What’s Next? by J.D. Fratto

What’s Next? by J.D. Fratto

The street is more uphill than I had anticipated. No matter; walking is what I do. About five yards behind me are two chatty ‘Twenty Somethings’. The brunette is a vocally seductive, semi-deep mezzo while her blonde companion possesses a voice as klicketty as her flimsy spike-heeled shoes. Musically inclined as I am, I would place the former in the orchestra’s string section, seated with me and my viola partners while Klicketty would stand upright in the rear with her percussion buddies, pecking away on her outdated Remington.

As they close in, the latter’s chatter grows painfully louder so, in self-defense, I slow to a stop at their right-front as if pondering a second story loft at the warehouse across the street; thereby, baiting them to dart around me to the left. Relief is instant. However, not without an accompanying afterthought as to whether the problem might be me, not them. I think of how frequently we encounter people of all types on the street these days and that’s good for society.  So why be annoyed at them while I allow cars to roar by with hardly a notice? Was this a matter of people prejudice or automobile preference?

As I continue my walk at roughly ten yards to their rear, the traffic light ahead turns red causing the duo to pause at the curb while, unfortunately, I catch up and stand stiffly to their left. Now get this: within two seconds, Mezzo turns towards me and says: “You don’t like us do you”?

Stunned by the truthfulness of her unexpected attack, I respond, “What do you mean?”

“And you don’t even know us. That’s what causes trouble in the world.” She adds. “What’s wrong with us?”

I tell her I tried to deal with ‘my problem’ 25 yards back but things just didn’t come together. In the meantime, Timpanist remains silent while enjoying the verbal interplay between those of us in the string section. I then look Mezzo straight-on and bark out: “Lunch?”

She glares at me as though I smell bad. “You are weird. You don’t know us and you want to join us for lunch?”

“Not both of you,” I retorted. “I don’t know her.”

“You don’t know me either.”

“Oh yes I do. You reveal what’s inside right off the bat – a certain critical bearing. I like that.”

That’s how it all started. She then claims that although it is against her better judgement, she will meet me for lunch at noon the next day – at the Tiffany Diner two blocks east.

I arrive early.

To my surprise, she shows up – on the minute. As she bends into the seat across from me, she says, “Do you have a name; Yes-No?”

I answer, “It’s John.” She says, “I figured it would be simple – something like…John.”

“What’s yours?” I retort.

She hesitates: “That’s for later.”

“Have it your way. It’s your name. I’ll call you Dusty. That fits.”

She says “it’s better than Dreary. I like it. Let’s make it Dusty Roads. That adds adventure with a touch of mystery. Don’t you think?”

I like this woman – her wit – no doubt the bright stuff is here.

I order a burger – rare – she frowns.

For her part, a scrapheap of cooked veggies feigning an Asian upbringing.

Despite the rough start, things move along fairly-well. She reveals herself as an assistant professor at the local community college – Literature and Photography being her areas of expertise. And relatedly, I admit to professordom at the Christian Brothers Liberal Arts College, also in Lit, owing to my preference for words that highlight the subject at hand.

She attempts to say something sympathetic about her klickety-voiced friend but sees right-off that I’m not interested, so she changes the subject. It was my first glance into her possessing a softness, albeit preferably concealed.

Given our mutual connections to literature, one might expect a reasoned discussion on the subject to follow. We made a start; then she looks at me and says “What about you? Who are you?” I reply, “What do you mean?”

She says, “I talk literature with my colleagues and most of my friends, so there would be no point in meeting a perfect stranger for lunch under the same context. I want to discuss something new that is appropriate to this meeting. That would begin with YOU. Is that clear?”

“Oh, so I’m a resource for a new path of learning and chitchat. That is, I have a real function here – to broaden your knowledge-base about the person across from you while you swallow that garden of last week’s weeds – that we embark on a variety of novel clichés suitable for a first meeting.”

“No,” she adds, “I’m making perfect sense. I mean, what would you prefer? Shakespeare? Baldwin? Goethe? I do that all the time. Whereas I agreed to lunch in the hope of expanding my initial impressions of you, slim though they might have been. So, lunch might serve to alter those thoughts and set us on a path to wherever – maybe another lunch – or even dinner! Do you own a tie? By the way, we’ll split the bill even though you invited me.”

“Okay, weirdness becomes you. What would you like to know about me – and I apologize in advance if what you uncover isn’t Balzacian?”

So we continue our verbal tennis match for nearly another hour until we both tire of its inherent boredom and shift the conversation to exit mode. I start it off by saying, “Well, this has been enjoyable. I knew we’d hit it off. I was right, and what’s more, I like you.” And then I add, “Everything I just said was sarcastically intended, except for the last sentence.”

“Oh, do you now? Does that suggest a second act, or do we just leave before finishing the popcorn?”

Brilliantly, I respond, “You have to admit there was little pop and the corn was a bit overdone.”

“Oh, how clever! Will this luncheon hold any memories for you?”

“Affirmative.”

“That being?”

“Besides the burger, your eyes. They are striking – especially the right one.”

“Very funny.” That non-plussed her somewhat and she quickly said, “I’d better be going. Class preparation you know.”

“I hope that’s not an excuse.”

“It’s not – but might have been.”

With that we part after simple, matter-of-fact goodbyes and, on her part, a hesitant exchange of cards. I add that I would like to see her again. She nodded a faintly positive response and walks off.

(000)111-2221 ring-a-ling. “Pronto. Sorry I just got back from Italy. Hello.”

“It’s me. Remember; zucchini, bib lettuce and tomatoes?”

“Yes. I thought about you; glad you called.”

“Why were you in Italy?”

“I got hungry.”

“Very funny. Tell me about it later; that is if we meet.”

“Sooner is better than later.”

“Can’t wait, though I’m not sure.”

“Sounds contradictory – can’t wait and not sure?”

“Verbally, yes; mentally, not. “

“How about the beach; it only takes an hour?”

“Can we swim?”

“I was thinking about something dryer. You know, walking around, stopping for lunch on an open deck that overlooks the water – either ocean or bay.”

“Oh yeah! I know the model: city man goes to the shore, walks a few streets, then drives home, showers, eats a banana, then watches the news.”

“Am I that boring?”

“We’ll see. No beach tomorrow because it’s going to rain for most of the day.”

“Well, I’m busy the rest of the week. How about an alternate site?”

“The museum is indoors. There’s a Dada show I’d like to see.”

“That’s good. That’s very good. Shall we meet there?”

“Why not? Two o’clock?”

“Lunch?”

“I have to work in the morning, and I don’t want to feel rushed.”

“OK; let’s make it 2 o’clock.

The Museum

She says, “Oh before we start, can we stop at the café briefly. I never got to eat lunch and I’m famished.”

“Sure.”

She gets a packaged salad from a cabinet. We sit. She extends her arm and as we shake hands, she says…

“By the way, my name is Marcia Rittle…as in ‘little’. So now, having completed the formalities JOHN, tell me about Italy. Where did you go?”

“It began at the Milan airport but didn’t last — I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Marcia – maybe a Glen or Reeno — then off to the Dolomites to the north. That’s my preferred area.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the Dolomiti represent an ethnically mixed portfolio of German and Italian ephemera amidst the world’s most breathtaking pinkish mountain summits. And…I speak German fairly-well, owing to academic work and I eat Italiano incessantly from morning espresso to evening Sambuca and everything in between. So now that you’ve identified yourself and finished your little bundle of weeds and I confessed my preference for foreign adventures, may we adjourn to the highly suggestive art offerings of the early twentieth century?”

 “I’m ready, but I’d love to hear more about your trip – -or your plans for the next one.”

“Huh, wanna come?”

“With you? I wonder what it would be like. I’d better stop right there but for one thing I’m sure it would drive me crazy. No thanks.”

“I’ll bet you don’t mean that even if you think you do.”

“Pray tell me Dr. Freud, is there anything else I’m afraid to face?”

“Not consciously.”

“Enough talk; let’s do Dada. I’m sure that being in the company of early Twentieth Century rate breakers will provide me with companionable comfort.”

“Perhaps I’m a latter-day version of that.”

And off we go to the gloriously expansive entrance hall. As we approach the spacious staircase leading up to the gilded 20-foot tall statue of Diana, I look at Marcia and blurt out the following…

“We could get married and make everything legal.”

With that, Marcia plops down on one of the lower steps, pulls me down beside her and staring angrily at me says, “Look smart-ass, don’t get any weirder than you already are. I almost enjoy being with you, but it’s a thin line and you’ve just crossed it. I don’t know if this discourse of yours is a trial run for a failed theatre piece you’re conjuring or if it’s just a way of UNCONSCIOUSLY trying to turn me off. If the latter, you are succeeding. If the former, go take a theatre course. In any event, I don’t need to see Dada; he’s right in front of me. So, I’ll say goodbye and slip out the front door to the very civil parkway and all those pretty Calder-blessed fountains. And if you get the urge to contact me, think twice.”

She then walks away while I sit and stare in disbelief. Then, with jarring exuberance I leap off the step, lift my arms and with full lyrical expression I bellow to an absent audience: “DADA!!”

Then, not too happily, I walk slowly into the gallery, assured that the Dada Menschen are awaiting me: Kandinsky, Klee, Tristan Tzar, de Chirico, Duchamp, Max Ernst, and a few others. I’m at Object Three when Marcia slices through the gallery entrance moving towards me.

What can I do but smile? “Well, hello; so nice to see you. Glad you could make it.”

“You’re such a nut case. Let’s just move across the works slowly, paying attention only to them and when it’s over we’ll leave. Let’s see if we can do it without saying another word to each other while we’re here. Then in a day or two, try to contact me – and I probably won’t respond.”

“And that’s the end of it? That’s what you want?”

“That’s what I need.…Did you hear me? Quiet; Shhh.”

“Can I whisper?”

“No. Just look and while looking try to think about what you see and what you think the artist intended. But don’t talk. Not a word. Try it.”

After half an hour of viewing the collection we leave the museum, get into a taxi and head to the center of town.

The taxi stops at Symphony Hall. She exits quickly and turns towards me, placing her finger over her lips.

I bark out; “I’ll call you.”

She keeps walking.

That Night

I try to ponder the art. I was especially taken by Max Ernst’s Machine and Duchamp’s small and large glass pieces. No use; she was on my mind. Marcia Rittle was neither little nor brittle. This was going to be tough going. She said she might not answer the phone. “What’s going on? I think this means something – SHE means something. How do I deal with it?”

Or do I just call it quits…in D major?

“DADA!!”

A Week Later

There’s been no contact.

I waste time at a former high school basketball game – only staying for the first half. It had just gotten dark as I make my way toward my flat. Wouldn’t you know it – just as my thoughts shift to Marcia, she turns the corner and is coming my way.

“Hi” I say, nonchalantly. “Why aren’t you preparing for class?”

She responds, “Because tomorrow is Saturday.”

I add, “Are you glad to see me?”

Her retort was quick: “Yes and no; I’m not sure.”

“How about if I call off the wedding. Does that put you at ease?”

“For starters.”

“Shall we go somewhere?”

“Now? It’s eight o’ clock.”

“Meaning?”

“I guess; if it’s something quick.”

“A coffee? A drink?

She adds, “How about Snog’s for a drink?”

As we mount the bar, she stares at me and says, “This is weird.”

“Please clarify.” I ask.

“I can’t figure it. Why I am here with you. You are the first person I’ve met who is stranger than me.”

“Note that you didn’t say weirder than me but the more civilized stranger than me. That can be positive; makes me a little more rational. I like it. How do you think you’ll feel once we separate tonight; when we leave here? Will it give you cause to think, or will you just drop it?

“Good question. I don’t know.”

“Me neither”

“Let’s not pursue this. We’ll have a drink and just leave.”

“You really feel compelled to keep a distance from me. Do I pose a threat of sorts – perhaps to your freedom?”

“Sure; romantic Superman that you are.”

“Shall I call you?”

“You have my number. I’m not sure I’ll answer.”

“Out of fear?”

“No. Out of something better to do.”

“Let’s have a moment of truth. We’re gradually moving closer here.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I have counted the number of conceivably annoying sentences I have laid on you and despite your protective responses, you’ve persisted through them. For example, you claim ambiguity as to whether you might answer my call, yet you quite willingly gave me your card – and not once did you reject my request for a meeting. So, your overt attitude notwithstanding, your actions would indicate that you might be in sync with what is the underlying situation of our moving toward intimacy. Am I wrong? Answer only the truth because we are at a crossroads here.”

“You want the truth? OK, you might be right about the ‘direction thing’ but I don’t want to talk about it now. Let’s meet for a brief lunch tomorrow at the diner and we’ll pick up where we left off.”

“You know; what attracts me to you is that I never know what verbal curve you’re going to throw. For example, tell me, Miss Need-To-Dominate, what would be your plan for us after lunch tomorrow?”

She leans forward and whispers, “We kiss.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright J.D. Fratto 2023