Boat and Mr. Wrong

From the time we sat in Boat waiting for Mr. Wrong, how I feasted on gazing at him, Quiet Man, sitting next to me. The low glow of the bar lighting, perched on my comfortable bar stool; my back to the divider of the bar and the walkway between it and the dining room, gave me the luxury of looking at this handsome and complex man.

I looked up the bar, seeing its sleekness lend a sophistication to the patrons of Boat who leaned into each other, holding pretty drinks that caught the light and twinkled it about.

When Mr. Wrong arrived, he was donned in his usual uniformed turtleneck and dress slacks held up onto his slim frame with a conservative gold buckled belt. His sleeves worn up his forearms and his eyes behind rectangular oblong wire framed Ray- Bans. He rushed into this dark, sleek place still wearing those frames. He was like a swift gun shot, and I can’t say he made his way to the bar, but gunned for it. He did not see Quiet Man nor I, as he brushed by us, and took a place between other patrons when he ordered his reliable Rèmy: Louis XIII.

I poked Quiet Man, and threw my head in the direction of Mr. Wrong; Quiet Man twisted his mouth and wriggled his eyes to tell me he was just as surprised. He leaned over the expanse of the wide bar, and looked to his right and began to call over to Mr. Wrong to get his attention. It took about three to five calls for him to notice Quiet Man.

Mr. Wrong darted his eyes upward, his eyebrows forming inverted carats, grabbed his drink and injected himself quickly next to Quiet Man. He reached over to kiss my cheek and greeted me.

Mr. Wrong is truly odd. He moves so obviously with much cover and cloaking of his movement. For all his seemingly lack of effort, it is laborious to watch him.

He sat at the bar, with his Ray-Bans until he, for whatever reason, took them off. Quiet Man had turned to wink at me with a boyish grin to see Mr. Wrong still wearing shades in such a darkened room.

Quite Man proceeded to tell Mr. Wrong what went on at the country club and Mr. Wrong listened with his left ear; was he a spy in London, inconspicuously sitting at the bar, with all the aplomb of Maxwell Smart? As I watched Quiet Man tell him things, Mr. Wrong would every so often, ask a question, still facing the open kitchen of Boat which was behind the bar. I could see his lips move, his body remain still, except when he lifted his Rèmy to his mouth. He fastidiously remained still. He spoke in his usual low and whispery tone. It was as if he was perpetually in a darkened alley, avoiding detection.

Mr. Wrong, when the briefing finished, wanted to order dinner. It was by then about 7 pm. Quiet Man had just finished eating at about 5 pm, and he asked me what I wanted. I did not want anything, but after the cajoling of the two of them, Quiet Man and I decided to split meat; he preferred a filet and I preferred a strip. So strip it was because it was what I liked.

We kept drinking and I became more boisterous along with Quiet Man-Mr. Wrong was entirely unaffected by our merriment.

When our food arrived, Quiet Man and I ate with much likeness to the Lady and the Tramp if they sat side by side with each other and were eating a plump and sumptuous NY Strip.

Mr. Wrong seemed very intrigued in the most oddest of manners with his filet. It was as if it was something was getting away from him in the manner he used his utensils to eat the meat. He was furiously cutting and slicing and bringing it to his mouth, sometimes after sweeping the muscle speared at the end of his fork into the fluffy starch that accompanied it all. In and out, out and in, I had never seen such a spectacle.

Quiet Man was carrying on with laughter and jokes, addressing Mr. Wrong as if Mr. Wrong was totally with the program, which he was not.

“Muse, you no eat!”

“I am” I replied.

“No, you no eat. You shy?”

“NO. I just don’t feel like eating.”

In fact, I just wanted to drink my Cointreaupolitans and enjoy him. In fact, I was wishing Mr. Wrong would leave because I was uncomfortable with the fact Mr. Wrong was now privy to Quiet Man and I. It was weird.

Quiet Man continued eating the strip. He would glance at me from his left, as he was chewing, and look at me. He would wink at me, or chuckle while leaning towards me. I was swooning more from those mini interactions that all the liquor I had put into myself.

I heard the clanking of forks and knives on china. It was Mr. Wrong.

He was now slicing and dicing with such speed, the remainder of what he did not eat. His plate was becoming a repository for a mish mash of shredded and julienned leftovers of meat and vegetable, held together by the uneatened starch. What on earth was he doing?

He abruptly gets up, throws some $100 bills on the bar. He opens his Ray-Bans and places them robotically on the bridge of his nose, announces his curt goodbyes to Quiet Man and myself while turning on his heel and darts out of boat.

“What is wrong with him?” I asked Quiet Man.

“I no know, Muse,” he said.

I was just glad he left.

“That is Mr. Wrong,” he adds.

“I can see why people believe he thinks he is 007.”

“Ah, Muse,” he said as he squeezed my shoulder.

“Why,” I paused, “Why did he do that?”

“Do what Muse?”

“Oh my god, you did not hear that racket he was making right next to you?”

“Oh, the meat you mean?”

“Yes, what was that all about?”

“You no know Muse?”

“Why, I should?”

“Well, you know,” he told me, ”it is so that it cannot be reserved.”

“What?” I said, as I jostled my hair while throwing him a sideways glance just because I felt like it.

“So they throw it away.”

“Throw it away? Throw what away? What are you talking about?”

“Muse, Mr. Wrong no eat all his food. He cut it so that it cannot be re-served to someone else.”

“Are you kidding me?” I said looking at him in the eye. I turned to take another hit of liquor while in my robust state, threw back my hair and arched my neck to swallow. I then looked at him again with a rightward glance.

I looked down and then at him. He was looking at me, acting weird. Liquor weird.

“So Mr. Wrong thinks that this place will be re-serving a remnant of meat to someone else? Like no one would notice?”

“Muse,” he whispered, ”you not know how restaurants make money?”

“I don’t believe you Quiet Man, you are crazy.”

“I no crazy Muse,” he said while shifting his body to face me in his seat.

“Oh yes you are, Quiet Man, you are NUTS! Who thinks of stupid things like serving someone left over hunks of meat.”

“That is why Mr. Wrong cuts his meat he no eat, so they can’t give to no one else.”

“Oh my god. You are sick.”

“What ever you say, Muse,” he gurgled.

“It’s disgusting is what it is.”

“Ah Muse,” he laughed while looking at me.

It was then time to go. Quiet Man was always in a hurry to nowhere in my opinion. I cannot say whether he is actually going somewhere or is unable to not feel like he needs to go somewhere.

We finish our drinks and he ushers me out like actress on the red carpet. We saw unmeaningful chit chat to each other prior to saying our goodbyes.

He gets into his car as I get into mine and we act like school children laughing and making funny faces at each other while sitting in our vehicles. He pulls out and I follow him.

He turned left and I turned right.

I left Boat that early evening with a great satisfaction of spending time with Quiet Man, smiling on my drive home.