, gave me the chance to regale her with my intimate knowledge of "All Creatures Great and Small." She once saw Christopher Timothy in a play.
"Emily, are you ready to leave, dear?" The woman and man were standing up, disposing of their empty cups, and putting on their coats. Emily asked for one more minute.
"I have to go. I have an early train to catch tomorrow for New York." My heart skipped a beat, my breath caught in my throat. We had discussed many things, but had for the most part neglected our immediate circumstances. I had just assumed there would be time, on other dates.
"New York. Why are you going to New York?" I hoped it was just for a visit. But, then she told me she lived there and was only in Alexandria for a day. I'm sure my disappointment was apparent. She took a napkin from the dispenser on the table and asked if I had a pen. I searched my pockets and was about to ask the man behind the counter for one, when I produced a Bic from my inside my coat. In very neat penmanship, she wrote her phone number on the napkin and gave it to me.
"Call me, please." Her expression was earnest. She said that she was homesick and a friend would make her less anxious about her circumstances. I didn't know what she was talking about, afterall she won't have any problem making friends. Her personality is such that she will easily be able to lay down roots, even in the asphalt garden that is Manhattan.
I will call her. I even told her that I could occasionally visit if she wouldn't mind. This seemed to make her happy.
We stood up. Again I raised my hand to wave bye and she grabbed it and shook it firmly.
And then she was gone.
I sat down again and replayed the evening over in my mind. Then it struck me. The character in the E.H. Hutton novel. She was the second wife of a broken hearted school master. She rescued him from the tragedy of the death of his first wife. Is this a sign? A quirky parallel with my own life? Or is it just coincidence?
I slowly walked to my car. It was colder than it had been before. The cloud cover had broken and the stars shined brightly in the cosmos. I started the car and turned on the radio while I waited for it to warm up. The last notes of Beethoven's 9th Symphony ("Ode to Joy") were swallowed up by the silence. I changed the station and left the parking lot.
Back to the Blender Digest