by Jordan Eisenback
It is not until the server brought out a tapas plate (complementary-included, of course, probably some sort of service charge) that Jack realized that perhaps he was a tad under-dressed. "I didn't realize this was this kind of place," he whispered to Jon as the server turned, still in earshot. There was a painfully visible bead of sweat resting gently on the ridge of his brow. His arms were folded across his chest and there were folds of flesh caught over the hocks. There was a large vein that traced its way over the forearm closest to Jon, suffocated between muscle and skin. As Jack drummed his fingers against his bicep, the vein bulged and snaked, shifting and squirming like parasite with surfeit of selection—an oversized trichinosis. He was slouched in his chair, one leg bent, one leg straight, probably resting his heel on the ground.
"Yeah," Jon responded, mumbling, letting her walk away, spindly-legged, carefully balancing pitchers of Diet Coke and tonic water. "Our server is 'Hi short for Hyacinth.' I thought that might give it away. Seems like some sort of parody." Perhaps satire would have been more appropriate –not important, Jack wouldn't be interested in such distinctions. He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth, feeling the powder of plaque. Midmorning’s packed lunch was still wedged in his molars, compressed bread in between his eyeteeth and incisors. He could feel it now, extra-smooth film his tongue slicked over. Lips bulging from his press of tongue, his face swelled, gaining simian shape: jaw opening slightly, lips pursing as he probed with his tongue against the nugget of compacted flour that resisted him. He brought his hand to his mouth, covering it.
Jack smiled, “I would have thought you’d like that, seems to be of your stripe. What was that girl? Corinthia? Sounds equally Greek to me.” Jack’s arms were still folded languidly across his chest; they were well-tanned –a stripe of pale flesh like undercooked meat showed under his shirt-sleeve where his farmer’s tan began, or ended— and well-haired. (Here Jon wonders what a poorly-haired arm would be, perhaps like his own: pale pink, soft-blonde down like a girl’s; perhaps it would be like his grandfather’s: a sleeve of dark fur, ursine in its excess.) Jack scratched his cheek with a dirty fingernail, pivoting his elbow with self-assured grace, tracing over an invisible line on his cheek with almost mechanical precision and no wasted effort. He yawned, bringing his fist to cover his mouth. Shifting in his seat, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a thick leather wallet, bowed out, stuffed with Lowe’s gift cards and possibly low-interest credit cards. It’s possible he tried to lay it quietly on the table, but the compact mass of it thudded against the spun polyester tablecloth. It lay, inert, bulging. A neutron star.
Jon didn’t respond to Jack’s gibe, merely slouched. He slid his right hand down his arm from the shoulder, surreptitiously unfolding his shirt-sleeve. And then the other. He scratched at the sparse three-day’s growth on his neck. His elbows rested on the table, his arms tight to his sides in order to disguise the patches of sweat under his armpits.
He looked past Jack, over his shoulder, at the couple sitting behind him, trying to get a sense of place. He hadn’t been aware of his surroundings on the way in, too busy carefully maintaining distance between himself and Jack as they followed their host. The man was wearing a jacket, possibly herringbone, but he only had on a polo underneath, little sailboat half-showing on his chest. He was scooping asparagus tips into his mouth four or five at a time, using a hunk of bread to shovel them onto his fork; Jon imagined a squelch of softened spears as they met his cheek and lip. He was speaking with flecks of green and hollandaise still on his tongue. “Everywhere I looked was culture. Thousand year-old houses, cathedrals left and right. I spent four hours in the Tate while I was over there. It was amazing, the tower rising over the Thames. They’ve got about forty Rothko’s, just maroons and grays everywhere and he had this exhibition called ‘Cage’, just seven angled panes of glass that—”
Jon pulled at the collar of his t-shirt.
“Do you think you’ll come back and work for me next summer?” Jack asked –a bit too loudly, Jon thought.
“I’m not sure. I might try and get a job in Charlottesville, stay there.” He laughed, a puff of exhaled air, “work at Starbucks or something.” He scooped a fried calamari ring into his mouth with a piece of bread.
“You’re not going to be able to get a much better job than this. You’ve made about five bucks since we’ve been sitting here. I know I could get another grant, for more samples.” What could be better than hot summer days spent in strange towns, driving on back roads, shaking out clods of soil into buckets? What could be better than falling asleep in a motel with the television still on?
“I know, we’ll see.” He paused, studying his father’s face. “It’s not that I don’t like working for you, not having any expenses while I’m home is great. I just—” He brought his hand to his mouth, bit at the cuticle off his middle finger. There was a clank of china behind him and he turned his head.
Their server came back; it seemed like she was sashaying; her hips traced circles as big as rings. She didn’t smile, he was sure Jack would remark about that later. “Could it hurt?” was how he’d start his complaint, speaking too loudly for Jon to be comfortable. He’d probably tip her two cents, or maybe a nickel, reciprocity.
“Are the gentlemen ready to order?” Jon felt a burn bloom on his cheeks and creep down his throat and up his ears. Her lips were thin, pressed tight. She didn’t look either of them in the eyes.
“I would like the Vegetable Neapolitan,” Jon said, pronouncing the last three syllables too deliberately. He tried to smile at the end of this, but wasn’t sure if she noticed. Her hair swooped over the eye closest his. He took a sip of the fuzzy water, the taste was almost unbearable.
“And for you sir?” She turned to Jack.
“I’d like the roast duck.”
“And how would you like that, sir?”
Here Jack paused, smiling, brow wrinkling. He laughed, exhaling through his nostrils. “I’d like it cooked, please.” Jon brought his hand to his mouth, biting at the knuckle of his forefinger.
“Well done, then?” The server responded, brows furrowed.
“Yes, I want it cooked. Brown. Done.”
“Well, done it is,” she turned, briskly, flustered. Jon caught a glimpse of pursed lips, her face finally showing some color.
“I’ve never had someone ask me how I’d like my duck.” Jack wondered, again too loud, at least to Jack’s ear. He laughed, not unpleasantly. “I wonder if she’s new.” That’s why they have those delineations: rare, medium-rare, medium, et cetera. To avoid brusqueness. Jon didn’t meet his father’s eye.
The diner behind Jon’s head was cutting his meat now, some sort of steak. A bit too bloody for Jack’s taste. There was an unpleasant scrape of metal on porcelain with each saw of the knife. He was gesticulating with his fork still in his hand, chewing the flesh with the back of his jaw. “I feel like it changed my perspective, living that long among a people not my own. I feel broad. It made me think about the values we have here: you know they bag their own groceries over there? And they don’t use plastic bags either. It’s brilliant. Sometimes I feel like abandoning this whole country—” He paused to pull another piece of meat from the fork with his teeth.
Published in the 2009 issue of the Lee Review.
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