Another Man's Woman

Another Man's Woman 

                                                                         Fiction by Doug Rodoski

                  I watched the young woman as she gracefully poured my iced tea at the far end of the bar at the Applebee’s on the second floor of the row of buildings on 42^nd street. Watched with, I plead, a non-lecherous detachment. Her name-if you could believe the plastic tag on the upper right side of her blouse-was Sydni, yes, with an “I”. I found that particularly endearing.

       She moved fluidly, like a dancer, every move measured as she tended to me, a young couple at the opposite side of the bar, and a couple of families at nearby tables. She stood tall in her tennis shoes, five foot ten by my estimation, and her dark hair was braided on both sides, in an attractive way that would have made Princess Leah envious. Her long tan limbs showed the edges of tattoos, which I often find attractive on women.

      I guessed her age to be middle twenties.

      I grimaced at the age difference; but I am what I am. (Thirty-eight at the time.)

              Sydni was a pleasant distraction after the recent deployment to Iraq with the U.S. Army Reserve. Our unit, made up of Military Police, brought everyone home intact three weeks ago, despite regular mortar attacks on our camp plus Soldiers of another squad returning fire during a couple of ambushes. It was great to be back stateside. Myself and my buddies had returned intact, but feeling a little “compressed”, as the Army micromanages every move Soldiers make on a deployment (with admittedly good intention).

     After visiting family in Florida, I ventured north to NYC to attend a couple of Knicks playoff games at Madison Square Garden (which, as a card carrying SportsJones, I equate with the Temple of Olympian Zeus). I remembered this Applebee’s from when I used to visit my cousins in the 80s and 90s, to watch the Knicks and Mets and Rangers.

      Waiting for my order, I mentally continued a nostalgic tour of Manhattan. (My mind seemed to hunt on its own these days.) I recalled my visit to Ground Zero, two months after the horror of 9/11. I had arrived at the Port Authority by bus, and after looking at the floor to ceiling posters in the terminal that would tear your heart out of your chest cavity ( “ my brother worked on the 78^th floor of the South Tower, please call if you know of his whereabouts”), I had walked all the way down to where recovery and cleanup was still taking place downtown. The trip---plus the serpentine head of the attacks of September 11^th---was the genesis of my reenlistment in the Army.

   I ended up in Iraq though, not Afghanistan.

   My reverie was interrupted---albeit pleasantly---by Sydni’s fragrance. My God, she was like a Bath and Body Works ad, with arms. The young woman herself was now standing in front of me, with my burger and iced tea. I smiled, wondering how long she had been standing there while I was lost in thought, looking across the street at the marquee signs for the shows.

   I thanked her. (As a lifelong fan of hard-boiled detective fiction, I considered raising my glass and saying, “Thanks, Doll.” Like Mickey Spillane’s tough guy protagonist, Mike Hammer. But that would have been politically incorrect these days.)

     While I admired her shapely and sturdy figure, I was also trying to covertly pick up evidence of a wedding band. She saw me looking and did not say anything. (Please withhold judgement, readers. My pronouns are He/ Him/ His.)

    She did seem to keep her hands occupied, obscuring vision. That being said, she still had not given me the usual disarming within-one-minute-of-meeting announcement (“My husband/ boyfriend… etc. etc.”) An unattached male, as I was, can usually set his watch by that.

    She turned away and got busy again at the other end of the bar. Her shoulders were straight, and her back looked so strong. I wondered what sports she might have played in high school, or college. Tennis perhaps, or rowing. She had that look; pleasantly feminine- and athletic- at the same time.

   Another thing that I have found to be true in life, is that when one feels ambiance and is happy, often some cheese phalluses will say or do something to mess it up for you. And today’s cheese phalluses came in the form of two scruffy looking dudes of perhaps mid-twenties to thirty years old, who came to the bar and seated themselves noisily three stools to my right.

    Sydni tended to them briskly and professionally. At one point, when she was drawing their draft beers, the one guy made an off-color reference to Sydni. Then had the audacity to glare at me when I took notice.

   “Can I help you, chief,” he shot in my direction, eyes hard above face unshaven. On top of this, his friend had a very unlikable sneering visage.

     “Are you trying to impress your Brokeback Mountain buddy there?” I shot back. (I can be very creative when angry or threatened. Or both.)

   Now all three of us were standing.

   I sensed movement behind me. In my peripheral vision I saw the manager type, who had greeted me at the top of the escalator earlier, moving towards the young men.

   “You guys are all done,” he told the other two. “That’s two nights in a row; you can come back when you act right.” They grumbled but paid and left, favoring me with a couple of crap looks on the way out.

    I went back to looking out the window again, as my heart slowed back down to a reasonable rate. The next thing I knew, Sydni glided up to me with a concerned look, followed by a smile. “ Are you okay?” She gave my hand a squeeze.

   “Yeah, sorry,” I said. “ Those clowns just rubbed me the wrong way.”

    Sydni smiled, then turned and said over her shoulder, “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

    I felt pretty good about myself right then.

    As it turned out, Sydni did have a significant other. He came in ten minutes before closing, and they embraced. I fellow of maybe thirty years of age, possibly a young executive or financial type.

    Sydni and her companion murmured to each other. When it came time for me to pay, he walked straight over to me and shook my hand. “Dinner is on us tonight. And thanks for your service.”

    I insisted on leaving a cash tip for Sydni. When her companion went to the restroom a moment later, she favored me with a quick hug.

    Disappointing, yes, but somehow, I feel like I had a meaningful life experience today. The buildings to the left and right towered over me like canyon walls. I pulled up the collar of my leather bomber jacket against the cold damp of late March.

      Thank God for the city.