Smart vs. Pretty (4 page)

Still Thursday

P
ride swelled in Amanda’s chakras. She had, after all, spent the last two days distributing fliers all over the neighborhood. She’d been Clarissa’s “poster girl.” Her efforts had obviously paid off. A couple dozen men had come to apply for the Mr. Coffee contest. The unspoken requirements—tall, athletic, under forty-five, hair on head but not on face, nice teeth, minimal intelligence—would mean instant elimination for at least half of the applicant pool.

Amanda sized up a few hopefuls. The contest was only a day away, and Clarissa wanted to decide on the five finalists in the next hour. They’d handed out numbers, pencils, and information cards and asked the men to wait their turn for an interview. Coffee and Danishes were on the house. The idea of interviewing and vetting twenty-odd men tweaked Amanda’s senses. The aroma of romance, or the potential for it, commingled with Frank’s new house blend and the tacky paint, making Amanda dizzy. How would she do it? Pick only five men from a crowd when she could find good qualities—physical, mental, emotional, and, certainly, financial—in any man?

Clarissa said, “As an owner, Amanda, you should avoid dating any of the contestants. These guys have to be available to the customers. It won’t do if they follow you around all night.”

“Business, not pleasure.” For Amanda, there was no other business. “You and Frank are so committed to the cause,” she said to Clarissa. Frank was…Amanda wasn’t sure where Frank was. Doing something useful, no doubt.

“You’re not?” Clarissa asked.

“I guess I don’t have such clear-cut motivation,” said Amanda. “Frank needs this place almost desperately, like it’s her last surviving family member besides me. Actually, it is.”

“Sorry again about your parents.”

“I’m looking for my own family,” Amanda went on. “I’m sure you think it’s naive to believe in a soul mate. He could be here, right now. And maybe he’s rich enough to pay off our debts. Then Frank could have her store. I could have my spiritual partner. Everyone would be happy.”

Clarissa tallied the contestants. “Don’t count on a man for anything, Amanda,” she said. “I don’t. Not that I’m cynical. I want love in my life. But I don’t want to be disappointed, either. That’s why I set realistic goals. I stick with the job in front of me.”

“That’s not cynical?” Amanda asked. “You’re only twenty-four.”

“I’ve lived in New York my entire life,” she said. “So I’m older than that.”

Amanda, also a lifetime resident of the five boroughs, laughed. She could learn a lot from Clarissa about one of her true failings: focus. She’d always been scattered, easily distracted, looking for the next love affair, job, or friendship. Amanda said, “Maybe I have ADD.”

Clarissa said, “What are you talking about?”

“I really admire you, Clarissa.”

“I like you, too.”

“Is this a moment?” asked Amanda.

“Should we hug?” asked Clarissa.

Amanda was satisfied with the exchange of dopey grins. She felt excitement flutter in her chest. Would Clarissa—her equal in the attractiveness department—become a genuine friend? A female one, at that? The thought was almost as tantalizing as a new boyfriend. Speaking of which…“Number one!” Amanda called into the waiting crowd.

A man approached the two ladies as they sat behind one of the new Formica-topped tables. He was young—early twenties—with a goatee. Amanda whispered to Clarissa, “Long nose, sign of an honest and trusting nature. Curly hair, could be stubborn, but he’d back down without too much trouble.”

Clarissa gave Amanda a fishy look. So not everyone appreciated her flash-appraisal game. Just do what Clarissa does, she told herself. Stick to the job at hand: scrutinizing contestants. Or potential soul mates. This is how lines get blurred, Amanda said to herself.

The man dropped his application card on the table and introduced himself. He was cute, sweet. Amanda thought he’d make a cuddly little brother. After looking at his info, Clarissa said, “Pierrepont Street? That’s a pretty ritzy block for a young guy like you.”

“I still live with my parents,” he said. “Mom thinks that in another year or two, I’ll be ready to get a job and move out.”

“Next!” said Clarissa.

Number two: “I’m just wondering if ‘all the coffee you can drink’ means you have to drink it here. Can I take some home with me? In a thermos? I’ve got a collection of thermoses. Five hundred of them from all over this great land of ours.”

Number five: “I assume I don’t have to do anything stupid like sing or dance for this contest. I’m not singing or dancing. No way. Because singing and dancing is for faggots. They can take their musical faggot shit and shove it up their asses.”

Number nine: “The idea is to use me for chicks. I get it. I’m the whore and you’re the pimp. Am I right? You’re pimping me. Right? This whole thing is one big pimping operation. I’m right, aren’t I? I can respect that. Where do I sign?”

After ninety minutes, sixteen men had been shown the door. Amanda asked, “Are we being too strict?”

Clarissa said, “If there are enough applicants, we might as well make it competitive. Number seventeen!”

Amanda’s eyes rose to watch number seventeen slide up to the table. He was tall, with strong legs to carry him anywhere he’d want to go. He wore a heavy parka over a faded flannel shirt made soft by dozens of washes. His jeans were dark blue and stiff. Amanda found his green eyes glinty, twinkly. His lips were plump and red, a beacon on his diamond-shaped face. Amanda could hardly drag her gaze off those lips. She said, “Hello there.”

He handed his info to Amanda and turned his lush lips into a pillow of smile. Transfixed, Amanda merely stared. Clarissa coughed politely and took the card out of Amanda’s hand.

“‘Charles Peterson, nickname Chick. Environmental biology grad student at Columbia,’” she read. “‘World traveler, mountaineer, thirty-two years old.’ Aren’t you a bit old to be a grad student?”

“I took the summer after college to climb the three largest mountains in the Western Hemisphere,” he said. “A monthlong summer trip turned into a decade. I’m only just back in America after a long stay in Jamaica.” His voice was a bit high, an octave out of place, considering his height.

“No offense, but the contest is for straight guys only,” Clarissa said.

“You think I’m gay?” he asked, turning a tomato hue. Amanda flinched, feeling his embarrassment.

Clarissa said, “If you’re not gay, prove it."

Looking right at Amanda’s button nose, he said, “If you weren’t wearing that sweater, I’d be gone by now.” He was referring to her baby pink mohair crewneck. It highlighted her rosy glow and auburn hair. When she wanted to be lethal, Amanda wore this sweater, the epitome of hyperfemininity made for women with large enough breasts and long enough hair. If she played her cards right, perhaps she’d be pulling off the sweater with Chick Peterson later that night.
No, no,
she admonished herself.
Control, girl.

He said, “When I go down on a woman, I never flick my tongue. The clitoris is very sensitive, especially right before orgasm—in fact, it pulls back into its hood as orgasm gets closer and closer. Long, flat tongue strokes, up and down, sometimes round and round, work well for me.”

“Works well for me, too,” said Amanda.

Clarissa said, “Be back here at seven o’clock tomorrow night. Congratulations, Charles. You’re a finalist.”

He left the store. Amanda wished his parka weren’t long in back so she could have a peek at his ass. She instantly began fantasizing about when she’d see him again. What she’d say and wear. How he’d respond when she ran her finger up and down the length of his naked arm. The idea made her own arm hair stand on end.

“Earth to Amanda,” Clarissa said, elbowing her in the ribs. “Remember what I said about not dating the contestants. Number eighteen!”

The next applicant was blandly handsome with a square jaw and shiny dark hair. The muttonchop sideburns saved him from being too conventional. He wore a suit and overcoat by Hugo Boss. Amanda touched it. “Cashmere,” she said. A coat like that cost over two thousand dollars. “What’s a natty guy like you doing at a coffee contest like this?” Amanda asked.

“This isn’t the VH-1 Fashion Awards?” he asked. Clarissa chuckled. Amanda detected more than mirth in her response.

Clarissa read from his card, “‘Walter Robbins. Age: twenty-nine. Profession: Catalog model.’”

“Which catalogs?” asked Amanda.

“J. Crew mainly, but my agent is trying to get me into Eddie Bauer and L.L. Bean.”

“You do look familiar.”

“You’ve seen one guy in a nylon shell, you’ve seen them all.”

“Seriously,” said Amanda, “you don’t seem like the daytime coffee bar type.”

Walter Robbins flashed her a flawless grin. “I’m between jobs and, as a vain egotist, I’m in constant need of positive reinforcement.”

“Can you wait over there for a second?” asked Amanda. She wanted a moment of privacy to confer with Clarissa. Once Walter was out of earshot, Amanda whispered, “He’s a ringer.”

Clarissa whispered back, “So what? The customers will love him.”

“It’s not fair to ask a quirky type like Chick Peterson to compete with a professional model.”

“Amanda, they’re not fighting to the death in a pit.”

Clarissa motioned Walter back over. “Congratulations! You’re a finalist. Be here tomorrow night at seven o’clock.” He doffed an imaginary hat and left.

It took another hour to pick the last three contestants: an adorable twenty-four-year-old editorial assistant at a men’s magazine; a forty-year-old, recently divorced construction worker who described his mental state as “very vulnerable right now”; and last, a nebbishy guy with a pointy chin and round glasses.

Amanda insisted the neb make the cut. It was an altruistic gesture, and payback for the man’s politeness. Clarissa agreed, driven more by fatigue, Amanda thought, than bigheartedness.

In just over twenty-four hours, the coffee shop would reopen. The contest would begin. The place would be saved—or die. Either way, Amanda couldn’t wait. She’d get to see Chick Peterson again.

F
rank watched the mass of customers from behind the cash register on the big night. Four of the five Mr. Coffee contestants were circulating through the crowd (the exception being the nebby guy, who hung in a corner, downing mug after mug of French roast). Each guy was wearing a Romancing the Bean T-shirt—designed and printed by Claude as a parting gift. Frank had asked Clarissa repeatedly how much money had been spent during the renovations, but she never got a firm answer. This worried Frank. Even the crush of paying customers in their revamped space didn’t completely calm her concerns. Optimism, apparently, was something to settle into slowly.

Amanda flitted by in her red scoop-necked dress, shouting at Frank, “It’s the best night in the history of Romancing the Bean!” It was the only night in the history of Romancing the Bean, but Frank didn’t quibble. Amanda was right—her parents had never seen such action in all their years with Barney Greenfield’s. Frank had personally rung up orders for about thirty pounds of various varietals for at least nine dollars per (wholesale prices were roughly five dollars a pound, providing a profit of four dollars. Depending on weather and availability, some beans were much more expensive—Jamaica had a tiny, finicky crop, so Blue Mountain cost as much as twenty-five dollars a pound wholesale and up to forty dollars retail). But the real profit was in individual mugs. The store made a profit of $1.30 per $1.50 cup. Frank needed to sell four thousand cups a month to cover overhead, or 133 cups of joe a day (over the last year, the sisters averaged a dismal forty). Frank had sold at least a hundred in the last hour. She’d questioned whether a fresh coat of paint could increase business by more than 300 percent. Now she had an answer.

Frank tried to allow herself to enjoy (not quietly distrust) the press of people crammed into the café (so crammed that it was impossible for anyone to appreciate the new tables and paint job). For once, she thought, she was in the right place at the right time. The tinkle of money on the counter was aural heroin. Frank took the change with something close to a smile. The customers seemed to enjoy her new house blend (a pinch of Guatemalan, Costa Rican, and some Indonesian for kick).

Finally, at eight o’clock, Clarissa cleared a space in the center of the room. Pockets of women at tables clapped their hands. Frank wondered if they were applauding Clarissa’s artful outfit—a lime green power suit emphasizing her wasp waist with sheer tights and patent pumps—or for the contest to begin.

Clarissa held a couple of index cards in one hand and a Mr. Microphone (that’s right) in the other. She announced, “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of Romancing the Bean, I’d like to thank you for coming.” The customers applauded demurely. “The rules of the contest are simple. One man will be crowned Mr. Coffee of the Week. He’ll be awarded free drinks and muffins for himself and ten of his friends for the next seven days. Then, next Friday night, he’ll turn over the crown to his successor.”

At the counter, Frank—dressed in the all-black uniform of stretch pants and turtleneck—wondered how long this gimmick would work. She thought ahead a few weeks to the time when the Mr. Coffee contest was no longer novel. Then Moonburst would roll all over them again, like nothing had changed. Maybe she and Clarissa could put their heads together and come up with something else. They could brainstorm for ideas, like Frank used to do at the magazine. They could inspire each other to greater glory as a team. And maybe hit a movie together once in a while. Frank was snapped out of her reverie by a tap on her shoulder.

He wore a denim shirt tucked into green chinos with a brown leather belt. He was clean shaven, but his skin was chalky and blotchy, like that of most natural redheads. Signs of impending baldness were visible under his curly hair. He had a couple of extra pounds around the middle, but he dressed well to hide them. Like she cared. “Lonely tonight?” Frank asked the man.

“Hardly,” he lied. The overcast gray of his eyes darkened.

“Poor Benji,” she said. “For once I’ve got you beat. Ordinarily I’d be honorable about it, but not tonight. I’m going to be small and petty and gloat, gloat, gloat.” She cocked her chin toward the crowd. “I’ve counted off at least two hundred heads.” An exaggeration. “I’d watch my back if I were you. A chain store is only as strong as its weakest link.” Benji Morton was the manager at Moonburst. When Amanda and Frank’s parents had died last year, he sent flowers. Frank despised him.

He pursed his thin lips. “I’d mention something about a battle and a war, but I think that goes without saying. Mark my words, Francesca, in a couple of weeks, only one Montague Street coffee bar will remain standing or I’m a deluded asshole.”

“I agree with everything you just said.”

“I’m not going to be a small-business manager forever,” he spit out. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life cleaning up coffee grinds and spilled milk. To be honest, I don’t understand why you do. Why is this rivalry so personal for you? I’m not your enemy.”

“Why are you here if you’re not sizing up the competition?” she asked.

“I don’t think of you that way,” he said. “But I am sizing you up.”

Was he flirting with her? A revolting thought. “By competition, I meant the contest.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “But now that you mention it, I’d vote for the tall guy. He’s a sure thing.”

Frank hadn’t realized that Clarissa was busy introducing the contestants and trotting them around the center of the room like ponies. Benji snickered behind her. Frank suddenly felt foolish, as though the whole contest idea was pathetic. She blamed Benji for blowing her mood.

Clarissa arranged the men in line. She said, “Okay, now that you’ve had a good look at all five contestants, it’s time to vote for a winner.” She held her Mr. Microphone over the head of the editorial assistant. The crowd applauded weakly. Too young. Next she held her hand over the construction worker. A more enthusiastic response. She moved to the tall, outdoorsy guy. Thunder. The model: tepid, despite encouragement from Clarissa—he was too polished. The neb registered nary a ripple of applause. So much for the drama of the voting process.

Clarissa waved for Amanda to give Charles “Chick” Peterson the scepter they’d made out of tinfoil. As she crowned him (headpiece also made of foil), Amanda stared into Chick’s eyes. He stared right back. They took hands. Frank knew Amanda wouldn’t be able to leave the contestants alone. In a mountain cave in the middle of the night, Amanda could zero in on the best-looking man in the room.

Frank turned around to invite Benji to leave, but he was already making his way out the door. Frank redirected her attention to the thirsty customers—there was a fresh demand for coffee. Amanda pushed her way over to the counter to help. The tinkle of coins in the register now sounded hollow to Frank. What was she doing with her life? Was clawing and scraping for her dead parents’ business what she really wanted? At thirty-three, shouldn’t she have her own plans and dreams? Shouldn’t she be worried that she hadn’t had sex since she and Eric broke up over two years ago?

Amanda said, “Is something wrong?”

Frank said, “What could be wrong?”

“The aura around you is positively black,” Amanda observed. “What’s wrong? You look deflated.”

“Just count,” Frank said, passing her a fistful of quarters.

Amanda insisted, “Tell me what’s upsetting you.”

Frank looked at her sister. Amanda was so pink and fresh and unlined. Frank knew her sister cared more than anyone else on earth. But she could never understand Frank’s kind of loneliness, what it was like to feel misunderstood by every person in sight, even her own sister, despite trying, really trying, to connect—a condition that hadn’t changed much for Frank since adolescence. Clarissa barely tolerated Frank compared to chummy Amanda. Who wouldn’t? Amanda looked beautiful in that dress, her curly hair bouncing on her soft, white shoulders.

“How come you get to wear red?” asked Frank. “What about the uniform?”

“I figured for the launch, I’d dress for a party.”

Frank raked her coarse black bangs off her forehead. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. “Take over.”

Frank pushed past Amanda, through the crowd, and out the door to the street. Sucking in the cold air, she felt somewhat better. A teenage girl walked by with a cigarette. Frank bummed one from her and sat on the bench in front of the shop, smoking, thinking, and shivering. She let her eyes wander toward the quiet Moonburst and imagined it blowing up in a fireball, chunks of glass and metal exploding into the air, Benji Morton’s severed limbs raining down on the sidewalk. She took one last drag and put out the cigarette under her black boot.