Lunches with Larry

PROLOGUE

It all happened pretty much the way that I've laid it out for you. I've changed some names, taken a few liberties with time and dialogue, and made myself slightly more attractive. My nose, for example, is not so small and straight. But that's to be expected, isn't it? No one leaves anything exactly how they found it, especially history.

I've tried to be truthful and fair to all concerned. Still, Amy will say I was never that sexually dynamic. My roommate will say it never required Japanese fighting sticks to wake him for court. And the business folks will send hate mail. A few may sue.

Still, I was the youngest nuclear fuel broker in history. I found love amidst the industry’s scandalous decline. And my first prayer really produced tangible results.

The story begins on Sunday, April 16, 1995. I was struggling and sad, so I asked God to lunch. The story ends with a teardrop, exactly twenty days and a lifetime later. Skip to the end if you don't believe me.

CHAPTER 1

"Truth? It’s the hardest thing to find."

-- Officer Steve, NYPD

Monday, April 17, 1995

I awoke at 7:43 a.m., two minutes ahead of my alarm. I stood, stretched, and thought briefly about returning to bed, but I needed my job more than the slumber, and so headed for the shower. It’s amazing how poverty turns us into realists.

As the warm water gently encouraged me to consciousness, I replayed the previous night’s prayer. God and I decided to meet for a two o’clock lunch at a place called On the Water Front in my hometown of New Rochelle, New York. The Big Guy suggested the late hour to avoid a mad rush for autographs, blessings, and things of that nature. It was a hike for me, but well worth it if He actually showed.

I dried myself, dressed, and grabbed the keys to my heavily mortgaged Miata. I was early so I stopped at a Mobil station for some gas and a donut. Okay, three donuts, but it’s not like I was growing an extra chin.

Actually, after years of being Kate Moss skinny, I was beginning to notice the subtle effects of office ass. This concerned me. It’s not that I had anything against the pleasantly plump population, I just never envisioned myself joining their ranks. All I know about rounded folks is kids used to tease them in grammar school. What if I unwittingly begin to widen the perspective of my belly, but am not quite plump enough to meet their requirements? Would a large band of chubby people tease me, taunt me with diet pills, and call me a want-to-be-beefy-boy? I don’t think I could handle that.

As I left the station, I pushed the donuts aside. My workout program would have to resume.

I avoided the usual traffic by navigating a web of back roads. The route took longer, but what I saved in sanity more than compensated for the increase in weekly gas expenditures. I flipped the top up upon arrival and walked the stone path leading to the office. The makeshift workspace was located in the basement of my boss Tom’s house. He and his partner, Manny, own and operate the world’s smallest nuclear fuel brokerage company. They employ six people; myself, a secretary named Nancy; two traders, Mitch, and Peter; and Anita and Eric, a pair of writers who live in D.C. and work from their respective homes.

It would be quiet today. Manny rarely made the trek in from Long Island on Mondays, Tom had meetings in the city, and Mitch and Peter had about a week’s worth of traveling left on their schedules. That left Nance, a wonderful lady who brought me pretzels and laughed at my jokes.

The morning dragged. I didn’t do much besides randomly interrogate potential fuel buyers and log the conversations. Talk, type, talk, type. After almost four years it was beginning to wear thin. Part of me wanted to run, but the rest knew I’d stumble out of the gate and end up sidelined with raspberry knees. I tried to shake the sting, but the feeling followed me to lunch.

* * *

I made the twenty-minute trip to the restaurant in fifteen. I left the car unlocked, top down, and walked the thin pier leading to the eatery.

I liked the place. No specific reason why. The cute co-ed waitresses didn’t hurt, but they weren’t exactly throwing their tops at me.

How many? asked the hostess. Her tone indicating she was asking for the second time.

Just one for now, but I may be meeting someone, I said.

Smoking?

Yes, you are, I said.

She shrugged.

Whoa, swing and a miss, I whispered. Non-smoking please.

In or out?

Outside.

She sighed, motioned for me to follow her, and whispered something that sounded a lot like jackass.

I shifted in the plastic chair, but no comfort came. One would think after all my meals in this restaurant I’d have accepted my butt falling asleep as an inevitable part of the dining experience, a trade-off for the scenery.

The boat-filled harbor leading to the Long Island Sound was mesmerizing. During the day, rustling water sent my soul swaying, and at night, the lights from the upscale homes danced across each wave, making me simultaneously warm and cool.

I pried my glance from the Sound and began to search for signs of my special guest. With the lunch crowd departed, the restaurant was almost empty. Four gentlemen and a sharp looking woman haphazardly connected two tables in the inside dining area. From the general disarray of the seating arrangements, I concluded the group was what was left of two distinct business lunches that well exceeded the standard, two-drink affair. Sober suits rarely cackled.

At the bar sat a thin, lonely looking man in his mid-fifties. He was attempting to solicit companionship from a bartender who seemed interested only in counting his stock. The patron would stir his drink a while, slur a comment about the weather or some sports player, realize he was talking to air, and go back to stirring his drink. A few minutes later, he’d try again.

I had the outside to myself, strike a young couple of about twenty sitting in the far corner. They were kissing softly, ignoring their food. She wasn’t a terribly pretty girl, but I found myself feeling remarkably jealous of him.

Excuse me, said a stranger.

Yes? I asked, turning from my thoughts, expecting to find a waiter.

I found instead a friendly-looking man of about forty-five. He was of medium height and build with olive skin and short well-kept hair that in a few years would appear more gray than black.

This may sound strange, he said, but I was wondering if I could join you for lunch. I find eating alone to be rather difficult, don’t you?

Actually, I was planning to meet someone, I said, foolishly hoping the Lord would show.

Same here, he said, but I haven’t found him yet. Perhaps, I could join you now and if either of our partners appear, the other could pretend he has some pressing business to attend to and rush off?

That’s kinda weird, don’t you think?

No more than sitting alone, waiting for someone to share your company, when another someone is readily available.

Do I know you? I asked.

Why?

It’s just that most people don’t talk that way. I get it, but most would find it peculiar.

And what would those people do? he asked.

Probably call you a pervert and yell ‘security’. Either that or take a slug at you. This is New York.

But you’re not those people, he said.

True.

So can I sit?

Why not?

Fantastic. I spent the day wondering if you’d let me join you.

What do you mean?

Well, you were planning to meet someone today, right?

Yeah.

Did you know the person, or was it a blind thing?

Blind.

So, if you were meeting someone and I was meeting someone, and neither of our someones showed, could it be possible, given that we were meeting these people at the same time and place, that we could be each other’s someone and just not have realized it yet?

Was that English? I asked.

He offered a shrug and a coy smile. Well?

I guess so, but it depends on whether you knew the someone you were going to meet.

I knew him, but we haven’t spoken in a long while.

He winked, and I almost fell over.

You’re the Big Guy? No, can’t be. Who put you up to this?

Not a soul.

Oh come on. Was it my roommate? No, I never told him. This is insane.

It’s just as sane as you are. After all, it was your idea.

You don’t even look like the Big Guy. I need some proof to make sure it’s really you! How about a burning bush or something?

In the middle of a restaurant?

Okay, well, make that waitress’ shirt fly open, I said, not thinking at all.

Oh, come now.

Right. Right. Sorry. The Big Guy makes a house call, and I ask him to do parlor tricks. You probably only play the big rooms.

Fine, poke fun. You don’t have to believe anything. The fact that you’re even considering a higher power is an improvement over your latest theories, correct?

Easy guess. Agnosticism is popular these days.

Do you want me to go? he asked.

Naw. If you’re a phony, the worst I’ll get is some entertainment, but if you’re the real ‘McCoy’ and I turn you away, what a bonehead I’d be.

True, but logic can only get you so far. For our talk to have meaning, you’ve got to believe, or at least be open to the possibility. When you set this up, I assumed you to be beyond your cynical ways.

I’m trying. It’s just hard to accept. I mean, how many others must ask to speak with you each day? Why me?

Why not? he offered.

That’s a weak answer.

Just as weak as doubting yourself and our relationship.

But there are so many things that make this unreal, I said.

Like?

Like, I can’t believe you’re here! Why did you come, and come to see me? I’m not exactly the world’s best person. And what about the time? Surely, you must have better things to do.

No one ever asked me to lunch before, he said. I liked the concept. And besides, you’re picking up the tab, if I remember correctly.

Oh sure. I said, patting my pockets. But I still don’t know if you’re really Him. And what do I call you if you are? This is unbelievable. I never expected you to show, and now that you have, I feel all uneasy about how to act and what to...

Whoa, slow down, kid. We’ve got time.

Well, what do I call you? I mean some folks consider your name to be unpronounceable and I’d hate to insult you by botching it all up.

That’s funny, I never thought Larry to be much of a tongue twister.

Larry?

Lawrence actually, but that makes me sound pompous and aloof. Larry is more down to Earth. It keeps me in touch with the chili eaters of the world.

Well Larry, it’s good to finally meet. I’m Clutch – Robins Clutch actually.

A pleasure, he said, extending his hand. What’s on your mind?

Well Larry... I can’t believe I called you Larry... isn’t there something more formal, a last name perhaps?

Larry’s fine.

"Okay, but to tell you the truth, I’d feel a lot better if I knew you were the you I think you are."

Which you would that be?

You know, the only you you are. The Big Guy, Captain Creator, the man with Moses in his pocket.

Actually, there are more yous in you than you think. We’re all several people, different ones at different times.

How do you mean? I asked.

Well, are you the same person when you’re with your grandmother on her eighty-fifth birthday as you are when you’re with your wife on your wedding night?

I hope not.

How about when you’re with your twelve-year-old son as the coach of his baseball team? Or when you’re with that same son fifteen years later on his wedding day?

No.

That’s right. A totally different you is living each moment and once the moment is gone, so is that particular you. At times I’m sure it can feel like there are too many yous to track. That’s when people feel lost.

Yeah, but are you really Him?

"Look Clutch, I’m not trying to be evasive. I just don’t feel right about answering the question. I may mislead you according to your predetermined definition of who or what the Big Guy is. You see there are a lot of mes as well.

Just accept that I’m here and as long as I am, I’ll be willing to talk straight with you. So put your nametags away and talk to me the way you want me to talk to you. Like a person, like a friend who actually cares.

Okay Larry. I’ve got some questions.

Let’s see the list, he said.

How did you know?

Clutch, you’re type A plus.

I passed the handwritten page across the unset plastic table and watched him look it over. With my penmanship, I was amazed that he could read it at all.

Whoa, this may take some time, he said.

Do you think we’ll get it all in? I asked, as the waitress appeared. I’ve got to be back to work in about a half hour.

Sorry guys, I thought this table was set. I’ll be back in a second, she said, hurrying off to snatch a couple of place settings.

Well Clutch, he began, I think we’re going to have to change our plans.

How do you mean?

The list. It’s impressive, but too vast for one sitting. I’m afraid if we talked about all this at once, your head may explode.

Really?

No, not really. But it’s a lot to absorb.

Right. Sorry about the length.

Don’t be. You’re the first to ask so directly, and I’ve been around a while. So here’s the deal. I’ll answer one question per day over lunch, but you only get twenty days. After that, our relationship will go back to the way it was yesterday. Sound fair?

Are you kidding? I asked. That’s fantastic. But am I really worthy? I mean, what must I do to prove myself and my intentions?

Just listen, learn, and praise me in the highest...you know all glory and honor be to mighty me and things of that nature.

I was climbing to my knees when the waitress came back.

I don’t think you’ll find much food under there, she said, stifling her laughter.

Forgive him, darling. He can’t take a joke, said Larry.

What joke? she asked.

It’s one of those inside things, I grumbled. Sorry.

Oh sure, she said. Drinks?

Coke for me. Larry?

I’ll have the same.

You got it. She arranged the plastic settings and disappeared.

Pretty funny there, Larry, I said. I’ve been eyeing that girl for six months.

Whoever said I don’t have a sense of humor? Besides, you shouldn’t be lusting after everyone in a skirt. Women have much more to offer, but I see from your list that romance is scheduled for conversation fifteen.

The waitress reappeared and passed out our drinks. I’m sorry about the wait. Lou and Wendy were going at it again.

Who? I asked.

The cook and the manager. Things about stop around here when they argue. It’s ridiculous. Anyway, I’m Lisa. Have you decided?

We looked at each other and then at her.

Oh, menus! she said, embarrassed by her thoughtlessness. Let me grab some for you.

Don’t worry about it, I assured. I practically have it memorized.

Come to think of it, you do look familiar, she offered, trying to regain her professionalism. "You went to New Rochelle High, right?

Salesian, I corrected.

Oh right, right... she said snapping her fingers, as if the action would somehow enhance the memories she thought she had but didn’t. You graduated just a few years before me in ah... eighty-six?

Eighty-eight actually.

So we’re the same age then, she said, backpedaling. I knew there was something.

I gave her a smirk that conveyed my disbelief in the validity of her sudden friendliness.

Okay, I’m busted. That same age thing was pretty lame. I guess I don’t know you.

Actually, you might. I come here with the guys on Saturdays. But it’s crowded, and I’m sure you see lots of faces.

Did I ever wait on you?

Twice.

Wow, I’m drawing a blank. Sorry.

It happens. So when did you switch to the lunch shift?

A few days ago. I’m covering for a girlfriend. She got mono pretty bad.

That’s a tough one, said Larry.

So, you still working nights? I asked.

Oh yeah, something’s got to pay for school.

What are you taking?

Psychology prerequisites at Westchester for now, but I’m hoping to transfer to Berkeley next year.

California Berkeley? I asked.

The one and only.

Well, it’s a tough school.

Oh, it wasn’t the grades. I’m sort of a nerd. I started here for the in-state rate…and to keep the job. Every little bit, right? I’m hoping to transfer in the fall.

She smiled and I fell into a daydream. I pictured her walking in the sunshine, shades on, hair down, laughing with friends about some class I would never take. She waved toward me, but not for me. I turned to find her someone else waving back and my faced dropped like gas prices don’t. Suddenly I longed to run. But my lips moved faster than my legs and so I simply talked on, hoping the subject would change.

Well, this is Larry and I’m Robins, but my friends call me Clutch.

What should I call you?

Up to you.

Okay, Clutch, what’ll it be?

"How about a couple of bacon burgers?

Larry, you like cheese?

He nodded.

Fine, I continued. One with cheese and one without. Plus an order of rings and two fries.

Hungry boys, she said, winking at both of us before turning toward the kitchen.

You like her, don’t you? asked Larry with the kind of smile you’d expect from a grammar school kid.

I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah. I guess so. Sorta.

Real clear on that I see. So why not ask her out? You seem to ask everyone else.

You heard her. She’s all but gone. No sense getting excited over what’s not gonna happen.

That’s not why you won’t ask.

Oh really, then what is?

Maybe it’s because you actually care what her answer would be. It’s risky to try for someone like her.

Perhaps, I said.

You never get anything worthwhile until you risk something worthwhile. If you want her affection, you’re going to have to risk your pride. Fair is fair.

I guess. I just wish women were as easy to understand as football.

Love is no game. Treat it that way and you’re sure to lose. Women don’t and that’s why they usually get more out of the experience.

They also get hurt more often, I said.

It’s risk and reward, Clutch.

I think I’ll stick to football for a while.

What’s your favorite team? asked Larry.

Steelers.

They may have a shot this year.

Get out, I said. You follow football?

Religiously, if you excuse the pun.

So what’s your team?

No favorites. I just love the game, the camaraderie, and the sacks. I love sacks... a defensive fan I am.

But how can you have fun without rooting for a specific team?

I cheer for fantastic plays and great moments. Besides, can you imagine what my having a favorite would do to the point spread system?

Oh yeah, like you’d bet.

I don’t, but others do, and I’d hate to spoil their fun.

You know, it’s funny that we’re combining religion and football, I said. "Me and my roommate Steve used to joke about announcing bible football. You know, scenes like, ‘and Moses takes the hand off from Noah, and he parts the mighty defenders opening a hole for a forty-yard touchdown run.

‘And Jesus is at the forty, he’s at the thirty and, oh no! He’s tripped up at the twenty-five by Judas, that rat bastard.’

Cute, said Larry, complete blasphemy, but cute.

So you don’t get annoyed by things like that?

The Big Guy looks into your heart. If that’s true, there’s no worry.

You’re too much, I said.

That’s funny, lately I’ve been hearing how God’s not enough, he said, quickly changing an unintentional frown back into a smile.

* * *

We spent the rest of our first meeting telling jokes and talking football. What are your thoughts on the Hail Mary pass? Do you think the Immaculate Reception is overrated? Does the name offend you?

I occasionally attempted to shift to a more serious tone, but he assured me that we would meet again the following day and explained how it was important for us to get to know each other again before diving into the thick of things. I agreed.

CHAPTER 2

"Many of the truths we cling to depend solely on our own point of view."

-- Obi-wan Kenobi

"Altering this posture, even for an instant, would indubitably label our most basic beliefs fallacies and affirm to righteousness all that is held in our greatest contempt."

-- Robins Clutch

I was twenty minutes late getting back from lunch. Tom had called to ask for some data, but Nance covered for me. It wasn’t the first time, and I appreciated the thoughtfulness. She was a woman well worth the flowers.

As I settled into my desk, the phone rang. Nance was at the filing cabinets, so I picked it up.

SWAPCO, I announced to the unidentified party.

Yeah Robins, it’s me, Tom.

How’s the meeting going?

Fine. Fine. Sorry about your car.

My car? I stalled, looking at Nance.

Flat tire, she mouthed.

Right, right.... Just my luck. Those bicycle tires go dead if I hit a thumbtack.

You all right? he asked, noticing my hesitation.

Oh yeah. I’m just looking up that stuff on Texas.

Well, what’s the deal? The meeting is about to start again.

I’m waiting on the database. You know it’s been running slow since Manny put in that Data Club program, I said.

Well, for God’s sake, trash the thing! I can’t be missing meetings because of Manny and his stupid programs. I’ve told him a thousand...

Here we go, I said, thankful for the excuse to cut him off. Both plants are running on 18-month cycles, and they use 2.3 million pounds of uranium per year.

What about enrichment?

About 300,000 SWU.

About or exactly? I’ve got to know their needs if I’m gonna talk them into downshifting their long-term contracts in favor of spot market material.

I’ll have to do the calculations.

Forget it, he grumbled. There’s no time. He hung up without a word, an action that had grown much more frequent.

How is he? asked Nance.

Pleasant as always. Thanks for the cover.

No problem, kiddo. You shouldn’t let him get to you. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just under a lot of pressure with financials looking the way they are lately. Lord knows Manny isn’t helping the way he flings around the Amex card.

I know, Nance. I just hate it when people give me crap.

After four years I’d say I understand you pretty well. Jeez’, I see you more than my husband.

Well, I hope he isn’t thinking anything’s going on.

You’re sweet, but he’s too old for jealousy.

What took so long anyway? You meet the guys?

Naw.

A girl? she asked.

I wish. Just struck up a conversation with someone. So what happened while I was out?

Con Ed and Pacific returned your calls. Also, that Uranium Awareness guy in London called.

Tai Yamamoto? I asked.

Yeah. Jeez, he’s working late.

Should I call him now?

Let it sit. He’s probably gone.

Anyone else?

Yup, Eric. He wants you to call him about Washington Public Power Supply System.

Great.

I hated talking to Eric. Actually, I didn’t much like Eric as a person either. He is a whiny, pain in the ass, who constantly complained about various imaginary medical problems. And yet, despite his ever-present hypochondria, he insisted on spending half his day sipping scotch from an unwashed Redskins glass and running down three flights of stairs every fifteen minutes to smoke non-filtered Camels on his front porch. His wife, a non-smoking nurse, definitely wore the pants.

Hey, Eric, I said with phone in hand.

Where were you?

Lunch.

You went out for lunch? I thought you and Nancy order in from the deli.

I wanted something different.

Why?

"Christ Eric, it’s a