Fate or Something Like It

“We met at a bookshop,” Hank says, answering the age-old question. 

“That’s how you want to start the story of how we met? ‘We met at a bookshop.’” Patricia chides her husband playfully.

“Well how would you start the story?”

 “Depends.” Patricia looks at Joe and Kate. “Do you want the long version or the short?”

“The long,” Joe says. “We’ve got time, don’t we Kate?”

Kate glances at her watch. It's half past seven and they have the reservation until nine. “Sure.” 

Kate pours wine into her glass. She’s had a hell of a week. An aggrieved client threw a rock at her law office window shattering the glass, their dog got sick all over the white living room sofa, and after a visit to her gynecologist, it was confirmed that all those hot flashes really were, as she suspected, the early stages of menopause. She would have preferred to stay home with Chinese take-out, watch a B movie, and call it a night. Patricia would understand.

But it was Hank and Patricia’s anniversary and, on second thought, mostly after some coaxing from Joe, Kate figured that joining the couple for dinner wouldn’t be the worst way to spend a Friday night. At least she could knock back a few drinks and indulge in those precious carbs her fifty year old body has long since worried about. And the restaurant never failed to impress. Sure, Patricia’s airy, Doris Day saintliness has the tendency to get under Kate’s skin, or rather chafe it like a cheese grater. But Hank is Joe’s best friend, and the two women are obliged to spend some time together every now and then. Tonight, Kate can muster the strength to play nice and make small talk. 

“When I first moved to New York from Indiana,” Hank begins, “I worked at Barney Greengrass.”

“The deli on 86th and Amsterdam?” Kate asks.

“The Sturgeon King!” Joe yells. “They make a mean kippered salmon.”

“Ugh.” Kate makes a grunt of disgust. “I hate that place.”

Patricia looks at Kate as if she’s just admitted she doesn’t shave her legs in winter. Which she doesn’t. “You have to be kidding.”

“What? The smell of all that fish. It’s revolting.”

Hank shakes his head and continues. “So I’m at Barney’s one day, slicing cold cuts, counting the hours until my shift ends and dreaming about all the jobs I’d rather be doing, when in walks Damian White.”

“Wait, THE Damian White?” Joe looks like he’s just found out Elvis is still alive. “How have I never heard this story?” 

The server delivers a platter of crostini. Eggplant caponata. Cheese and prosciutto. Whipped ricotta with a walnut pesto. No one delays in filling their plates, and Kate pours a little more wine into her glass. 

“I probably listened to White’s new album a thousand times that summer. And because I had worked stage production in Indianapolis, I was used to going to shows all the time. Being around musicians was nothing exciting. It was work. But I didn’t care about the kinds of bands I worked with, because I didn't listen to their music. But Damien White. He was a guy I actually listened to.”

“More like worshipped,” Patricia adds.

“Anyway, he comes in and orders a root beer and the pastrami salmon on rye. And I’m nervous, even giddy. My hands are shaking as I bring the guy his sandwich and when I give him the tray,” Hank pauses and looks at everyone for effect, “my hand slips.”

“No.” Joe is horrified.

“Yes. I spilled root beer all over Damien White.”

A wine mist sprays from Kate’s mouth. She laughs. “Way to go Hank!”

“It was awful. His pants were soaked. I apologize and run to get a towel. When I come back, I keep saying how sorry I am, everything is on the house, yada yada yada. I tell him how much I admire his music, how great he is, practically slobber all over the guy. He’s so easygoing about the whole thing, but I still feel terrible. Then a little while later, White calls me to his table, and I’m thinking he’s just asking for the check. But no.”

“He tried to get you fired, didn’t he?” Kate is sure she knows where this story is going. 

“Not even close,” Hank says. “The guy invites me to come see his show!”

“Wait,” Joe says, “you spill a drink in the guy’s lap and he gives you a free ticket to his show? That’s crazy.”

“Right?” Patricia says just as the server brings the main courses. “But it happened.”

“I couldn’t believe my ears. He writes my name on a slip of paper, says he’ll put me on the guest list, drops a fifty on the table for the bill and walks out.”

“He felt sorry for you,” Kate says with a mouth full of Moroccan lamb tagine. “You got a pity ticket.” 

“Or maybe he’s just a nice guy,” Joe smirks. Then addressing Hank, “how was the show?” 

“Oh, it was great. I knew it would be. Then afterwards I started talking to the sound guy for a while, asking him about the live show scene and whatnot. He ends up pulling me backstage to meet the promoter. Says one of the stage hands has dislocated his shoulder, and they need a replacement ASAP. Of course I jumped at the chance. The promoter tells me to come to his office to fill out some paperwork, his assistant writes down the address on a slip of paper, and I leave the show skipping down the sidewalk like Gene Kelly.”

“Ah, Singing in the Rain.” Patricia releases a dreamy sigh and leans her head on Hank’s shoulder.

Kate’s ready for another drink and imagines the four of them are a Tom Collins. Joe would be the gin, Hank the soda, sweet Patricia, definitely the maple syrup of the group, and that would make Kate the lemon. And Kate was proud to be the lemon. 

“So I went to the address written on the paper, but his assistant must have fussed up the numbers because the address she wrote down was no music promoter’s office. It was…”

“Let me guess,” Kate interrupts. “A bookshop?”

Hank rolls his eyes. “Can you let a guy finish a story, Kate?” Then addressing the group, “maybe you guys remember it, the one on West 69th? Sold rare books, first editions, stuff like that.” Hank’s question is met with blank stares. “Anyway, it was the 90’s. No Google. So I went in to use the phone.”

“Yeah, remember those days,” Patricia says a little wistfully, “when you could get lost in the city, when you actually had to stop and ask people for directions.”

“Patricia, the nostalgist,” Kate laughs. “And I say, thank God for smartphones!”

“But don’t you think we’re missing something now? Missing out on some personal contact with strangers,” Patricia, avoiding Kate’s glare, poses the question to the group, 

“You live in New York. Just take the subway. If you’re looking for personal contact, you can get accosted by a random pervert any day of the week.”

“Or pickpocketed,” Joe adds.

Patricia frowns. 

“So I walk into the bookshop to use the phone and I see a girl sitting behind the counter deeply enthralled in The Grapes of Wrath.”

“You and your classics,” Kate scoffs. “Why don’t you ever read something raunchy? More E.L. James, less James Baldwin.”

Patricia’s face tightens as if she’s just eaten a sour pickle. “You have a crass taste in literature.”

“Hey,” Kate smirks, “you’re the one who called it literature.” 

Hank coughs. 

“Sorry honey.” Patricia pats her husband’s knee. “Finish the story.”

“So I’m looking at the beautiful girl behind the counter. She was wearing a beige linen dress and a light blue sweater.” 

“You remember what Patricia was wearing the first day you met?” Joe chuckles. “I barely remember what Kate wore yesterday!” 

Kate shrugs, no more affected by Joe’s remark than a blind woman to a Rorschach test. 

Then Hank looks at his wife as he says the next sentence. “Patricia was, what’s the proper word, enchanting. She was enchanting. I could barely form words. Finally I managed to ask if I could use the phone, and she smiled and handed it to me. The rest is history.”

“It was fate,” Patricia leans her cheek on Hank’s shoulder. 

“Great story,” says Joe.

“Cute," Kate mutters and readjusts herself in her seat. She’s either feeling a hot flash coming on or a physical aversion to this romantic story that has gone on from starters to main course.

The server returns and Patricia asks for a bottle of prosecco. Glasses poured, she proposes a toast. “Twenty five years ago fate brought us together.” 

“Well, twenty seven hon. You have to count the two we weren’t married.”

“Details.” Patricia continues. “It hasn’t always been easy, and we’ve had our share of struggles.”

“Like everyone else,” Kate murmurs. She recalls all the “struggles” Patricia could be referencing, which seem to pale in comparison to the hardships she and Joe have had to overcome. Problems with money (Joe’s gambling), infidelity (Kate has long regretted sleeping with their therapist), and the long battle with infertility which left them childless, therefore grandchildless, therefore carry-on-the-family-genes-less.

“Like everyone else,” Patricia echoes. “But the universe conspired to put us together and we’ve made it twenty five years…”

“Twenty seven.”

“Twenty seven years, and I hope we have many more ahead.” Patricia clinks her glass to Hank’s and kisses him on the lips.

Joe and Kate both offer a congratulatory “happy anniversary”, then more clinking of glasses. 

“Ok Hank,” Joe says, “let me get this straight. So you spill a drink on a famous singer, get a free ticket to his show, the promise of a job, and end up meeting Patricia all because you got the wrong address and went into a bookstore to use the phone?”

Hank nods. “That’s the gist.”

“That’s a heck of a story.” Joe looks mesmerized by the whole thing. “And to think if all those things hadn't happened, you’d never have met your wife.” 

Kate looks at her nails, a good two centimeters of cuticle showing, and makes a mental note to go to the salon next week. 

“And there’s still the other side of the story,” Patricia adds.

“Yeah hon, you should tell your side of it.”

Patricia smiles sheepishly. “You two don’t mind listening to another story?” 

Kate jokingly fakes a yawn. She’s been up since 4AM, has had two hot flashes since dinner started, and after all the wine and prosecco, is feeling a headache coming on. Joe nudges her with his foot under the table. “Sure,” Kate relents. “But don’t draw it out. Just give us the high points.” 

“Ok,” Patricia begins her story. “So it was about a week before I met Hank. My friend Margaret and I were trying to find some Shanghainese restaurant we’d heard about in Chinatown, apparently all the rave at the time. But we kept getting lost and going around in circles. We were about to give up and get dim sum instead when we saw a sign for tarot card readings.”

“Oh, of course you went in!” Kate decides to throw caution to the wind and pours herself more prosecco. 

“I couldn’t resist. We were both pretty hungry, so I promised Margaret it would be quick. We went in, and I told the lady I didn’t want a classic reading. Just one card. Let the chips fall where they may. She said that’s not how it works and tried to convince me to go for something conventional like the love spread or career path spread. But I could see the hangry look on Margaret’s face, and I kept insisting on just one card. The lady was getting annoyed and had probably had enough of me, so finally she just dealt the card.”

“What was the card?” Joe asks. 

Kate taps her hands on the table. “Drumroll please!” She’s a little drunk. 

“The Wheel of Fortune. In the middle of the card was a wheel surrounded by three figures, a snake, and I don’t recall the others. In each corner of the card were these winged creatures and the lady said they represent the…”

Kate makes a finger roll for Patricia to get on with it. What little interest she had in the story is waning. Internally, she’s mulling over her dessert order and contemplating buying everyone a round of port. 

“This has a point, I promise,” Patricia assures everyone. “The astrologer looked at the card, at me, then back at the card. Started talking about a turning point in my life, that a big change was coming, and that I should have faith the Universe will take care of me. So mysterious. I left the place half expecting something mystical to happen around the corner. But when nothing cataclysmic happened the next day, I laughed and wrote it off as a good time with a friend I’d always remember.” Patricia laughs aloud. “But then, three days later, I got fired from my job.”

“Was that the customer service gig?” Joe asks.

“Good memory, Joe. I had no idea what to do next, felt totally lost. I kept thinking about that tarot card, about what the lady said. Then I remembered something on the card that had stood out to me. Those winged creatures were all holding books. Books! That was what gave me the idea to apply at the bookstore. I applied, got the job, and on my first day, I met Hank.”

“It was fate or kismet, whatever you call it,” Hank says. 

“Fate,” Patricia declares. “Think about it. What if Margaret and I had found the restaurant in Chinatown? We’d never have gotten lost and gone to that tarot card reading. I’d never have gotten the idea to apply at the bookstore.” 

“Or maybe you would,” Kate points out. “I mean, you do love books.”

“True,” Patricia admits, “but isn’t it a little spectacular? All those things had to happen just for us to meet.”

“Sure,” Kate says, shrugging her shoulders. “But you act like the whole idea of you two meeting was some kind of magical moment in destiny.”

Unperturbed by Kate’s skepticism, Patricia smiles. Her face is glowing, radiant. She laughs. “Isn’t it though?”

“I don’t know.” Kate ponders the idea. “I mean, you could keep going back in time finding significance in this or that. You could go way back, to your birth, your parents’ birth, and there’s always one event leading to another. That’s just life.”

“Well,” Patricia says, taking a sip of prosecco, “I like to think that we were destined to be together. I like to think that the stars aligned somehow, that the universe created all these little mishaps in order for us to meet. Isn’t it more fun that way?”

“Sorry.” Kate’s not buying it. “It’s just a little too whimsical for me. How does any couple meet? X happens, then Y, then Z. It’s nothing magical.”

Then Joe, who has mostly been silent during this discussion, says, “I’ve got a question. Let’s go back a little further.” He looks at Hank. “What made you move to New York? Out of the whole world, why here, why this place?”

“Why does anyone move to New York, Joe?” Kate barks. “It’s NEW YORK. That’s the reason.” 

But Hank is grinning like he’s about to reveal a winning poker hand. “Choosing a city was like choosing one flavor of ice cream, choosing which dog to take home from the animal shelter. One night I was at a bar with a friend and he said to me, ‘Hank, name six places you’d want to live and we’ll roll a dice. Whatever number you land on is where you go.’ So we rolled the dice.”

Joe smiles. “And New York was number six.”

“That’s it,” Hank says. 

Kate chuckles. “It is original, at least.”

“Well what if,” Joe proposes, “you’d rolled a five?”

“Then I’d be living in San Francisco.”

“You, a west coaster?” Joe laughs. “No way.”

“Right?” Patricia says. “He’s a New Yorker through and through.”

“I still can’t believe you spilled Coke on Damien White.” Joe shakes his head.

“Root beer,” Hank corrects him.

Later that evening Kate and Joe are in bed, each reading a book, their matching lamps shining dim light on the pages in front of them. Joe sets his book on the nightstand and looks at his wife. 

“You know, I was thinking about that day we met,” he says. 

“Last page,” Kate says and keeps reading. Joe waits for her to finish. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“The day we met. At the pizzeria.”

“Yeah, what was the name of that place?”

“Sal’s.”

“Yeah, Sal’s! That place was a legend,” Kate says, inching a little closer to Joe. “So sad it closed down.”

Joe sighs. “After all those years too.” He puts his arm around his wife and grins. “I lied, you know.”

“Lied?”

“Well, I do remember what you were wearing that day.”

“You do?” Kate’s surprised. 

“Black turtleneck and a grey skirt.”

“Sounds like me.” Kate smiles. “You know I love my black.”

“Do you remember what I was wearing?”

“Joe, that was ages ago.” 

“It’s alright if you don’t remember.”

Kate tries to think back on the day they met, but isn’t able to recollect much. “Sorry,” she says. “My mind's blank.”

Kate puts her book on the nightstand and leans her head against Joe’s shoulder. Then she says to her husband of twenty-seven years, “well, what were you doing that day? What brought YOU to that particular pizzeria in Brooklyn?”