about ten minutes before opening the message, half expecting her to tell me to cease and desist.Instead, she enthusiastically accepted my invitation. Not only wasn’t she offended, but she also said she was flattered by my boldness. Only problem was maintaining it. I asked Hope to recommend a bold restaurant.
“Bold food or bold design?” she asked. I didn’t really have an opinion, but that didn’t seem like a very bold thing to admit. “How about a bold location?” she said.
“Like a foreign country?” I asked.
“I was thinking more like the Bronx.”
“New parameters,” I said. “Bold without crossing a major body of water.”
“How about
in
the water?”
There is something to be said for being bland,
I thought as I climbed the narrow vertical ladder on the port side of
The Lightship
, an eighty-year-old boat that had been salvaged from the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay and was now docked at a pier on the Hudson River.
When Hope recommended the place, I imagined myself following in the footsteps of Mimi and Mylo’s marina-kindled romance. But that was summer in the Hamptons, and this was winter along the West Side Highway.
A frigid wind blew off the Hudson, and the dark waves sloshing against
The Lightship
seemed more threatening than buoyant. As I hoisted myself aboard, I reminded myself that Melinda enjoyed adventures.
A metal stairway led into the belly of the boat, where R&B emanated from the barnacle-clad engine room that housed an intimate lounge. With candlelit catwalks cutting through the rusting hull, it was a cross between a swanky bar and Davy Jones’s locker.
There was no sign of Melinda among the twenty- and thirtysomething fashionistas in their all-black ensembles. I was wearing a dark gray jacket and jeans, my standard uniform, but I had tucked in my shirt.
I positioned myself on a bar stool. After a couple minutes I realized I was slouching, so I stood instead. I checked my watch. It was five after nine. I had an eight a.m. interview I hadn’t finished preparing for. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about it.
My cell phone vibrated, and I worried Melinda was canceling. But it was my parents calling. They’d been updating me regularly about my grandmother’s health. There was nothing to update, since I’d been calling her every morning on my way to work; however, that had negligible impact on the frequency of my parents’ bulletins.
“Just wanted to let you know that there’s no change in your grandmother’s condition,” my father said.
“She doesn’t have a condition,” I said. “She has stitches.”
“Well, she didn’t get any more stitches today,” my mother clarified.
“She’s not going to get any more stitches,” I said.
“Suddenly you’re a doctor,” my father commented.
“It’s not too late for you to go back to medical school,” my mother said. “My Zumba instructor’s nephew didn’t go until he was thirty-eight, and by the time he graduated he was married.”
“I’m not going back to medical school,” I assured her.
“Have you reconsidered looking into mail-order brides?”
Before I could reply, my father said, “Bernie was moved out of the ICU.”
As usual, my parents had buried the lede.
“That’s great news,” I said.
“Make sure to say that to your grandmother.”
“I will,” I said before asking the obvious question. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Bernie’s still unconscious,” my mother said. “The doctor said he wasn’t optimistic.”
“That’s not what the doctor said,” my father objected.
“He said that Bernie may never gain consciousness.”
“But he didn’t use the word ‘optimistic’!”
“Because he wasn’t!”
I looked around the dark room. A shellacked lobster seemed to be eyeing me. Melinda was late. Bernie was dying. My parents were dysfunctional. And I was alone. Figuratively. There were about twenty people sprawled on the sofas and shimmying in the shadows as Mary J. Blige insisted
“Bold food or bold design?” she asked. I didn’t really have an opinion, but that didn’t seem like a very bold thing to admit. “How about a bold location?” she said.
“Like a foreign country?” I asked.
“I was thinking more like the Bronx.”
“New parameters,” I said. “Bold without crossing a major body of water.”
“How about
in
the water?”
There is something to be said for being bland,
I thought as I climbed the narrow vertical ladder on the port side of
The Lightship
, an eighty-year-old boat that had been salvaged from the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay and was now docked at a pier on the Hudson River.
When Hope recommended the place, I imagined myself following in the footsteps of Mimi and Mylo’s marina-kindled romance. But that was summer in the Hamptons, and this was winter along the West Side Highway.
A frigid wind blew off the Hudson, and the dark waves sloshing against
The Lightship
seemed more threatening than buoyant. As I hoisted myself aboard, I reminded myself that Melinda enjoyed adventures.
A metal stairway led into the belly of the boat, where R&B emanated from the barnacle-clad engine room that housed an intimate lounge. With candlelit catwalks cutting through the rusting hull, it was a cross between a swanky bar and Davy Jones’s locker.
There was no sign of Melinda among the twenty- and thirtysomething fashionistas in their all-black ensembles. I was wearing a dark gray jacket and jeans, my standard uniform, but I had tucked in my shirt.
I positioned myself on a bar stool. After a couple minutes I realized I was slouching, so I stood instead. I checked my watch. It was five after nine. I had an eight a.m. interview I hadn’t finished preparing for. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about it.
My cell phone vibrated, and I worried Melinda was canceling. But it was my parents calling. They’d been updating me regularly about my grandmother’s health. There was nothing to update, since I’d been calling her every morning on my way to work; however, that had negligible impact on the frequency of my parents’ bulletins.
“Just wanted to let you know that there’s no change in your grandmother’s condition,” my father said.
“She doesn’t have a condition,” I said. “She has stitches.”
“Well, she didn’t get any more stitches today,” my mother clarified.
“She’s not going to get any more stitches,” I said.
“Suddenly you’re a doctor,” my father commented.
“It’s not too late for you to go back to medical school,” my mother said. “My Zumba instructor’s nephew didn’t go until he was thirty-eight, and by the time he graduated he was married.”
“I’m not going back to medical school,” I assured her.
“Have you reconsidered looking into mail-order brides?”
Before I could reply, my father said, “Bernie was moved out of the ICU.”
As usual, my parents had buried the lede.
“That’s great news,” I said.
“Make sure to say that to your grandmother.”
“I will,” I said before asking the obvious question. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Bernie’s still unconscious,” my mother said. “The doctor said he wasn’t optimistic.”
“That’s not what the doctor said,” my father objected.
“He said that Bernie may never gain consciousness.”
“But he didn’t use the word ‘optimistic’!”
“Because he wasn’t!”
I looked around the dark room. A shellacked lobster seemed to be eyeing me. Melinda was late. Bernie was dying. My parents were dysfunctional. And I was alone. Figuratively. There were about twenty people sprawled on the sofas and shimmying in the shadows as Mary J. Blige insisted
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