Fireworks
Guy stood at the corner of 22nd and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, his eyes focused on the sky above the museum. A blazing bloom of red sparkling glitter burst over the Greek-style building, painting his face pink. He stood apart from the throng of people around him. The air was acrid from the smoke of the Fourth of July fireworks. His ears still throbbed from the booms of the pyrotechnics and the earlier rock concert. He had fifteen minutes to enjoy the remaining firework display.
From his left, a woman approached, marching toward him as if on a mission. She pulled up at his elbow just as a burst of silver lit the sky.
“How can I get to the back steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art?” she demanded.
Guy turned and gazed at her face, ghost-white from the latest flare. Slowly, her head and hair became more realistically colored. She had long brown hair, a narrow face and an aquiline nose. She wasn’t unattractive, but she was rude. What happened to “Could you please tell me…”?
“I’m in a hurry. I need to get there soon,” she said.
Still, no reason to be brusque. “There are a few ways to get there from here,” Guy said. “The scenic route would be along the Schuylkill River. Or, you could go along the sidewalk here and climb up on the left side. Or, you could cross over to the other side of the parkway and follow the walkway to the base of the museum, walk up the steps, turn right and go around to the back.”
The woman nodded her head emphatically, and she even rolled her right hand in front of her to rush him along, but she waited until he finished speaking.
“Which way’s the fastest?”
Guy pondered. “Probably to the left,” he said as if pronouncing a profound insight.
“And how will I know I’ve reached the museum?” she asked.
Just then, another firework exploded, turning them both green. “That’s easy. It’s right there,” Guy said, pointing to the structure glowing emerald at the end of the parkway.
She turned her head and spotted the majestic building on the hill. “Why didn’t you say so!” she spluttered as she stomped off, disappearing into the crowd.
Guy checked his watch. Time to meet his blind date for the evening. A woman from out of town, Lydia, who his neighbor, Maggie, had recommended he meet. He hoped it wasn’t the woman he had just spoken to.
But the meeting place was the same.
Maybe he shouldn’t have pulled her chain with his long description of how to find the back side of the museum. His knee-jerk reaction to impolite people was always to egg them on, playing dumb or slow if required. He stepped off the curb where he had been standing and wove through the masses of people to the sidewalk, trudging forward with trepidation.
Sure enough, when he approached the steps at the back of the museum, there was the woman he’d spoken to earlier, looking frantically to the left and right and then down at her wristwatch. Guy stopped in his tracks twenty feet away and gazed at her.
“You?” she yelled, her voice—and irritation—carrying over the din of explosions above them.
“Lydia?” Guy asked, still planted at a safe distance.
“Yes! That must make you, Guy,” Lydia said. She shook her head, her hair flying left and right. Then she leaned over and pounded her thighs. Finally, she lifted her head, took a deep breath, raised her flattened hands above her head, fingertips touching, and lowered them slowly in front of her face—like an actor preparing to perform. She let out her breath and strode to Guy, who stepped toward her. As she neared, she stuck out her hand and said, “I’m pleased to me you. We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. I apologize for my earlier behavior. I got lost on my way here, and I’m famished.”
“No problem. I possibly wasn’t as helpful as I might have been.”
“Possibly?” Lydia took another deep breath. “Perhaps you could have been a bit more succinct and to the point.”
“I may have overreacted to your abruptness.”
“Yes. Well. Let’s set all that aside, shall we? Where are we going for dinner? I’m starving.”
“I have a reservation at a Mediterranean bistro close to here. It’s a BYOB,” Guy said, raising the wine-carrying pouch he held at his side. Lydia grimaced, then frowned. Guy guessed she thought he was too cheap to buy restaurant wine.
They strolled down Art Museum Drive at Guy’s usual languid speed. Before they reached the bottom, Lydia seized his elbow and tried to quicken his pace by pulling him forward. Taking the hint, Guy stretched out his steps. By the time they had crossed over to North 25th Street, they were moving at a rapid clip, and Lydia dropped his elbow.
“Where is this place?” Lydia asked.
“It’s not far. About a block.”
“Thank God for that!” Lydia said. “I get irritable when I’m hungry.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Lydia scowled at him. “Sorry. My deadpan sense of humor. It’s inexcusable.”
“Agreed!” Lydia said, scanning the street for the bistro.
They arrived. “Here we are.” Guy opened the door for Lydia, who dashed inside.
“Table for two. Name of Guy,” Lydia said to the teenager approaching her. The server swept his hand toward a table against the wall. Lydia lunged at it, whipped off her knapsack and threw it on the back of the chair. Then she seated herself and accepted the menu.
“I’m Badr, and I’ll be your server for the evening,” the young man said.
“Figures,” Lydia said, but only audible enough for Guy to hear. Guy gave her a stern look. “Sorry!” She buried her head in hands. “I’m just very hungry.”
Guy handed Badr the bottle of wine and asked for a tapas plate.
Badr nodded, opened the bottle of Pinot Noir, and poured them each a glass. Then he darted into the kitchen.
“Cheers,” Guy said, lifting his glass. “To a warm and pleasant evening.”
“Oh, God. You’re kidding me. Right?” Lydia shuddered. “Whatever.” She took a sip of wine. “Not bad.” She swiveled her head and took in the décor. Painted plates adorned the walls, all with a red, green or blue flower motif. About twenty wooden tables occupied the small space, each with two bentwood chairs.
The place was empty.
Lydia’s face fell. Guy feared he’d have to pick it up off the floor.
“It’s a late-night place. We’re early,” he said in his most reassuring Morgan Freeman voice. It didn’t work.
But the tapas did.
Even before Badr placed the platter of appetizers on the table, Lydia’s hand reached for the pita bread to scoop up a glob of hummus. She then demolished the baba ganoush, leaving only a small, lonely portion for Guy. Next, she attacked the tzatziki, but at a more measured pace.
“This eggplant dip is delicious,” Lydia said, licking her lips. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “I feel so much better. I’m so sorry I’ve been grumpy. When my blood sugar gets low, I get irritable. This evening, when I dashed out to catch my train from Radnor, I forgot to pack a snack.”
Guy, who had placidly watched the disappearance of ninety percent of the hors d’oeuvres, picked up a slice of flatbread and scored the last remains of each dip. “It’s OK. I’m glad this plate arrived promptly. Shall we order?”
Lydia chose the salmon, while Guy opted for the duck breast, which he knew would go well with the wine.
“So, Guy, what do you like to do for fun? Music, plays, movies, dance—what?”
“Well, I enjoy jazz music, and the classical music in Philly is excellent. When I go to plays, I like the Off-Off-Broadway productions—at the small theatres here. To me, the Broadway plays are boring. I go to movies and dance performances sometimes. You?”
“I hate jazz,” Lydia said.
“Ouch! That’s my favorite.”
“I’m kidding. I came into town for the Bria Skonberg concert last month.”
“At the Annenberg? I was there!” Guy said, choking on the last morsel of pita bread. He cleared his throat and drank some water.
“Yes, she’s fabulous.” Lydia sipped some wine, looking thoughtful. “OK. What movie have you seen recently that you enjoyed?”
“I enjoyed One Battle After Another. I thought it was a riot.”
“You’re joking. That moronic piece of S? Who could like such rubbish?”
Guy threw his head back and his hands in the air and gritted his teeth. But when he lowered his eyes to meet Lydia’s, he just said, “Argh.”
“I’m pulling your leg. I loved it. What’s not to like? It skewers the right and the left.”
“OK. So, we’re playing a game? I say I appreciate something, then you say you hate it. Right?”
“You think?” Lydia asked. “Me, a caustic contrarian? Never!” She smiled. One of those enigmatic twists of the lips, like the Mona Lisa.
“So. What is it you love to do?” Guy asked in a slow, deliberate manner.
“I enjoy going for long walks, going to museums, and riding my bike on the Radnor Trail.”
Guy resisted saying he detested visiting museums, going for walks, and bike riding. In fact, he was passionate about art, hiked everywhere, and relished cycling. In a subdued voice he said, “I also enjoy those activities.”
“Well, I bet you’re not a pet person. No cats or dogs. You live alone.”
“I have a dog, Fawkesy, and he’s clever. He even dances. Well, for treats, of course.”
“Foxy? That’s a weird name? Is it a rodent?”
“First, foxes are not rodents,” Guy said, deadpanning to Lydia’s perverse sense of humor. “Second, it’s Fawkesy. F. A. W. K. E. S. Y.”
“What kind of ridiculous name is that?”
“Guy Fawkes? You know—the man who tried to blow up the British Parliament? My name’s Guy, so my dog is Fawkesy. They celebrate Guy Fawkes each year in the UK. Kids put a dummy of Guy in a wagon and say, ‘Penny for the Guy?’”
“Never heard of it. Sounds stupid.” Lydia stuffed a huge forkful of salmon into her mouth. “Anyway, I don’t believe you,” she said, her voice muffled by her chewing. “I’ve never met anyone who seems less like a pet person.” She swallowed and gulped some water.
“Here. I’ve got a video.” Guy pulled out his phone and showed Lydia a video of his pup dancing. A friend had recorded Fawksey, a Pomeranian, up on his hind legs, twirling in circles. Guy swirled his fingers around his dog to keep him spinning.
Lydia burst out laughing and covered her mouth. Recovering, she said. “OK. That’s cute. But I have a cat, and I’m sure they’d never get along.”
“Fawkesy loves cats.”
“Now who’s pulling whose leg?”
Guy brought up another video. “Here’s Fawkesy playing with Maggie’s cat.”
Lydia watched the video. In it, a tabby and Guy’s dog wrestled on the floor, clearly having a fun time. Then Fawkesy barked, and the cat sat on its haunches, batting the dog’s nose playfully.
“Maggie didn’t tell me you had a dog. She just said you were the chillest man she’s ever met. Why she’d think that would make us a match, I have no clue.”
“Opposites attract?” Guy asked, arching his left eyebrow.
“Whatever,” Lydia said. “Here. Dueling pet clips. This is Mojo beating up a ferocious catnip toy.” She displayed her phone to Guy.
“Impressive. Did the toy win?”
Lydia mock-glared at Guy and tucked her phone back into her backpack.
“Well, Mr. Guy Fawkes, we might have something in common after all. Perhaps this evening won’t be an entire disaster, despite my best efforts.” Lydia offered her glass of wine as a peace offering.
Guy clinked her glass with his. “Perhaps not,” he said, a glimmer of a smile crossing his lips.
After/Thought Literary 