It’s relatively empty, so we have our choice of one of the big tables by the front windows, overlooking the firehouse across the street. We like this restaurant. They always serve a salad, with bread and vegetables, with every entrée... and also a side of pasta, ziti in tomato sauce.
There’s another table of four in the same section. Two couples, older white men and their nervous wives, split a single red bottle. They are talking about Medicare costs and their health problems, and the man facing me has his napkin tucked in his open shirt, just below his double chin. He reminds me of my father.
My last dinner with Dad was at a favorite local restaurant, like this one. Midway through the meal, Dad spilled mashed potatoes on his tie, and he was mortified with embarrassment. He looked right at me, hoping I wouldn’t notice. I looked away to pretend I didn’t.
I’ll say this about Dad: He would never wear a napkin tucked into the top button of his shirt, like a child wearing a bib. Except for that, the man in the BYOB was the same age as my Dad was then, with the same thinning hair and the same Mens Warehouse jacket.
As the group of four droned on about money and failing health, it occurred to me that my father’s tieless doppelganger was about the same age as I am now. Maybe just a little bit older. My Dad died in his early 70s, a few days after he spilled the mashed potatoes on his tie.
I had sensed, before this last supper, he was nearing the end of his life. He had so many ailments: heart attacks, hip replacements, high blood pressure. He had quit smoking when my daughter was born, but before that, he had spent five decades smoking two packs of Kents every day.
The man wearing the bib addressed his group. “Let’s get the f*ck out of here,” he said, taking a last swig of his red wine as if he were a Viking, and dabbing his mouth with the folded end of his tomato sauce-stained napkin as if he were a princess. His shirt, protruding over his stomach, was clean and brilliantly white.
Dad would never swear like that, even among friends.
I didn’t finish my dinner completely. I try to watch my weight and no longer overeat. Plus, I like having a nice lunch with what I take home from the restaurant the day after Date Night. I typically save the pasta, which my wife never touches, and half of my entrée.
The next day, while eating lunch, I spilled a forkful of ziti over one of my favorite blue shirts, a Haggar in Motion stretch top. I feverishly tried to remove the stain with cold water and a washcloth from the bathroom. If my daughter saw me wearing this shirt right now, she might be unable to guess what I had done.
But I still see the ghost of the red stain. Over my heart, I see something that can’t be removed.
I am embarrassed for myself for the spill. I didn’t have a napkin tucked at my neck. I am like my father.
I fear my imminent death.
