Peter Benchley - Jaws

“Yes. A gin and tonic, please.” When the waitress left the table, Ellen smiled. It was the first time since her wedding that she had had a drink during the day.

The waitress brought the drink, and Ellen drank half of it immediately, eager to feel the relaxing warmth of alcohol. Every few seconds, she checked the door and looked at her watch. He’s not going to come, she thought. It was almost 12.45. He got cold feet. He’s scared of Martin. Maybe he’s scared of me. What will I do if he doesn’t come? I guess I’ll have some lunch and go back to work. He’s got to come! He can’t do this to me.

“Hello.”

The word startled Ellen. She hopped in her seat and said, “Oh!”

Hooper slid into the seat opposite her and said, “I didn’t mean to scare you. And I’m sorry I’m late. I had to stop for gas, and the station was jammed. The traffic was terrible. And so much for my excuses. I should have left more time. I am sorry.” He looked into her eyes and smiled.

She looked down at her glass. “You don’t have to apologize. I was late myself.”

The waitress came to the table. “Can I get you a drink?” she said to Hooper.

He noticed Ellen’s glass and said, “Oh, sure, I guess so. If you are. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

“I’ll have another one,” said Ellen. “This one’s almost finished.”

The waitress left, and Hooper said, “I don’t normally drink at lunch.”

“Neither do I.”

“After about three drinks I say stupid things. I never did hold my liquor very well.”

Ellen nodded. “I know the feeling. I tend to get sort of…”

“Impetuous? So do I.”

“Really? I can’t imagine you getting impetuous. I thought scientists weren’t ever impetuous.”

Hooper smiled and said histrionically, “It may seem, madam, that we are wed to our test tubes. But beneath the icy exteriors there beat the hearts of some of the most brazen, raunchy people in the world.”

Ellen laughed. The waitress brought the drinks and left two menus on the edge of the table. They talked — chatted, really — about old times, about people they had known and what those people were doing now, about Hooper’s ambitions in ichthyology. They never mentioned the shark or Brody or Ellen’s children. It was an easy, rambling conversation, which suited Ellen. Her second drink loosened her up, and she felt happy and in command of herself.

She wanted Hooper to have another drink, and she knew he was not likely to take the initiative and order one. She picked up one of the menus, hoping that the waitress would notice the movement, and said, “Let me see. What looks good?”

Hooper picked up the other menu and began to read, and after a minute or two, the waitress strolled over to the table. “Are you ready to order?”

“Not quite yet,” said Ellen. “It all looks good. Are you ready, Matthew?”

“Not quite,” said Hooper.

“Why don’t we have one more drink while we’re looking?”

“Both?” said the waitress.

Hooper seemed to ponder for a moment. Then he nodded his head and said, “Sure. A special occasion.”

They sat in silence, reading the menus. Ellen tried to assess how she felt. Three drinks would be a fairly heavy load for her to carry, and she wanted to make sure she didn’t get fuzzy-headed or fuzzy-tongued. What was that saying, about alcohol increasing the desire but taking away from the performance? But that’s just with men, she thought. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that . But what about him? Suppose he can’t… Is there anything I can do? But that’s silly. Not on two drinks. It must take five or six or seven. A man has to be incapacitated. But not if he’s scared. Does he look scared? She peeked over the top of her menu and looked at Hooper. He didn’t look nervous. If anything, he looked slightly perplexed.

“What’s the matter?” she said.

He looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Your eyebrows were all scrunched up. You looked confused.”

“Oh, nothing. I was just looking at the scallops, or what they claim are scallops. The chances are they’re flounder, cut up with a cookie cutter.”

The waitress brought their drinks and said, “Ready?”

“Yes,” said Ellen. “I’ll have the shrimp cocktail and the chicken.”

“What kind of dressing would you like on your salad? We have French, Roquefort, Thousand Island, and oil and vinegar.”

“Roquefort, please.”

Hooper said, “Are these really bay scallops?”

“I guess so,” said the waitress. “If that’s what it says.”

“All right. I’ll have the scallops, and French dressing on the salad.”

“Anything to start?”

“No,” said Hooper, raising his glass. “This’ll be fine.”

In a few minutes, the waitress brought Ellen’s shrimp cocktail. When she had left, Ellen said, “Do you know what I’d love? Some wine.”

“That’s a very interesting idea,” Hooper said, looking at her. “But remember what I said about impetuousness. I may become irresponsible.”

“I’m not worried.” As Ellen spoke, she felt a blush crawl up her cheeks.

“Okay, but first I better check the treasury.” He reached in his back pocket for his wallet.

“Oh no. This is my treat.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“No, really. I asked you to lunch.” She began to panic. It had never occurred to her that he might insist on paying. She didn’t want to annoy him by sticking him with a big bill. On the other hand, she didn’t want to seem patronizing, to offend his virility.

“I know,” he said. “But I’d like to take you to lunch.”

Was this a gambit? She couldn’t tell. If it was, she didn’t want to refuse it, but if he was just being polite… “You’re sweet,” she said, “but…”

“I’m serious. Please.”

She looked down and toyed with the one shrimp remaining on her plate. “Well…”

“I know you’re only being thoughtful,” Hooper said, “but don’t be. Didn’t David ever tell you about our grandfather?”

“Not that I remember. What about him?”

“Old Matt was known — and not very affectionately — as the Bandit. If he was alive today, I’d probably be at the head of the pack calling for his scalp. But he isn’t, so all I had to worry about was whether to keep the bundle of money he left me or give it away. It wasn’t a very difficult moral dilemma. I figure I can spend it as well as anyone I’d give it to.”

“Does David have a lot of money, too?”

“Yes. That’s one of the things about him that’s always baffled me. He’s got enough to support himself and any number of wives for life. So why did he settle on a meatball for a second wife? Because she has more money than he does. I don’t know. Maybe money doesn’t feel comfortable unless it’s married to money.”

“What did your grandfather do?”

“Railroads and mining. Technically, that is. Basically, he was a robber baron. At one point he owned most of Denver. He was the landlord of the whole red-light district.”

“That must have been profitable.”

“Not as much as you’d think,” Hooper said with a laugh. “From what I hear, he liked to collect his rent in trade.”

That might be a gambit, Ellen thought. What should she say? “That’s supposed to be every schoolgirl’s fantasy,” she ventured playfully.

“What is?”

“To be a… you know, a prostitute. To sleep with a whole lot of different men.”

“Was it yours?”

Ellen laughed, hoping to cover her blush. “I don’t remember if it was exactly that,” she said. “But I guess we all have fantasies of one kind or another.”

Hooper smiled and leaned back in his chair. He called the waitress over and said, “Bring us a bottle of cold Chablis, would you please?”