Mr. Schrub ordered a different wine I had never heard of, and the waiter said “Excellent choice,” and exited quickly.
Mr. Schrub didn’t discuss the contract at all while we ate, and he didn’t even talk about finance. Instead, he told me about the food we were eating. He and Mrs. Schrub owned a house in Tuscany and they went there every summer for at least a week and bought food at local markets and cooked together. “I recently cooked my first Italian meal,” I said. Then I added, “I taught myself.”
When I ate several gnocchi and grilled zucchini ASAP, he said, “Don’t just gulp it down like a philistine. You have to rotate between the flavors, savor them.” I decelerated my pace and was afraid he would find other flaws in my method of consuming and that it would somehow hurt my chances of convincing him to pursue the epidemiology project. “Break the taste apart into discrete essences — the fresh sweetness of the basil against the earthiness of the gnocchi.” This is why I could never be a restaurant critic, because my only descriptions for food I liked were “delicious” or “flavorful” or simple adjectives in that class, and if you lack specific vocabulary to describe something, it is almost as if you are also restricted from specific thoughts, parallel to how if you do not know a coding command, not only are you prevented from implementing the idea, but you may not even innovate the idea initially.
After we received coffee I thought we were finally going to discuss my idea, but the owner of the restaurant entered and greeted Mr. Schrub.
“You must be a very important young man if you’re lunching with Mr. Schrub,” the owner said after Mr. Schrub introduced me, and I did feel like a VIYM again.
“He’s only as important as I let him be,” Mr. Schrub said. They both laughed, and the owner asked about our meal. Mr. Schrub said the food was excellent. “The waiter was perhaps a little big for his britches. You may want to have a word.”
The owner apologized and said he would speak with him, then left us to drink our coffee. Mr. Schrub didn’t say anything for almost a minute as he breathed on his coffee, and I was afraid of deleting the silence. He was like Barron in that way, because when they were mute I knew they were having thoughts they were withholding but I didn’t know what the thoughts were, except Barron usually made me feel relieved after.
I finally said, “Have you thought about—”
He put up a finger as he poured milk into his cup. After he tasted it and licked his lips and dried them with his napkin and replaced his napkin on his lap, he said, “The epidemiology proposal sounds like a brilliant idea. But before we do something that rash, I think we should investigate further. Why don’t you give my programmers access to the code, they can bring it up with some confidential partners who know more about this subject, and we can figure out if this thing really does have a fighting chance.” He retrieved the contracts from his briefcase. “We’ve also gotten you some more money.”
There was something about his “Why don’t you” sentence that bothered me besides the fact that it was less a question and more a statement. I looked at the contracts that I still didn’t 100 % understand on the rigid white tablecloth. The solitary thing I did understand was the amount of money, which was boldfaced and double the initial amount.
“If it is all right with you, I prefer to update my prototype further before I release it to your programmers,” I said.
He replaced the contracts in his briefcase as efficiently as if he was a printer feeding paper. “I understand,” he said. “You’re a perfectionist. So am I.” He discussed the snowstorm expected next weekend, and we finished our coffee and he refused to permit me to pay for my share and told me to recontact him when I was ready.
I walked slowly back to the office. I replayed his sentence that bothered me, and I deciphered what caused turmoil for me: He used the phrase “my programmers,” but I was also technically one of his programmers. Later in the sentence he said “we can figure out,” so he should have also said “our programmers.” It was a minor word choice, but it indicated something negative to me.
I had to consult with someone. There was only one person I could think of who was not upset with me now and who I thought could help me.
“No, you’re not bothering me,” Barron said on the telephone after I told him I didn’t require a ride. “How’s your lady friend?”
I said Rebecca was fine. But I truly wanted to speak about Mr. Schrub, although of course I couldn’t reveal the full details of the situation to Barron. So I said, “Barron, what do you advise in a situation like this: Another party has given one great trust, and one would like to trust the other party, but one slightly believes one possibly should not trust everything about the other party.”
Barron said, “Slow the hell down. If you say the words ‘trust’ and ‘one’ and ‘the other party’ one more time, I’m going to hang up. This is about Rebecca, right?”
This would be a convenient way to discuss Mr. Schrub, but I didn’t want to lie to Barron. So I said, “I would not like to identify the party or parties involved.”
“You don’t make this easy,” he said. “Let me ask you: Are you the kind of guy who doesn’t usually trust people?”
I stood in the middle of a cluster of business people waiting to cross Pine St. “No, I believe most people have positive values and goals and merit faith.”
“That’s a nice attitude, but it’s dangerous. Especially in this city — it’s full of phonies.” I asked what phonies were. “Fakes, frauds, exploiters, if that’s a word. You’ve got to watch your back. And if you think someone’s trying to stab it, you have to turn around and confront them.”
I was afraid Barron would say this. Typically people know what the correct answer is when they search for advice, but they need someone else to state it first. It is similar to flipping a coin to make a decision but knowing what decision you want to make independent of the outcome. Or possibly of praying for an outcome that ultimately you have the power to influence.
“On the other hand, Rebecca is no phony,” he said.
“Rebecca is not the other party. Please do not hang up.” It was time to ask him for a major-league favor. “I have a contract someone wants me to sign, and I am uncertain about its contents. Are you skilled at deciphering legal language?”
“What, because I’m a cabbie I can’t read?” he asked.
“No, I only meant that the language is—”
“I’m messing around with you. You don’t always have to fear the wrath of the black man,” he said. “I’m okay with that stuff. But my wife deals with it all the time. You could fax it to her.”
“I would prefer not to transmit it via fax.” I thought for a few seconds. “Would you and your family like to come to my apartment for dinner?”
“Your place?” he asked.
“Well, shit, like I said, it’s nothing fancy, but you’re welcome to come over here.” He was surprised and confused by my words. “That is the same sentence you used when you permitted me to do Thanksgiving at your place. I was messing around with you as well.”
He whistled and said, “You’ve got a steel-trap mind there.” He told me he would have to check with his wife but he was fairly certain they could come. I gave him my address, because he drives so many people around and therefore does not have a steel-trap mind for that.
I prepared the same pasta meal I had cooked with Rebecca but utilized gnocchi this time and also blended the multi-fruit juice Michelle enjoyed at Thanksgiving. Barron and Cynthia brought nondairy cupcakes for dessert. It pleased me to be utilizing all four chairs for the first time. We had a pleasant conversation until they discussed what instrument Michelle should learn next year in school.