NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction. Click on Archives on the right.
Lark has started across the vast field of gray asphalt at the Hadron Shopping Center parking lot, where shiny metal heats up in the late winter sun. Oil-drips leave multi tone brown stains between the faded parallel white lines where a flattened bottle cap keeps company with a shred of squashed white Styrofoam. There seem to be fewer cars and SUVs than usual. The trees were all cut down a few years ago to make room for more parking. A new row of Cherries is in bloom, for the first time since they were planted along the street.I find Lark coming from the Ab. and Cheek Fitness Center.
Huge rectangular purple frames enclose two opaque brown lenses, which hide her eyes like blank TV screens. They are not plugged in to the currents running through the Leticia Lantern Show or Shrinkrap’s verbal pugilists, Glen Gasburg and Fulton Furay. The sky is reflected doubly. A tiny bright spot on each lens, highlights noon’s passing, while a penetrating breeze leaves her shivering under her yellow fleece.
“Are you going over to work out?”
“No Lark…”
A helicopter goes over low and loud.” … the restaurant!”
She turns around.
“Oh, anywhere to get out of this cold, Fred!”
“Let’s go down to the Emperor Babur.”
Looking down the long stairs to the Emperor’s restaurant, I notice something odd in the mirror next to the Bose Gallery. It is Daisy’s bowler with a yellow sticky in the hatband, above her long straight black coat with high collar. She is in conversation with her friend, and stands in contrast to her high cadmium-red coat, brass buttons and floral pink wrap.
“Mr. Fred!”
Indranil, the friendly manager, remembers me from my introduction by Theo Tinderbrush. Indranil has his palms together, bows slightly. A crooked upper tooth shines in the smile under his dense black moustache.
“Ms Daisy, Mr. Fred”
Indranil leads us to a table together, and one of his waiters offers us menus, but we opt for the buffet.
“Lark I hear you have a new partner.”
“Yeah, Augie.”
“So! Where is he?”
“Robin, he is a few miles outside Sacramento.”
Lark takes off her big glasses and puts them in a knitted woolen pouch hanging conveniently, by tasseled strings, outside her bag.
“What’s he doing back in California?”
“He has to finish up his contract, Daisy. He teaches English at Nubile State College.”
Robin picks up the first plate and starts down the line of chafing dishes at the buffet, skipping basmati rice in favor of Punjabi, Palak Paneer.
My Rosy Pelican beer is on the table when we sit down. Indranil stops by to ask if the others want drinks, two teas, and another beer for Daisy.
“Is there any truth to the rumor that you have a new client Daisy?”
She puts her forefinger to her lips, barely looking at me.
“Don’t go there yet. We might jinx it.”
“Are you still in your house?”
“Yeah, kind of. The roof leaks and I had to turn off the water
to the kitchen sink.”
Robin puts her fork down on her plate with a sharp sound, as if to get attention.
“My god, is that why you didn’t want me to stay? What do you do?”
“I still have the laundry tub and a bathroom.”
“We need to talk honey.”
The Fez brings the rest of the drinks. He no longer has the help of the turban. I thought he was Hispanic masquerading as Sikh, but Indranel told me he grew up Sikh in a Spanish neighborhood.
“Lark raises her cup of tea, as if in a toast.”
“Say goodbye to the ACA!”
Robin raises her teacup too.
“Yeah! Give all that money back to the taxpayer!”
Daisy sips her Rosy Pelican. Lark puts her cup down. Our table is quiet. I remember that broad shouldered round man with a walrus moustache sitting at the table opposite me. His thin white hair is combed over his bald spot in back. His sleeves ride high on his forearms. He is talking about his delay in a three-hour backup on Route One. The waiter comes to him smiling slightly under his fez. Though he has a black Hitler moustache, he is friendly, small, and rotund himself. “More water sir?”
Voices are still silent at our table.
Someone behind me is talking about a son at Berkeley.
“Herb is a straight ‘A’ student. He should have gone to Stanford.”
“Oh what a shame! My niece just graduated. She is into Bio Ethics, brilliant girl.”
“Berkeley is no longer the home of free speech you know.”
Daisy asks Robin if she is staying with Diddlie.
“No, that is no longer possible.”
“But Robin, that’s your mother in law!”
“Daisy, I don’t even want to get into it.”
Lark is looking down at her plate. She gets her sunglasses out of their pouch and puts them back on.
“You okay Lark?”
“No, Fred.”
“What is the matter?”
Lark has a fork full of butter chicken and rice in the air, half way to her mouth. A clump of rice falls back on the plate. A few grains go on the tablecloth. She says nothing at first.
The man opposite smoothes his white hair, describing an alternative route he took, to get away from Route One. His companion, sitting opposite, is nodding slowly in sympathy and her dangling earring swings like a jeweled pendulum.
“Plenty.”
Lark eats her butter chicken, without the fallen grains of rice. She faces Robin across the table with her two TV screens reflecting part of the room in miniature. The voice behind me is on about Milo Yiannopoulos.
“Well they should never have invited him to Berkeley, that creep.”
“They should have let him speak though, even if he is a nut case!”
Robin looks up at me.
“Are you people all Liberals?”
“Progressives.”
“Oh yes, Progressive government control of everything!”
Daisy is looking at Lark, who betrays nothing from behind her shades.
“Not everything Robin.”
“Daisy, Glen says, ‘the government isn’t a charity’, and I am sure you know that.”
“No, it is many things but not that.”
“So tell me this Fred, why should it be subsidizing healthcare?”
Daisy has put down her cutlery, leaving the stewed strings of her goat meat in ‘flavorful’ sauce, to congeal. She gestures broadly with her long arms. Gold and silver bracelets spread their ‘brights’ from elbows to hands.
The waiter brushes past. One of her fingers catches on the towel hanging from his arm. The towel slips and upsets his tray. The drink he is carrying spills. Daisy turns to see what has happened behind her.
“Oh NO! Sorry waiter!”
The waiter turns, and rights the glass as a few ice cubes fall on her shoulder and one tumbles on to the table. Fluid drips from the tray. The man with walrus moustache is looking over, chewing slowly. A light brown stain marks his yellow necktie, close in tone to his khaki jacket.
Indranil is at Daisy’s side.
“Are you alright ma’am?”
“Oh sure, I am so sorry. It’s my fault.”
“No problem ma’am. It is all cleaned up, right away, fast! Do you need a towel ma’am?”
“No no, I am fine, really.”
Indranil puts his palms together and bows.
“Yes ma’am.”
He looks around the table.
“Some desert ma’am?”
His smile is at full stretch.
“Sir, another Rosy Pelikan?”
“No thank you’s,” all around.
Lark looks up at him, and lifts her glasses far enough to see under the frames.
“Just fine.”
She moves her glasses back up.
“I have some eye problems.”
Indranil moves on. The Fez picks up the ice cube on our table, next to the chutney dish, and those on the carpeted floor.
“Okay, Robin, we are a rich country. So many of our people can’t afford a doctor. Well, ah, isn’t it just morally right for, for the ah, government to help out, ah, don’t you think?”
“Daisy, Glen has explained that over and over again. Don’t you listen?
“Glen?”
“Glen Gasberg! America’s favorite commentator.”
“I don’t follow him Robin, but anyway, what’s wrong with that, if it’s for people’s health?”
“Oh my God Daisy! You can get his daily commentary on Shrinkrap’s site. Honey, I mean that is all I need to know!”
“How could you say that?”
“Listen Daisy. If kind hearted people like you want to help the poor, the disabled, the sexual wierdos etc. let them do so, through Churches or independent charities.”
“Well lots of us do!”
“Well I think it is immoral to take my money away from me, against my will, and giving it to a cause I don’t believe in?”
“I don’t do all that political stuff on the internet. You think people should just die because they can’t afford insurance?”
“Listen, Glen says, ‘socialism is like the wrong cure for cancer. Yes, you are cancer free, but then cure kills you’.”
“Insurance doesn’t kill anyone Robin.”
“Glen calls socialized medicine, ‘a fungus growing on the work of others.’ “
Daisy tries to interject, but Robin goes on.
“Glen also says, ‘You lose your integrity. You lose your self-respect. You just become a dependent creature of the state’, I mean like a nothing!”
Daisy’s glance sweeps by me, and fixes on Robin, but she says nothing.
Lark lifts her glasses up a bit and looks over at Robin, who looks back.
“Yes, Lark?”
With her hand still up at her face, she drops her screens back in place.
“Nothing, forget it.”
“So where are you staying Robin?”
“I am with Boyd and his buddy Albrecht. They have a really nice guest room, Fred.”
“Robin, I didn’t know you knew those guys.”
“Oh sure Daisy, I met them at a rally for Senator Knox, raising the heat on Obama.”
“Aren’t you scared of Albrecht’s guns?”
“No Daisy, he is not scared of mine either.”
“You mean you have one too.”
“Sure, women have to stand up for themselves.”
“Oh! Ah! What kind?”
“It is a 38. Cute little thing, I’ll show you later. You can try it you if you want, Daisy.”
Lark has finished her meal. She waves down the Fez.
“Can we have separate checks please? I need mine right away.”
Indranil hurries over.
Is anything wrong ma’am?
“Yeah plenty!”
He steps forward looking closely at the table.
“Not your problem.”
She lifts her glasses for a moment.
“Service is great, food is delicious.”
The Fez comes by and hands her the check. Lark throws down a twenty-dollar bill, and gets up to leave.
“That should cover it.”
Robin looks at her as she moves off.
“What’s the hurry Lark?”
Lark says nothing and tries to get away. She is blocked by a round table of seven, all being served nearby. She comes back toward us and takes another route to the pointed arch at the bottom of the stairs.
Robin finishes the last of her samosa and swigs her remaining tea. She then holds up her bag.
“See that thin cloth on the side of my bag Daisy?”
She leans forward to touch the cloth.
The fez swings by again.
“Are you finished ma’am?”
He takes Robin’s plate.
Daisy is still looking at the bag with Robin’s hand inside.
“Yes I see.”
“Well if we have a problem in here, I can have my hand like this,
and shoot right through that cloth. Problem solved.”
“What kind of problem do you mean?”
“Who knows, Fred? There’s ISIS, Al Qaeda, undocumented crazies and rapists, druggies, I mean, the list is endless.”
Daisy chews the last of her goat in ‘flavorful’ sauce with basmati rice.
She slowly wipes her mouth on her napkin in both hands.
“That chutney is too hot for me!”
She leaves some Dahl, pushed to the side of the plate.
The walrus moustache has finished his meal and holds his companion’s hand for a moment across the table. The Fez pours the last of their wine for them. They both look up in appreciation.
