Selective Emory

Emory Parker arrived at the Forked River service plaza off exit 76 on the Garden State Parkway at two o’clock on a summer midweek afternoon when the temperature was high and her expectations even higher.

           Although a business meeting at a parkway rest stop was one of the least conventional things to which the attractive graphic artist had ever agreed, her acceptance gave her an earnest sense of optimism, both about her personal life and her career. Perhaps that was because her straight red hair fell perfectly into place when she was getting ready this morning, which wasn’t always the case. Perhaps it was because she made it to the service plaza in her rented car in practically no time at all since traffic moved briskly between Jersey City and Forked River. Perhaps it was because her new, stylish briefcase, a gift from her parents for her twenty-eighth birthday, made a few heads turn when she walked into the rest stop.

           She stood by the southbound entrance, her briefcase in one hand and her handbag in the other, searching in place for a man named Zach Gerber, owner of a new business called Gerber Associates. Garber had advertised for a freelance graphic artist to design his company’s internet newsletter. Garber was also the one who suggested meeting at the Forked River service plaza since the company’s new office was still under construction.

           But the service plaza was crowded; as on most beautiful summer days, hundreds of people from New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania and elsewhere were traveling down the Jersey shore to go to one of its popular beach retreats.   

           Pedro Ramirez entered the service plaza from the northbound side. He had driven up from Atlantic City, where he was employed by the Caesars Entertainment Group in Atlantic City. A handsome corporate limo driver who was just a few years older than Emory, Pedro had been in this country for less than a year; he, too, seemed to be searching for someone. As opposed to Emory, though, he knew exactly who he was looking for. It was his wife, Rosa Miranda Ramirez. She was taking a bus from Newark to meet him in Forked River, and from there they planned to drive together to Atlantic City to spend the day. 

           On the southbound side, Emory scanned the room from left to right, and on the northbound side Zach did the same. After a moment or two, Emory saw Pedro through a break in the crowd and had a flash of hope that he was the business owner, Zach Gerber, for whom she was searching. He looked the part. Late thirties, perhaps. Well-groomed. Wearing a dark, newish-looking suit (and wearing it very well at that). In fact, it was more than a flash of hope; Emory was absolutely certain.

           So she walked over to him.

           “Zach Gerber?” Emory asked. She smiled somewhat more expansively than she was used to smiling. After all, Pedro was very handsome and had warm blue eyes. She decided to embrace that expansive smile rather than mute it since she somehow felt as if her teeth were whiter than they had been in a long time. At least that’s what she believed at the moment. It was, for her, another little emotional bonus that merely increased her confidence about this upcoming business meeting. 

           “Zach Gerber?” she repeated.

           Pedro looked a bit confused.

           “Permiso?” he asked.

           “Are you Zach Gerber? From Gerber Associates? We spoke on the phone last week. Remember? About your internet newsletter? I’m the graphic designer.” She held out her hand. “Emory Parker! I’m the one you spoke to. Call me Emory.”

           Pedro shook her hand, although he wasn’t quite sure why he was doing so.

           “Emory?” Pedro repeated in a heavy accent.

           Two families walked between them; each family member was of a different age, but all sported billowy, oversized, severely-colored shirts over their bathing suits. Emily and Pedro found themselves temporary lost in that shuffle. Emory took the initiative to move closer to Sbarro, which was not crowded at the moment. By a determined nod of her head, she indicated to Pedro that he should follow.  

           “Yes, it’s Emory,” she said once they were in the clear. “I know, it’s an unusual name. Emory. I had nothing to do with it. My parents named me after the college in Atlanta. That’s where they met. That’s even where they got married, if you can believe that—right there in the student center. One minute they were psychology students, and the next, bam!—husband and wife.”

           On Pedro’s face, suddenly, was a flash of understanding.

           “Wife? Si! Mi esposa! Estoy buscando a mi esposa,” he smiled.

           Pedro looked over Emory’s shoulder, still searching. Emory thought he had simply seen something unusual over her shoulder, which would be par for the course at a crowded parkway rest stop.  

           “Estoy? Buscando?” she said curiously. “I’m so sorry—I really don’t understand Spanish. It is Spanish, isn’t it? Of course it is; what a stupid thing to say. I studied Spanish in middle school but then switched to Mandarin Chinese in high school. Like I’m really gonna need Mandarin Chinese on a daily basis. Right? My mother said it would look good on my resume. I should’ve stuck with Spanish. Don’t you think? Is your newsletter gonna be in both English and Spanish? It doesn’t really matter for the design. I was just wondering.”

           “Estoy buscando a mi esposa,” Pedro repeated.

           “Esposa?” The word sounded funny to her—funny and vaguely familiar. “What do you mean by esposa? Are you saying you’re ‘supposed to’ meet someone? Is that what you’re saying? Supposed to? I wish I was a little better with accents. Sorry. But if that’s what you’re saying, then I think it’s me you’re supposed to be meeting. Or maybe you’re someone that Zach Gerber send here to meet me. Was Mr. Garber not able to come? That must be it. I think I get it now.” Emory pointed to Pedro. “But you do work for Gerber Associates, right? For Zach Gerber?”

           When Emily pointed to him, as if by reflex Pedro pointed to himself.

           “Yo soy Pedro,” he said. “Yo no soy de aquí.”

           “Pedro?”

           He shook his head yes.

           “Si. Pedro Ramirez.”

           “Well, whatever you’re saying, you’re obviously not Zach Gerber, and I’m guessing that he didn’t send you here to meet me,” Emory acknowledged. She was determined not to be upset about this slight interruption in her daylong streak of good luck; she remained confident that the day could still turn around in her favor—just like her hair and her teeth and the ride down the Garden State Parkway. “Oh well,” Emory smiled, “I’ll just keep looking for Zach Garber, I suppose.”

           “Esposa, si!” Pedro said, having once again heard only the word he wanted to hear. “Estoy buscando a mi esposa.”

           “I wish I knew what you were saying. Obviously you’re ‘supposed’ to do something or ‘supposed’ to meet someone. Because you keep saying it. Just goes to prove you should never listen to your mother. I wish I remembered a little more Spanish so that I could help you. I really do. Let me try, okay? I’d like to try. Now, who are you looking for? Who?”

           “Who?” Pedro repeated.

           “Yes, who?

           Emory pointed to the two dozen people on line at Starbucks and then to the group of women on line at the ladies room, and she moved her arm in a wide arc thinking that would help Pedro visualize what the word ‘who’ means.

           “Who are you supposed to meet?”

           Pedro was fairly certain that he did indeed understand what Emora was asking.

           “Ah,” he said, nodding his head. “Who! Si! Busco Rosa Miranda Ramirez. Mi esposa.^”

           “Who?”

           It was Pedro, now, who used a sweeping hand gesture the way Emory had done a moment before. He tried to describe Rosa’s hair and height so that Emory would understand.

           “Ella tiene el cabello castaño como el suyo y su misma estatura,” he said. He pointed to Emory and suddenly seemed quite animated.

           Emory was flattered. She thought he was describing her.

           “Oh, I get it!” she announced proudly. “You’re hoping to meet someone who looks just like me. Right? Someone who has my color hair, someone who’s my height—is that it? Does that mean you think I’m pretty? That is so sweet of you to say!”

           Emory blushed. Just that morning, as she was getting ready, something made her wonder  when she would finally get into a relationship that would make her happy. A guy named Bruce was her last, and that was three years ago.

           “I have to admit,” Emory continued, “no one has ever quite approached me like that before. This is a first. It’s almost magical! Not that I mind—it’s just that it’s a little bit of a surprise, in the middle of a typical afternoon. Well, I guess it’s not typical, really, since we’re at a rest stop by the Garden State Parkway, of all places. What’s it called again—Forked River? That’s such a weird name, isn’t it? Well, anyway, it’s perfectly all right. I’m not gonna get all bent out of shape, if that’s what you’re worried about. I like it when guys do things in new and different ways. Especially when they’re nice, like you. It’s better than the same old tired pickup lines I hear from other guys. You know what I mean, right? Well, where do we go from here—what did you say your name was? Pedro?—where do we go from here, Pedro? Can I assume that you’re not married? Forgive me for asking, but you have to these days.”

           Pedro shrugged and shook his head. Emory took that to mean that he was single.

           “Good. I knew you weren’t. I’m single too. I was almost engaged once, but the guy said I was too naïve, and he broke it off. Me—naïve! Can you believe it? I’d like to think I’m pretty worldly, if you want to know the truth. I mean, I have my own little freelance graphic arts business, I make a good living, I deal with people from all over the country, I play the guitar and I sing at parties, I even teach graphic arts part time at Columbia.”

           There was another flash of recognition on Pedro’s face. An even bigger one.

           “Colombia? Si! Mi esposa es de Colombia.”

           “Yes. Columbia,” Emory said. “Twice a week. It’s called being an adjunct professor. It doesn’t pay much money, but it’s interesting and it’s good experience. It might come in handy one day. You never know.” She arched her body to lean close to him; she felt confident enough to do so, and it didn’t hurt that in this crowded rest stop which smelled of sweat and caffeine, Pedro’s cologne was comforting. “To tell you the truth, I thought that by teaching at Columbia I might be able to meet someone,” Emory said. “You know what I mean? That’s why I decided to be an adjunct at Columbia in the first place.”

           “Colombia,” he sighed. “Si.”

           “Oh, it’s really not that impressive. I’m just an adjunct. Twice a week. I think anyone can be an adjunct professor if they’ve worked in their field for a few years and have a few good references.”

           A large TV monitor on the wall behind Emory played a commercial for Match.com. She couldn’t hear the sound, but she knew the lady in the ad was saying “Come find me!”

           “Colombia…” Pedro said.

           “Yes, Columbia,” Emory repeated. She looked away from the monitor and returned her attention to Pedro. “But you’re embarrassing me. It’s really not that big a deal. I mean, it’s not Harvard or Yale.”

           “Extraño Colombia—”

           She wondered if that was her cue to be just as silly. So with an exaggerated comical wave of her hand, Emory said:

           “Oh please!”

           “Si! La policia,” Pedro announced, having heard yet another word he thought would come in handy—a word that to his ears reflected the imminent help of someone who could assist in his anxious and so far unsuccessful search. “La policia puede ayudarme!”

           Emory felt that his response simply confirmed her contention that being an adjunct professor at Columbia was no big deal. “Oh, you should see some of the other adjunct professors at Columbia,” she smirked. “So please stop! I get embarrassed so easily! It’s really not that big a deal. I swear”

           “Usted va a traer la policia para que me ayuden a encontrar a Rosa Miranda para regresar a Colombia?” Pedro said almost breathlessly. 

           “Wow!” Emory said the moment he finished. “You really are impressed with Columbia, aren’t you? Well, even though you’re embarrassing the hell out of me, I do appreciate it, Pedro. I really do. My last boyfriend had no respect for anything I did. At least you do. Bruce thought that being an adjunct professor was a stupid waste of time. He was a jerk, now that I think about it. But you don’t think that. Obviously! I don’t mind telling you, Pedro, that you’re a very special man. I’m glad I bumped into you—even if you’re not Zach Gerber.”

           Emory grabbed his hand and shook it.

           “Buscaré un policía ahora,” Pedro smiled. “Gracias.”

           “Gracias? Now there’s a word I remember from high school. But you shouldn’t gracias me, I should gracias you! For everything you’ve said. For being so nice. I’ll be honest with you, Pedro; I haven’t had much luck meeting nice people lately. I may be a little worldly and very modest, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get depressed sometimes. I do. I get depressed at least once a month. I guess I’m just not really a fan of the singles scene. I don’t want to work so hard. You know what I mean? That’s why it’s nice to meet someone like you. Someone different, but sweet. Someone who takes initiative—and is nice about it at the same time. Someone who knows how to do the right thing. I mean, I don’t expect miracles. I just want to know that there’s someone out there who I don’t have to ask to bring me candy and roses from time to time—”

           “Rosa!” Pedro announced, with even more animation than during the earlier Colombia discussion. “Rosa Miranda.”

           “Yes, I love roses in the morning,” Emory smiled.

           “La policia me va ayudar a encontrar a Anna Rosa? Gracias. Gracias.”

           “Thank you for what? I really didn’t do anything.”

           “Policia. Anna Miranda.”

           “Are you asking if you can buy me roses? Oh my God! I can’t believe it.” Emory covered her mouth with her hand. She leaned against a booth that had just been vacated by a family; a few empty cups and food wrappers remained behind and little pools of ketchup, mustard and sugar spotted the tabletop. But Emory didn’t see any of that. She sat at the edge of the outermost chair. “Every time I think you’ve been as sweet as you can be,” she said, “you do something even sweeter!”

           Emory took a pen and scrap of paper out of her pocket and scribbled on it.

           “My mother would call me crazy, giving my address and phone number to someone I just met—but I think I’m mature enough to know when something’s right.” She handed the paper to Pedro. “And this feels right. It really does. Here. It’s my name, address and phone number. For the roses.”

           Pedro looked at the paper. He shook his head. He had expected it to say something recognizable related to his quest. It didn’t.

           “I’ll look forward to it, Pedro,” Emory continued. “Don’t forget to include a note if I’m not home when you get there—just so that I know how, and where, to respond—if you know what I mean.”

           “No policia?” he asked.

           “When you’re right you’re right, sir!” she chuckled with a grin on her face. “Please include a note. Thank you for reminding me of my manors! That’s so sweet of you.” 

           Pedro backed away a few steps, slowly and uncertainly. Emory, meanwhile, turned around and took her cell phone out of her handbag. She speed-dialed her friend Claudia.  

           “Claudia? It’s Emory. You won’t believe what just happened. You just won’t believe it. I met this cute guy. He’s Spanish. He’s handsome and he’s so sweet. I think he likes me… No, I was supposed to meet that newsletter guy I told you about, but…. Yes! Just by accident… Yes. And not only that, but I gave him my address and phone number… Sure I’m sure. I’m not an idiot, you know. I wouldn’t have given it to him if I thought something wasn’t right.”

           Pedro was now several yards away. Emory turned around. She saw him wave to someone in the distance. He started to sprint toward that person. He called out:

           “Rosa! Rosa!”

           “Oh my God!” Emory said to Claudia. “Oh my God! Oh my God! I think he just saw someone selling roses. About a minute ago he said he wanted to buy me roses, and I think he’s gonna bring them over to my apartment later on!... I really don’t remember. I don’t know how it came up. He just suddenly said he wanted to buy me roses. Claudia, I think this is the beginning of something. I can feel it. I can really feel it this time. I feel it in my bones. Oh my God, that’s so sweet! I don’t know if this Zach Gerber is even coming. I mean, a business meeting at a rest stop? What was I thinking? I guess I’ll just return the rented car and go back to my apartment.”

           “Rosa!” Pedro called out to someone in the distance.

           “I knew something good was gonna happen today.” Emory said on the phone. “I needed some good luck for a change. After all this time.”

           “Rosa!”

           “He is so sweet…”