The dinner date

Brindley O’Hare met the twaddling Sandra Johnson next to the Rocky Dale Movie Palace. Odd name thought Brindley. There is nothing palatial about the place. It disgusted her. She did not know for certain, but her father recalled coming here when he was a kid. Brought his mother here for a first date. First? Would have been my last. She did some rough math. Her parents born about 1980. Let’s see. Her mind drifted.

           Brindley and Sandra shared the same birth month, July. Sixteen. That meant she was born in 2004, and her parents were twenty-five. Close on nine months later, Brindley arrived. Close. Not precisely. Maybe it was seven. No matter, she reckoned. The theater must be older. Maybe during the war, the Great War, as her grandfather spoke of it. Not that he ever fought in a war—not dragging his spats with Grandmother into reckoning it.

           Maryanne Hollins stood near, mute to their chattering. Brindley knew her, albeit casually, as her older brother Garth dated her for a few months before they graduated from Rocky Dale High School. She overheard him on the phone bragging to a weekend chum that he and Maryanne got serious, “all the way” he said, at the Palace. Brindley knew her brother defined his machismo by notches in his Jockey briefs. If he wore them. She did not know this over having heard her mother chastise him for “going native”, whatever that meant. She suspected the truth. Her mother could have said the same about her, or Sandra. But she didn’t live with Sandra, and it was just one of those stupid conversations the girls had in the same breath as all else that life hands sixteen-year-old girls.

           Brindley sidled Sandra to whisper. “Mark told me.” She pointed to Maryanne with a slight jerk to her head. “She’s not that fond of boys. Prefers, you know.”

           Sandra laughed. “Prefers what? Butter on her popcorn?”

           Brindley nodded, “Yes. That’s it.”

           Sandra called to Maryanne. “You like butter on your popcorn?”     

           Maryanne looked toward the younger girls. “What are you babies yammering on about?”

           Sandra pushed Brindley aside as she stepped nearer to Maryanne. “Just wondering. You meeting a girlfriend? Some balcony time?” Sandra laughed as she turned back to Brindley. To Brindley she said, “Your brother got nothing from that. Everyone knows.”

           Brindley thought she understood, vacillating whether to prolong the nonsense.      Like pulling the wings off a fly. Sandra thought. “You can be as dense as fog. She likes girls, that’s what.”

           Brindley blushed. “I like you, so?”

           Sandra leaned into Brindley and roughly kissed her pn the lips. “Best of luck Maryanne.” The kiss caught her off-guard. Brindley would ask her later.

           The Palace smelled of a heavy musk, mildew, stale tobacco. Years stained the old red velvet seats. Their shoes stuck to a floor layered by a legacy of spilled soda, cluttered with paper candy wrappers, popcorn, and other detritus neither girl cared to examine. The COVID business shut the place down for more than a year, but now it was open. In a year, Brindley thought, couldn’t they clean the place? She was sure it made no money. How could it?

           Coming was Sandra’s idea. She nearly begged her to go. Brindley reluctantly agreed, if only to get out of the house. Sandra’s parents out of town. She asked her friend to spend the night, afraid of being alone in the house. Fat lot of good it would do if someone broke in and found two teenage girls quivering and shaking beneath the bed clothes. She dismissed the idea. The last crime in Rocky Dale was a shoplifting incident at the town’s only convenience store. Some candy bars purloined, the thief’s lips smeared in chocolate.

           The film was an old one, Instruments of Evil. All the Palace ever showed was B-films. A serious movie aficionado would travel to the nearest proper town, about forty minutes away. They could have done this. Sandra drove, but her parents placed strict limits on her driving. Especially with friends. Trips to the grocery. Age. What is with these people? Sixteen is mature enough to get pregnant.  She felt and looked mature.

           They sat in the balcony near Maryanne, who now accompanied by another young woman Sandra did not recognize. No matter. She whispered into Brindley’s ear, “I told you. Look. Maryanne’s all lovey with another girl. Recognize her?”

           Brindley peered toward them. The theater darkened. “No. What does it matter?”

           “It doesn’t matter at all. Just observing. Different strokes, right?” She laughed at the imagery. She took Brindley’s hand, lacing her fingers between her own. Brindley squeezed the fingers, just as Sandra squirmed to get comfortable, leaning her head on Brindley’s arm.

           Brindley appreciated Sandra’s affectionate nature. She enjoyed the cuddling, the warmth of her friend, the lavender deodorant. Sandra stretched to kiss Brindley on the cheek. Not a passing peck but lingering, held. Brindley glanced toward Maryanne. At least someone paid attention to the film. As she turned her face, Sandra found lips. It was a moment, no more. Friendly with a disconcerting attitude. The theater stunk. This was Brindley’s ascertainment as she dissected the odors, listing them in her brain.

Brindley slipped through the front door, examining the front room for lurking murderers as she turned to Sandra. “That was the worst movie. I just didn’t get it. Some Viking god—Loki, right? —and these musical demons.” She passed. “I liked the music. Fun. Didn’t you think so?”

           Sandra shrugged. “Maryanne enjoyed herself. You see them groveling? I wonder.”          

           “Seems to me you were in the mood.”

           Sandra tapped Brindley on the arm, took her, hugged her tightly. “Oh, we’re friends. Different. Might be sisters. We sure look alike.” True. The thin blondes, stark blue eyes, did resemble each other if they put someone to the challenge, but that was as far as it got. “Hungry?”

           Brindley nodded. “A little.”

           Sandra led her by the hand into the kitchen. She flipped on the light. A mouse scurried out of sight. Brindley shuddered. She hated them. “Maybe eggs with Jalapenos? A bagel? Not sure what’s in the house. Mom usually leaves me frozen dinners. How’s that for believing in your kid? Frozen dinners. Disgusting. I can cook. Eggs anyway. I think I can figure out the toaster. Might be some frozen bagels.”

           “Whatever. Just take the edge off.”

           Sandra brightened, snapping her fingers. She went into the living room. Brindley heard a cabinet open, glass clink against glass.

           Sandra returned, hoisting a bottle of Smirnoff in the air, a grin enveloping her face. “Dinner is served.” She poured each a half glass which she topped off with orange juice.

           Brindley knew drinking was not a good idea, but they weren’t going anywhere. She sipped the drink, the alcohol lurked subtly behind the citrus, while Sandra drew a long swig, gulping. She belched. “Good. Takes the edge off that crappy movie.” She laughed, then drank the rest.

           Sandra took a frying pan from a cabinet and cracked four eggs into it. She whisked them around. She frowned, then brightened. “Cheese. And tabasco sauce. Couple peppers.” She dashed the sauce into the eggs with a handful of shredded cheddar cheese. She smelled it first. “Look in the freezer for a couple bagels. We always have that kind of stuff around here.” Sandra ignited the gas ring, then put the pan on the stove. “Soon, I think. Let me find a spatula. I think I will need that.”

           Sandra poured another half glass of vodka. No orange juice. “Another?”

           The alcohol had a numbing effect on Brindley. She smiled. “OK. But orange juice. I don’t like the taste of it otherwise.”

           Sandra cuffed her friend but poured equal measures. “Cheers.” She took a long pull on her own drink. “You get used to it. Starting to have an effect, you?”

           The eggs splatted, a scorch smell rose from the pan.

           “Oh, shithouse. I think I burned them.” She pulled the pan to the counter. “You find those bagels?”

           Brindley handed the bag to Sandra. Sandra pushed it back. “Surely you can get two of them into a toaster. Its there, on the counter.”

           Brindley removed two frozen unsliced bagels and hammered them into the toaster. Tight. She pushed harder, then set the lever to toast them. “Must be a virgin toaster.” She chuckled.

           Both girls finished their drinks. Without asking, Sandra emptied the bottle into their glasses. She put the empty container into the trash can sitting next to the counter. “Don’t forget to take this with you tomorrow. I heard the toaster. Let’s eat.”

           Sandra scooped a good portion of half scorched       , half runny eggs onto a plate, then repeated it. With some difficulty, Brindley pried the bagels free with a knife.  Still frozen with a warm brown crust.

           Brindley took her plate, grabbed two forks, and sat at the table. “Oh, Love,” she purred thickly in a mock Cockney brogue. “Would you bring my drink? I seem to have forgotten it somewhere.”

           Sandra mimicked her friend. “Delighted, Darling.”

           The gelatinous mess oozed from side to side as Brindley rocked her plate. “Doesn’t this just look…” she stalled to frame her thoughts. “Diarrhea?”

           Sandra pushed the plate away. “Save it. Disgusting.” She lifted the glass to her lips, holding it as the glass drained. She slammed the glass to the table. “Why did you insist on eggs. I hate eggs.”

           “Insist?” The word trailed away. Brindley finished her vodka. “I am pissed-face, that, you know, how’s that? Turning in? Couch? Where’s the couch? I saw it somewhere. It go away?” She giggled.

           Sandra took her by the hand into the living room. Both girls fell into the sofa, their faces inches apart, Sandra draped over her friend.  Brindley was seconds away from oblivion.

           “Thanks for that disgusting meal.”

           Cupping her friend’s face, Sandra kissed her. “What you sup ‘pose Maryanne is doin’ right now?”

           Brindley did not answer.