New Year, New Beers, New Chairs

“I’m excited to check out the remodel,” Angie told Sarah. “They got new chairs.”

The college women were driving to Angie’s hometown, an hour away from their dorm.

“I wonder what else they changed?” Angie pondered. “Did they upgrade the whole menu, or just get a new air fryer?”

“Are new chairs a huge draw?”

“Oh, yeah. The old chairs were upholstered in linoleum stripped from mobile home kitchens.”

“That’s weirdly specific, Ang.”

Angie parked in front of a new neon sign touting the name  “Symposium” and a large banner advertising, “New Year, New Beers, New Chairs!”

It was a homey place, with wooden floors, a pool table, and the average number of townies sitting at the bar.

A waiter emerged from the swinging door of the kitchen. “Angie!” He shouted in recognition, his voice deep and resonant, “I haven’t seen you since you were here for Christmas last month! And you brought a fr–”

His voice trailed off when he looked at Sarah, and she returned his soft brown gaze.

Oh no, Sarah thought. It’s him.

 The last time she saw him, she broke his foot.

She had been headed to a concert in Kansas City when she got a flat.  She piloted her car safely to the side of the road, and wished she remembered more from driver’s ed; something about jacks and lugnuts. 

Not only did she not know how to change a tire, but she also was somewhat unclear on whether she even owned a spare tire. Or lugnuts. She wasn’t dumb, but zen and the art of automobile maintenance was not her strong suit.

  Where would the spare be, in a Prius? In the trunk? In the glove compartment, a tiny blow-up spare, to be inflated in case of emergency?

She also was, OF COURSE, in a cell service dead zone.  As she contemplated her options, her Knight in a Shining White Nissan Sentra pulled behind.

“Need some help?” he had asked, and of course, her first instinct was to think he was about to kill her (isn’t this how all true crime podcasts start?), but she was also relieved to have another person around who knew how to change a tire. And who possibly even knew where to locate the spare?

And, not unimportantly, was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Soft, curly brown hair, a little too long and tousled at the top. Long, lean legs in those blue jeans. A voice so lovely that it felt like a warm blanket on a chilly day.

(“Ted Bundy was handsome,” her brain whispered. Shut up, brain.)

“Um,” she started. Apparently, the thinky part of her brain had been short-circuited and was no longer communicating with the talky part of her mouth. “Um. Yeah. I have a flat, I guess. I don’t–I’ve never changed a tire. Don’t lose the lugnuts!” 

Ah, thanks, thinky-talky. 

He responded kindly, with no sarcasm, “You’re right. Lugnuts are really important.” He explained that he had been a Highway Helper, so he’d changed more than one roadside tire.

“Thanks, I appreciate it, um–”

“Paul. It’s no trouble. I’ll get you back on your way to–”

“Kansas City. Concert.”

“Oh, well you don’t want to miss that! What’s your name?”

“Sarah.”

 She didn’t give him a last name.

Because serial killers, right?

Paul located the spare AND her jack (under the carpet in the hatchback, of course), and changed the tire.

“Thanks so much, Paul,” she said and went to grab the jack from him.

Then, he let go.

 She let go.

 Down the jack went.

Onto his foot.

He was trying to smile but was also wincing, and oh god, were those tears welling up?

“You’re welcome, Sarah,” he answered, his voice strained, and limped back to his car.

Since that day, she thought about him often. Wondered if he was helping other stranded Damsels in Distress (or Priuses). Ashamed to think that she and her clumsiness had cost him a career as a professional dancer. Was he searching for Roadside Sarah to send her his medical bills?

And okay, yes she also thought about those legs, his voice, that hair….

Here he was, fleet of foot,  a waiter in a small town restaurant. 

“Sarah!” Paul exclaimed. “From the Prius! How’s your tire? Did you get to the concert?”

Angie looked between them, confused.  “You two have met?”

Paul’s deep voice got even huskier. “Oh yes, we’ve met.”

Oh damn. Was he lowering his voice to be sexy, or because he was trying to be menacing?

“Well,” Angie said impatiently, “Do you want to show us to our table? I’m excited about the new chairs.”

Paul continued holding a gaze with Sarah, but lightly acknowledged Angie, “Oh yeah. Those ‘new’ chairs are discarded from  the chicken processing plant.”

“Still gotta be better than the old ones,” Angie said, oblivious to the tension between her college friend and her old chum. “I think some of my skin is still stuck to them.”

“Good to see you again, Angie. And you, Sarah.”  Sarah’s heart seized. He was so good-looking. His eyes were like a cozy mud puddle.

 If only she hadn’t maimed him.

He left two laminated menus and returned to the kitchen.

“Symposium” the menus were labeled. “Formerly Stubby’s.”

Sarah mentally followed Paul to the kitchen, grabbed the nonexistent lapels of his black Symposium (formerly Stubby’s) t-shirt, and apologized for derailing his NFL career. Also, demanded to know why he hadn’t asked for her number.

You know. Just to make sure she was safe and for insurance purposes.

Then she imaginarily kissed him, right in the kitchen,  full of steaming pots of spiced soups. Or whatever this restaurant served.

“Oh my gosh, this place has hummus now? I didn’t think anyone in this town had even heard of hummus.” 

“Hey, Angie?” Sarah interrupted Angie’s one-woman menu monologue, in which she was  marveling that “spaghetti” was no longer in the “ethnic foods” section

“What’s the deal with you and Paul? Were you and he a thing in high school?”

Angie paused and stared. “Me? And Paul? A thing? Oh god no.”

“Was he a jock? Did he have a promising football career?”

“No, he didn’t have a football career.”

“Dance student at Julliard?”

“No. Wait, why are you asking about Paul? Do you LIKE Paul? Like, LIKE LIKE him?”

“We’re not twelve.” Sarah paused. “But also maybe.”

“ Yeah, I think your pupils are dilating into hearts. He’s not bad looking, in a ‘never left his hometown and gets his muscles from lifting kegs’ way.”

“He never left? Why? Did he miss his chance at the Olympic track team?”

“Oh, his mom got sick. He has two little sisters. He stuck around to help his dad out with them.”

This new information did not detract at all from Paul’s good-guy image. Dedicated older brother. Highway helper. Excellent waiter, possibly. Maybe Sarah hadn’t derailed his lucrative foot-based career.

Dangit. If only she had gotten his phone number, and called that phone number, and asked him out, and apologized for breaking his foot, and had been dating him for the last six months. An hour away! That was nothing! What were the chances she would end up here, in a restaurant, on the very night he was working?

Okay, the chances that he would be working were pretty good, since he was the waiter. 

“Want me to introduce you? Again? He’s coming back.”

Paul was, indeed, approaching the table, with his little waiter notepad. 

“Can I take your order?’

“Chicken gougin and pommes frites,” Angie ordered.

Sarah stared into those mud-puddle eyes.

“Sarah? What do you want?”

 This was a pretty damn forward question, wasn’t it? Was it that obvious what she wanted?

Angie kicked her under the table. “To eat,” she mumbled.

“Um,” oh, good, the “ums” again. “Hummus?” 

“Sounds good, ladies, chicken fingers, fries and chickpeas. Excellent!”  He walked away on two functional feet.

“Yo, Sarah?” Angie said, grabbing her friend’s arm. “I feel very uncomfortable right now as if I have stumbled into some sort of meet cute, and I am now a third wheel.  What is happening?”

Sarah told him the spare tire story, including the dropped jack.

“Oh yeah. I BET he changed your tire,” Angie responded.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means–nothing. I’m glad he helped you, and you’re obviously in love with him.”

“That’s not possible, since we’ve barely met.”

“Fine, then, you’re in lust with him. Go for it. You’re young and single, he’s young and single as far as I know…”

“What does that mean, ‘as far as you know’? Is he NOT single? Does he have a long-term girlfriend? A beautiful wife and two precocious children who play the violin?”

“No? He’s probably single. Go ahead. Throw yourself at him. You know you want to.”

Sarah did want to throw herself at him. She wanted to apologize about his foot. Also, he shouldn’t have gotten a haircut.

“He’s coming back,” Angie stage whispered.

Paul set an enormous plate of hummus and pita chips on the table. “It’s technically an appetizer, so it’s supposed to come before the meal. Even though I think this is your meal since you didn’t order anything else. So–here? It’s actually meant for sharing.”

“Paul!” Angie started, causing Sarah’s heart to flutter in anticipation. “This is my friend Sarah from college. She said you helped her out last summer when she had a flat.”

“I did,” Paul said and a shadow of a smile flitted across his perfect mouth. “It was an interesting situation.”

Sarah groaned. “Paul, I’m sorry I broke your foot, it must have ruined your summer…”

He interrupted, “Broke my foot? What do you mean?”

 “I dropped a jack on it?”

“Oh, that. I drop stuff on my feet all the time. Just a bruise. I only wish I had taken your number then. To make sure you got where you were going.”

(“Right?” Sarah thought. “That’s the only reason!”)

“She's here now!” Angie announced. “Get her number.”

“I’d love to. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t regret not getting it, and not just to check up on you. I was worried, but I also wish I had gotten to know you better. All I really knew is that you were interested in lugnuts, and your grip strength is questionable.”

Sarah laughed.

“I don’t even know what concert you were going to,” Paul continued. “I tried to look into who was playing in Kansas City that night, but–”

“Oh,” Sarah blushed, “You’ve probably never heard of them. It’s a band called Corridors and Grains. It’s a–”

“No way!” Paul exclaimed. “The Hall and Oates tribute band? I love them! I think their ‘Maneater’ is even better than the original!”

He neglected his job, sitting down at the table with the girls and pulling out his phone to show Sarah his photos from the Corridor and Grains concert he had seen in Omaha. 

Sarah was very glad for this reconnection. Not just because his two working feet assuaged her guilt.

“I can’t believe I met another Corridor and Grains fan, in a bar–”

“It’s a bistro now.”

“Sure. Paul, here’s my number. Please call me.  The Supertramp tribute band is playing in Iowa City in a couple of weeks.”

“No way, MegaHobo? I’d love to see them!”

Paul continued to fail at waitering for the next several minutes as he flirted with  Sarah. Angie’s chicken gougin and pommes frite cooled as Paul and Sarah giggled and touched each other’s arms, making plans to see any tribute bands touring the Midwest. 

Angie excused herself from the table, not that anyone noticed, grabbed her meal from the counter, and joined the barfly townies.

“Hey,” she said to no one in particular. “What do we think of Symposium, formerly Stubby’s?”

One of them sighed into his beer. “I miss the old chairs.”