Bad Company

The Altamont 6 restaurant in the heart of downtown Dukeport was a marvel to Paul Dent, offering all the finest things. It was named for its address, a recent swanky trend. It banished the old formula of the cozy, dark-wood-and-leather steakhouses. It had an open kitchen just over a long, minimalist bar. All could see the busy chefs like performers in a show slicing the beautiful meat, stirring the vivid sauce in the pans, plating the goods, garnishing with tinctures and liquors and reductions out of clear squeeze bottles. The smells that filled the room were as good as the show. The music, piped in softly by discreet speakers, was curated carefully to be both hip and nostalgic for the target clientele of new minted, well compensated urbanites. Paul was one of the newest minted and always felt lucky for the chance to eat there. And he did it often.

He couldn’t hide his pleasure or stop the easy talk that it stirred in him until he was seated across from his companion, Patrick Bowles, who was uncharacteristically silent. Patrick was remote, like a man who hadn’t slept. His expression was intense.

Paul prodded his friend with good humor. “Are you angry at me?”

Patrick suddenly came to himself. “No.” The smile he attempted fell from his face. “I am angry at someone else and it makes me bad company. I’m sorry.”

“Can I ask who it is? Do I know?”

“Meg.”

Paul snapped his fingers. “That girl that you flew south to see? That you want to bring up here? What was it, two weeks ago that you were down there making your case to her again?”

Patrick said nothing. From that Paul guessed everything.

“It wasn’t a good trip then.”

“Not really.”

“She’s determined to keep making you buy plane tickets?”

Patrick took a deep breath. “She is with someone else.”

Outwardly he seemed resigned and tired. But Patrick’s mind was racing furiously with a desperate effort. He was banishing things. Patrick was learning he could feel remarkably calm if he evicted certain memories. The emotions that would have made him sick and terrified, that made him want to turn the table over, those that made him feel as if he were lying under a truck with the weight on his chest, went for the most part with the memories.

Meg sitting on the arm of the sofa with a towel around her body, the hair wet and stiff around her neck. Banished. Her laughing at his touch. Her beautiful, little hands in his with the ring he had bought her, vowed to her. Banished. And her smiling face. She had caught him examining her. It amused her. When had been the last time he’d seen that particular smile?

It was not just memories that went on the block. Patrick had had hopes and plans. He’d had fantasies of contentment in a modest house. He had envisioned nights at home eating with her at their own, clean table instead of in these overpriced, pretentious cathedrals to food snobbery. Weekends he would have been happy never to leave the house. Saturday mornings he’d never leave the bed without her. Patrick had been precious with one thought in particular of himself dozing on a plush couch in a simple quiet room. Dressed carelessly. Sweatpants. Shirtless. One leg hanging to the floor. One arm was folded behind his head. The other was across his chest, draped over the child that was sleeping there, the baby that they might have had together in time. Here was the father he’d hoped so much to be. Banished. Banished.

Paul guarded his friend eagerly and was for him in everything. “What a bitch.”

A look from Patrick across the bare table showed that he was grateful but ended that talk. A waiter brought empty glasses. Patrick watched the glasses being filled with water from a pitcher and when the waiter left Patrick’s gaze stayed trapped in the glass. “I thought she would find someone, with her staying so far away. When I told her that she would say no, no. But I was never fooled. I knew it all the time.”

Paul admired Patrick very much. Neither of them could be accused of having artistic souls. Certain people even accused Patrick especially of being callous. But to Paul that toughness implied greatness, and gravity. The things that penetrated Patrick were the very significant things, the great churning transformative things in life. There was no melodrama in Patrick. All his troubles were true troubles.

“You know she had these fat ankles I couldn’t find a way to like.” Patrick was trying everything to numb himself. “I can close the book on this whole thing finally.”

“I’m sorry Patrick.”

“Oh don’t.” Patrick waved the apology away. “If it isn’t one thing breaking it up then it’s something else.”

Paul had nothing to say to that delusion. A man has to get over that brand of apathy alone. “Get a drink? Let’s get something to drink. Then let’s feast. I’m determined to cheer you up. They’ve got everything here. Anything you’d want.”

“Not everything.” Then right away Patrick was sorry for being such an obvious mope. “But I should. I will. Let’s drink.” It was as if his voice belonged to someone else. It had no effect, no power of persuasion. There was a pause. “I’m going to save so much money on plane tickets.” In his mind there were new banishings going on all the time and Patrick’s eyes hardly left his water glass.

Paul was sympathetic to his friend but he was also sort of in awe to see him struggling. It was rare and noble and it was beautiful in its own way. Here was another of the finer thing to be found in Altamont 6, his friend Patrick Bowles.