Just Who Do You Think You Are?

We had just finished our salads.  A little Caesar dressing had splashed onto my tie, so I excused myself and went to the men’s room to blot out the stain with cold water.  Carol and I were marking our second anniversary at Pierre’s, the same swanky, upscale restaurant  where I’d proposed to her.  Bob and Mary Ann Witherspoon, our dearest and closest friends, were celebrating with us.  Bob had been best man at my wedding and Mary Ann and Carol had known one another since college.  We’d been joking and having a really terrific time.

Anyway, as I was about to tell you, that’s when it all began.  I know I’ve told the story to you before, and you always look at me that way – please don’t.  I’m telling you that this is the way it happened.  It really did.

I came out of the men’s room dabbing at my tie with a bit of toilet paper to get it to dry out again.  When I rounded the corner and started toward our table, I stopped dead in my tracks – Carol and Bob and Mary Ann were still there, alright, but there was some other guy sitting with them, and he and Carol had their arms entwined, each clasping a wine goblet, exchanging a toast.   It was the look that passed between them that floored me – that deep, searching, soulful look that lovers exchange.

Coming out of my shock, I barged up to them and blurted out, “Hey, what is this?  Some kind of a joke?  Hey, guys –”  But they gave me a look that could have frozen glycerine – it was the scariest moment of my life.  These people didn’t know me.  If it had been a joke – well you know as well as I do that even the best damned actor in the world couldn’t have kept up the charade for more than a moment or two without cracking a smile, or giving the game away with some little expression, but the look of cold hatred continued until the strange guy with Carol said, “Buzz off, weirdo.”  All kinds of things went through my head – were they playing some kind of sadistic practical joke?  Was it possible that there was another party at Pierre’s with three people who were the spitting images of my wife and friends, and maybe I’d stumbled up to the wrong table?  Was there something wrong with them?  Or with me?

I kept at them, saying things like, “C’mon, guys, enough’s enough,” and words like that.  But by this time Bob was getting a really disgusted look on his face, too, and he hissed at me:  “If you don’t clear outa here  right now, fella, I’m gonna haul you out onto the sidewalk myself.”  I just stood there looking at them, glancing from face to face, hoping to catch one of them showing a flicker of recognition.  But Carol and Mary Ann both looked genuinely terrified.  I tried once again to say something, and that’s when the interloper waved his hand and caught the attention of the maitre d’.

“Is there something amiss, sir?” he asked them, casting a sideways glance at me.

“This jerk is bothering us.  We don’t know him, and he’s pestering us and ruining our dinner.  Can you get him out of here?”

The maitre d’ immediately clapped his hands and two big waiters and some guy from the kitchen appeared instantly.  They approached me with menacing expressions, and the maitre d’ whispered to me, “I think you’d best leave now, sir.  We don’t want any trouble, but we can’t have you bothering our patrons, can we?”

I shrugged my shoulders in exasperation, and turned on my heels, muttering “I’ll get even with you later, Bob.”

“Hey you!”  Bob roared.  “How the hell do you know my name?  Who are you?”  He was struggling to his feet, and I heard the clatter of a fork or knife hitting the floor.  All the other diners were staring at us by now, and I felt really embarrassed, so I made for the door, but Bob was still yelling crazily when I got to the entrance and pushed open the door to leave.

Then it dawned on me that if this were a joke, I might just play along with it a bit.  I walked down the street a ways until I found a pay phone.  I looked up the number for Pierre’s and called.  When someone answered, I asked to speak to – and gave my own name.  “Just a moment, sir,” the young woman’s voice answered.  “I’ll check the reservations list – yes, there it is.  Is this an emergency?”  I told her it was.  “I’ll get Lawrence to summon the gentleman, she said.  Wait just a moment, please until we can bring a phone to his table.”

There was a pause of a minute or two, and then I heard a man’s voice.

“Yes?  This is Tom Atkins.”

I didn’t know what to say.  “Tom Atkins?”  I finally croaked.

“That’s right.  Who is this?”

“I’m Tom Atkins,” I told him.  “And I don’t appreciate the little mind games you people are playing.  Don’t you think the joke’s gone far enough?”

The line went dead and clicked back to a dialtone.

Okay, wise guy, I thought to myself.  I’ll just go get the car from the valet and go home.  I wandered back up the street to Pierre’s and hailed the valet, who was loitering by a lampost.

“Yeah?” he said suspiciously, giving me the once-over.

“I’m ready to leave,” I declared flatly.  “The silver Lexus.”

“What is this, some kind of joke?” he sneered.  “We don’t got no silver Lexus tonight.  And anyway, I know I never seen you here this evening.  You wanna steal a car or somethin’?  Why dontcha go down the street?”

I looked quickly around the corner at the parking lot.  My car was gone.

“What have you done with my car?” I demanded.

“Look, slick – you just move along now, or I’ll call the cops.  I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to pull, but it ain’t gonna work on me, okay?”  He’d unwound himself by now and was poised, legs apart, fists balled, ready to strike.

I glowered at him and moved off.  Back at the pay phone I called a taxi.  I didn’t know what kind of cruel trick was being played on me, but by now, my initial amazement and shock had turned to anger.  If Carol wanted a divorce, I began to think, why didn’t she just say so?  She doesn’t have to go through all this.  Pretty soon the yellow cab arrived and I slipped into the back seat, giving my home address.  Might be funny to get a locksmith over tonight to change the locks, I thought.  I settled back and stared out the window.

Pretty soon my concentration was broken when the cabbie asked, “You did say thirteen fifty-three south, didn’t you?  There ain’t no thirteen fifty-three south.  That’s a dead end up there at the end of the block, and we’re at twelve hundred south now.”

It was my street, alright, but where the street should have gone through up ahead there was a big grove of trees – a park or something.  “This is South Connecticut, isn’t it?”

“South Connecticut – check the street sign.”

I did. And it was.