“Yep, same as TMZ,” I toss back to bring Ash and this conversation down a necessary notch.
“I don’t know that news outlet.” Ash shrugs, glances at his watch, and then looks past me. I can only assume he’s trying to assess how long he will have to make small talk, though he did start it. I begin to turn to let him know that quiet works for me, but then Ash continues, “So, you’re in the Pioneering Entrepreneurs class at Stanford.” I can’t tell if this is a statement or a question since he knows the answer. There’s no way he doesn’t recognize me from Thursday night, but I certainly don’t want to remind him how our paths and our body parts crossed.
“Do you remember me from class?” I ask point-blank, tired of thisdoes he or doesn’t he know menonsense. Ash waves a finger to move me up in line, keeping his eyes averted above my head. Ah. The finger and the averted eyes. He most definitely remembers me.
“Why are you taking the class?” Ash inquires, now looking at me with what I think may be a hint of interest—or more likely, skepticism. How much of my history does he want to hear to answer this question? That in addition to being a student in his microeconomics class a lifetime ago, I caught the entrepreneurial bug from another one of my professors who was developing a specialized battery patent back when the Prius was too ugly to consider driving? But then I had to drop out of college? Or the myriad product ideas I had thought up specifically for parents of infant twins, but I was too postpartum blue to do anythingabout them other than scrawl the concepts down in one of my notebooks? Or should I tell him that I have been using his grandmother as a testing guinea pig for my numerous failed products?
“You don’t look like the business school type.”
Excuse me! Judgmental much?It’s early on a Sunday, I’m allowed to be in my sweats when my mother’s not around, and not everyone can hit the country club on the weekends. Maybe Ash does remember meeting me at the airport and cannot imagine how someone in transportation services at SFO would end up flashing him from the front row of a Stanford lecture hall.
“You don’t look like the golfing type,” I quickly counter. He actually does, but it’s the only thing I can think of to say since I don’t know anybody who golfs. I detect a slight smile, the first one I’ve witnessed. Ash doesn’t say anything further. I guess he’s still waiting for my answer on why I’m taking the Thursday-night class.
“I’ve wanted to launch my own product line for a long time. I just haven’t landed on what the product will be.” I can’t believe I just said that out loud. After utilizing my services, many passengers claim it’s easier to share intimate details with strangers than with those closest to them. That’s why I know way too much about the infidelities, pending bankruptcies, secret side hustles, and surprise engagements of those I shuttle across terminals and never see again.Great, now I’m the one oversharing with a stranger.
Ash’s interest in me seems to perk up. “If you really want to start a company, then why aren’t you enrolled in Stanford’s MBA program? One evening course isn’t going to get you far.” What a funny world this man lives in where admission to a two-year program, let alone having the money to pay for it without working, is a given. And he doesn’t even know about the issue of my unfinished bachelor’s degree.
“Ehrm... because I have two children, a mother to take care of, and a full-time job to keep food on the table.”Welcome to the real world full of responsibilities, buddy.
“What about your husband?” If this brother were not standing here fully dressed for eighteen holes at a haughty private course, I would think it was the 1950s.
Does Mrs. Eisenberg know she has a sexist for a grandson? Irreal! Unbelievable.
“None of your business,” I deadpan, finally stepping up to the counter, my back now fully turned to Ash.
“A short two shots, almond milk latte, extra hot,” I order, rustling around in my purse for my wallet.
“I’ll get her coffee and whatever else she would like,” Ash announces over my shoulder to the indifferent barista. He couldn’t care less that Ash’s offer to pay for my coffee comes with a shot of patronization, but I care enough for everyone in this place.
“I can get my own coffee, thank you,” I retort, unmoved. I’m nobody’s charity, particularly Ash Eisenberg’s. “Just the latte.” Unzipping the wallet I have finally unearthed from my bag, I pull out a ten and my Cracked Cup punch card. The baby barista looks undone, like he’s never seen such an archaic form of payment.
“He did not do that!” Zwena hollers, snapping the nasty towel she’s been using to wipe down Build-A-Burger’s tables at me.
“Gross,”I yell and jump back, missing the germy tip by inches. “And you better believe he did.”
“And you didn’t stop him?”
“Oh, I thought about it.”
“And?” Zwena hates cliffhangers.
“And you know I have a soft spot for Mr. Chen. He’s heading back to Pittsburgh for his sixtieth high school reunion, and he’s hoping to rekindle the flame with his teenage girlfriend since, apparently, they’re now both single. After he leaned in and planted one on me, he defended himself by saying, ‘I haven’t kissed a woman in a decade.’ Turns outthere’s been no lady on his arm since Mrs. Chen’s decision to become a late-in-life lesbian. That could scare any man off touching a woman for a bit. Anyway, he wanted a practice session before he put the moves on the homecoming queen. What was I going to do, shut the man down just when he’s trying to get back in the game?”
“I get it: wanting a practice session. How’d he say it was?”
“Like riding a bike. Then he put his hand on my thigh and kept it there until we got to his gate.”
“So, he got in a kiss and a feel before boarding his plane? Nice work, Mr. Chen, you should do just fine.” Zwena fans herself. Just like me, I know Zwena considers what happened between me and Mr. Chen more community service than sexual harassment. We both try to do our part for our elderly customers.
“Does this mean both you and Mr. Chen are back in action?”
“I wouldn’t exactly put the two of us together, Z.”
“No, you’re right, Mr. Chen is getting after it. You are getting nowhere.” Zwena states what she thinks she knows while finishing up wiping down the last two chairs.
I don’t admit to Zwena that I had another Simon fantasy the other night. I wish someone else would star in my dreams, but Simon’s the only leading man I’ve known and I just can’t shake him. Given what he has put me through, why my brain continues to dwell on Simon is a psychological mystery, but I do have news.
“I got a phone number in line at the coffee shop this morning.”
