First Date

A story by Keith Croes

The desk looked like mahogany, polished so Paul could see the reflection of his elbows when his eyes weren't near the pearly button where Adrienne's blouse parted. He stared with his head in his hands, his gaze probing the shadows above the button whenever she read from the video screen slanting toward her out of the desktop. If she glanced up at him, he was ready, his eyes politely studying her face, striving to convey the mischievous boy inside the handsome man. She wore a gold chain around her neck. Her blouse was white.

She sighed. "We've done about as much as we can do." The words were flowers in the quiet room. "Physically, the metastasis has reversed. The cancer is gone. No adverse effects from the cryo. The company did a good job on you."

Afterlife Inc., of Irvine, California, had frozen him and his liver cancer a century and a half before.

"I paid for it, if I recall."

"You got your money's worth. Not everyone does." She glanced at the screen.

"Adrienne...?"

"No. Forget it."

"But Adrienne..."

She ignored him. "Psychologically...well, you're as healthy as you ever were. And you're welcome to use our counseling services free of charge for one year. Do you have any questions?"

"Will you have dinner with me?"

She looked at him, caught his eyes flicking up from her breasts. "No. It's against company policy."

Paul tucked his right fist into the palm of his left hand and propped them both under his chin. "I believe you just gave me a clean bill of health, which means that as of right now I have nothing to do with this company. I'm cured. I'm alive. Thank you very much. Don't men and women date anymore?"

"You know they do. It was part of your readjustment program."

"Don't you find me attractive?"

"You wouldn't believe how I find you."

"Look." Paul adopted a forlorn expression. "This is a new place for me. A strange place. I'm...I want to get off to a good start. I'm a little frightened, a little lonely just thinking about it."

Adrienne rolled her eyes upward.

"But that doesn't mean we wouldn't have fun. I'm a fun kind of guy. And...and I think you're beautiful. Adrienne, you could teach me. Who knows, I might teach you a thing or two."

"Oh, you've already done that, Paul. And we've already taught you. You've been through the entire Afterlife readjustment program. You'll be fine."

"Come on, that's different. That's classroom stuff. I slept through most of it. Go out with me, Adrienne. Just once. You'll...you'll never be the same."

She sighed, surrendering. "I guess I could consider it an extension of your training."

"Consider it a bald baboon. Just say yes."

Her face said regret. "Okay. I'll try to control myself."

"Don't go to any bother."

She looked pained. "So, you've got your first date in the twenty-second century."

He grinned over his hands. "Is that real gold?"

She touched the chain at her throat and nodded. "I don't think you're ready for this."

"I'll pick you up tomorrow night. Sevenish."

Paul watched as she laughed until tears squeezed down her cheeks.

The money from his estate had been well-invested, and that afternoon Paul bought a cherry-red Ford Turbohawk from the current model year, 2127, and checked into the Century Plaza. The bell captain was a spotless chrome robot.

"Excuse me."

"Yes, sir." The thing bent slightly in the middle. "How may I help you?"

"What's the best restaurant in town?"

"The best restaurant?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think I understand."

"Okay." Paul reached for his left hip pocket, found none, then remembered that the wallet was in the large pouch along the right thigh of his one-piece jumpsuit. It seemed that every man in L.A. was wearing a one-piece jumpsuit.

"All right. How much?"

"How much?"

"How much do you want?"

"I want nothing, sir. I'm a robot. My services are included in your bill."

"And just what are your services?"

The thing seemed to search a directory. "I'm here to help you in any way I can."

"Then what is the best restaurant in L.A.?"

"You must mean restaurants."

"No. I mean restaurant. The best restaurant."

"But sir, nobody asks for the best restaurant."

"Nobody? Why not?"

"By law, I must respond with the five restaurants most frequently mentioned in complimentary terms. This is based on my own interaction with the clientele here at the hotel. The next five most frequently mentioned in complimentary terms are available on request, as are the next five, and so on. These listings also factor in negative comments, of course, and are a rather precise barometer of public consensus."

"I see. So tell me. Which restaurant is most frequently mentioned in complimentary terms?"

The machine shook its reflecting head. "Five restaurants, sir."

"Five restaurants."

"In alphabetical order."

"In alphabetical order."

"The Commodore House, J.T.'s, Minnie's, Spago's, and the Thunderdome."

"Thanks."

The bell captain positioned an open palm under Paul's outstretched hand, and the quarter fell with a curiously muffled clunk.

Paul bought a few styles of soft sandals and a riot of varicolored jumpsuits that evening, then cruised the streets in his Turbohawk. It was a different L.A., but it was definitely L.A. Back at the hotel he called and made reservations for two at Spago's. He wondered if the linguine and clam sauce was still as good.

His body heat triggered an electronic chime and he stood in front of the door to Adrienne's apartment, listening. Soft music and movement. "Just a second, Paul." It sent a thrill through him.

Adrienne opened the door. She wore a sheer yellow tank top that stopped just above the navel and loose, shiny black pants, and carried a baseball bat over her left shoulder.

"You're late."

The voice was not pleasant. He stepped toward her and she turned suddenly, the bat whacking him in the side of the head.

"Ouch."

"Oh, are you okay?"

She reached toward him with her free hand. Blinking, he rubbed his temple and held out a long-stem red rose. "For you."

She took it and the bat rolled off her shoulder and continued in an arc at her side, smacking against his right kneecap.

"Oh, my God. I'm sorry."

"Look, will you put that thing away?" Paul hobbled past her into the vestibule.

"You re wearing a uni?"

Paul had on a short-sleeved blue jumpsuit covered with pink geometric shapes. "Why not?"

"Why not." She snorted. "Lets go."

In the elevator sinking to the parking garage, Paul reached out for her hand and she smiled, entering his grip with a squeeze. Adrienne was stunning, almost as tall as Paul, with warm, dark-brown eyes and softly curling black hair to her shoulders. "What's with the baseball bat?" he asked. "Do you have a son?"

"A son?" She let go of his hand and watched the elevator door slide open. "I play baseball. Professionally."

She stepped out and he stood there until the door closed between them. The elevator started upward and he swore, jamming the button for the parking garage level. An elderly couple got on at the fourth floor and they rode down together. Adrienne was standing where he had left her.

"The Dodgers?" he asked. She took his hand again and they began an unhurried walk toward his car.

"No." She laughed a waterfall echo in the hollow garage. "They moved to Brooklyn years ago. Anaheim. We had a day game today. Beat Kansas City."

"What position?"

"Left field, mostly. I'm doing reasonably well this season. Batting .303."

Paul let go of her hand when they reached the car and pressed the fingerprint sensor on the passenger-side door, which he held open. "That's terrific. But what about your job at Afterlife?" Eyeing him strangely, Adrienne eased past him and stumbled. The door bounced with a thunk off his left shin.

"Oh, Paul."

He closed the door with a grimace and limped around to the driver's side. Settling into the satiny seat, he turned toward her and smiled.

She rested her left pinkie in the crook of his elbow. "Paul, I really do like you."

He looked skeptical. "Back in the twentieth century, I knew where Spago's was." The car hummed to life.

"It's still there. And Wolfgang still owns it." Paul let it slide.

They headed for Beverly Hills. Adrienne smoked a brand of cigarettes called S'lites, which had been determined by the surgeon general to cause no ill-effects whatever in laboratory rats or humans. She held one between her lips and Paul motioned for her to wait, then pressed the cigarette lighter positioned near the car's ashtray in the lower center of the dashboard. He couldn't be sure if she were wearing make-up, but he thought not. Except for a subtle red tint on the lips.

"How can you work at Afterlife and play professional baseball?"

"I'm an excellent behavioral psychotherapist. Why should I give that up just because I happen to be an athlete? I give Afterlife one or two hours a day when we're in town, more in the off-season. Our catcher conducts the Los Angeles symphony."

Paul held the glowing lighter and she grasped his hand, guiding it toward the end of her cigarette and drawing hard. Smoke filled the front of the car. "Talented guy," he said, and the cigarette dropped in his lap.

"Yeow!" The Turbohawk caromed once off the curb, slammed against it again and stopped. Paul shouldered the door open and stood in the street, digging at the deep folds of the upholstery. With a loud, fast snap, a passing car sent the door skittering ten yards ahead, then turned right at the next light and disappeared.

"Damn!" Paul found the cigarette and stomped hard on it, feeling a dangerous vibration in his knee ligaments. Ducking a quick glare at Adrienne through the hole in the side of the car, he trotted up to the door, which seemed loose and lonely and impossibly red against the gray asphalt. He carried it under his arm back to the car and maneuvered it in front of the rear seat. Adrienne had the back of her hand pressed against her mouth.

He slid in beside her. "Don't worry. I'm fine." She giggled louder and he replaced the lighter, still clutched in his right hand, into the hole next to the ashtray.

The line of people at Spago's spilled across the small porch and down a few concrete steps into the setting sun. A parking attendant ran up to the Ford as it stopped and his gaze traveled the entire perimeter of the empty door frame before finding Paul in the shadows of the interior. "Here." Paul handed him a bill. "Don't scratch it."

They walked together and Adrienne touched Paul's chest as they reached the people standing at the rear of the line.

"We wait here. Someone will be along in just a minute." Paul stood a step below her and looked up at her face, smiling.

Returning the smile, she reached into one of the large pockets along her thigh and pulled out the pack of S'lites and a gold lighter.

"Oh, no."

"Don't worry."

He watched her light up. The lighter must have had a heat coil or something instead of a flame. "Don't women carry pocketbooks anymore?"

There was a clinking behind her and the flash of a reflection off the bouncing lighter. "Oh, damn." She turned and leaned over, her butt shoving Paul backward off his step. The tip of one sandal caught the barest edge of the step below and slipped off, forcing him to his knees against the sharp concrete corners.

"Oh! Are you all right?" The friendly squeal of concern belonged to a girl who stood on the porch cradling an armful of menus. Paul swiped at the knees of his jumpsuit and squinted up at her into the sun. Reaching out quickly, Adrienne grabbed him around one wrist, but Paul shook it off. The girl's expression seemed to take an easy, natural route to disgust. "Do you have reservations?" The voice had become a nailfile of scorn.

Paul nodded. "Baker for two. Seven-thirty."

She turned away and then turned back. "Well, come on."

They followed her through the crowd and Paul tried to guide Adrienne in front of him, but she stepped on his toes every time he managed to get close enough to put his hands on her hips. Near the bar just inside the entrance, the girl twisted her head around and gave Adrienne a look of compassion.

"Sometimes I just do not understand why we don't have a dress code." Paul looked around. There wasn't a jumpsuit in the place.

Their table couldn't have been any farther toward the back of the restaurant. As they made their way through the several crowded rooms, the bold pink geometric forms on his jumpsuit seemed to leap among the diners and he tried to ignore their faces -- shocked, surprised, delighted, many appearing as though they had just caught a whiff of something rotten -- and whispers of recognition: "Adrienne Hays. That's Adrienne Hays."

Finally the girl ahead of them gestured at a small round table with two chairs and two place settings. Blood rushed in Paul 's ears with a sound like short-wave radio interference.

"Here you go." He stepped behind Adrienne's chair and pulled it out for her. The girl blinked at him in amazement and placed two menus on the table. "Enjoy your dinner."

Paul smiled. "Could I have a telephone, please?"

"Sure." She walked away shaking her head.

Adrienne stood for a moment and stared, then settled into the chair, lifting the seat up underneath her and slamming one leg of the chair down onto his foot.

"Ah!" Paul let his head roll back and yelled again. "Ah!"

"Oh, Paul!" Applause and laughter flitted about nearby tables. She repositioned the chair, releasing him.

He sat across from her and glared.

She smiled and her fingers curled around the stem of an empty water glass that was suddenly being filled by a silvery, waist-high robot. "Are you having a good time?"

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "What kind of a man wears a jumpsuit to Spago's?"

"An unbelievable geek. Unis are for daytime and preferably the street. Forget jumpsuit. There's no such thing as a jumpsuit."

He watched the spigot-arm of the robot deposit a steady measure of liquid into his glass. Another arm extended from a sliding panel in its side and placed a telephone on the table. "How do I call the police?"

"Nine-one-one."

He pressed the buttons. "Yeah, I want to report a hit and run. Uh-huh. Uh-huh." He agreed to a voiceprint and gave them his name, hotel and a description of the car that took his door off, including its license plate number, and was told he'd have to verify the damage with hotel security. "So, do you think I'm a geek?" he asked after hanging up.

A tall, graying man passing by the table chortled.

Adrienne read from the menu. "I think...you've got potential."

"Beneath this uni beats the heart of a lion."

She giggled and pointed at his menu. "Read."

He picked it up and looked around. "This place never used to have menus. Where's the waiter?"

Leaning forward, she tapped the telephone and took a sip from her water glass. "We use the phone to order."

"What are you having?"

"Veal, I think."

Paul scanned the appetizers. "Aha! Here it is. Linguine and clam sauce and...hmmm...some kind of seafood. We'll get some white wine...something much younger than me, probably."

Adrienne picked up the receiver and pressed a key. Paul held out his hand. "Hey, I'll do that." She stopped, then swung the receiver into his palm.

"I'd like a pina colada right now," she said. "The linguine sounds good. House dressing on the salad. Veal. And get whatever wine you want. The Utah labels are best. Excuse me."

She rose and Paul listened as someone picked up the phone on the other end -- a man. "And what would you like this evening?" Paul was aware of Adrienne circling to his left, standing a moment to wait for a group of people coming up behind him, a quick movement as she stepped aside and then an elbow poking sharply into his left ear.

"Jesus!"

The ear felt as if it might be bleeding and seemed to burn and wail like a red-hot siren. "Just a second, please." Paul held the receiver against his chest until his vision cleared, then placed the order for both of them. By the time she returned, the throbbing in his ear had subsided enough for Paul to realize that he hurt in a number of places. He stood as she approached and she put her arms around him, whispering what he thought was, "I'm sorry." But she was pressing against him too hard, forcing his chair to lean backwards, and when he fell into the seat he toppled over, knocking his head on the rung of a chair behind him.

"Oh, Paul!"

"Damn!"

Laughter filled their end of the restaurant. Paul stood and unzipped the front of the jumpsuit several inches. The pink shapes glowed. He was sweating.

"Oh, Paul. I'm sorry." She reached down for the overturned chair and he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Sit."

They sat. Paul was relieved when real people showed up to serve the meal, including a swarthy, dour-faced waiter, whose name was Ralph.

"Linguine for the lady," Ralph said, setting down a plate.

"Thank you."

"And linguine for...for you."

"Yeah." Paul twisted into a forkful and looked up. "This is becoming a real challenge."

Adrienne chewed and shifted easily on her seat. "What did you do for a living?"

"Aw, I don't want to talk about then. Let's talk about now. Is there something going on here I'm missing?" He rubbed the knot on the back of his head and another smaller one above his right temple. "I mean, are you having a good time?"

"Wonderful."

"Am I doing something wrong?"

"We covered all this in readjustment. You re learning."

"Yeah. Well, the question is, what am I learning?"

Over dinner they talked lightly about politics and science and the major events of the last century and a half while Ralph cleared the plates and poured the wine, and they joined in waving off his offer of dessert.

"You must have made a lot of money to have afforded Afterlife."

Paul shrugged. "I owned seven car dealerships around the Valley. Ford Lincoln Mercury. Picked up Honda toward the end. Good car."

"Mmm. And you were married?"

'Divorced."

"Hm-mm."

Paul sipped his coffee. "Adrienne, you're beautiful. Clumsy, but beautiful. And you say you play ball?" He shook his head. "Look, what chance do I have with a woman like you? What do you think of me?"

"Paul, that's not fair." She patted a napkin against her lips. "I guess it is fair. Paul, you have a certain something, a...natural charm. But you re going to meet a lot of resistance."

He chuckled. "That's not unprecedented."

"So much of what you do is automatic, and you press all the wrong buttons."

"So I am doing something wrong?"

"When it comes to relating to a woman, yes. Just about everything."

Ralph appeared at Paul's left elbow. "Your checks." White slips rested on two small trays.

"Checks?" Paul glanced at Adrienne's blank face. "I'll take them."

She slapped the tabletop with both hands, rattling the silverware. "That does it!"

Ralph jumped back as she came around the table and grabbed the front of Paul's jumpsuit, gripping a knot of fabric and chest hair and lifting him to his feet. "Women pay their own way, Paul." The words carried over the crowd, which fell silent.

Speechless, Paul edged over into the aisle. She released her grip and shoved against his chest, forcing him back several steps. Patrons applauded and nodded in appreciation.

"We open our own doors." She shoved again and he stumbled backward. "We light our own cigarettes." Another shove and shouts of encouragement. "We are people!" The shove carried him against a table, banging his thigh and spilling drinks.

"Geeze, Adrienne..."

"Some of us carry bags and some of us don't, just like men. It is not a subject for comment or discussion." She shoved again and they were in the next room. People along the periphery were standing. Paul glanced down at the large pink shapes on his jumpsuit. "We play baseball..." Shove. "We pilot moon shuttles..." Shove. "We do anything we damn well please." Shove.

Paul entered the next room on his back. The diners were on their feet, shouting and clapping. He stood and raised an arm to ward off the next blow, but it came through like a stiff karate jab to his chest. "We are equals. And we don't..." Jab. "Need your help..." Jab. "And especially..." Jab. "Your leering..." Jab. "Patronizing..." Jab. "Sexist bullshit!" Wavering near the bar at the entrance of the restaurant, Paul clenched his fists and lowered into a crouch. Her hands on her hips, Adrienne laughed.

The first punch grazed his sore ear, but he managed to deflect most of it and tag her square in the center of her face with a quick right. She came back with a left that turned him around toward the bar, where he saw a group of men holding their drinks up in a toast. Her follow-up right sat him down on the floor, and as he fell backward he heard a great noise slipping away, a swell of enthusiastic cheering.

"Powl? Powl?" It was his name said with a funny accent. He opened his eyes, closed them, tried to climb up the headboard of the bed into a sitting position. "No, no. Don t move."

He peered through half-open lids. A light, sunny breeze kitten-jostled the white curtain at the window. A slight man with frizzy brown hair, graying at the temples, sat next to a bouquet of roses on the bedstand, his creased face severe with concern. Paul's fingers sought the pressure around his head, a bandage.

"Wolfgang?" The man smiled. "Where am I?"

"Los Angeles General. I make it a point to visit everyone who suffers a concussion in my restaurant."

Paul dropped down off his elbows. "Didn't you used to buy cars from me? Lincolns?"

"Every two years."

"I always liked your restaurants -- especially Spago's. You look older."

"I went through Afterlife ten years after you. Choked to death on beef gristle. They brought me back, oh, four months ago."

Paul nodded and grimaced. "You know Adrienne?"

"Very nice lady. Very nice. You know, she took it easy on you."

Paul tried to laugh.

"I mean it. You gave her a lot of trouble. She put up with a lot, much more than most women would."

"You're kidding."

He grunted and nodded toward the roses. "These are from her. Well, I must go." He reached for a pair of crutches leaning against the wall near the headboard and grunted again, lodged them under his armpits and rose. He wore a rust-colored jumpsuit with the left leg split up the side and tied with string in three places around a cast. "Thursdays are big."

"Thursdays?"

"Ah, every night is big."

"What the hell happened to you?"

Wolfgang looked down. "Skiing accident."

Paul felt a growing nausea as the skinny man swung himself stiffly to the door. "I liked it better when you had an oral menu."

Wolfgang stopped and grinned. "Only dives do that. You've got to change with the times. You should've paid more attention in class."

Before falling into an aching sleep, Paul read the card on the flowers: "Now you're ready. Love, Adrienne."

THE END

MORE STORIES BY KEITH CROES

keith@croes.com