Pumpkin Pancakes

September 4, 2006

With the remnants of Hurricane Ernesto having blown over, giving way to a warm and breezy end-of-summer day, Deborah suggested we take the bike for a ride. "We can go to brunch. That seems like the thing to do on a holiday weekend, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," I said. "Except I'm broke."

Although my work schedule has picked up recently, I'm still languishing in the lag between starting work and getting paid. Coupled with the recent letter from my landlord demanding more rent, I was in another, "How the hell am I ever going to get out of debt?" funk.

"My treat," said Deborah.

The restaurant we chose was crowded, with all the outside tables taken, but as we got closer, we could see that the waitress was wiping one down and offered it to us as soon as she finished. We held our breath and squeezed through elbows, knees, and cross-legged feet toward the table. Then we took another deep breath, moved the chairs as much as the crowd allowed, sat down, and sighed.

Two women at the table beside us watched our awkward maneuvering and kept studying us as we looked over our menus. "You look like a bunch of famous people all sort of combined into one," one of them said. They were sitting so close to us that I thought I was eavesdropping, and it took me a moment to realize they were talking directly to us.

I assumed the comment was directed at Deborah and braced for them to mention Sandra Bullock.

"Yeah," the woman next to me said, "like that guy in Sliding Doors—I mean, I know you're not him or anything, but—"

"Only younger," the other one added.

"And better looking."

"Nice save," I said. "Actually, I've been told I look like that guy before."

"And also that guy from Project Runway. Do you know who we're talking about?"

"No," I said.

"What show?" Deborah asked.

"Project Runway. I mean, we know you're not him either because you don't have the word Detroit tattooed across your neck, but otherwise, you look a lot like him."

Deborah excused herself to use the restroom, and one of the women took the opportunity to go as well. Our food arrived while they were away.

"Is that the pumpkin pancakes?" the woman next to me asked. "That's the best thing on the menu. They're so good. Have you tried them?"

"I have, actually. They’re good. It's just too much pancake for me, y'know what I mean?"

Her friend came back from the restroom and squeezed past Deborah's plate. "Look," she said, "Pumpkin pancakes!"

"Mmmm, right?"

They had both finished eating long before Deborah and I arrived, and the woman next to me explained that they had locked themselves out of their apartment and were waiting for her boyfriend to come with the key.

Deborah returned from the bathroom just as the woman's boyfriend strolled up to the patio with his dog.

"There he is," said the woman. They exchanged hellos, then she turned to me and said, "He loves pumpkin pancakes. They're his favorite. Look, honey," she said, pointing to Deborah's plate. "Pumpkin pancakes! Your favorite."

The guy looked a little confused, maybe embarrassed, and nodded. Deborah looked a bit confused, too. Or perhaps just annoyed.

"Have you guys been drinking Bloody Marys this morning?" I asked the woman beside me.

"No," she said. "We're always like this."

They paid their check, excused themselves as they squeezed past us, and said goodbye.

"They were funny," I said.

"A good thing they weren't sexier," Deborah said, punching the air in front of her. "Or you all would've been in trouble."