Inventions

Friday night. 8 PM. Chez Martin.

The host, clad in a tuxedo, seated me at a table that gave a full view of the restaurant's entrance. The lighting was romantic, and the decor was, for want of a better word, posh. The whole atmosphere whispered "expensive." I took a peek at the menu and, as I'd expected and feared, this was one of those fancy places that listed the price for each item in whole dollars rather than dollars and cents. A rather substantial number of whole dollars. I only hoped that when the bill inevitably arrived at the end of the meal, my credit card's paltry recent-college-grad credit limit would be enough to cover it.

I waited, and watched. Two other couples came through the front door and got whisked away to tables, one dressed casually and the other dressed to the nines. And then . . . there she was. Leslie sauntered through the door wearing a cocktail dress that almost seemed to shimmer when she walked. On her head was a broad-brimmed red hat, almost impossibly elegant. If she'd been wearing a trench coat, she would have looked like Carmen Sandiego — only hotter, if such a thing were possible.

I had on my best date clothes, but now, I felt underdressed.

The host seemed to recognize her, as did the waiter who led her toward my table. They both seemed quite eager to cater to her every whim. Or maybe that's how they treated every customer, and I was projecting. She caught sight of me, and I swear she smirked a little bit. In my mind, for the few steps it took her to reach my table and sit down, that smirk meant she was overjoyed to see me and wanted nothing more than to be with me, then and forever.

"I see we both made it here," she said non-chalantly, taking off her red hat and setting it on a chair to one side of us.

I fumbled for what to say in reply, but the waiter came to my rescue. "Would either of you care for drinks to start?" he asked with a thick French accent.

Leslie glanced at him and, without skipping a beat, said "Apportez-moi votre refroidisseur à vin pastèque et citron vert, Jardin."

Oh my goodness. Of course she spoke perfect French, too.

"Oui, mademoiselle, the waiter replied, then turned to me and asked "Et pour vois?"

"Uh," I said, "Um, just water for me, thanks. Um, for now."

The waiter seemed a touch disappointed that I hadn't ordered a pricier drink, but he nodded professionally and said "Certainement," then headed off toward the kitchen.

I turned to the most beautiful woman in the world, seated across from me, and said, "You're incredible."

She lifted an eyebrow, and seemed to chuckle slightly. "Thanks."

Was I laying it on a bit thick? Did I sound too desperate? Frankly, I didn't care any more. I knew how I felt. "I knew since the moment I first laid eyes on you," I said, "That you were the woman for me."

"No you didn't," she replied.

Her words stunned me into silence.

She continued: "You convinced yourself that I was the perfect match for you, because you were attracted to me." She looked almost wistful. "Heaven knows, I've made that same mistake myself more than once."

I felt the bottom fall out of my world. I was sure all the color drained from my face — either that, or I flushed a deep crimson, I couldn't tell which. How could . . . she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever met! And her charm, her poise, her downright elegance, it was all the pinnacle of anything I could wish for.

Actually . . . now that I thought about it . . . she was an almost perfect beauty. She couldn't have just ended up that way by accident. She must have put effort into it. A lot of effort. She must have practiced for years to get every nuance right. She must have tried and rejected hundreds of outfits, if not thousands, before she settled on her wardrobe. All the time that a guy like me would have been putting into studying for college exams, she would have had to invest in her appearance. . . . Was she a model?

I broke the silence with an awkward "So, um," and then plunged ahead with: "What do you do for a living?"

She took a deep breath. "I've never worked a day in my life."

I frowned. She couldn't be a model. But then . . . "Does," I said, "Does that mean you, that you take money for —"

"No," she insisted. Her glare could have sent an army fleeing in terror. Then, she softened and almost seemed to smirk. "That would be work."

Jardin the waiter appeared with our drinks. He set my glass of water down in front of me unceremoniously, then handed Leslie's wine cooler to her. She smiled and muttered a quick "Merci," then the waiter vanished back into the background.

Leslie took a demure sip, then said "I'm not an heiress, either — though I do have to admit my parents are rather well-off. No, I've sustained myself in a perfectly comfortable lifestyle thanks entirely to the men I've dated."

"So . . ." I began, "Would that — would that make you a gold digger?"

Leslie seemed to consider this. "I suppose, in a way, that's a fair assessment. But I've never dated a man for his money. It's true, I'm attracted to power, to wealth, to brains — and, to a lesser extent, to ambition. But I've always been attracted to those qualities in a man, from the moment I started noticing boys when I was eight years old. It's just instinct for me; this attraction is just . . . my natural state. And the economic benefit kind of goes both ways. When a man shows up at a party with me on his arm, people notice. It's helped more than one of my boyfriends climb the social ladder. And unfortunately, in one rather painful case, it made it easier for him to 'trade up' to an even more socially desirable woman."

I wanted to phrase my next question delicately. "With the men you were attracted to, was there any . . . overlap?"

"You mean, did I ever date more than one man at a time?" she asked. "Once. When I was young and naïve. I wanted them both, and didn't want to choose. God, that caused a lot of drama. I've learned my lesson since then. Better to go for months with no boyfriend, than start in on one before I'm done with another."

So . . . her boyfriends supported her well enough that she was able to get by fine even when she was between boyfriends? That was pretty —

The waiter must have decided that this pause in the conversation meant we were ready to order. He materialized out of nowhere and asked Leslie, "Avez-vous décidé?"

"J'aimerais la spécialité de la maison, Jardin," Leslie replied. "Mi-saignant."

I had no idea what she'd just ordered, but it sounded expensive. Jardin the waiter turned to me. I said, "Um, just a plate of your, um, aper-teefs for me. I'm not very hungry." My pronunciation of apértifs would've given a high school French teacher an anyeurism.

The waiter, ever the professinal, hardly blinked at all and simply said "Very good, sir." There was no a trace of the French accent he'd had before. Leslie grinned broadly at me. It was at this moment I realized the waiter had been playing me. He snatched up our menus, then disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived.

"Just," I said to Leslie, "Just how lavishly do your boyfriends support you?"

"One of them bought me a house," she said. My eyes opened as wide as saucers when she said this. She continued, "He wanted me to live close by him, but not actually move in with him. And I don't mean he bought an extra house and had me live there, no, he put that house in my name, fully paid for, with no mortgage or anything. That was my first experience with having to pay property tax. When we broke up a couple years later, I flipped the house and sold it for a couple hundred thousand more than he'd bought it. Those proceeds gave me one sweet savings account balance."

"Good lord," I said. "There, there must have been a huge capital gains tax."

"None at all, actually," she said. "The house was a gift. The cost basis for a gift isn't the zero dollars I paid for it, it's the fair market value of the asset on the day it was given to me. And since it was my home, the first quarter million dollars of capital gains wasn't taxed at all."

These high-finance numbers were making my head spin.

"So," she said, "Tell me about your love life."

"There's not much to tell," I said. "Chemical engineering majors don't exactly make the college girls swoon."

She frowned. "Didn't you date anybody?"

"I was focused on my studies, and . . ." I shook my head. "Nah, that's just an excuse. I'm socially awkward and I don't have a lot of friends. There wasn't much opportunity for me to learn . . . how to get a girlfriend. And nearly all my classmates were other guys. Well, I did get to go out on an actual date with this one girl my junior year, but it turned out she was just trying to recruit me into the Jehovah's Witnesses."

"Dang," she said, sitting back, "That's . . . really sad."

I didn't tell her about Tina, of course. But then again, I don't like to talk about Tina.

"And being fresh out of college," I continued, "I'm keenly aware that both my social standing and my financial situation are nothing to write home about. It's . . . pretty obvious that you're completely out of my league."

Leslie said nothing. She must've known that any reassurance to me would have been a lie.

"In a way," I said wistfully, "It's kind of liberating. I don't have to beat myself up over letting you get away, or thinking that if I'd only tried harder I could've won your heart."

"Tell you what," she said, "Let's get separate checks."

"Okay," I said, and my voice was hollow. It was both a relief and a final disappointment. On the one hand, I wouldn't need to go into debt to pay for a single meal. On the other hand, it also signalled that our date was no longer a date. It's one thing to know that I was probably never going to win Leslie's affection, but quite another to have it made official.

"You know," Leslie said, "I wouldn't say I'm always going to be beyond your reach. Eventually your career's going to take off, and in the meantime, I know that . . . well, that beauty is fleeting. My mastery of wardrobe, makeup, hair styling, the social graces — those'll only get me so far, once my youthful good looks start to fade. Then I'll have to change my life strategy. I might actually need to marry a man, instead of just dating one. Maybe I'll get divorced, and I'll need a little confidence boost, and I'll remember the chemical engineer who had a huge crush on me and look him up. Who knows?"

My pocket buzzed angrily. "Dang it," I cursed, "I thought I turned my phone off." I took it out and gawked at the screen. "Inventions?! He knows I'm on a date. What the hell?" I looked up at Leslie. "I'd better take this." She raised an eyebrow, and I quickly added: "I swear this isn't a planned 'escape excuse' call."

I opened the line and said, "Sam here, what's up?"

"I've got an idea," Inventions' voice spoke into my ear. "We're gonna revolutionize the timekeeping business. It'll require crystals that can only be grown in zero gee, but they should grow fast enough that we can make them on a Vomit Comet. I'd normally leave you alone at this time of night, but I really need you to make me a big load of iodide compounds while the idea's still fresh in my mind. Get down to the lab, right away!"

He hung up without waiting for an answer.

I looked across at the most beautiful, and unobtainable woman in my world, and tried to say something. But all that came out was "Uh . . ."

"Your boss man roping you back in?" she asked.

"Yeah," I replied. "I really should go." I plunked a twenty and a ten down onto the table, which would barely be enough to cover the aper-teefs I'd ordered with tax and tip. It was also, realistically, the most I could afford. "I'm really sorry."

"Don't be," she said. "This is a really nice restaurant. I've eaten alone here before." She grinned. "And my night's still young."

"Thanks," I said, getting up. "I guess we'll, uh, see each other around some time, or something."

"Maybe," she said. "Like I said, who knows?" And with a goodbye wave, she faded into my past.

I left the restaurant, and I jogged along the street outside, headed toward the other side of town. Of course Chez Martin was nowhere near Inventions' lab. I suppose I could have just turned Inventions down this time. After all, his new idea would still be there on the other side of the weekend, if it was any good. And it's not like he had a KC-135 Vomit Comet lying around, ready to put iodide compounds on board at a moment's notice. . . . Or did he?

Damn. Not only wasn't anything I was doing for Inventions making me any money, I don't even think any of the adventures I was having with him would translate into useful professional experience.

But I just. Couldn't. Keep away.

I hope you've enjoyed reading Inventions as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

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