Melinda

At 6:25 a pretty, petite thirty-something blonde, dressed, manicured, and coiffed as though she had just returned from a fashion magazine photo shoot, skittered up the stairs of the City Tavern. Two young men who had just completed their after-work-before-commute drinks at the bar were leaving the tavern as she arrived. The man farthest down the stairs turned his head to watch the energetic beauty climb the stairs; he came to a full stop, giving no indication of his intent to his friend, who was also looking backward. The collision that ensued sent both men tumbling down the stairs to the landing below. Each offered an apology to the other, but both agreed that what they had seen was more than ample compensation for their injuries.

Melinda glanced over her shoulder at the chaos below, smiled, and continued her brisk walk until she saw Trent at the bar. Without a word of apology she took a stool beside Trent and began, “Do you know why I wanted to meet you here, and do you know where we’re going for dinner? No of course you don’t.” Before Trent could respond, Melinda answered her own questions. We’re meeting here because John Adams met here with a welcoming committee when he came to Philadelphia to infect his less restive and more southerly colonial brethren with revolution fever, and because it’s here that George Washington noted in his diary that he and the delegates retired for a sip of ale after they had signed the Constitution of the United States“

“It’s here that the term, ‘bar and grill’ arose, because a wooden latticework barrier, a grill, was dropped from the ceiling to close off access to the liquor and money whenever a disturbance developed in the bar, hence, ‘bar and grill.’ Momentous events were celebrated here over two hundred and fifty years ago, so what is your momentous event? The one that brought us here?” Melinda paused. “Who is she?”

Trent lamely replied, “I didn’t come here to just talk about a woman.”

“Not just? Well, okay what else is bothering you besides a woman?”

“My mother.”

“Your mother is not a woman?”

“You know what I mean,” Trent replied with a trace of anger in his voice.

“Okay what has your mother done to you now?”

“Nothing yet except to threaten to strip me of all the wealth that I might inherit from her and her two grandfathers’ estates.”

“Good God, Trent! What did you do drive the bitch—um, the iron lady, to such theatrical heights of anger?”

“Number one,” Trent said rubbing his chin, “she says I haven’t distinguished myself as an academician or scientist, and that’s true. I agree. I have not been fully committed to science and really I have been searching for something else—something that would give me purpose in life.

“Pavlov, don’t give me the searching for meaning crap. You’re not middle aged and you’re not a tortured artist looking for expression. You’re a biologist and a university professor for Christ’s sake. And news flash, you don’t have any talent for anything else. Unless, of course, it’s for pleasing women. Grow up and get a career. You said, number one, but before we move to number two, let’s take our drinks and move to that table by the window.”

Melinda sat in the chair facing the window, leaving Trent with a view of only her and the hallway leading to the kitchen. She moved her chair closer to Trent and continued, “I hate it when people feel a need to number their comments, but I’ll bite. What is number two?”

“Number two, my mother found out that I’ve been seeing Jennie Schein.”

“So this Jennie Schein doesn’t measure up to the moneyed matriarch’s idea of a blue blood?” Melinda said with a wink.

“No, that’s not it. She’s probably bluer than I am.”

“What the hell is it, then? Spill it, Pavlov.”

“Jennie’s husband is planning to donate half a billion dollars to Haney University and my relationship with Jennie may kill the deal.”

“Duh, Mr. Moto a brilliant deduction,” Melinda said. “Why did you…oh, never mind. I know the answer. I know you, but it does sound serious. Do you know why I call you Pavlov?”

“Yeah,” Trent replied, “because of an embarrassing incident in high school biology class. But what I don’t know is why you still call me that after all these years, and why you seem to enjoy it so much.

”“Good,” she said. “I’m glad you remember the pitiless Miss Krauzer’s blitzkrieg biology class and her graphic description of salivating dogs.

The reason I continued to call you Pavlov, however, was because of your passion for women. I visualized that you, like Miss Krauzer’s dogs, were salivating, but in your case not for food, but for beautiful women. I didn’t see you for a few years after high school, but rumor had it that you had become a local legend by the time you were midway through college. I also heard that your exploits reached epic heights when you got back from army duty in France. Someday, you’ll have to tell me exactly what happened in the Land of Love. You see, Trent, darling, that my nickname for you is completely appropriate.”

“Melinda, you shouldn’t listen to rumors,” Trent responded lamely.

“Oh, I’ve gone beyond rumor. I’ve watched you closely since we were reunited when you were in graduate school and I’ve talked to your women friends—yes, girls do talk. The rumors painted you as an unfeeling womanizer, but I’ve come to realize that you are not obsessed with self-gratification at the expense of those who love you. You are not a degenerate, not a roué. I believe that you are an artist, not a womanizer. An artist who experiences women as a kind of art form. For you, the canvas is the woman and the art you create is the satisfaction that spreads over her body,” Melinda said. “You love to look down on her face and bask in the reflected glow of the expression that you created, the expression that transforms her face.” Melinda signaled a server and ordered another half-pint of dark ale.

Trent declined her offer of another drink, and when the server left he said, “Nice work, Miss Marple, but how would you really know? How do you know your information is correct, that your girls are not full of shit? How could you possibly know that without any actual experience yourself? And while we’re on the subject, how do you explain the strange and sad fact that we’ve been friends for decades, but never lovers?”

“That is a question, my very dear Pavlov, that cannot be answered here at the City Tavern over Martha Washington colonial turkey pot pie and dark ale, but one that must be considered over Chianti and pasta at the Arietta Café, my choice for dinner tonight,” Melinda said with a triumphant smile.