THE PLACE (Part Two)

So there we were---sitting in a booth at THE PLACE, and Professor Taser had spotted us. I knew he had seen us, because he nodded. I waved back, and said to W.S. “He’s the only guy in here wearing a suit.” Smiling weakly, W.S. responded, “It’s his uniform. He never takes it off. I think he sleeps in it.”

Perceptively peeved, Taser trooped to the bar to see if he could find a stool. There was nothing available. The chef was already throwing people out into the snow; waving his trusty cleaver yelling, “Get out of here. You can’t hang around unless you’re sitting down.” At that, Taser sighed heavily, no doubt thinking, “Any port in the storm,” and headed our way. Throwing a big shadow over our booth, he smiled and said, “Hello.” His hello meant, “I am going to sit down and join you!” We got the hint.

As we nursed our beers, we attempted to be casual and engage him in small talk as he quaffed his first martini. His wife was out of town, he was on his own, and rather than go to the country club, he had opted to come slumming at THE PLACE. His second martini arrived and the small talk became excruciatingly painful. It was obvious that our sole contribution to the evening was the booth.

W.S. tried in vain to impress him with the fact that he was working hard, but having years of practice of fending off these kinds of comments from students, it was obvious that Taser was more interested in fishing the olive out of his drink.

Then it happened. Somehow the conversation turned to me. We had already told him W.S’s life’s story---twice, but that was okay, because he wasn’t listening. At that point, I mentioned that at one point in my life, I had lived in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The man’s eyes lit up. Either he was going to cry---or throw W.S. out of graduate school. Breathlessly, we waited for his reaction.

“I am from Sioux Falls,” he responded. At that point, the two of us mercifully left W.S. totally out of the conversation. I realized that if this evening was to be salvaged, it was totally up to me. Taser happily ordered his third martini, and I cheerfully prattled on about whatever I could conjure up about Sioux Falls. I finally settled upon a spot called McKinnon Park. Between us we described it in agonizing detail. W.S. looked bewildered. From his point of view, a slide is a slide, a swing is a swing, a bench---, but seeing how happy Taser was, I rhapsodized about McKinnon Park. I even told him about when I was caught in the middle of the park during a tornado. He loved it!

By the time dinner was over, Taser happily picked up the check (permitting us to survive financially for another week) and through martini-glazed eyes, viewed my husband with new perspective. W.S. swore that at that moment his academic career began to rise. He declared, “It was like Pickett’s charge had been to the Union at Gettysburg.” From that day on, he held his head high as he stood next to Greg and Todd in Taser’s office.

I didn’t see Professor Taser for several months after our booth episode, but one afternoon W.S. and I did pass him in the hall of the Student Union. He mumbled something as he scurried by. “What did he say?” asked W.S.

“Don’t know,” I lied, because---Taser had remembered my name.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006.