Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

In the kitchen, Julian washed the berries, then brandished my new paring knife to trim the strawberries and slice the star fruit. I worked on the cheese platter while Liz started arranging the crackers and breads.

“I’m not taking a dinner break, Goldy,” Julian announced, “until I hear how you met this Barry guy.”

I sliced into a hunk of Gorgonzola and gave him a look. Liz giggled.

I said, “OK, nosy crew. It started with a puzzle. Actually, it started with an exam review class, some class notes, and a fight with The Jerk.”

Julian raised a questioning eyebrow. “Go on.”

I moved on to a slab of fragrant Cheddar, and thought back. “In my college days, there was a single place close to campus where you could get espresso drinks: The Hilltop Café. I practically lived there. Clutching a foam cup of cappuccino, I’d quick-step down the Hill to Group Psych class. Barry Dean sat next to me in class, but since I had just become engaged to John Richard, I didn’t really notice him. Didn’t notice him, that is, until he asked me where I got that luscious-smelling coffee.”

Liz tossed her head of silver hair. “Goodness. That’s the best pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well,” I said drily, as the two of them grinned. “On the last day of class before the final, the professor was doing one of those you-need-to-come-if-you-plan-to-pass reviews. The night before, John Richard and I had our first fight.”

“Was this a fight of the physical variety?” Julian demanded, as he expertly moved aside a mountain of trimmed strawberries.

“No, all that came later.” I peeled the wrapper off the Camembert. “This particular time, John Richard barged into my dorm room. I’d left a message saying I couldn’t go to a med-school party with him because I was preparing for the Group Psych review and studying for the exam. He shouted and carried on and threw my books, mugs, shoes, and clothes all over the place. When he stomped out, I started crying and couldn’t stop. My eyes got so red and puffy that I couldn’t see well enough to go to the review class. I was sure I’d end up bombing on the exam.”

Julian and Liz had stopped working and were leaning against the counters, all ears.

“I cast my swollen eyes over the class list,” I said dramatically, “and who should be listed after yours truly but Barry Dean. It’s really not that big a deal, guys.”

“Wait a minute,” Julian said, snapping his fingers. “I know that name! Barry Dean had a TV show out in Long-mont, right? Not long ago, he was the answer to a trivia question in The Camera. What C.U. alum ran a short-lived quiz show in a nearby town?”

“Yup. Only it wasn’t a quiz show, it was a scavenger hunt. Follow the clues around Longmont, learn about the city.” I shook my head. “Barry used to love puzzles. Anyway, I stopped sniffling, called Barry’s room, and left a message with his roommate asking if I could borrow the review-class notes. Next morning, someone slipped an index card under my door. It said: ‘You can run but you can’t hide; don’t let your life go down the BLANK.’ And then he’d written HINT at the bottom of the page: ‘Check the field-house.’”

“Oh, I wish I’d had a boyfriend like that,” Liz said with a sigh.

“He wasn’t my boyfriend!”

“Go on,” urged Julian.

“So. I went to the C.U. field-house, and found a penciled sign with the Greek letter psyche on the door to the ladies’ room. I was afraid I’d find the notes in a toilet , of course, but taped on the other side of the ladies’ room door was a manila envelope. Writing on it said, let’s see, ‘First third of notes, Goldy. Everything will be just ducky if you BLANK.’ I thought for a few minutes, then zipped over to the campus duck pond, where another letter psyche was taped to the bridge, along with a second manila envelope that contained the second third of the class notes. This envelope’s message read, ‘ Will just wake up and smell the… ’ So of course I dashed to The Hilltop Café, where Barry was sitting at a corner table and smiling like the proverbial Cheshire.”

“You can run but you can’t hide,” Liz repeated thoughtfully. “Don’t let your life go down the toilet. Everything will be just ducky if you wake up and smell the coffee?”

“Yeah,” I said with resignation, as I started on the last cheese. “Barry looked at my mottled cheeks and puffed eyes, then glanced at my engagement ring. He said, ‘I see your ring, and I see your face, and I say, don’t marry this guy.’ Which unfortunately brought a fresh outburst of tears from yours truly. And that’s how Barry Dean and I became coffee buddies, driving all over the Boulder-Denver area in his Mercedes with the basset hound in the back, looking for good coffee before I ignored Barry’s advice and married the doctor from hell.”

Both Julian’s and Liz’s faces looked sad, even stricken.

“Come on, guys, it’s not that bad. The Jerk is history, and now we’ve got a big gig, thanks to the Quiz King of Longmont Cable. So let’s do it.”

We finished at precisely four-thirty. Barry had not yet shown up. I figured that he must have decided after all to talk to the cops, instead of to me. Fine. That was what he needed to do. Right before my eyes, Denver’s Most Eligible Bachelor had become its Most Eligible Basket Case.

Liz gave me the kitchenette key, then offered to treat Julian to dinner at the mall’s new gourmet sandwich shop. Julian arched an eyebrow in my direction. I shrugged and told them to go on. If I planned to follow through on my new resolve to keep better track of Arch, then I needed to give him a call.

I locked the kitchenette and dropped the key into my apron pocket next to my cellular. Amazingly, I’d remembered to bring the phone from the van. For the first time, I was glad I’d finally given in to Arch’s everyone’s-got-one-but-me cell-phone demand, even though I knew he’d resent what he called my “checking on him.” Tough tacks.

“Yeah.” This was his new cool-guy greeting.

“It’s Mom. I’m down at Westside—”

“Did you get my guitar yet? Did Marla find the new Palm pilot? How about the Internet watch?”

“I haven’t had time to do anything besides work. I don’t know about Marla. What are you doing?”

“Changing my clothes after lacrosse practice, Mom, what do you think I’m doing?”

“I was just worried—”

He groaned. “Mom, I have to go. Lacrosse practice is over , I’m cold , and Tom is waiting for me.” He paused. “Does this mean you won’t be buying my guitar today?”

“I just… well. Maybe we should talk later.”

He hung up, and I scolded myself for expecting meaningful communication at this stage of Arch’s life. My stomach growled. I popped out of the lounge and wandered past the mall’s alluring window displays and two huge common areas, one a coffee shop, the other an enormous play area where kids whooped it up as they leaped on and off hard rubber play sculptures in the shapes of fried eggs, toast, bacon, and pancakes. At length I came to a franchise restaurant where I wolfed down a depressingly cold steak sandwich, which tasted more of grease than beef. I had fifteen minutes before I needed to be back in the lounge. I tossed my trash, steeled myself, and went looking for Westside Music.

It was not until five-twenty that I scooted back out of the store. I was now the irritated, humbled owner of a seven-hundred-dollar electric guitar. Needless to say, the purchase had not proved to be as joyful as I had visualized. For some mysterious reason, my credit card company had balked at the purchase, despite the twenty-thousand-dollar limit they had recently bestowed on me. After running my card, the salesclerk had frowned, looked me over suspiciously, and announced in a loud voice, to me and all the people in line, that the sale had been denied. Did I, he asked loudly, want to pay by check , or not make the purchase? I blushed and meekly wrote out a check. Unfortunately, my card denial had rung alarms at Westside Music. While the people behind me groaned and muttered, I was forced to undergo a check-approval process that rivaled entering Pakistan without a passport.