Now, he had the joint almost to himself, except for a couple, recently weds if not newlyweds. He was talking to her about his online household finance program. It had recorded a purchase of 1.99 at a local coffeeshop, a fact that he mentioned offhandedly. "Your spending is twice that of mine, but it's only fair. You're buying most of the groceries". She looked aside, and her lips puckered, as if she had sucked a lemon slice. Wilbo thought he was doing a nice job of talking household finance, although his timing was bad.
Wilbo was finishing his toast, each slice spread with a tablespoon of orange marmalade. His attention was caught by a woman walking up the aisle with a rolled newspaper, freshly wrapped this morning by the home delivery agent, and Wilbo like her casual outfit for a jaunt to a coney island; tight indigo jeans and a snug sweater and sunglasses pulled up into her red curly hair. She opened up her paper, and when she held it up for reading, Wilbo could tell it was the New York Times without staring impolitely. She was solicited for an order far too quickly. The cooks had nothing to do, so the scrambled eggs and ham arrived far too quickly. When the food arrived, she had to lift the open paper off the table to clear a space for the platter. She kept on reading her New York Times.
Wilbo wanted a reason to say hello to her. It's better to have tried and missed than to leave a pretty girl unkissed. This advice came from a decal pressed onto a dorm room mirror of a college footballer from New Jersey. The footballer lived down the hall from Wilbo, Michigan State, 1982. Wilbo loved to read the NYT online, as did many readers, so a woman who read the Times in newsprint was old-fashioned. Her hairstyle wasn't old-fashioned. Her sunglasses weren't old fashioned. So Wilbo walked over to her booth, thinking he had a clever opening line.
"It's nice to see an old fashioned girl", he said as she looked up from her paper.
"I am?" She looked up from her open pages.
"Yes, I read the Times online every day. People who read the paper in paper are old-fashioned It's a nice thing".
"I love to read the Times in print. The articles are more fun to read in print." She protested.
"I agree. It's great to read a full page ad that really takes up the full page, like that fashion model on that Macy's ad you have open. It's not easy to read a print newspaper and eat. You have no place to put your page down."
"Yes, and I want to read the whole Style session before I touch my scrambled eggs, so the plate is growing cold."
Wilbo doesn't think on his feet quickly enough. He could have volunteered to have read the Style section to her as she ate her scrambled eggs before they got cold. After all, Wilbo didn't want his new acquaintance to suffer malnutrition or style withdrawal. Instead, he introduced himself, she introduced herself, and she gave his hand a firm squeeze as she shook it. This old-fashioned girl with the modern firm handshake was named Mary.
Without trying to make her laugh with this offer, Wilbo couldn't think of any more to say. She hadn't invited him to sit down. She was ignoring her brunch to read the paper. Did he want to make her ignore her paper to talk to him? Wilbo was happy she didn't tell him to fuck off. Wishing her a good morning, Wilbo made his way to his booth. But he did have a parting shot: "Mary?"
She looked back with a pleasant and curious look on her face. "You have quite a handshake Mary. I'm still feeling it." She smiled dimly and turned back to her newsprint.
Wilbo was feeling lonely, almost broke and unshriven as he went next door to a coffeeshop. He spotted a lovely head of blonde hair on the woman behind the counter. The coffeeshop was almost empty but for the fellow waiting for his cappuccino, a man wearing a job-shop uniform. He probably had just left work at the end of a midnight shift. The man liked waiting for the woman with the blonde hair to make his cappuccino. He probably came in every morning after work.
Wilbo was tired of coffee. It's not thirst quenching when one is thirsty. It's great to drink in the morning, but it's going to leave that tight feeling. A sign was advertising hot cider. Wilbo has believed in the wisdom of the body, and he was hankering for hot, apple cider. So he asked her to make him a medium, after she carefully spooned milk froth onto a woman's cafe mocha. Wilbo wanted to compliment her hair, which was turning him on, even though she had bedhead and her color was a little too Gwen Stefani. He's glad when a barista has patience enough to chatter with him as she multitasks between the espresso machine and the cash register. She poured the last ounces of a jug of cider into a paper cup. This dismayed Wilbo, but he tried not to grimace.
She held up the empty jug and soliloquized, "This apple cider comes from a farm in Comstock Park. That's just north of Grand Rapids, Michigan. So many places heat up apple juice, add cinnamon, and call it hot cider. Here we use the best cider we can find." She pulled out a fresh jug, spilled out the dregs in the paper cup, tossed out the paper cup, and filled a new paper cup from the fresh jug.
"You know, there's a number of new wineries on the west coast of Michigan, and I hear that they make pretty good wine." It was a small jump from Comstock Park and cider mills to Fennville and wine presses in her mind.
"Yes, there's Tabor Hill, who is making an outstanding, award winning Champagne. There's the Round Barn, and despite the pictures of the owners with the George Bush's, it's a pretty good place to visit. They've rebuilt a genuine, round Amish barn in their backyard for their brandy distillery and wedding celebrations. And just two years ago, this fellow who trained at Round Barn had two silent partners put him into business at Hickory Creek, and he's now selling out of a small barn on the vineyard property. They're adding two wineries a year in Western Michigan." Everything Wilbo says is speech. It's a good thing it takes a while to make a hot apple cider with an espresso machine.
That got her to talking. She was barista by day, bartender at a popular nightclub at night and mother to a young girl. In between all of that, she was finishing her culinary degree at Schoolcraft College and planning on growing her own herbs and vegetables on an organic farm as soon as she could arrange it.
"Are you writing?" Wilbo covered his eyes with his hands. "You sound like a food writer. I'm covering up my eyes and it feels like I am talking to Rachel Ray."
"I am planning on a cookbook. Chapter one, how to win the heart of the man of your dreams. Chapter two, how to train him to help with the cooking before he goes south in the relationship. And believe me, one has to intervene quickly".
"I'm sold". Wilbo doesn't feel like the man of any woman's dreams these days. Second, he missed out on this intervention when he was malleable, in his twenties. "Go to Barnes and Noble, find a copy of the Writers' Market and look up the culinary publishing section. Find out what editors are taking query letters."
"What is a query letter?"
"Exactly what you were telling me. The book has a standard form you can follow. You can even email them these days. If an editor likes your ideas, you can find yourself with a book advance." She gave him the hot cider and he paid, three dollars plus a tip. He could buy the entire jug at Parameters for that. Wilbo had to know her name.
"So when I'm looking through the cookbook section, how do I know which cookbook is your cookbook? I'm Wilbo"
"I'm Alice Frances. Nice to meet you."
Wilbo drove off to a coffeehouse on Woodward Boulevard, and he found a copy of the suburban section, the one with all the real estate ads. Wilbo takes notes when he reads the newspaper. He noted that rabid foxes were biting people in Plymouth. People in Rochester Hills were picking out land to buy for the green space bank. Home owners in Milford were upset about replacement of a bridge that was pulled out of service twenty-years ago. All kinds of motorists, 1000 cars a day, were planned to roll over the new bridge in a year. In Novi, at the design studio of a custom builder, Padma Lakshmi had a scheduled appearance Sunday afternoon to meet potential clients, talk about her cookbook and sign copies. Surely Alice would be off work by early Sunday afternoon, and she had to be interested in meeting the hostess of "Top Chef".
Suddenly, it clicked for him. He remembered that Salman Rushdie had laid eyes on a picture of Padma Lakshmi in a magazine, and he was determined to meet her and become her friend. He did more than meet her and befriend her; he married her and gave her the title, Lady Rushdie. That Padma was the hostess of Top Chef, but Wilbo hadn't made the connection while watching the show. He always wondered who was that imperial and poised woman who could offer criticism in a cultured, yet firm tone?
Wilbo hesitated. He had looked up the number to the coffeehouse where Alice worked. Maybe a fax would be more unobtrusive. Wilbo verified the information on the homebuilder's official website, wrote down the address and phone number of the design studio, and then hesitated again. Rushdie didn't blanch when he desired to make Padma's acquaintance. He arranged, by subtle means, for Tina Brown, a famous magazine editor, to make the introduction. Thus if he wanted Alice to have a chance to meet Padma that afternoon, he had to call.
So he rang the number. Someone picked up, and it didn't sound like Alice.
"Hi, is Alice there ?"
"No, is this important?"
"Yes, I have some important information for her."
"Okay. Alice, I'll finish up that latte."
"Hello?"
"Alice, I would be a bad new friend if I didn't tell you this. Are you familiar with the hostess of Top Chef?"
"What?"
"Top Chef? Are you familiar with the hostess, Padma Lakshmi?"
"Yes, I watch the show when I can. Tivo it when I can't"
"She's in town today. She's in Novi this afternoon signing cookbooks."
"Yes ! I'm going to be in that area this afternoon !"
"It's Karma. Here, write this address down: Toll Brothers Design Studio, 43155 Main Street, 248-735-0011"
"Wait a minute, let me get some paper."
"Got it?"
"Yes!"
"Get on the show !"
"I'll try !"
And Wilbo rang off. He doesn't know if Alice made it to the show or not, or if Alice and Padma met in person over the signing of a cookbook, hopefully one of the first one hundred, which were free. Wilbo once took a class that ended with the same charge: it's not important that something happens. It's key that one creates a new future to show up for another person. Wilbo might have learned the lesson of that class after all.
Wilbo Tries Too Hard to Impress a Woman
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