Fat Tony -- Section Nine

[Sorry this took so long coming!  I didn't want to post half the date, then depression smacked me around yesterday.  Thanks to Kimberly Wilson for being upset I hadn't posted yet and to Becca Wilson for telling me.]


    He was cutting it close, squeezing a shower in between buying flowers and riding the top-side of the speed limit on his way to the Sly Thai Shack.  A bit of luck combined with a great deal of self discipline in not messing with the traffic lights put Fat Tony in the parking lot at three minutes before six.  The result was a brief opportunity to get seriously nervous.
    He looked down at the potted geranium sitting in the seat next to him.  The nice florist had said something alive would set him apart from the crowd, make him stand out as a suitor.  She was so enthusiastic about his date, Fat Tony didn’t have the heart to tell her he didn’t know if he was a ‘suitor’ or not, let alone his other worries: does an FBI agent have time to water a plant?  And assuming she did, wasn’t a geranium the most average of flowers?  It was the flower that you gave to someone you didn’t know as a house warming gift.  It was what you brought to your aunt that you hadn’t bothered to visit since you were five.  It was so unremarkable, it was almost the opposite of a flower.  It was a non-flower.  In fact, the potted geranium was the anti-flower, creating a black hole that sucked other flowers near it into a colorless, bleak world of ennui.
    Fat Tony had stared at the roses for far longer than he had time for, but the only ones that seemed to fit with Sarah’s voice were the deepest red, almost a purple, and he wasn’t taking red roses to the first date.  Roses were a flower that carried so many expectations along with them, they demanded some sort of explanation.  A person couldn’t just give roses on a first date.  It would have to be roses and a disclaimer.  Any romance implied by these flowers is further away than it appears.
    So Fat Tony brought the anti-flower and the good wishes of that nice florist, and he carried them both out of his car and towards dinner with the FBI, wrapped up in the person of Sarah.  Sarah with her Huge Hair.  How huge? he wondered.
    Oh.  That huge.
    The Hair was the first thing he noticed, and it deserved both the attention and the capital letter, just as Flap Jack had said.  Reddish-brown, it stood out around Sarah’s head—and this had to be Sarah—in a gorgon of curls, vibrant and alive.  She wasn’t much shorter than Fat Tony without the hair, but with that extra exuberance, her height stretched easily past six feet.  In a pick-up game of basketball, Fat Tony wanted her hair on his team.
    He pulled his eyes back down to her face for the first time.  She was watching him and smiling.  How embarrassing, though predictable, he supposed.  On one of those quizzes in the girls’ magazines, Sarah probably answered the question ‘What is the first thing people notice about you?’ the same way every time.  Though, Tony supposed, those quizzes had probably all migrated to Facebook by now.
    “Hello,” he said, holding out the bland geranium.  “You must be Sarah.”
    “And you’re Tony, give-or-take and extra word.  Thank you for the flowers.  They’re lovely.”
    “And they’ll have to be our centerpiece, unless you want to put them in your car.  Or back in my car.  I spent the time from the florist’s to here trying to decide when to give them to you.  Before the date, they have to sit on the table, or in your lap, or on the floor for our poor, over-worked server to trip over as he rushes by with vegetable curry.”
    Sarah was nodding.  “But, if you give them to me after dinner, it seems like you were holding out to see whether the date was any good before you pulled out the flowers.  I assume you kept the receipt?  What’s the return policy on flowers?”
    “I am proud to say,” said Tony, pulling himself up straight, “I did not ask.”
    “But you thought about it?”
    “Once or twice.”
    “And you did keep the receipt.”
    “I’d like a lawyer.”
    Sarah smiled, and Fat Tony smiled.
    “Ack,” said Tony.
    “Ack?”
    “It’s an awkward pause, and I don’t know you well enough to think ‘that’s okay, it’s just a pause.’  Right now, every pause is awkward and means I’m a terrible conversationalist.”
    “Oh, good,” said Sarah.  “That means I must be a brilliant conversationalist, and the pause was your fault.”
    “Of course.  Which is why I filled the silence.”
    “With the clever conversational gambit of saying ‘ack.’”
    “Did the pause continue?”
    “No, I admit, the pause is over and almost forgotten.  Remembered with a bit of nostalgia, maybe, but I’m sure my enjoyment of the pause has been inflated in my memory.”
    “They don’t make pauses like they used to,” said Fat Tony, ruefully.  “Shall we go in?”
    “What’s our plan with the geranium?” asked Sarah.
    “You know your flowers,” said Tony.
    “Oh, sure.  There are geraniums, roses, daisies, tulips, little white flowers, little pink flowers, and weeds.  Did I cover them all?”
    “Every kind of flower I know.”
    “So you can’t tell me how to keep this thing alive?”
    “I hear water is the usual method.”
    “A bit out of my comfort zone,” said Sarah, “but I’ll give it a try.  I think I’ll bring it with me.  Do you mind sharing our table with a condemned prisoner?”
    That particular combination of words intruded uncomfortably into Fat Tony’s imagination along with a vivid picture of Grandma wearing an orange jump-suit and lifting weights in the prison yard, but he pushed it aside with only a small flurry of blinking.
    “I’m always in favor of mercy towards the condemned.  By all means, bring the ill-fated pot along.”
    Fat Tony held the door and Sarah held the flower.  He used the chance to check out her dress, and decided he might want to spend more time examining the dress later.  It had nice…colors.
    They were met at the entrance by a smiling server who only had to ask twice if they had reservations before Fat Tony understood her.
    “Table for four under the name of Anthony.”
    “But just the two of you?”
    “I think we’re enough,” said Tony.
    “Are you as bad at hide-and-seek as I am?” asked Sarah.
    “Don’t even go there.”
    “This way,” said the server.
    They settled in at the table, Fat Tony’s bulk on one side, the hair on the other, ordering lemonade for one and something non-alcoholic and coconutty for the other.
    “That’s a thought,” said Fat Tony.
    “What is?”
    “Coconut lemonade.  I’m surprised I haven’t tried it yet.”
    “You’re a lemonade fan?”
    “Some people knit—well, I knit a little, but that’s beside the point—some people knit, some collect glass figurines, and some drink lemonade.  I mostly fall in the lemonade camp.”
    “There are worse hobbies.  For one summer, as a girl, I collected those frightening little trolls with the hair that looks like mine.”
    “That seems more common than a passion for lemonade.”
    Sarah bobbed her eyebrows, a motion not unattractive.  Fat Tony decided he’d like to see that again.  It went on the list along with the dress.
    “Sure, collecting trolls was the rage at the time.  But my motives were, putting it delicately, less than pure.”
    “Are you sure you want to share this on a first date?” asked Tony, smiling.
    “Revenge.  Three girls who were crazy for trolls had mocked my most distinctive feature.  The last week of school they had talked endlessly about buying the new lion trolls, or the cat trolls, or even a two-headed troll.  I devoted my summer to being the first to every unique and desirable troll in the city.”
    “Shocking.”
    “I was a girl with a mission.”
    “A successful mission?”
    “I ended the summer with pride.  And with a box of trolls I cared nothing about.  I think they’re still in my parents rafters somewhere.  Come to think of it,” Sarah looked vaguely puzzled, “I think that was the summer I decided to join the FBI.”
    “Wow,” said Tony.  “Tracking down trolls inspired you to take up the badge.”
    “The parallels are pretty obvious,” said Sarah.  “I can’t believe I never thought of that before.”
    “Now you have to think of something else: what you’re going to order.”
    “Something with cashews.  Do they have anything with cashews?”
    “B9 does, I think, though I’d recommend asking for it mild, unless you enjoy crying on a first date.”
    Sarah looked down her menu.  “Mild B9 looks good to me.  What will you be having?  Oh, and we are going Dutch, right?”
    “Of course not.  I just came into some money today.”
    “Congratulations.  Lottery ticket or a dead relative?”
    “Neither,” said Tony.  “I walked up to this screen in a wall and started punching buttons.  Next thing I knew, it was spitting money at me.”
    “Any distinctive markings around the screen?”
    “I believe a translation of the ancient text would read ‘ATM.’”
    “You have amazing luck.  In that case, your treat, and I’d also like desert.”
    “Mango with sticky rice,” said Tony, without hesitation.
    “That good, huh?”
    “Why do you think I invited you here?  Even if the date makes me wish for a hammer to bludgeon myself, I’ll still be able to look ahead towards the mango with sticky rice like an oasis in the desert.”
    “Goodness, Tony.  You know how to make a girl feel special.”
    Fat Tony blinked.  “I’m thinking that came out wrong.”
    Sarah was laughing.  “Very wrong.”
    “Is there any way for me to recover from this?”
    “I don’t think so,” she said, still laughing.
    “Server’s coming.  Oh, good.  Yes, we’re ready to order.”
    As Sarah asked the server about the B9, and how it differed from the B8, Fat Tony used the chance to look at her face.  It wasn’t a soft face—too many angles and planes for that—but her nose was slender and even, her eyes wide and blue.  Too strong to ever end up on a billboard, except as an add for the FBI, looking stern.  But it was an open face, and Tony liked the things she said.  He liked that she shared about collecting trolls.  He liked that she seemed to look straight at him, and not at all the weight he carried along.
    His turn to order came, he did, and they were alone again.
    “Huh,” said Tony.
    “Another conversational gambit along the lines of ‘ack?’”
    “No, this was a genuinely puzzled ‘huh.’”
    “Puzzled about what?”
    “I can’t remember what I ordered.”
    “It was fifteen seconds ago.”  Sarah was laughing again.
    “I remember saying the words, but I can’t tell you what they were.”  He felt his face flushing.  It wasn’t really something to be embarrassed about, but the flush was there, nonetheless.
    “I guess you’ll be surprised, then.”
    “I suppose so.”
    He smiled back, laughing as well.  Tony felt warm.  This was the sort of date he had heard about but never been on.  A holy grail of dating where living waters bubbled out of a cleft in the rock and everything he said was witty, even the dumb things, and he felt comfortable.  Some corner of his brain warned him, Chicken Little style, that the sky was guaranteed to fall some time during the date, but at the moment he enjoyed smiling at Sarah and feeling her smile aimed at him.
    “Well, Tony,” she said, “do you bring it up, or should I?”
    “Seems that you’re already doing the bringing up.  What ‘up’ are you bringing?”
    “I have big hair.”
    “I might have said ‘enhanced.’”
    “You’re solidly in the ‘plus’ sizes for clothing.”
    “You’ve got that wrong,” said Tony.
    “I do?”
    “Women have ‘plus’ sizes.  Men have ‘large’ with several ‘extras’ in front of it.”
    “I hadn’t realized that,” said Sarah.
    “Any brothers?”
    “Pardon?”
    “Do you have any brothers?”
    “Two sisters.”
    “Then there was no reason for you to know.”
    “This date is fun and educational!  But I’m going back to the ‘it’ I was bringing up.  I think we’re both wondering if the word ‘magic’ is going to come up in this conversation.”
    “I had been,” said Tony.  “After I saw your hair, I really wondered.”
    “And you’re a bit sprightly for a man your size.”
    “Sprightly?”
    “Should I have said ‘bouncy?’”
    “Hmm, let’s move away from ‘bouncy.’”
    “Then I’ll stick with ‘sprightly.’”
    “But how do you mean ‘sprightly?’”
    “Hasn’t anyone ever told you?  You…” Sarah waved her hand in a rolling motion.  “You ‘prance’ when you walk.  You’re like a show-horse, but a Clydesdale version.”
    Fat Tony rubbed his hand over his mouth.  “I think I’m going to take all that as a compliment.”
    “You should.  It’s fun to watch.”
    When Fat Tony came back to himself, he realized they’d been talking for close to a minute and he didn’t know a single word he had said.  ‘Fun to watch.’  A woman had said he was ‘fun to watch.’  He’d heard ‘fun to talk to,’ ‘fun to be around,’ and ‘fun to have along for a drive,’ but ‘watching’ had never entered the picture.  In fact, it was so foreign to him, he had a sudden urge to rush to the bathroom and look in the mirror, just to be certain he was still wearing the same body.  No—not to ‘rush’ to the bathroom, but to ‘prance.’  I’m a Clydesdale, he thought.  It made him want to laugh.  It made him want to run out the door.  It made him want to call his mom.
    “Woah!” said Sarah.
    “Sorry?”
    “What just happened?”
    “How do you mean?” asked Tony, though he knew what she meant.
    “Your face just fell so far we’re going to have to break out shovels to dig it up.”
    Fat Tony shook his head and pulled a smile back onto his face.
    “It wasn’t you,” he said.  “Well, it was, but in a good way.  That was a good kind of sad.”
    “Quick question,” said Sarah.  “Do you want me to contradict you there, or pretend that I didn’t see grief like someone colored with blue marker all over your face?”
    Tony blinked, shrugged, and drank some lemonade.  “Honestly, it was a good kind of sad.  It just hit me that my mom would love to meet you.”
    “Oh,” said Sarah.  “She must be…?”
    He shrugged again.
    “I’m sorry.  How long ago?”
    “Five years.  Dad and she, both.  I feel like I’ve got it evened out, under control, smooth sailing, then a pirate jumps on the ship and hijacks the whole thing.  Honestly, it’s okay.  It was a compliment that you made me think of her.  My mom was pretty awesome.”
    “I know it can’t mean much for me to say it,” said Sarah, “but I am sorry.”
    “How about your parents?” asked Tony.
    Sarah let him change the conversation.  “Both alive and kicking.  Dad does real estate and ulcers, and Mom is busy right now learning how to use an iPhone.”
    “I’ve heard of those.  Aren’t they the new crack-cocaine?”
    “The DEA is evaluating them as we speak, trying to push regulations through the hearing process, but it can take forever.  Also, I’m not sure anyone actually says ‘crack-cocaine.’”
    “I’m really behind on my drug lingo, I confess.”
    “You, Tony, become more appealing every minute.”
    The dishes came, Fat Tony discovered he had ordered a coconut curry, and conversation slowed as the eating picked up pace.  So far, if he were the Russian judge, Tony would have given the date a solid 8.6.  Enjoyment was certainly higher than that, but the problem was the difficulty of the date.  It wasn’t hard.  No challenge to the routine, no major flips or contortions necessary.  Sarah made it easy to sit inside his own skin and enjoy himself.  The little voice in his head that had been screaming, ‘The sky is falling!  The sky is falling!’—well, that voice was now sitting in a lawn chair, sipping a fruity drink, and thinking that the sky had a pretty solid grip on things and probably wouldn’t be descending, in pieces or at once, for at least the next twenty-four hours.  Might as well enjoy the time while he had it.
    His phone buzzed in his pocket, just at the same time that Sarah’s phone started in on the William Tell Overture.
    “You might as well get that,” she said, looking at the incoming number.  “I have to take this.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
    Fat Tony just nodded in answer because she was already talking as she walked away.  He got his phone out and—Grandma!  He punched the button and had the phone at his ear fast enough that he probably didn’t need to shave that side of his cheek tomorrow.
    “Where have you been?” he asked, keeping his voice in control.  “I moved past the ‘sick’ kind of worried around one today.”
    “I’m sure it’s a fascinating story,” said Grandma, “but we need your help.”
    “I bet you do, you and your gentleman caller.”
    “My what?”
    “Mrs. Negi has been talking.  You have no secrets from me.”
    “I just might have secrets.”
    “No, you have none.”
    “Oh, I think I do.”
    “I know about the little friends you’ve had as house guests.  Do you seriously have twenty?”
    “Then perhaps I don’t have as many secrets as I thought I had, but that doesn’t change the fact that we need your help.”
    “Where are you?”
    “Tucson Mall.”
    “What are you doing there?”
    “Avoiding people.”
    “What sort of people?”
    “Some with badges, some without.”
    Fat Tony’s eyes snapped over towards Sarah who was talking animatedly, her hair a symphony of movement that matched her shaking head.
    “How long have you been avoiding the badges?”
    “Roger thinks they only found us in the last ten minutes or so.”
    “Wonderful,” said Tony.
    “I know why I would say ‘wonderful,’ Anthony, but why are you saying ‘wonderful?’”
    “I’m on a date.”
    “Tell her it’s a family emergency.  She’ll understa—wait!  You’re on a date?!”
    “With an FBI agent.”
    “With an—oh.”
    “Who is currently on the phone, checking her watch, and walking back here with determination.  Tell me where to find you and do it fast.”
    “We’re in one of those specialty shops for kids who only own black clothing.  Plenty of magical noise here.”
    “Yes,” said Tony, talking quietly, “and they’ll look there.  You need to hit the changing rooms of a department store.  The mirrors usually have magic going on, and if the agents following you are male, they won’t think to look there right away.  That will last until my date shows up—sure, Grandma.  I’ll introduce you some time.  I don’t think we can make it tonight though.”
    “She’s listening now, isn’t she?” asked Grandma.
    “I promise I’m not avoiding you, Grandma.  I just can’t come right now.  I promised Sarah the mango with sticky rice.”
    Your grandma? mouthed Sarah, and Tony nodded.
    “Fine,” said Grandma.  “Dillard’s changing rooms.  Get here fast.”
    “Yes, I’ll remember to feed the cat.  Lots of love.”
    “Feed the cat?  Your date will think I’m an idiot, or at least so old all I think about are my cats.”
    “Goodbye, Grandma.”
    Fat Tony hung up and looked at Sarah, who was pulling her keys from her purse.
    “That was work,” she said, “and I can’t put it off.  I really am sorry.  This has been surprisingly refreshing.  Can we do it again?”
    “Absolutely, but do you have time to wait for an order of the mango?  I bet they can put it together faster than you could walk to the car in heels—oops, sensible shoes.  You’ll outrun the sticky rice.”
    Sarah was smiling.  “You just wanted an excuse to look at my legs.”
    “I’d missed them earlier,” said Tony.
    “You’re blushing!” she said, and now she was laughing.
    “I’m really bad at flirting.”
    “I think you’re doing just fine.  No, don’t get up.  Finish eating, my Clydesdale Anthony.”  She leaned over and kissed him on the top of his head.  Tony felt it all the way down to his toes.  “That was for luck,” she said.
    “For me or for you?”
    “Do we have to pick?”
    And she left.  Fat Tony watched her all the way out the door.  It was a nice view.  In fact, the entire night was like a painting in his mind.  Something between the Mona Lisa and one of those pictures with the dogs in clothing, sitting around playing cards.  Humor, mystery, a hint of romance.  A definite hint.  He might even call it a broad hint, or an outright clue.  Almost a full-fledged explanation with endnotes, hints be darned.  He wondered if it would ever happen again.
    After a slow count of thirty, Fat Tony dropped forty dollars on the table, and ran.