About Schmidt - Louis Begley [51]
I must be a subject of discussions, more probably jokes, among the help in this place. Why else would he assume that I am interested, or that I know her name?
Wednesday, 12/4/91
Two more meals out. With Carrie. First time the owner, and yesterday, the second time, the waitress who seats guests when he isn’t there or doesn’t feel like taking the trouble, leads me to one of Carrie’s tables, without being asked. Is that normal, if one comes relatively often and always alone?
I feel a bit foolish about the seat assignment and my response, which is this mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction. Embarrassment, because I seem to have become a habitué, like the Weird Sisters who take on an amused air when I appear but make no move to invite me to their table. According to my way of seeing others, I am a figure of fun: an old fellow with nothing better to do than to converse at a bar and grill with a beautiful waitress almost too young to be his daughter! Satisfaction—bordering on pride—because the waitress acts as though she were glad to see me, almost as glad as I am to see her. Of course, I take into account her professional obligations. Being a good girl, she takes them seriously, I suppose. Waitresses are supposed to make customers feel welcome.
There is something to it, all the same, that goes beyond the professional aspect. For instance, she seems genuinely fond of chatting with me. Probably, she likes my paying attention to what she says—I have always had the reputation of being a good listener, but usually it’s just an appearance of listening while my mind is a thousand miles away. More important, yesterday evening, when I was in such distress, she came to my aid. I suppose it was nothing for a street-smart kid raised in Brooklyn or the Bronx, it’s shameful that I have forgotten which it is, but she did protect and comfort me like a true friend.
Here is what happened: I looked up from the table, because she had just brought coffee, and there, on the sidewalk, pressed against the plate glass, not more than fifteen feet away, staring at me, stood the man. He wore the same suit, perhaps with one more layer of sweater under the jacket, so that the buttons were pulling and the seams were ready to split, and a little knitted beet-red ski cap pulled over his ears. As soon as he saw that I had seen him, he smiled—a wide, entirely toothless grin—and winked. Mean, small eyes. My face must have remained immobile. The grin disappeared immediately. He puckered his lips, instead, and nodded, to show disappointment at the lack of a friendly response. Then, quite laboriously, he lifted his right arm and gave me the finger. In place of the equitation gloves, he was wearing mittens made of navy-blue wool, of a kind I have seen only in films, worn by nineteenth-century beggars or grave diggers, that cover the hands and fingers, but only to the middle joint, leaving exposed the nails, long, caked with dirt, and broken. Terror? Revulsion? When I managed to speak to Carrie, my voice was a croak as hoarse as hers. Look, I uttered, look at him, look!
It’s him again, she replied. Don’t pay any attention. Attention is what they’re after.
Then she made an angry gesture with her fist, shooing him away.
Incredible to relate, the man let his arm drop and moved off, with apparent reluctance but defeated, looking back over his shoulder at me, or perhaps really at Carrie, mumbling something. Then his step quickened. Thrusting his cane at an invisible opponent, he crossed the street and disappeared into the darkness of the parking lot opposite the