RSS 2.0 FeedDates and Plots
“How’s your steak?”
“What?”
“Your steak, is it good?”
“Oh yes, very good,” Mark stopped staring at a picturesque row of bottles on the shelf behind the bar and hastily shoved in a piece of meat. The girl looked at him expectantly. Now he must ask her how she likes her salad, even if he’s one hundred percent sure she’ll say, “It’s delicious.” How can it be delicious, that grassy salad – for a cow, maybe. Never mind, he’ll be polite. He must. Let her report to Sarah that he was polite, boring to death, but polite. If she says he was rude, his dear sister Sarah will go berserk and unleash Mom on him. Come on, swallow this unchewable steak and ask about her salad.
“You’ve seemed so far away just now,” said the girl. “Have you been dreaming about something?”
“How’s your salad?” Bad timing, she may think him rude after all.
“It’s delicious. So, is it a secret?”
“What secret?” Three more chunks of this abominable steak, and he’ll be done.
“I asked what you’ve been dreaming about.”
She was not easy to distract, this one. Mark suddenly realized he forgot her name. Damn. Something starting with N or maybe M: Nancy, Macey, Nellie... All right, he would have to do without it. He couldn’t ask her to repeat her name in the middle of dinner. Besides, it was their second meeting.
The first one was arranged by Sarah at one of her customary, dull parties. “Have you met my brother Mark? Mark, this is my friend Nancy, Macey, whatever” – “Nice to meet you” in chorus. A perfectly charming improvised meeting by Sarah’s standards. Just about as improvised as the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace. A week later he invited the girl to dine. Another perfectly natural development, as far as Sarah was concerned. The only reason Mark was here now with this inquisitive female whose name he could no longer remember was Sarah’s recently developed obsession with turning him into a married man.
It all started two months ago when his thirty-fifth birthday was commemorated by a family dinner. “Mark, what’s going to become of you?” asked Mom while they dutifully savored tart au chocolat from her French cuisine book.
“What do you mean, Mom? I think I am doing pretty well.”
“I’m not talking about your academic career, your books and articles. I’m talking about more important things.” She glanced at Sarah, summoning support.
“Mark, are you ever going to marry?” Sarah never wasted time beating around the bush.
“None of your business, Sis.”
“And I think it is,” Sarah said. “You had plenty of time to marry on your own or at least to have a serious relationship. If you failed so far, it’s my duty to help you.”
“In what way?”
“I know many nice girls who want a husband. I’ll introduce you; you’ll ask the girl out. Sooner or later you’ll find your second half. Better do it soon though; twenty years more and you may no longer be in demand.” Sarah shot a pointed glance at his receding hairline.
“Don’t bother. I’m not going to ask out all the husband-hunting nurses from your hospital.”
“What do you have against nurses?” Sarah inquired. “Are you so full of yourself that you only go out with PhDs?”
“I’ve nothing against nurses. If you want to help your colleagues catch a husband, open a marriage agency. Don’t count on me.”
But once Sarah had something on her mind, she never gave up. Combining abstract blackmail (“Mom will be devastated”), concrete threats (“I’ll tell Mom you have high cholesterol”) and the persistence of a mule, she convinced Mark that if he wanted to preserve his sanity, he’d better cooperate. They reached an agreement:
1) If he couldn't stand the girl after the first dinner, he was free not to call her anymore;
2) Not more than one girl from Sarah’s husband-catching network in a month;
3) Sarah must not be nosy. This, of course, was only wishful thinking, but he had to state it nevertheless.
So now he sat here with a girl whose name he could not remember and struggled to support a polite conversation. She was still waiting for him to answer her question. Why should he tell her what he was dreaming about? Why not? If she decided he was weird, even crazy, that would only make things easier. She’d be happy never to hear from him again. Funny, though, Mark did find her rather pretty and appreciated that, so far, she’d said nothing dumb; but her close connection to Sarah and the purposefulness of their meeting made any notion of romance impossible. He swallowed another chunk of the gummy steak and said, “I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking about. Those bottles above the bar have given me an idea for a story. A guy comes home...”
“How interesting! Are you a writer?”
“No, not a real writer, at least not a novelist, but I write short stories in my spare time.”
“Cool! Sorry, I’ve interrupted you. So what’s this story about?”
“It’s only an idea so far. This guy comes home; he’s very upset, mad at his boss, something like that. He opens a bottle of Scotch and, oops, a genie comes out of the bottle, you know, like in Thousand and One Nights Tales but not exactly the same.
“He’s a Scot, this genie, and he’s drunk. So the guy says ‘How come you’re a Scot? You’re supposed to be an Arab, a magical guy, who fulfills my wishes. Are you going to fulfill my wishes?’ But the genie is so drunk, he can’t fulfill anything. He says, ‘What the hell, I spent years in Scotch, how can I be anything but drunk? What wishes? Go bring me more Scotch, bring whiskey.’ And here I don’t know what will happen. He probably makes havoc and destroys the guy’s place completely. Or they both get drunk, and the genie stuffs the guy into the bottle and takes over his place. Don’t know yet.”
The girl stopped working on her salad and stared at Mark, her eyes widened.
“So, what do you think? Weird, crazy, funny?” Mark asked.
“All of those,” said the girl without a name, diving back into her salad. She thoughtfully extracted a cherry tomato from the green hills of lettuce and added, “And what if this guy opened a bottle of French wine, with a French genie inside? Wouldn’t it be more subtle?”
“When you’re really upset, you want something stronger than wine,” Mark said, “but that’s an interesting comment, I haven’t thought about it.” He glanced at the bottles. “You’re right, there are so many possibilities here. Like, the Scottish genie and the guy open a bottle of vodka, and a Russian genie joins in. And then they have nothing left but a bottle of French wine. And, oops, a French female genie is on the scene. She lures them back into their bottles and takes over the guy’s place.”
”Fascinating,” the girl said, sifting through the remains of her salad. Obviously, she was sick of his drunken genii plots. Mark didn’t care; the evening was a success, and that night he happily typed most of the drunken genii story. The genii raced all over, Mark had lots of fun in their company, and in a couple of days the story was polished and sent to Weird Tales. The weirdest part of it all was that the story was accepted.
“It takes a weird, dull date to get an idea for a weird, funny story,” Mark thought, drifting on cloud nine, with the acceptance e-mail gently ringing in his head – heavenly music.
When Sarah’s husband-catching network provided the next dull-date candidate, Mark actually looked forward to the boring evening. He couldn’t explain why, but he had a premonition he would leave the restaurant with another promising idea.
This time he took care to remember the girl’s name – Diane. They both ordered pasta, Diane chattered non-stop but nevertheless managed to wipe out tortellini della nonna in record time. Even la nonna would have been impressed. Mark was starting to lose his hopes for a new plot. No ideas reached him through the steady buzz of Diane’s enthusiastic small talk. They ordered desert. Diane was raving about her yoga classes now.
“What do you think about meditation?” Mark asked politely, wondering if Diane stopped talking while meditating.
“Awesome, absolutely awesome experience!” Diane exclaimed, proceeding to elaborate on the fascinating subject of meditation. Mark nodded his head from time to time. He heard nothing.
“OMG,” he thought, “OMG. OMG.” And then he had it. It came out of nowhere, the new story.
Diane paused for a breath. Mark thought he had nothing to lose. Who knows, he could even get some useful feedback from her.
“You know,” he said hastily, jumping into the middle of her endless tirade, “I’ve just had an idea for a funny story. A guy opens his eyes in the morning and, oops, there is something written in burning letters on his wall: OMG. He thinks it’s somebody’s joke, tries to wipe the letters off – no way. He goes to work, comes back – the letters are still there, burning. He paints over them – no change. He’s frightened now, can’t understand what this means – OMG burning on his wall. He can’t sleep at night, nightmares and stuff; he decides to go on vacation, just to be away from this burning OMG. But when he enters the hotel room, it’s the same thing – OMG on the wall. And nobody else can see the letters. Then... Well, I don’t know yet what happens next.”
“I’ll tell you what happens,” Diane said, “he ends up in a madhouse, together with his burning letters. “
“Well, that’s a possibility. But then it wouldn’t be much of a story.”
“Yep, just another medical history,” Diane offered her professional opinion.
“Yoga sounds great. Do you have other hobbies?” Mark asked, trying to change the subject. It was a mistake.
“I’ve already told you about my hobbies, it’s your turn now.”
This proved she could shut up during her meditation after all, if she really wanted to. His embryo plot was the last thing she wanted to talk about, but Mark could not help it.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about something else that could happen to this guy with the burning letters. At the end, when they almost drive him crazy, he takes a marker and adds his own letters to the OMG, so that it turns into another word. And then, oops, the word disappears.”
“Really? What letters?” Diane asked, amazed and skeptical at the same time.
“I don’t know yet, have to think more about it,” said Mark.
“Sure, think it over. Hope you find something. Won’t be easy. Have you finished your dessert?”
It didn’t take long to pay the bill and say their goodbyes. Diane spoke to him as if he were a patient diagnosed with some curious form of mental disease.
“Good luck with your story!” she said, and he knew he’d never see her again. All for the best.
Once again he had a new plot. It took time and headaches to find the missing letters, but he finally managed: doOMGate. The burning letters vanished from the wall – the story was finished.
Not that Mark never had good ideas without Sarah’s obligatory dates, but now he felt sure that more meetings would bring more peculiar plots. He couldn’t explain why – call it a hunch, a superstition, never mind what it was. And, indeed, more dates brought more ideas. It worked.
This happy arrangement continued for another six months. It was time for the next date, but there was no call from Sarah. Maybe something was wrong with her. Mark called.
“How’s it going, big sis?”
“All right, little bro.”
“How are the kids?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Got any plans for my future?” Mark asked.
“So, you’re enjoying our arrangement?”
“I’m getting used to it. No complaints.”
“I heard you’ve had a number of short stories published lately. Congratulations!” A tiny hint of menace glimmered in Sarah’s voice.
“Thanks.”
“What’s this thing you’ve got – telling the girls the plots of your masterpieces? Nothing else to talk about?”
“Why not?”
Sarah sighed. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I think you were right – these dates are a waste of time. Nothing comes of them except your weird stories.” She paused for a bit. Mark waited in silence.
She continued, with the staccato of a trial attorney. “These dates are your only source of literary inspiration, aren’t they? Well, in that case, you’ll have to manage without them. The talk about you has spread. The girls read all your stories online. Diane even ordered a printed copy of the magazine with the OMG story. She wants me to get your autograph on it. OMG, for God’s sake. So, you see, your literary fame is on the rise. But nobody I know wants to date you, rest assured of that. Almost nobody – there is one weirdo who’s eager, but I don’t favor the idea.”
“Well, all right, then,” said Mark, sizing up his disappointment.
Never mind, he could do without these stupid dates. Promising ideas would come anyway, sooner or later. He could go on a real date for a change, with somebody he really wanted to be with. He only had to figure out who this somebody was.
Another month went by, but no interesting ideas happened to drift Mark’s way. He wrote a couple of stories he himself didn’t like much – boring, banal, bland. Three Bs, as he nicknamed them.
Then Sarah called to discuss a present for Mom’s birthday, mainly to insure that they both wouldn’t give her a Kindle. When this was settled Mark heard himself saying, “What about this weirdo who wants to meet me? Maybe a weirdo is just what I need, you know.”
“You may be right,” Sarah said. “OK, I’ll give you her number. Her name is Lisa Doolittle.”
“What? No kidding? Lisa Doolittle?”
“I knew you’d love it,” Sarah sighed. “Funny, isn’t it? Especially with you being a linguist. Too bad your name isn't Henry Higgins.”
“Yeah, that’s cool. Her parents must have had a sense of humor.”
“Or they had never heard about Elisa Doolittle,” Sarah offered. “You’ve got a chance to find out. Just call her and tell her you’re my brother, that’ll be enough. ”
This time it was a Japanese restaurant. They ordered a plate of sushi for two and fell silent. Mark pondered asking Lisa if she was named in honor of the Fair Lady. Something about the girl was different from Sarah’s other protégées, but he could not tell what, not yet. Mark wondered why painstakingly politically correct Sarah labeled Lisa a weirdo. She looked normal enough to him – not a polished, unnatural Hollywood beauty, but not an ugly duckling either, not at all.
“So, what do you think about my name – Lisa Doolittle?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“I think it’s cool! I wish I were Higgins, that would be a blast. Did your parents really name you after Elisa Doolittle?”
“Yep, loved Pygmalion, both of them,” Lisa said. It was impossible to tell if she shared her parents’ attitude. “I think I owe you an apology.”
“An apology? Why?”
“I wanted to meet you very much, but I’m not hunting for a husband.” Lisa delivered this revelation in one breath and looked at Mark, waiting for his reaction. He made a grave face at first but then laughed.
“No problem. I’m not hunting for a wife.” Mark said, relieved. Speechless, Lisa stared at him open-mouthed, and he added hastily, “I mean, I only do this for Sarah, to stop her terrorizing me. But that’s a secret, don’t tell anybody.”
“Ah...” Lisa said. “I wondered...”
“So let’s just eat sushi and enjoy ourselves, shall we?” Mark said, feeling ten years younger.
“Yes, lets,” Sara echoed, still looking preoccupied. It must have been contagious, because Mark suddenly felt preoccupied, too.
“So why did you want to meet me then?” Mark asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.
“Oh, I heard all this talk about you from the girls – how you told them you just got an idea for a story. I read some of your stories, loved them by the way. The thing is, I study psychology, and I think it’s fascinating how people get their ideas. Like, where do ideas come from?“ she paused. “I’m sorry, I’m talking nonsense.”
“No, you’re not. I’ve thought about this, too, of course. But I don’t know where they come from, the ideas. Out of nowhere. One moment there’s nothing, and the next – you’ve got an idea. You see something, hear something and boom – you’ve got it. The problem is you never know in advance what you have to look at or listen to.”
“Even if I wanted to write a story, I would never know what to write about,” said Sarah. ”I read Steven King’s memoirs recently; he gives advice to young writers, things like ‘don’t use adverbs,’ ‘write every day,’ stuff like that, but all he says about ideas is ‘don’t worry, if you want to write, ideas will come.’ Never worked for me, but well, I’m not a writer.”
“I think he’s right,” Mark said, “if you want to write really badly, ideas come, sooner or later.”
The sushi arrived. Armed with chopsticks, Mark and Lisa consumed exquisite and enigmatic Japanese creations, savoring their exotic taste. When they were done with most of the culinary masterpieces, Mark said, “I want to tell you something else about ideas, but promise it will be our dark secret.”
“I swear,” Lisa put her chopsticks on the table and raised her right hand in a comic pledge.
“I got this weird idea about drunken genies on the first date with one of your colleagues. And then, I can’t explain why, I had a hunch that the next awkward date with somebody else would bring another equally weird idea. And it worked – another date, another piece of weirdness. So dating became a kind of a superstitious ritual. I started really looking forward to these dates as a source of inspiration, a golden reef for crazy ideas.”
“That’s amazing!” Lisa whispered, leaving her half-eaten sushi in a pool of soy sauce.
“Yes, fascinating, isn’t it?” smiled Mark. “And that’s not the whole story. When the awkward dates stopped, I suddenly found myself out of ideas. Not completely, but at least out of ideas I really liked. I know this can’t last forever, something interesting will turn up, but when? No idea. No idea when I’ll get the idea. Funny, eh?”
“It’ll turn up soon, I’m sure!” Lisa hastened to say. For a moment she concentrated on rescuing her soy-drowned sushi. “Wait,” she said suddenly, her chopsticks frozen in mid-air, “but you should have got another idea now, today. What have you got? What’s it about?”
“Eh...” Mark hesitated. He even closed his eyes to make an inventory of his thoughts. “Nothing. I’ve got nothing today.”
“How disappointing,” Lisa said. “But why? Do you know why it doesn’t work today, the golden reef and all that?”
Mark shrugged.
“I know!” Lisa exclaimed. A couple at a nearby table stared, drawn by her dramatic tone. “It means something is wrong with me! What else could it be?”
“Nonsense! Nothing is wrong with you. I... ” Mark wanted to say, “like you” but thought better. “It could be anything. It could be the sushi, for example.”
“No, it must be me. The sushi is good.”
“But so are you!” Mark smiled. “And you know, I don’t really care that I’ve no ideas for a new story. It’s been a fun evening.”
“But I care,” said devastated Lisa.
Amazed by her tragic reaction to his lack of ideas, Mark finished off his maki salmon and avocado. Indeed, Lisa was right – it should have worked today, but it hadn’t. Why? What was different?
The instant Mark thought about it, he knew: everything was different. “I know why it doesn’t work today!” he shouted. “You’re right, it’s because of you!”
Lisa looked at him, perplexed. The couple, now fully intrigued, exchanged significant glances. “I mean, you’re different from all the other girls,” Mark continued, reducing the volume of his monologue to a decent level. “You said yourself you’re not a husband hunter. All those other women, they were so purposeful, unnatural; it felt terribly awkward. And boring, too, so I drifted away into my own thoughts. Today it’s different – we’ve been talking, eating, just having a good time without that paralyzing awkwardness.”
“That must be the reason,” Lisa nodded. “That’s totally fascinating, getting story ideas out of nowhere in the middle of an awkward date. I wish I could be as useful as the other girls; this time wouldn’t have been a waste for you.”
Mark hesitated for a moment, cleaning the last remnants of sushi from his plate. “I don’t think this evening was a waste of time, “he said. “Do you?”
“No.”
“Do you like Italian food?”
“Love it,” Lisa smiled.
“Italian next time then.”
“Your sister thinks I’m a weirdo,” Lisa whispered loudly.
“Yes, but she thinks I’m a weirdo, too, so we’re a good match.”