Kumquat

Sometimes life gives you lemons and you make lemonade. And sometimes life gives you a kumquat and you’re like - wait, what is this? Do I eat it? Is it decorative? Is it a weapon? But, like, really, should I eat this? Smith is my kumquat. Confused? Me too.

I smelled him before I saw him. (Yes, I hear how that sounds.) His European-dad-tourist cologne enveloped me like a slow rolling fog, which caused me to turn around and locate the source of this overwhelming, but delicious smell. His deep-set eyes immediately grabbed my attention. He is wearing a perfectly tailored suit in a dashing blue herringbone pattern. He has a pocket square delicately placed in his chest pocket that served a purpose I was too poor to understand. Black leather loafers with no socks completed the impeccable ensemble. He looked like wealth.

“Hi,” I stutter. I could feel the sweat dripping from my forehead as if I had just run a marathon, or, realistically, bent down to tie my shoes. “I’m server. Your. Alec.” Breathe. “Hi, I’m Alec, I’ll be your server this evening.”

“Nice to meet you, just call me Smith. I know everything has been prepaid, but if there are any other additional charges, please let me know,” he replies, tapping his black leather bound notebook. Again, wealth.

The restaurant where I work is a little atypical. It’s not a “Hey here are our specials” kind of place. We hold events and parties, so basically, I’m just a party host. There’s no chit-chat about the weather as I fill their water glasses or explain the menu. You tell me what you want to drink, and I bring it to you, and then I babysit you for a few hours and make sure you don’t get too drunk and wind up naked in the bathroom. I speak from experience. I’ve been here for longer than I’d like to admit. I came to the city like most people - for opportunity, for like minded people, for better fast food options - but somehow life got in the way, and I’ve been stuck here serving over-priced cocktails and chicken tenders to the wealthy elite.

I walk Smith and his friends over to the lounge area where their open bar party will be held. It’s a chic little room with faux brick walls, leather sofas, and that low lighting that makes everyone look both gorgeous and terrible. I whip out my crumbled notepad, which feels inadequate compared to Smith’s pristine black leather notebook he holds delicately in his well-manicured hands. I’ve never been jealous of a notebook until this very moment.

“What can I get you to drink, Mr. Smith?” I ask.

“No, just call me Smith.”

Swoon. Take me.

“Okay, what would you like to drink...Smith?”

“Dirty martini, extra dirty, two olives,” he quickly responds.

The way he spoke the word “dirty” making direct eye contact had my mind exploding. I asked his friends for their drink orders, but my mind was on such a high that I scribbled them down without an ounce of thought.

I punch in their orders and wait patiently at the bar while the bartender, an ex leading man who is rapidly working on his dad bod, prepares the drinks. I watch Smith as he interacts with his friends. Direct eye contact, always. He actually looks like he listens and responds unlike most people with their heads buried in their phones.

“Here ya go,” the bartend responds as he places the drink tray next to me.

I realize now that I have to walk a good twenty feet carrying a martini that is filled to the brim. The sweat begins to roll as I glide over to the party. “Glide” is a strong word. I basically look like an elderly woman fighting off the wind, moving, but at a snail's pace. I make it to Smith and his friends - their names and details not important - as I trip a little on my own feet. The martini sloshes just slightly out onto my hands. Great.

“Oh, let me - “ Smith says as he reaches for his pocket square. Oh, I guess that’s its purpose? He gently wipes my hands - sensual - and I place the martini on the table.

“Thank you,” I tell him, trying to make eye contact but a little bit of olive juice is in my eye so I look like I have a twitch. Maybe he’s into that?

“Not a problem, thank you for the drinks,” he says and I quickly hurry away to get this olive juice out of my eye.

The night went like most nights at work. Smith and his friends drank, they ate, they played some games - mostly pool - and drank some more. After the two hours ended, and the open bar ended, the guests started to slowly leave until it was just Smith and I.

“Were there any additional charges,” Smith asks me at the end of the night, not slurring a word. After two hours of martinis, he could still hold his own.

“Nope, it’s all set,” I respond. He thanks me for the evening and leaves. Uneventful.

Here I am designing our future apartment (white and marble) and naming our future children - Cecil and Timber - when I see Smith’s black notebook lying on the table. He forgot it. Or maybe he planned it? Maybe he was trying to create a meet-cute for us. Or maybe I’ve seen too many rom coms. Or maybe he’s more drunk than I thought.

I grab the leather notebook and quickly put it in the tacky apron we are required to wear. I look around for him, but it seems like he disappeared. I exit the restaurant and look around at the throngs of people on the street searching for that herringbone suit. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a blue suit turning onto the avenue. I hurriedly walk towards the corner and peer down the street, but I don't see anyone. No luck.

Defeated, I head back inside the restaurant to finish my shift. I pick up the small black notebook as a piece of paper flutters to the floor. I pick it up and turn it around. It’s a check for twenty thousand dollars. Wealth. I knew it. I place the check back in the notebook when I notice the “to” line on the check.

It says my name. Alec. It says “to Alec.” My mind starts working on overdrive. I look at the bottom of the check and it’s signed “Smith Waters.” Waters is his last name. Smith Waters. Alec Waters. Nice. Stop. Focus.

Is this real? The “to” line reads “for exceptional service.” Exceptional? Was I? I can’t believe any of this. It feels like something out of a movie. I open the notebook, feeling a bit nervous, like being in someone’s bedroom without them knowing, but I’m curious about what else is in the notebook. I flip through the pages, but it’s all blank. Nothing. No contact information, nothing scribbled down. The pages are blank, but I notice some writing on the inside cover. “Thanks, SW.” That’s all that’s written. So he left me a notebook and a check? All for bringing him drinks, which is by all technicalities actually just my job? Part of me can’t believe it, but then part of me wants to stay wrapped up in the fantasy of it all. Is he my Mr. Big? And does this mean I’m a Carrie? I always thought I was a Miranda.

“Excuse me, sir” I hear someone say behind me. Smith?

“Um, yes?” I say, trying to sound fun and flirty, turning towards the voice only to find a homeless man - allegedly, I don’t know his life - digging through the overstuffed trash can on the corner of the street.

“You real handsome,” he spouted. “Real handsome.” And lowers his head back down to the task at hand: a, presumably, used Cheez-It wrapper.

“Oh… thanks,” I reply in a dazed trance already picturing our world-trotting life together because, obviously, he’s a down-on-his-luck finance guy who was hit by some stock market crash or something. With a little grooming and a shower, or maybe a couple showers, I can make this work. And at that moment I hear the sound of pee splashing off the trash cran, and I’m rocketed back to reality. Nevermind, we come from different worlds. It’ll next work.

I look back at the restaurant. I take off my apron, feel the check in my pocket, and start to walk in the opposite direction. I let the brisk night air guide me. And then the walk becomes a run, and I’m sprinting down the street trying to get as far away as possible from that place. Sweat begins to pour down my forehead, but it’s happy sweat. Happy to be leaving a place I’ve been stuck in for years, happy for the future, for getting to focus on my future and my dream career: being someone’s second husband. Thanks, Smith. Wherever you are.