Selected Fiction from Issue #49, 2021
Cover art by Maria Mazziotti Gillan
THE THINGS YOU HEAR AT TRADER VIC’S
So it’s 1969, and my roommate Connie and I are sitting in a lime green leather booth at Trader Vic’s. We’re splurging for her birthday --- but she won’t say her age. It’s not that I care that much --- it’s just one more thing that’s weird about her. We’ve been sharing an apartment in Manhattan for a year, and although every day with her has been a challenge, I think she brings out the best in me.
We’re ordering a drink to be polite although Connie has a jar of Cuba Libras in her pocketbook.
“One Tiki Puka Puka and an empty glass,” says Connie.
The waiter stands before us like a prison warden. “You two can’t split a drink,” he says. “You have to order separately.”
“Oh, okay,” says Connie. ‘’Then I shall have a Tiki Puka Puka.”
The waiter turns to me.
“And I shall have an empty glass,” I answer confidently.
The waiter’s eyes bore into me.
“Make that a coke,” I say.
The waiter turns back to Connie. “All right, Miss Tiki Puka Puka. Show me your I.D.”
“Today’s my birthday,” she says. “And I assure you that I’m twenty-one or equivalent.”
“Prove it,” says the waiter.
Speaking in a snotty voice like she’s the Queen of England, Connie says, “Actually, I’d prefer a carbonated birthday beverage presented in a Voodoo mug.”
“Got it,” says the waiter. “Two cokes. No Voodoo mug.”
In the long wait for our drinks, we take turns hunching over with a straw and sucking Cuba Libras from the jelly jar in Connie’s pocketbook.
“Here comes Mister Sunshine,” I whisper to Connie, and she quickly shoves the straw behind her ear like she’s a cub reporter with a pencil.
The waiter plunks down two cokes in water glasses and hands us each a menu.
“No, thanks,” I say. “We already ate.”
Connie smiles up at him. “We have dietary issues due to our condition.”
The waiter leans down and says, “You see the fellow standing near the door? The one who looks like he could rip a tree out of the ground?”
We nod.
The waiter’s face burns in on us. “Good. Because if I lift my hand, he’ll throw the two of you out into the street.”
We figure we should patch things up, so we make a big show of examining our menus.
“Oh, my!” Connie exclaims, nudging me. “So many tasty choices for my special day!”
I pick the cheapest thing --- soup. But even just one bowl of it is six bucks. I gaze up at the waiter, asking, “May we please have a half-bowl of your delicious Bongo Bongo Soup?”
“And bring two spoons,” adds Connie.
The waiter snaps shut his order pad. “No and no,” he says.
Connie sticks her tongue out at his departing back, but then her eyes get wide, and she whips the menu up against her face.
“Someone you know?” I ask.
She whispers hoarsely, “Don’t look. Don’t look around! I think I dated him. I know that dude. Oh, god. Don’t look around!”
She peers out across the top of the menu, then slides down in her seat and mumbles, “High school, no. College…maybe. Blind date? Probably. Did I make out with him?”
“Well, that’s a yes,” I reply. “You make out with everyone.”
Connie keeps on thumbing through her mental rolodex. “Fort Lauderdale? Jersey Shore?”
“Describe him,” I suggest. “That may ring a bell.”
“Well, old guys all look pretty much the same, but this one has clunky glasses like he reads too many TV Guides.”
Her chin is resting on the table and her head looks as if it’s not attached to anything, just like in magic shows when someone’s body disappears.
Then there’s a squeaky slippery sound followed by OOPSIE and a thud.
“How’s the weather down there?” I ask.
Connie brightens as she crawls up from the floor.
“Oh, I know who he is! Remember that geezer from our tap-dance class? The guy who couldn’t keep his balance?”
“The one with gnarly facial hair?” I ask. “He broke his hip at the recital, right?”
Connie’s got her hands curled around her eyes like she’s looking through binoculars. “That’s him for sure. But the beard’s gone, and he’s hacked back his moustache. Wow. He’s actually kinda sexy in a grandpa sort of way. Oh, no! He sees me! Now what should I do?”
“Act normal if you can,” I say. “Acknowledge him, but don’t encourage intimacy.”
Connie wiggles her fingers in the air and mouths HELLO. She holds the round red O so long her lips look stuck.
The waiter rushes to our table. “Save your antics for the circus. Time to buzz off!”
“But we’re still savoring our beverages!” Connie declares.
The waiter takes our drinks and pours then into a plastic Yucca plant. “There,” he snarls. “Now you’re not.”
“Why are you so strict?” asks Connie. “I’m just waving at a longtime friend.”
“For god’s sake, STOP!” The waiter’s eyes are watering.
“So you don’t think I know that guy?” says Connie. “Well, Puka Puka this!”
She jumps up and marches past the waiter to the booth that holds the geezer.
“Excuse me, sir. But may I have a word with you?” she asks.
The man half-stands. “Of course you may,” he answers pleasantly.
“Your tap-dancing was getting really good. Everybody said so. Too bad you quit.”
The man stares at Connie, then carefully sits down. Connie swaggers back to our booth with a triumphant thumbs-up.
Then, as the waiter frantically signals the bouncer, a woman at a nearby table cries, “I can’t believe my ears --- Walter Cronkite used to tap-dance!”
Kristina Branch, a painter and writer with residencies at MacDowell, Yaddo, Ossabaw, and Skowhegan, is a Stanford University emeritus professor. A Smith College graduate, her solo exhibition venues include Farnsworth Museum, Cantor Center, and University of Iowa Museum of Art. This short story is from her novella The Connie Chronicles.