My Dinner with Merlina
Although I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, my dinner with Merlina last night was something of a non-event, although I admit it is a novel experience when dinner at my favorite restaurant is the least interesting part of the evening.
Merlina’s driver Mike “collected” me promptly at 6pm. He was not driving a white stretch limo as I feared he might be, nor was he attired in a chauffer’s uniform, again to my great relief. He drove a decidedly expensive Lexus LS and wore clothes that might be labeled business casual. As he opened the back door of the car for me to enter, I quickly explained that I had to ride in the front with him because I experience motion sickness when riding in the back (partly true - I get car sick if I am in the backseat for more than an hour). He nodded, although I could tell he was somewhat uncomfortable with the arrangement, but his demeanor thawed as we made our way to Merlina’s house in Concord and it turns out he was actually kind of cute. No wedding band, I noted quickly yet surreptitiously.
Merlina’s white colonial house is large and imposing from the outside, with an incredible wrap around porch cinching in its massive girth. As soon as I mounted the wide and stately stairs, the great Gareth appeared in the screen door, impeccably groomed, barking wildly. I called out, “Hello Gareth!” and he instantly stopped barking, lowering his head in a docile gesture but wagging his tail so furiously that his entire back end got in on the act. When Merlina opened the door, Gareth rushed forward, leapt up, placed his massive paws onto my shoulders (nearly knocking me over in the process) and gave me an expansive kiss on the face, and I completely understood why she so adored this animal.
I also suddenly realized that Mike had not followed me into the house, but stayed hovering around the car in the driveway. I found this class distinction a bit troubling, especially since Mike’s salary was probably larger than my own.
Merlina invited me in for a cocktail. I was taken aback to see that her home’s interior is pointedly less impressive, at least the rooms that I saw. Although it was once clearly a showplace, the place is in a state of decay. Formerly sumptuous furniture is tattered and in disrepair, paint and wallpaper are peeling off the walls, and the atmosphere smelled of hair rinse, isopropyl, Ben Gay, sweet talcum, and dog food. Probably because I didn’t take notice of her until after she had been seated at the restaurant, Merlina herself looked much older as well. She was hunched over with osteoporosis and looked tiny and frail. Although I couldn’t swear to it, I believe she was wearing the exact same outfit when I met her two months ago. It certainly was the same, vivid red veiled top hat that she wore before. It made me wonder about the actual state of her finances.
She offered to mix us some martinis, but I declined, surprised that she would proffer such a muscular concoction, and she gave me a glass of sherry instead. I detest sherry, but Merlina seemed determined that I imbibe in one form or another, so I accepted it, with a silent yet fervent prayer that I wouldn’t make grimacing expressions as I sipped it. In an attempt to cover up any possible involuntary facial tics, I busied myself by looking at the many photos covering the walls. I stopped at her wedding photo, which was the largest and most arresting picture, and was hung in a place of honor, smack in the center of the wall. Merlina was incredibly lovely, all porcelain skin and rosy cheeks, and her husband was a major hunk.
“That’s me and my Wyman. Handsome, wasn’t he?”
I simply nodded, captivated by his dark, wavy hair, the large dark eyes that looked like ripe olives, the shoulders that went on for days, the barrel chest, and the torso that seemed to narrow down towards the bottom of the frame. In Wyman she had certainly found her Lancelot.
After a bit of small talk, we departed for the restaurant. Merlina immediately climbed into the backseat, but, utilizing the same excuse I had made earlier, I sat in front next to Mike. She didn’t seem pleased but nodded in tacit approval. Upon our arrival, I turned to him and said, “Mike, aren’t you joining us for dinner?” Neither Mike nor Merlina responded, but the silence was loaded and extremely awkward, and I clapped my trap shut. We vacated the vehicle, and Mike actually drove away.
Dinner itself was delightful as usual. Since I was with Merlina, I was treated like a superstar - the chef once again came onto the floor and fawned over us, and the wait staff, always attentive to begin with, watched us carefully and fairly tripped over each other to refill water glasses, remove appetizer plates, and generally cater to our every whim.
During the meal, Merlina composed herself to make a pronouncement. “Bruce,” she began, “I know that you were just being polite, but please in the future do not invite my driver to join us for dinner. I don’t believe that employers should mix socially with their employees.”
I could have made several responses to this, most notably that I have lunch with my boss all the time and have even been to his house for dinner on several occasions. But I didn’t want to ruin the evening by getting into a debate with her, so I simply apologized, and the grim moment passed. We went on to talk more about crows and about some of Gareth’s latest antics.
That pretty much sums up the evening. Merlina paid for dinner and I left the tip, which was deservedly sizable. When we exited the restaurant, Mike had the car running and waiting at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t know how he timed this feat with such precision, because she hadn’t called him on a cell phone to retrieve us, but there he was. He dropped Merlina off, who thanked me for a lovely evening, and then drove me home. On the way I told him that I had been scolded for inviting him to join us and that personally I did not agree with her viewpoint on the matter. He didn’t answer, but I could see he had an amused twinkle in his eyes and a spectral, almost invisible smile seemed to be tugging at his mouth. He also didn’t respond when I asked how long he had been working for Merlina and we drove most of the way in silence. When we got close to my house, Mike said, “She is very taken with you, which is quite an accomplishment. She's usually a pretty reserved lady.”
There seemed to be something cautionary in his tone, and I asked, “Should I be flattered? Or wary?”
For the first time that entire night Mike looked directly into my eyes and responded with one word.
“Both.”