55/90, from Saturday

I left the SLU symposium early on Saturday. I presented my paper, ate my free lunch and talked to a girl about the difficulties of teaching yourself French on the side while earning two other degrees and speaking three languages. The conversation was a bit-one sided. I sat next to the girl, sipped my diet Coke, faked a phone call and sprinted to the parking garage.

I needed to catch up on some homework. I stopped in at the bookstore, where Joe was spending the day earning some money for our France fund. He was busy; the store was buzzing. I decided to head down the street in search of a place to spend my afternoon.

I settled into a near-empty restaurant. It was 2:30– after the lunch crowd and hours before dinner. Perfect. I ordered a glass of wine, got out my school books and set to work.

"Are you sure you don't want any food?"

"We have a great lunch menu.'

"Are you sure you're doing alright?"

"Still holding out?"

The questions came at five minute intervals. I forget sometimes that, outside of less corporate cafés, it's not quite socially acceptable to take yourself on a wine date, all alone in a city. Nor is it acceptable to take up a table in a restaurant for hours on end with a glass of wine. I was trying hard to put myself back in France. My waitress was trying to earn tips.

I could understand if I were making a wealthy family of four wait for the table. There was no one. On a flyover question bomb dropping, I stopped the waitress. I explained that no, the wine was sufficient. That I really just wanted the table and the quiet. That I had time to kill, had paid for the wine and now just wanted to read for a bit.

Then two boys in army surplus jackets came in. They were roughly nine years old. Their glasses fogged when they hit the warm restaurant air. They paced the floor, looking at couples drinking afternoon cocktails. They looked at each patron anxiously. They asked me if food was served here.

I nodded and said, "Ive never had it, but they say the lunch is great." The boys walked up to a waiter, asked for a menu, retreated through the door they'd come in and took turns pouring Doritos into their mouths from a bag they found in one of their coat pockets.

The boys returned several times, looking at the television and then reading some of their hostage menu. I could hear their friends outside, a weekend street band eager for an audience.

I wanted to offer them a seat at my table, to please both the boys and the waitress by ordering french fries and Cokes and some messy, cheesy appetizer. I thought better of it, thinking of their friends outside and considering that I was holding my copy of Lolita.

 When I left the restaurant, the boys were still... "playing" their instruments. I dug in my pockets, around gum wrappers and gas station receipts, looking for change. $1.43. I dropped it into the open guitar case.

The boys stopped, thanked me and said, "You're that lady from the restaurant." I nodded, thanked them for their music and turned. Their guardian was seated on the opposite side of the sidewalk, on a concrete structure for flowers or bike locks or some other street decoration. He said thank you, and through the spiderweb tattoo that criss-crossed his cheeks and forehead, he offered a kind smile.