Blind Date

Tony Mangioni

I felt sorry for the guy. Call me a sap, call me crazy even, but I couldn't help it. Sure, he'd been a pompous jerk before, but I guess maybe I egged him on a little...well, okay, a lot.

"New girl," Mike said, gesturing to the scene of the accident after he finally made it back to our table. His attempt to clean himself up in his third trip to the men's room had failed miserably, as was evidenced by the faint stains of marinara sauce splattered all over the front of his otherwise bleached white, button-up shirt. At least he'd left his suit jacket here with me; his drycleaning bill would be bad enough already.

"Oh really?" I said. "You sure it wasn't a hit put out on you by some disgruntled customer? Me, for instance?"

"Nope, definitely a new girl," he said, smiling. "I haven't seen her here before, and I come here a lot. Besides, you wanted that spaghetti too bad to waste it on me."

"Touché," I said. "And speaking of which..."

The plate of doublyfresh spaghetti arrived and was lowered onto the table. Only, instead of the young waitress who'd almost knocked off Mike, an older, rounder gentleman stood before us.

He had a jet black pompadour that was slicked to a shine and a thick, black mustache with curls on the ends that matched the tuft of curly chest hair protruding over the collar of his uniform. Beneath the multiple chins where his neck would have been, a scarlet scarf was tied with a neat knot in front, its plush ends dangling on either side.

"Mangioni!" Mike said, separating the syllables of the name in a poor imitation of the earlier Italian waitress' accent. "How you been?"

"Mike, my friend," Mangioni began in a much more authentic Italian tone, "what do you mean by coming in here, trashing my place, and roughing up my help, eh?"

"About that...sorry, Tony. Really, I am. Guess I should've been watching where I was going instead of drooling over everyone else's entrées."

"Prego, don't mention it," Tony said, waving the apology away as if it were a pesky insect. "In fact, this one's on the house for your troubles."

Just then, Mangioni...or Tony...or—whoever he was—noticed me sitting across from Mike. He winked and elbowed me lightly as he said, "You gotta watch out for old Mike here. Couldn't find his way out of a paper sack with a flashlight and a cell phone." His voice grew louder near the end until it became a raucous, bellowing laugh, and he took his apron and wiped the tears from his eyes.

I giggled again, trying not to look at Mike, and he asked my name.

"Jane," I responded. "Jane Carver. Pleased to meet you, Mr...."

"Just call me Tony," he said. "So what brings a classy girl like you to a classy place like this with a—" he elbowed Mike this time "—not so classy guy like this, eh?"

Mike cleared his throat and sat up in his seat, his chest swelling with pride. "She's my date for the evening," he said.

"I'm his blind date for the evening, as a matter of fact," I retorted. Mike sank back into his seat, properly deflated.

"Nothing wrong with that," Tony said. "All kinds come here: husbands and wives, couples, singles, singles-and-looking—you name it."

"I can see why," I said. "The place is really lovely. It sort of...draws you in, doesn't it?"

Tony paused to consider my observation, twirling his mustache on one end. "Yes," he said finally, this new revelation dawning on his face. "Yes, I suppose it does. What a lovely girl you are, Jane! Blind date or not, I think this one's a keeper," he said, glancing back at Mike.

"You know something, Tony?" Mike said, now looking at me as if for the first time, as if the entire evening's unfortunate events were suddenly washed away and made as new and attractive as my latest entrée. "I think she is, too."

And suddenly I felt myself mimicking, like a chameleon, the color scheme of the restaurant as my face flushed a scarlet hue rivaling Tony's neck scarf.

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