Above and Beyond

Phillip Kincaid kindly thanked the buxom young hostess who saw him to his table. The swishing of her black skirt as she walked away caught his eye and made him shake his head unnoticeably and with moderate disapproval. “Times have changed,” he said to himself, remembering the tuxedoed maître d’ from his first visit to The Chateau sixty years earlier. Though the charming little restaurant still had much of its original allure—including the three crystal chandeliers in the middle of the main dining room—his uninterrupted annual visits bore witness to the abandoning of its glory years of formal dining into what Phillip’s surviving college classmates referred to as “a quaint dive.”

Lifting the laminated menu in his aged, wrinkled hands—several fingers bedazzled in thick gold bands with diamonds—he could vividly recall its maroon leather-bound predecessor. None of the prices had been listed in those days, and it was as impressive to him on that first night as the sight of his lover in black tails holding the passenger door open for him. “Well, we’re not here for the décor anymore, Marty,” he looked up and spoke.

The old building underwent a much-needed facelift just five years earlier, catering to the tastes of a much younger clientele—graduate students from the small nearby college. Though the neon lit beer logos over the bar, the addition of booths lining the walls, the contemporary upholstery, and the plain, monochromatic aqua drapery did their best to cover the antique bones of the building, Phillip saw through the low-budget make-over. Each year he’d reserve the same table—or as close to the location of where he and Martin shared their first date and would spend the first ten minutes in his chair examining the changes that had been made since the year before—and quietly criticizing the quality.

“Those booths weren’t here until about twenty years ago,” he told the waiter who perfunctorily nodded. “And the wait staff wore a shirt and tie! Did the owners even pay for that polo?”

Dismissively, the waiter asked, “Can I start you off with a glass of wine?”

“Yes, yes,” Phillip replied, suddenly cognizant that he was sounding like the codger his younger self swore never to become. His arthritic finger pointed at his choice on the menu and the server scurried away. Phillip lowered his head and watched the waiter’s backside out of the corner of his eye. “God, to have an ass like that again.”

His faint reflection gazed back through the shiny laminate of the menu. Seeing the deep lines and folds around his sapphire blue eyes, he placed it firmly down with a touch of ire and turned his head to stare out the large windows that overlooked the same man-made pond that it always had. “Time is cruel, Marty.”

“My name is Ryan,” the waiter returned, pulling the old man from his brief reminiscing daydream. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself. It’s only my first week here.” He poured wine into Phillip’s glass and started to set the bottle down.

“Pour one for my friend, please,” Phillip motioned across the table. Ryan looked at the vacant seat and assumed that the other party to whom the old patron referred was either in the restroom or late to arrive. “Are you a law student there at the university?”

“No, sir,” he said as he carefully filled the second glass. “I’m getting my bachelor's in human rights.”

“An open-minded fella,” Phillip remarked. “We could have used you during my formative years.”

Ryan smiled proudly. “Everyone deserves happiness, I believe.” Setting the bottle down, he pulled his little order pad from his black apron. “Do you want me to wait until your guest is here?” Ryan asked.

Phillip reached in his wallet and pulled out a little laminated card. “He’s already here,” his hand shook as he extended it. Ryan deferentially accepted the card and read, “Obituary for Martin C. Schroder.” His eyes squinted with confusion as he examined the tiny words under the clear plastic coating.

“Martin,” Phillip started, “was my . . . secret friend, shall we say.”

Ryan held the card and inconspicuously glanced around to see if anyone was in earshot. “Secret?” he asked.

“His mother would have disowned him if she knew about us.” Phillip explained with a smirk. “Some of us had to earn our money.” He held up his hand and wiggled his jeweled fingers. “So, he married a woman to ensure his inheritance . . . never loved her, he told me.”

Ryan handed the obituary back to the old man. “It’s none of my business,” Ryan began.

“Of course, it isn’t,” Phillip said with the kind of chuckle one’s twilight years secures. “But it’s my privilege to share it. I just don’t want you to think I’m some senile coot that needs rolled out of here in a wheelchair and into a nursing home for serving an imaginary dinner date.”

Ryan looked down at his tablet, holding his pen to the ready without a clue of what to say other than, “So I’ll be bringing you two dinners tonight, sir?”

Phillip misperceived a patronizing tone from the young man. Through gritted teeth he growled, “I’m old but I’m not delusional. This is a tradition we started decades before you were even born.” Philip paused to look around to see if anyone had heard his short-lived fiery outburst. He reached up to adjust his black and gold silk Salvatore Ferragamo tie and continued. “We met at this very restaurant, in this very spot, every June 15 for three decades.”

Ryan lowered his tablet and his posture, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know damn well how I sound,” the return of his rising volume caught his own attention. Drawing a deep breath to calm himself, he said, “It's ironic, isn't it? To share this anniversary of our yearly affair with the passing of marriage equality.”

The young waiter stood patiently as Phillip looked down at the obituary. “Before he married his wife, he concocted our little tryst, right back here in the town we first met and every year afterward up until he died. ‘It’s a good way to shed the winter doldrums and usher in the brilliance of summer,’ he always said. He wasn't especially romantic with his words.”

Ryan paused, watching the old man slide the card back into his wallet. “Did he . . . “ Ryan looked around again at the nearly empty room. “Did he ever leave his wife?”

Phillip shook his head as he shoved his wallet back into his pocket. “His old bitch of a mother—and her will—out-lived him. ”

The young waiter wondered how many lines on the old man’s face had been etched there by disappointment and loneliness. “Did you ever . . . marry?”

Phillip looked Ryan in the eye with a cold stare. “I couldn’t imprison myself in a lie, so no.” He looked back down at his menu, looking for his reflection. “I buried myself in my work, got my partnership at the firm by the time I was thirty-five.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “Oh, I had temporary lovers, but I was always hopeful that maybe Martin would finally get his balls back.” He turned his head to look back out the large windows. “But they had three children together.”

A thought was percolating in Ryan’s head and he looked at his watch as nonchalantly as he could without tipping off any offense. “Did you ever think that maybe he didn’t love you?”

Surprisingly, Phillip just sat there in his thoughts for a moment, without reacting. Then he drew a deep breath and sighed. “In all honesty, what we did in the hotel room after our annual dinners was . . .” He paused to monitor the expression on Ryan’s face. “Just satisfying enough for us to step back into the closet for another year. I couldn’t ever find the strength to say ‘no.’ I was . . . hopeless.”

“Hopeful,” Ryan corrected. “I think it’s actually admirable that you held that torch for so long—that you’re still holding it.” Ryan stood silently sympathizing, realizing that the man that sat before him was a walking library of a time his generation wanted to correct.

Phillip lifted his menu and stared at the selections, quietly. “I shouldn’t take any more of your time, young man. It’s actually absurd that I’ve said so much to a total stranger. I’ve just missed . . . ”

“Companionship?” the young waiter asked. Phillip nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

Ryan pushed his way through the double-doors and into the kitchen. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number, and pressed it to his ear. “This is a compassionate opportunity, Lisa,” he said to his fiancée. He told her about the old guest. Knowing Ryan’s soft heart—the reason she fell in love with him—she encouraged him to do what he told her he wanted to do. “Can you imagine all the years of fear and hiding? Will you meet me at the loading doors?”

Half-way through his appetizer, Phillip looked up to see Ryan walking toward him dressed in a suit and tie. “I know this seat is . . . somewhat taken. But may I?”

Phillip smiled and accidentally dropped his fork onto his lap. “How handsome!”

“I asked my manager to let me have the rest of the night off,” Ryan explained, pulling the chair out and sitting down. “I really would love for you to tell me your story. Tonight is my first date with a man. And if you don't mind, I’d like to include your story in a paper I’m writing.”

“On one provision,” Phillip chuckled. “Do you like Merlot?”

Ryan lifted the glass Phillip had reserved for Martin’s memory. “I love it. May I?”

“Here's to stories that were once forced to go untold . . . ” They reached their glasses across the table and clinked them together. “I’ll try to keep all the graphic details to a minimum.”

“Please don’t,” Ryan said with a devilish grin. And he sat with the old man until it was time to close the restaurant.