The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

Last Call for Dinner I - 10/11/04

Monday, October 11, 2004

Welcome back. We're meeting again on a Monday, and you're probably wanting to know what you missed the last couple of days. I've got a lot more answers now, that's for sure. But maybe just as many new questions to go along with them. I open one box and there's a smaller box inside. There's much I have to catch you up on- a series of strange adventures, and meeting new faces. And poor Rence was there for all of it.

In fact, he's still here... I don't know if I'm going to be able to convince him to leave anytime soon. He insists on staying down here to help me figure out this whole puzzle.

Not that I'm trying to get rid of him. I don't know where I would be now if he hadn't been here to help me keep a cool head. But I worry about his job security. He says that it's A-Okay with his employers if he stays a couple of extra days down here south o' the Mason-Dixon. I'm not entirely sure about that, though. I don't know a lot of bosses who shrug their shoulders at not-quite-justified extended vacations.

All right, to the beginning. Chronology, yeah. Getting that right will help me think better too.

Friday night. Rence had estimated he'd arrive around 7 pm or so. The plan was for him to show up, drop his stuff off in my apartment, and then we'd go for dinner in Dupont Circle (so I could show off one of the many fine eateries in my 'hood). Unfortunately, since I hadn't seen Rence for almost a year, I'd forgotten about his... disregard for traditional notions of timeliness.

True, you can't blame him for traffic snarls all the way down the East Coast. But it was almost ten-thirty when my good friend showed up at my door, with a sheepish grin and a bagful of excuses. Not to mention a bag from Wendy's with a few cold fries left in it, since he'd stopped for food along the way. By that time I had eaten four of my own fingers and had started in on my thigh.

"Hey there, muchacho!" he said.

"I have a cell phone," I said.

We gave each other a hearty hug. Then I stepped back to take a good look at my friend, who had changed very little since last Christmas.

Rence Robichaux is a couple inches shorter than me, and I'm no Shaq or Wilt. But he more than makes up for it with muscle mass, far more than I could ever hope for. He has long, floppy blond hair that would look more appropriate on a denizen of the other Coast; his eyes are deep brown (can brown be deep? Hell if I know). That night he was wearing his usual type of uniform, a green-and-blue plaid shirt over a white t-shirt, and jeans. And, of course, Docs.

After we'd gotten through all our hellos and how-are-yas, I said, "You want to sit a spell? That drive must have worn you out." I was kind of tired myself after all that waiting.

"Hell, no!" Rence said. "No sitting for me. I've been sitting for the past however many hours. Let's get into something. Take me out onto the streets of this metropolis. Come on, you at least need some dinner, right?"

"Er... well, yeah." I couldn't deny that. I motioned awkwardly. "If you need to make a pit stop or anything, it's over there..."

"Pit stop, huh." He clapped me on the shoulder and said, smiling, "Ahh, my old friend, you're the same as you've always been, eh? Sure, just give me a minute. Oh, and..."

Rence unzipped one of his bags and pulled out a wrinkled pair of khakis. "Guess I better strap these on if we end up going anyplace halfway fancy. We're not in Beantown anymore, Toto." He switched to the voice of a character from the movie Groundhog Day: "Am I right or am I right or am I right? Right! Right! Right!"

Rence and the khakis went into my bathroom and shut the door. A few seconds later, I heard the long, self-satisfied sound of a poop making a swim for it.

Good old Rence. I stopped smiling, though, as I remembered he would find out sooner or later that I wasn't the same as I'd always been. That maybe I'd realigned myself with the me of nine years old, but not any of the mes in between then and the very recent past.

Rence emerged from the bathroom wearing the khakis. In spite of the relative warmth of the evening, he'd buttoned his plaid shirt up, probably to hide the white t-shirt underneath. "Lezzago," he said.

We headed out in the general direction of Dupont Circle. Along the way, Rence stopped in Scott Circle to admire the statue of Daniel Webster, the old hero of our home state. He also peered curiously at the statue on the opposite side, that of Samuel Hahnemann, a German who was a big proponent of homeopathy back when people thought "echinacea" was some kind of skin disease. I explained to Rence that D.C. has more random statues per capita than any other major American city.

I found myself really enjoying playing tour guide-it felt normal. Something I'd all but given up hope of feeling again.

We strolled around the Dupont area for a bit. Rence gawked at the diverse array of people hanging around and enjoying their Friday night. I think he was surprised to see a lack of suits and sober dresses. People were out dressed in casual clothes and clubbing gear and just having fun. He'd just assumed, like so many others who don't live here have assumed, that Washington is a stuffy, stifled place (to be fair, in other areas, at other times, it really is).

After I'd let him enjoy his time at the circus for a while, I steered Rence towards Thaiphoon.

I don't know if this is a common thing for Thai restaurants, but at this one, along the back wall, there are three booths in alcoves, each alcove in a different, bold color: green, red, and yellow. There were a surprising number of customers still eating here, and two of the alcoves were occupied. But one was open-the yellow one- and Rence wanted to sit there. We headed back that way with the hostess.

Though the rest of the place was brightly lit, it felt dim inside the alcove. The dimness seemed to affect our conversation as we caught up on recent events in our lives (my side with significant omissions). We still joked with each other, Rence still trotted out more voices and impressions, but it all came out hushed. Like we were in a library.

At one point, Rence whispered, "Why are we whispering?"

Still, our conversation gradually picked up speed as we chowed through our meals. I got to hear about Rence's recent string of dates (plenty of action, not so much follow-through), his craziest insurance biz stories (hint: they only get so crazy), and his trip out to Cape Cod this past summer with his older sister and her husband. I was proud of him-he'd built a good life for himself, a solid life. He had managed to leave his rocky past behind and not look back.

Yes, we were having a famous old time right up until a grey-haired woman in a dark blue sweater, and a tall, black-haired man in a purple aura, sat down at a table directly in front of our alcove for a late dinner.

The rice noodles I'd been chewing dropped right out of my mouth.

"Hey.... Mark?" Rence said, peering at me. "Mark? You just stopped in the middle of a sentence."

To be continued. Today was exhausting (emotionally, mainly), and I've got get some sleep. I don't know if I'll be able to bring myself to go to work tomorrow, Ryloff be damned. We'll get to all that happy horseshit soon, but... chronological is the magic word here. I need it all to make sense.

posted by Mark Huntley @ 11:36 PM

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