hoping you’d overlook the exterior glass elevators and underground parking warren in their attempt to make you think you were back in William Penn’s day. It turned out Carson and Beck, Attorneys at Law, were on the first floor of the second building, which I could get to through a beautiful brick archway and then a courtyard with a fountain I was pleased to see did not depend on cherubs peeing.
At that moment—in that place—I felt very faraway from Miracolo and the Quaker Hills Career Center. There’s something about the smell and sound of a fountain that makes me feel like I’ve landed on my time-traveling feet in a piazza somewhere on the Mediterranean. The sun, overhead, was glancing off the arc of the spray. It’s irresistible. I dug into my hemp bag and came up with my change purse, which actually held more than three coins, but that’s all my fingers pulled out.
A dime and two pennies.
Going for the cut-rate dreams, I pitched my puny twelve cents into the fountain, vowing never to tell Nonna. I don’t like to encourage her. Mind you, I really wanted to wish for nothing bad to happen to her at the hands of the Psycho-Chefs Club—really I did. But then I thought about wishing for the doomed Choo Choo Bacigalupo to trip on some little irregularity in the sidewalk as he beat it on down the street just ahead of me in my tennis shoes while I hurled my cheese grater at his bald head. In the end, though, as crazy as it sounds, I just wished for a nice lunch with Joe Beck—nice and not too business-y. Some laughs and longing looks from him that might have nothing to do with wishing for more mustard to mysteriously show up on his Michael Pollan wrap would also be welcome.
Inside the offices of Carson and Beck, I was pleased to see a male receptionist. Strictly from afeminist angle, of course. The kid had the basics of grooming down, in that his pants covered his flesh, and whatever body art he may have had was staying coyly out of sight. I also appreciated his not sending anything flaming in my direction. In short, Milo Corwin (according to the nameplate on the kidney-shaped desk) looked like he most definitely did not fall out of CRIBS.
I set the cardboard multicup coffee holder and recyclable Sprouts bag on Milo’s desk. Then, just as I was giving the lad my name, with my hands stuffed in my pockets, which for some reason was reminding me of some movie with Charlize Theron, Joe Beck emerged from the office of the same name. He’s a compact kind of guy—about five foot nine inches’ worth of trim and lean—with dark blond hair cut short but not so short every single hair didn’t add to the total, beautifully shorn and golden effect.
He had blue eyes that really looked at you even when you wished they didn’t. He had the shoulders of a Marine and the hips of a work by Michelangelo. He had a smile that made you think all was peachy in the world even though snow leopards were endangered. And let’s not even address that dimple in the right cheek that rivaled all other facial sinkholes in all other humans. Just three weeks ago I had to stop my cousin, the kale-loving Kayla, when she wanted to share the details of her three-night fling with this man. Because if there’s one thing I hate more than pepperoni pizza (a failure of imagination), it’s experiencing glorious things only secondhand.
Today he was wearing a crisp white shirt and summer-weight gray pants. In the awkward silence when we stood there looking at each other with our hands in our respective (instead of each other’s) pockets, Joe Beck said, “Angelotta,” with a smile that was just a little bit wary. The dimple was only semideployed.
“Beck,” I countered, thrusting the lunch at him.
“Hold my calls,” he said to Milo, which felt thrilling to me in a Hollywood kind of way. Then he opened an arm toward his inner sanctum—Milo actually gave me a look that told me it was all right, not that I asked, thank you very much—and I
At that moment—in that place—I felt very faraway from Miracolo and the Quaker Hills Career Center. There’s something about the smell and sound of a fountain that makes me feel like I’ve landed on my time-traveling feet in a piazza somewhere on the Mediterranean. The sun, overhead, was glancing off the arc of the spray. It’s irresistible. I dug into my hemp bag and came up with my change purse, which actually held more than three coins, but that’s all my fingers pulled out.
A dime and two pennies.
Going for the cut-rate dreams, I pitched my puny twelve cents into the fountain, vowing never to tell Nonna. I don’t like to encourage her. Mind you, I really wanted to wish for nothing bad to happen to her at the hands of the Psycho-Chefs Club—really I did. But then I thought about wishing for the doomed Choo Choo Bacigalupo to trip on some little irregularity in the sidewalk as he beat it on down the street just ahead of me in my tennis shoes while I hurled my cheese grater at his bald head. In the end, though, as crazy as it sounds, I just wished for a nice lunch with Joe Beck—nice and not too business-y. Some laughs and longing looks from him that might have nothing to do with wishing for more mustard to mysteriously show up on his Michael Pollan wrap would also be welcome.
Inside the offices of Carson and Beck, I was pleased to see a male receptionist. Strictly from afeminist angle, of course. The kid had the basics of grooming down, in that his pants covered his flesh, and whatever body art he may have had was staying coyly out of sight. I also appreciated his not sending anything flaming in my direction. In short, Milo Corwin (according to the nameplate on the kidney-shaped desk) looked like he most definitely did not fall out of CRIBS.
I set the cardboard multicup coffee holder and recyclable Sprouts bag on Milo’s desk. Then, just as I was giving the lad my name, with my hands stuffed in my pockets, which for some reason was reminding me of some movie with Charlize Theron, Joe Beck emerged from the office of the same name. He’s a compact kind of guy—about five foot nine inches’ worth of trim and lean—with dark blond hair cut short but not so short every single hair didn’t add to the total, beautifully shorn and golden effect.
He had blue eyes that really looked at you even when you wished they didn’t. He had the shoulders of a Marine and the hips of a work by Michelangelo. He had a smile that made you think all was peachy in the world even though snow leopards were endangered. And let’s not even address that dimple in the right cheek that rivaled all other facial sinkholes in all other humans. Just three weeks ago I had to stop my cousin, the kale-loving Kayla, when she wanted to share the details of her three-night fling with this man. Because if there’s one thing I hate more than pepperoni pizza (a failure of imagination), it’s experiencing glorious things only secondhand.
Today he was wearing a crisp white shirt and summer-weight gray pants. In the awkward silence when we stood there looking at each other with our hands in our respective (instead of each other’s) pockets, Joe Beck said, “Angelotta,” with a smile that was just a little bit wary. The dimple was only semideployed.
“Beck,” I countered, thrusting the lunch at him.
“Hold my calls,” he said to Milo, which felt thrilling to me in a Hollywood kind of way. Then he opened an arm toward his inner sanctum—Milo actually gave me a look that told me it was all right, not that I asked, thank you very much—and I
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