Steve Martin - Shopgirl

Mr. Ray Porter gets into bed and closes his eyes. He visualizes Mirabelle sitting on his chest, wearing the same simple orange cotton skirt she wore on the day he first saw her. He imagines the skirt draped over his head, so he can see her legs, her stomach, and her white cotton underwear. The lamplight penetrates the skirt and casts an orange glow over everything in his little imaginary tent. A sunset of flesh and fabric, which sends him into an onanistic fit. He is then silent and satiated, with a ghostly image of Mirabelle still lingering in his head. But soon an arbitrary array of untethered words, logical marks, and symbols rushes through his mind, sweeping away everything. Minutes later, his mind is clear and he falls asleep.

MIRABELLE’S FIRST DILEMMA IS THEvalet parker. She can’t afford to pay someone three-fifty plus tip to whisk her car away. But parking is restricted and she will have to leave her car several blocks away if she doesn’t. She decides it is inelegant to arrive on this first date looking windblown, and she slides the car to the curb and takes the check the valet hands her, praying that Mr. Ray Porter will take pity on someone who is currently carrying only eight dollars in cash. The car vanishes and she pulls on the restaurant door but it won’t open, then she pushes, then realizes she is trying to open the hinged side, then she pushes on the correct side, then pulls, and the door finally gives way. She enters a darkened little cave, certainly not the hip spot in town, and sees a jury of older diners wearing gold-buttoned blazers and big shirt collars. There is a saving grace, though. A young actor from a hot television show, Trey Bryan, sits in the corner with several producer types, and his presence saves the place from being complete squaresville. The maître d’, a once dashing Italian, approaches her with a “Buona sera,” and Mirabelle wonders what he said.

“I’m meeting Mr. Ray Porter,” she chances.

“Ah. Nice to see you again. Right this way.”

He leads Mirabelle past several red leather banquettes and around a lattice. In a booth too large for two people sits Ray Porter. He is looking down at a notepad and doesn’t see her at first, but he looks up almost immediately. The incandescent lighting, filtered through the red lampshades, warms everybody up, and to him, she looks better than at Neiman’s. He rises to greet her and guides her into the booth, and sits her to his right.

“Do you remember my name?” he asks.

“Yes, and all the exciting times we’ve had.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Red wine?” she questions.

“Do you like Italian?”

“I’m not sure what I like; I’m still forming,” says Mirabelle.

Ray Porter is relieved that he can desire her and like her at the same time. The waiter attends them and Ray orders two glasses of Barolo from the wine list, as Mirabelle plays with her spoon.

“So why did you go out with me?” He cascades his napkin open and lays it on his lap.

“I think that’s an impolite question.” Mirabelle puts the right amount of coy in her voice.

“Fair enough,” says Ray Porter.

“So why did you ask me out?” says Mirabelle.

The fundamentally simple answer to that question is rarely spoken on any first date ever. And the real answer doesn’t occur to Ray, Mirabelle, or even the waiter. Fortunately Ray Porter has a logical reply that prevents a silence that would have been awkward for both of them.

“If it’s impolite for me, it’s impolite for you.”

“Fair enough,” says Mirabelle.

“Fair enough,” says Ray Porter.

And they sit, each in a tiny struggle about what to say next. Finally, Mirabelle succeeds.

“How did you get my address?” she says.

“Sorry about that. I just did, that’s all. I lied to Neiman’s and got your last name, then one call to information.”

“Have you done that before?

“I think I’ve done everything before. But no, I don’t think I’ve done that before.”

“Thank you for the gloves.”

“Do you have anything to wear them with?”

“Yes, plaid shorts and sneakers.”

He looks at her, then realizes she has made a joke.

“What do you do?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean besides work at Neiman’s?”

“I’m an artist. I draw. I can draw.”

“I can’t draw a line. A sheet of paper is less valuable once I’ve scribbled on it. What do you draw?”

“Usually dead things.”

At this point, Ray Porter imagines an entirely different iceberg beneath Mirabelle’s psychic waterline than the one that actually exists.

The wine arrives. The waiter pours it as they sit in silence. When he leaves, they speak again.

She asks him about himself and Mr. Ray Porter tells her, all the while his eyes drifting down the line of her neck to her white starched blouse, which, as she breathes, bellows open and closed. This half inch of space allows him a view of her skin, just above her breasts, which nestles into the white of her bra. He wants to poke his hand in and leave a light, pale fingerprint on her. His glances toward her take place between Mirabelle’s own glances toward him, so that these looks to each other are effectively woven together, yet never intercepted by either.

They make it through to the end of the evening, with the conversation lasting just until the check comes, at which point they run out of topics. Then they deal with the business part of the evening, that part where phone numbers are exchanged and hours indicated when it is best to call. Ray Porter gives her his Seattle number as well, the direct line, not the office. As they leave the restaurant, he places his hand on the small of her back in a gesture of assistance as she passes through the door. This is their absolute first physical contact and does not go unnoticed by either’s subconscious.

Mirabelle’s car comes first, and she troops around to the open door, where she begins to fumble in her purse for a tip. “It’s been taken care of,” says the valet.

She drives home, not sure of what she is feeling, but filled with what is probably the first truly expensive meal of her life. When she gets home, there is a message from Ray Porter asking her to dinner next Thursday. There is also a message from Jeremy asking her to call him back, that night. Her responsibility gene kicks in, and she phones him, even though it is twenty-five minutes short of midnight.

“Yeah?” Jeremy believes this is a clever way to answer the phone.

“You wanted me to call?” says Mirabelle.

“Yeah. Thanks. Oh, hi. What are you doing?”

“You mean now?”

“Yeah, wanna come over?” says Jeremy.

Mirabelle thinks of Lisa. She wonders how he can be addicted so soon. They hardly did it and she hardly cut it off. One sloppy evening of flaccid sex and Jeremy is begging for another soggy dog biscuit. Lisa’s phone must be ringing off the hook. She must have endless messages of coercion on her machine from sad-eyed lovers.

“Come on over,” continues Jeremy.

This inquiry reverses every electron in Mirabelle’s body, causing her attraction to Jeremy, which was at one time a weak North-South, to become a strong North-North. It is the perfect wrong time for Jeremy to do to Mirabelle what she had done to him – call him up for a quick fix – because, in a sense, she is now betrothed. Her first date with someone who treated her well obligates her to faithfulness, at least until the relationship is explored. She does not want to betray this unspoken promise to Ray Porter. But Mirabelle is polite, even when she doesn’t have to be, and she thinks she owes Jeremy at least a conversation. After all, he wasn’t so awful, and she continues: