Chapter 2: The Un-Engagement
I walked into the smoke-filled room at the Blackstone Hotel, my coat and tie hastily tossed on me. Customers sitting at white-covered table filled the medium-sized restaurant. Windows facing the parking lot filled one wall. The maître d’ led me to the table for two where Sandra waited impatiently, and turned his nose up when I didn’t stick a dollar in his hand.
“Hi, Sweetheart!” I said, forcing myself not to look at my watch to verify I was thirty minutes late.
“Nick! I thought you said to meet here at 8:00! And why did we have to drive separately?” Her voice had an unpleasant whining quality to it. But there was nothing unpleasant about her looks. How did I end up with a gorgeous blonde with an hourglass shape? She was 5’ 8”, which for some guys would be too tall for a girlfriend, but I thought she was just right at four inches less than me.
“Oh, no, baby. I said a little after 8:00, because I knew I had to do something, so we had to come here separately.” I smiled in the way I knew charmed her.
She smiled, as she looked at her diamond-studded watch— a gift from Daddy. Her watch did worry me a bit. It probably cost more than the ring.
“Hey, my Queen of Diamonds. Let’s forget about that because tonight’s special.”
“I know honey! I already told Ann Marie and Carlota because I’m so excited!”
“You told them what?” I asked, almost frowning.
“Well, everyone knows what happens at this restaurant when a couple that has been dating for a long time…” She kept talking about whatever, but I was distracted by the mention of how long we’d been dating.
Three months.
She called it a long time, and she let me know it too, dropping hints at every chance. Her younger sister was already engaged, and I think it made her a little desperate.
But, I knew the stats. The percentage of marriages which last when a couple has dated for less than six months is 20%. They weren’t great odds. But I always felt as if Lady Luck was in my favor— maybe it was Gambler’s Blindness. Plus, I loved my Blonde Bombshell. Marilyn Monroe had never looked as good as Sandra did with her white dress, pearl necklace, and white, high-heeled shoes. Once I noted her outfit, I thought she did seem to have a bridal quality about her tonight.
My brain tuned in again when I heard the phrase ‘our kids.’
“…so I know that our kids are going to be beautiful, not like Conchita’s chubby niños.”
“What? I didn’t think that your maid’s kids were fat,” I said because I-don’t-know-why. Something about her put-down bothered me, maybe because it reminded me of me.
“I said, ‘chubby’ not fat.” She pulled at her hair and wound a strand around her finger. “Besides, I’ve heard you say worse things about your poker friends.”
“They are not my friends,” I said, irritated I had to explain it again. “I don’t play poker for fun. It’s a job, so I usually play only with guys that I won’t mind taking their money.”
“What do mean ‘job’? Daddy gave you a nice job at his bank,” she said, sounding pouty.
“And I appreciate it very much honey, but it doesn’t quite pay the bills. I’ve got debts and car maintenance bills,” I said glancing out the west window to see the golden setting sun reflecting off the hood of my yellow Ford Thunderbird. I always tried to park it where I could see it when I was at work or at a restaurant.
I continued, “Besides, I’m very good at Poker. I know all the odds, and I’m pretty good at counting the cards.”
“Big deal! Anybody can count to fifty-two,” my blonde almost-fiancée said.
I was about to instruct her on the basics of remembering and tracking cards played in a game when the waiter interrupted us. He was dressed in a ridiculous short-coat tuxedo. He looked like a groom on a budget who could only afford half a tuxedo because he spent too much money on the ring.
Yes, the ring.
Involuntarily, I put my hand in my coat pocket to feel the small plush box. I never did get it wrapped professionally.
After the waiter took our order, Sandra leaned forward on the table and held my hands. It felt good to be wanted and loved.
Maybe this is how people with families feel all the time.
She was looking at me so expectantly that I had to do it right then. “Well, these last three months have meant a lot to me, baby…”
Oh yes, she had mentioned ‘our babies.’ I turned in mid-sentence, “And so… could you just tell me again about what you were going to say about…our children?”
“I’m so glad that you want to talk about our children!” She beamed.
I was smiling too, on the outside.
“I was going to say that when we have a baby girl I’d like to name her according to the tradition in my family.”
I grabbed a glass of wine and gulped down half the glass at the mention of a baby girl.
I’m not even engaged yet.
“Oh, what tradition is that, sweetie?” I showed my teeth with this smile.
“Well, we would name our daughter after the middle name of my mother. And the maiden names of my grandmothers would become our baby girl’s middle names” she explained sweetly.
“Ok…” I said tentatively. “And the maiden names of your grandmas are what?”
“Mendenhopf and Messerschmitt.” She smiled.
I paused to calculate the result of this complicated naming formula, then took another drink of wine, and tried to sound calm, but failed. “But that would mean that our daughter’s name would be Evangeline Mendenhopf Messerschmitt Reisender!”
She stared at me and shook her head.
Oh, good.
But then she corrected me with “No, Szyska.”
“You want to give our kids your last name?” I raised my voice in disbelief. The couple at the next table looked at us.
“Well, Daddy says that he’d like his family name to continue, but he has no sons. And since you don’t have parents, it shouldn’t matter to you. What do you think?”
There were so many things wrong with that question that I didn’t know where to start. I sat back in my chair and shook my head, rejecting my first three responses.
“Well, to be fair,” I said, “we should just give our kids a hyphenated last name so that she’d be called Evangeline Mendenhopf Messerschmitt Reisender-Szyska.” I smiled to indicate how ridiculous I thought that was.
She pondered this for a second and said, “I suppose we could do it that way if you really wanted to—”
“No. That was a joke.”
“A joke?” echoed my blonde not-yet fiancée.
“Yes. You can’t give a kid a name like that! She’s got every letter of the alphabet in that name! She wouldn’t even be able to spell her name until she was twenty. Heck, I’m thirty and I don’t think I could spell it!” I involuntarily raised my voice and waved my hands in the air in exasperation as the patrons on either side of us stared.
“Well, that’s our family tradition, what do you expect me to do about it?”
“Not follow it.”
“That’s easy for you to say; you don’t know what it’s like to be expected to follow family traditions—” She stopped but not soon enough.
I saw the regret in her eyes. I wasn’t smiling.
“It’s true that I don’t have a family.” I said, “But if I did, I still wouldn’t mindlessly do something just because someone tells me to. I’ve got a brain. And so do you.”
“I don’t mindlessly follow things,” she said sipping her bottled Evian that she often carried in her Gucci handbag. She was defensive again.
“How’s your Evian?” I asked.
“It’s fine, why?”
“You know, they have water here. And why are you wearing that Bulgari bracelet?”
“Well, I like the bracelet, and all my friends drink…” she stopped.
80% of couples who marry after less than six months, divorce.
We’re not even married yet. I had to cool this off.
“Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I think I’m just nervous. Please forgive me. OK?” I smiled my charming smile again.
“Yes, I forgive you. I understand you. You just like to be right all the time,” she said with total clueless sincerity.
Unbelievable. Maybe this is how people with families feel all the time.
“OK, thanks, Babe. I understand you too. ”
That is not the most sentimental way to segue into a proposal.
“I mean that I feel like I know you very well, and, um, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking all these…three months, and well, you’re right, I don’t have a family. But I’d like to…”
She was giddy with enthusiasm.
Without turning to look, I felt people just outside of my peripheral vision were starting to take notice. But I continued, “And so Sandra—”
“Kneel.”
I paused and blinked. “Uh, what?”
She whispered again without moving her smiling lips, “Kneel.”
“Oh, yeah.”
I got on one knee in front of her. She exuded uncontrollable enthusiasm. If her smile had been any bigger it would have encircled her head.
I reached into my pocket to retrieve the ring box. She started tapping her feet rapidly. I sensed someone moving in closer behind me.
“And so Sandra, I’ve decided that I couldn’t spend the rest of my life without you a part of it. So would you do me the honor of—“
“Yes!” She snatched the ring box from my hand before I could finish.
Everyone in the restaurant started clapping and cheering. They were all looking at us. Several were standing. I scanned the room. Now I recognized some of my co-workers from the bank, surrounding us. A photographer stepped forward, camera in hand. He held a large professional-looking camera with an oversized flash mounted on top, which looked like a large eye staring at me. They were all staring at us. She must have called everyone she knew. No wonder this restaurant was so busy.
As she opened the box, the photographer stepped in closer to capture the unforgettable moment forever. As she reached into the box and removed a small piece of paper, her countenance instantly changed from giddy, smiling anticipation to a frowning, jaw-dropping scowl. She blinked as the camera flashed her in the face, capturing her outraged expression forever.
Oh crap. This is a mistake.
She unfolded the paper as I stood to snatch it from her. But it was too late. She had it unfolded and was staring at it in horror. Apparently, the people behind her could read it too because they suddenly gasped in unison, and a few of the ladies put their hands over their open mouths.
But now I, and everyone behind me, could see I had written my love note on the back of a receipt pad from Belcher’s Bar & Grill.
Oh yes. That’s what it was actually called!
Sandra read those words I’d hurriedly scrawled out in a bold, black marker: “I O U one engagement ring.”
She glared at me. The expression on her face looked like a cross between the devil on a bad day, and an angry, old witch sucking on a lemon. Lightning bolts came from her eyes and impaled my eyeballs. She breathed fire from her mouth and burned me to a crisp with her hot breath as she skinned me alive with her angry cutting words. And all with the support of her family, her daddy’s friends and employees, and—now I saw him: the Big Daddy himself, arms crossed in judgment over me, standing off to the side. Everyone in the restaurant hated me. Including me.
“What the hell is this?” yelled Sandra. “You said this was going to be a special night! You said you were delayed because you had to do something important.” She flipped the receipt over and shook her head in disbelief. “You lost it? You lost my engagement ring in a stupid poker game! You made me think this was going to be a special…” She started crying. “Oh, Daddy!” She turned away, holding her arms out to her father.
Mr. Szyska stepped forward and hugged his daughter, one of the only two women in his life since his wife had died. He held her tightly wrapped in her arms, her head pressed into his chest to muffle her crying, while he glared at me over her head.
Crud! I was supposed to have two week’s pay coming from his bank.
I stood and scanned the jury for a sympathetic face. Everyone in the restaurant was scowling at me, in support of Sandra Szyska. That’s when I realized something: She had not invited any of my friends. She knew that I had former co-workers from the hospital, and buddies at the garage where I kept my yellow T-Bird percolating like a coffee pot. But she hadn’t invited them.
It was all about her. Again.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I turned to leave her life forever.
“Me too!” she spat out. “I’m sorry that I ever considered marrying you. You will never find someone desperate enough to marry you, and you’ll die an old, wrinkled, lonely man!”
I just kept walking, her voice fading into the background.
“Your gambling just cost you the best thing in your life! I hope I never see you again.”
I hung my head down and stuck my hands into my pockets as I shuffled out of the room. As I approached the maître d’, who was also scowling at me, I felt something in my pocket. Oh yeah, a “consolation prize” from Rick the Brick; One dollar, wrapped around the four cards that had sunk me: four lousy twos. The weakest cards in the deck had teamed up to take down my faces and aces.
I slapped the dollar into his hand. He smiled at me.
Finally, someone was on my side.
Just before the door closed behind me, I heard him say, “Thank you very much, Butthead.”