Dashed Hopes and Good Intentions
By Roger Arsht
January 8, 2021
Art Bradhaw was soon to leave his apartment for his third date with Julie Crest. He was dressing slowly because Art like every single adult knew that in an ancient leatherbound tome in the Library of Congress it was written that thou shalt have sex on the third date. For most of the afternoon, Art’s attention was consumed by the movie Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Art found the intensity of the lead characters daunting even if the passion was fueled by alcohol and marital angst. He could only hope that one day he would have a relationship with that level of passion. His expectations for affection this night were low. His previous dates with Julie had been clumsy and their conversations stilted. Nevertheless, Art had made reservations in one of the city’s most romantic restaurants hoping against hope that warm feelings percolated.
Once they were seated, Art looked across the table with a warm smile. “Thank you for coming. You look wonderful.” He saw a momentary flash of recognition in her eyes and her mouth curved upward almost imperceptibly. Just then, the server brought their menus and as quickly as their warm expressions had appeared, they disappeared behind their normally flat, professional, and protective façades that said to the world that they were nobody’s fools.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Art asked with a serious tone.
“That sounds ominous,” she replied.
“I hate when people use tired phrases like ‘that sounds ominous,’” Art said dismissively.
“What are you saying? That I’m boring. That I’m obtuse. That I’m not capable of being interesting.”
“No. I’m saying we are all so boring and safe when we use phrases like ’that sound ominous.’ It’s like a B-movie where the male lead recites dithering dialogue and then the ingenue answers with some pablum like `oh that’s so serious’.”
“So you’re saying I’m boringly repetitive? Are you trying to pick a fight?”
“No…yes…no.”
“Now who’s being trite?”
“Give me a moment,” Art raised a pleading hand. “What I’m saying is that I can’t stand this dance anymore. I can’t have one more dinner date, conversation, or tryst in bed that mirrors a poorly acted movie. There needs to be spontaneity, anger, biting sarcasm…like that Virginia Woolf movie.”
“You assume too much.”
“You mean the tryst comment. I’m not assuming anything. I’m expressing frustration. I want a date that isn’t a date. It wasn't a real conversation that reflects our frustrations, our failures, and our triumphs. I want us to be sassy, biting, angry, to drink with abandon, or to laugh with hilarity like the characters in that movie.”
“It takes time to establish trust. It takes time for people to be comfortable enough to be open with one another.” Julie paused, and Art could see there was real sadness in her eyes. She quickly recovered. “I’m not Elizabeth Taylor and I don’t need to play the role of Martha for you or anyone else. If you don’t like me for who I am, then maybe I should leave.”
“Please don’t. You misunderstand what I’m poorly trying to say.” Art took a sip of his wine and then a deep breath.
“Try again.” Julie said sarcastically.
“Burton and Taylor wouldn’t have said that sounds ominous, or you assume too much, or maybe I should leave.”
Jane slammed her napkin next to her plate and reached for her purse. “I preferred trite. I won’t be mocked.” She took three steps toward the door before turning back. “What is it you want to say? You get one shot.”
Art thought carefully. “I believe that we need to be bold. We need to throw caution to the wind, to have an edge like Burton and Taylor.” Art paused and then began again in a confident voice. “I’d like you to put that curvaceous bottom back in that seat. I’d like to know if you’d dance with me, angel tits. I’d like to have this dinner cleared away and have some honest and spirited conversation over some Scotch whiskey. I’m tired of politely sipping a pretentious yet spirited Beaujolais.”
Julie took a deep breath. If she had been standing closer to Art, her instinct would have been to slap him. But an inner voice kept reminding Julie of a conversation she had just a few nights ago with her best friend, Sara. Julie had been complaining about how men are so boring and predictable and how every date seems to be the same, regardless of who sits across the table from her. Julie was sick of the persona that she felt expected to uphold in fear of judgment of others. She took another glance at Art and decided to go against the wind. “It sounds like a racehorse whose seed should be harvested for breeding.”
“Thank you,” Art said exhaustedly. “That’s something Elizabeth Taylor would say in the movie.”
“She could be a little rude. Speaking of that, do you mind if I take my shoes off under the table? I’ve been on my feet all day. They’re killing me.”
“Throw caution to the wind. What do we care what these dolts think?” Art said while motioning to the other diners. He returned his attention to Julie. “Do you have to wear such high heels?”
“It’s what the legal world expects of women. It signifies, somehow, that we're professional, as if our work product isn’t proof enough.”
“What are you working on?”
“I thought we were focused on my…what did you call it?”
“Curvaceous ass.”
“Is that a word?”
“You derived its meaning even if it’s not a word.”
“Fair enough. I’m trying to keep a father who crossed into the U.S. twenty years ago from being deported. The father has held the same job all that time and his twin children are about to enter college. The kids need his income to pay what financial aid and loans won’t cover.”
“Sounds unfair.”
“Trite.”
“It’s fucking bullshit,” Art said with gusto. The tables around the couple gave them dirty looks. “Piss off!” Art shared with his dining neighbors before returning his attention to Julie.
“Much better. Richard Burton would have been impressed.”
“Can you arrange for him to stay?”
“For now. The resolution process takes years. The situation takes so long that I feel like I’m being ground into flour. The man has a nearly spotless record. What are you working on?”
“I’m testifying tomorrow. One of my residents has been in and out of detox programs. She’s about to lose her license and she wants me to testify that she’s stable and responsible. I’m not going to do it. The woman is probably psychotic. She’s definitely a drug addict.”
“Lovely combination.”
“Trite?”
“Double-fucking trouble.”
Art nodded his head in agreement. “This doctor prescribed the wrong medicine for a patient who had a minor condition. She was also pregnant. The patient died and they couldn’t save the baby.”
“Ouch. Shouldn’t she be in prison?”
“This is going to take months to resolve. I’m trying to keep her from practicing medicine until the time comes that she’s put away, which may or may not happen. It’s tough to prove negligence even if the facts are obvious.”
“You’re getting interesting.”
“Interesting enough to invite me back to your apartment?”
“Now that sounds trite.”
“Give me a chance. You don’t know what I want.”
“I’m giving you one chance. Make it good.”
“I come back to your apartment and draw you a warm bath. No candles. You soak. I’ll sit on the edge of the tub and rub your feet and periodically put cold compresses over your eyes until some of the tension seeps out of you.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“I get to continue sipping my scotch and eventually I’ll find my own voice. I get to learn more about you for the next two hours while I admire your form in the tub. Then I go home and get a good night’s sleep before I testify tomorrow morning. Let’s just say that your bathroom will be tonight’s refuge when the unreality of the world sits too heavy on our tiny heads.”
“That’s a line from the movie.”
“It is. When I quote dialogue from a movie or a book, I appear more interesting.”
“I’m finding you remarkably interesting. Don’t you want to come in the tub with me when we get back to my apartment?”
“Is it a standard size tub?”
“Yes.”
“Would Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor make it in a standard size bathtub?”
“Good point. Just don’t rub my feet. Feet are disgusting.”