Glen Pourciau
After a get together I usually talk to Vanessa about anything annoying that was said, but in some cases I don't wait. I express my thoughts to others, and in this case that's what I did.
We were out to dinner with Steve, a lawyer, and his wife, Pam, a talented painter and friends since elementary school with Vanessa, who is also an artist, mainly watercolors and collages. Steve is around six feet tall and every time we see him his stomach has expanded; we suspect he's well over 300 pounds. Whenever we share a meal with them he eats a lot of bread and butter, drinks a lot of wine, sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip, and seldom fails to mention that he takes runs on the beach and does sit-ups and push-ups at the end of his run. As we drive home after dinner, Vanessa and I often express fear that Steve is going to run himself into a heart attack. Vanessa is a kinder person than I am, and she doesn't make smart remarks about what Steve would look like doing sit-ups and push-ups. I'm the one who does that. It's nothing to be proud of, but I'm confessing to keep things fair, because I got pretty hard on Steve.
We'd been seated at a small table for four, Steve and Pam on the window side, a long table of 20 behind us on our side. Our table was cluttered with various drinks, a wine bottle, breadbasket, bread plates, menus, condiments, and flatware. I'll add that the server of the long table bumped my chair whenever he passed, and I'll mention that Steve's glass of ice water was at my right hand, probably because he didn't have room for it and his wine glass at his right hand. Due to the position of his water glass, I put mine in a small space to my left and my beer glass straight in front of me. I noticed Steve didn't drink any water until later. Why didn't I ask him to move his water glass? For one thing, I didn't know where he could have put it. For another thing, I'm kind of like Steve's belt keeping his stomach reined in, in that I try to keep my mouth reined in, for reasons that will become obvious.
Steve's belt is another subject. Vanessa and I admit to each other that we steal glances at it. He appears to have somehow modified it to accommodate his body. The buckle resides on the front side of his right hip, and the belt's brown leather tilts forward, its top edge almost horizontal. I would estimate, as I've told Vanessa, that it must be more than five feet long and that if he held the buckle up to his nose the belt would dangle all the way to the floor. I've also said to her that I imagine the belt heaving a sigh of relief when he removes it after a full of day of reining in his stomach. I should also say that Vanessa does not indulge these remarks by chuckling at them or building upon them.
As we enjoyed our drinks, Steve chomped on bread and began a more detailed account than usual of his exercise regimen. He told us he typically runs down to the beachfront, descends some stairs, and runs to a resort condominium tower on the east beach, a distance of about four miles. There he plops down and catches his breath, putters with his phone, observes tourists, and then begins his sit-ups and push-ups. When he's done, he said, his feet hurt too much for him to get home, so he calls Pam and asks her to come pick him up, but she refuses to stop what she's doing and drive to him. Pam's face showed she was not happy with Steve's story, and I wondered why he was telling it. He said he calls her back, calls back again, and again if necessary. Pam said to us that she felt more guilty with each refusal, until finally she caved.
Vanessa has tried to make me understand, over a period of decades, that everyone at a given dinner table is not yearning to hear my point of view, especially when it's unpleasant and intrusive. This time, I was weak. I began by telling Steve that if I did what he did I would feel guilty for repeatedly calling Vanessa and shaming her into dropping whatever she was doing. I mocked him by asking Vanessa in a whining voice for a ride home. I asked why he didn't run half as far as the condos and then turn around and run home. It would be the same distance and he wouldn't be interrupting Pam. Steve said he couldn't do that. He liked to have the sun at his back and if he turned around halfway it would be glaring in his face. Pam appeared disgusted, but he seemed satisfied with his story and his answer to me.
I asked Steve if he was using his water glass. He said I could drink from it if I wanted to. I said I'd prefer that he move it. Our server came by to see if we wanted to order. She reached for the empty breadbasket, and Steve asked her to bring more. We ordered, and she relieved us of our menus. Steve's water glass remained in the same position. I picked it up, drank it down, and handed it to the server.
I asked Steve why he would call Pam over and over to twist her into giving him a ride. I said it was a terrible thing to do to her and she should let him sit at those condos all day to break him of the habit. Pam, amending her version, said that after he'd worn her down she'd tell him to start walking toward the house and she'd pick him up on the seawall. Steve said he'd walk until his feet hurt so much he couldn't continue. He'd call Pam and find she hadn't left the house. I squirmed, asking myself how many times they'd repeated this ritual. Pam would tell him to wait where he was, Steve said, and she still would not come. Was this the point of telling us this story? I asked him. He didn't know what to say.
I told him I didn't blame her for leaving him to his own devices. If she knuckled under to him, he'd go on abusing her time and her feelings. He said he rejected the idea that he was guilty of any kind of abuse. I said it was obvious he didn't see it that way, but how did Pam see it? He looked at her, and Vanessa looked at me. Her eyes were telling me to stop talking. Pam didn't answer my question. Vanessa said it was up to Pam and Steve to settle on a solution and not me or her. I said I wouldn't have spoken up if Steve hadn't raised the matter, complete with the details we'd all heard. I characterized his story as a tale of woe. Steve said he'd just thought we'd be interested in the story. I said I was interested in the story, but I and maybe others were hearing a different story than the one he thought he was telling. Pam raised her eyebrows, a reaction open to interpretation, but I took it to mean I'd struck a note with her. Vanessa said I could be creating a story that some people wouldn't have heard on their own.
In light of realizing that Vanessa's view had greater compassion than mine, I took a mental step back and noted the passing years. Three of us at the table were in our birthday month, I said, and all of us were slightly above or below 70. It was good to be together with them, I added, hoping to ring in a happier tone.
Our server arrived with our breadbasket and to refill our water glasses, except for Steve's, and as she poured, the speedy server at the table behind me rushed by and bumped her at an angle, causing the pitcher to tip forward and pour into Steve's lap. Pam burst into laughter. She attempted to control herself, but soon gave up and went on convulsively laughing.
Steve, blotting his pants with his napkin, said it was only water, no harm, but the sadism emerging in Pam's laughter, or what I took to be sadism, troubled me and sparked sympathy for Steve. In calling Pam, was he seeking a craved-for expression of caring and love? Had I, as Vanessa suggested, not interpreted his story fairly? Would Vanessa in a couple of hours be divulging inside information on how Pam spoke of him and saying she could see his side better than I could because of what she'd heard? Was seven decades of living and making a fool of myself not enough, she might ask or imply, for me to learn when to keep my mouth shut?
Looking at Steve, I apologized for mocking his pleas to Pam. I had no right to think of his calls to her as outrageous and shameful. He stopped me there, commenting that I hadn't said before that his calls were outrageous and shameful. Vanessa and Pam eyed each other. Age has not mellowed your foolishness, Vanessa said to me just last week, I confessed. Yet I am not so foolish that I'm blind to her wisdom, I bragged to the table. Yes, you are, Vanessa disagreed, because you keep on making the same mistakes.
Our food arrived, plates crowding the tabletop. We gazed at our dinners, grateful for the distraction. Steve and Vanessa ate slowly, while Pam and I seemed to be racing to the finish, a familiar eating pattern in the group. Steve, suffering from a spell of amnesia, asked if anyone had seen his glass of water. I passed him my half-empty glass. He slurped the water down and waved the glass at our server. He handed it to her, requesting a refill. She returned with it quickly, and he put it at my right hand. I stared at the glass, but he showed no recognition of my stare. At least she didn't dunk you this time, I said. He said he was ready to jump out of the way if she had, after which he laughed so hard he nearly choked on his veal, possibly picturing where he would have landed and if he'd have upset the table and injured himself and others. What emotions could be jerking him around? When they got home, would he be angry at me and at Pam for laughing at him?
An idea hit me, perhaps owing to another bout of sympathy, and I told it to him. He could call me before he set out for a run and I could drive to the condo tower, run toward him on the beach, meet him more or less halfway and run back with him. When he was ready, I'd drive him home. We could plan a time, and I could try to make it work with my schedule.
To my surprise, he didn't take to the idea. He said I wouldn't be happy running into the sun, and he liked to mutter to himself and have some alone time as he looked out at the waves and up at the gulls and pelicans. We'd end up chatting and that would distract him from the meditative side of his exercise routine.
I saw it as pointless to insist and was prepared to shrug it off, but Pam had a problem with his reasoning. What about me? she asked. As far as you're concerned, she said, it's no problem for me to drive there and load you up in the car. Steve didn't like to think of himself as being loaded up, judging by his changed breathing. Part of the offer, Pam explained, was to take the burden off her. He didn't appreciate being thought of as a burden, he said, glancing at me with a frown. He scanned the room and said he felt an urge to take a run. Pam told him to go ahead, but don't call her at the end and expect her to roll up and open the door for him. He leaned forward on his elbows and covered his face with his hands. Vanessa looked as if she wanted to throw a fistful of beach sand at me. Steve didn't look at anybody for the duration, and Pam looked mostly at Steve. I imagined rushing into oncoming traffic, not crying out as I was run down, Vanessa watching me from the curb and nodding.