Book II – Chapter 05: Melchior

Posted On June 23, 2014

In only a couple of deliveries, Ferris’ apartment was nearly complete. He still wasn’t quite sure how he’d coerced Demos into helping him build five bookcases and a dining set. Demos was infamous for avoiding nearly every form of manual labor and had blatantly labeled his choices as ‘plebeian furnishings.’ Even so, he had folded up his sleeves and picked up an allen wrench, keeping his complaints to a minimum.

Ferris was certain that he had received every box in his order and was therefore puzzled as he stood staring at the new one that had arrived just that afternoon. Upon discovering its contents, he immediately gave the Italian a call.

“Hello?” came a sluggish voice from the other end of the line.

“Demos, it’s six p.m. Are you seriously still in bed?”

“No,” Demos lied. Ferris could hear the mattress creak as he rolled over.

“Sure. Anyway, you feel like telling me why the delivery guy just dropped off a giant box of knives?”

“Oh, good. They came,” Demos replied, sitting up in bed and rubbing a hand over his face.

“Yeah, I figured you had something to do with this.”

“They’re for cooking.”

“I don’t need this many knives,” Ferris said, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he held up a particularly intimidating serrated blade.

“They’re not for you. They’re for me — when I cook at your place. Don’t use them. Actually, don’t even touch them.”

“What the hell is this one, a sword?” Ferris asked, ignoring his friend’s demand as he examined another one.

“A sw-… oh, that’s a knife sharpener. Don’t touch that either.”

“Are you sure this apartment is for me?” Ferris asked, eyeing the piano in the living room.

“There’s like a billion books in it, of course it’s yours.”

“Right. Now get out of bed before the sun sets you piece of shit vampire.”

“It was just a nap,” Demos whined, flopping back onto his pillow. “Like you did anything all day.”

“I went to work. I have a real job, in case you forgot.”

“Hey, I have a real job, too.”

“Yeah, what is it you tell people? You work in ‘restaurant management?’” Ferris asked, pushing the box aside on the counter.

“It’s a legitimate business,” Demos insisted, draping an arm over his eyes. “Anyway, how was work?”

“It was fine. Actually, my boss called me into her office. She offered—“ Ferris started, then paused. The memory was still fresh in his mind — the meeting had happened only hours ago.

“You’ve been here for nearly a year,” his manager said, sorting through a stack of papers as he watched from across her desk. “And we’re quite pleased with your performance.”

“Ah,” Ferris replied, unsure how to take the compliment. “Thank you.”

“You may have heard there are some openings at HQ. They asked me to choose a few promising new hires to fly over for interviews. You’re not CPA certified yet, but they’re willing to overlook it if you pass the exam within the year.”

“Openings?” Ferris asked, taking a moment to process her words.

“That’s right,” she said, folding her hands on top of the glass desk. “Financial analyst. With, of course, plenty of opportunities for advancement.”

Ferris grasped for a response. He had expected to go years without promotion and was reeling from the proposal. When his thoughts finally put themselves in order, one agonizing detail stood out.

“You said it was at HQ,” he said, hoping he had misheard.

“Yes, in Seattle. We would give you a short leave for the interview process.”

“Seattle,” Ferris mouthed, his gaze dropping to the desk. He took in a breath, noticing that the air was suddenly stale. His eyes closed, then opened again.

“I’m honored you’d consider me,” he began, “but I’m afraid I can’t leave Southport.”

“Ah,” his boss replied, her mouth flattening. “You’re certain? It’s practically a thirty percent pay raise.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Ms. Singh.”

As the memory finished playing in his mind, Ferris made the quick decision to keep it to himself.

“Offered what?” Demos asked.

“Offered… ah, offered to let me start seeing more clients. Less office work, you know?”

“Oh. That’s… that’s good, right?”

“Yeah,” Ferris said, his voice already starting to trail. “Anyway, I’d better go.”

“Go? I thought I could come try out those knives,” Demos said, his voice sweetening considerably.

“I have a date, remember?”

“Oh, oh right. Another one. I’ll come console you with ice cream when it’s finished, okay?”

“Come on, they don’t go that badly,” Ferris said with a grimace.

“Uh huh. Have fun, Fish. I’ll get Häagen-Dazs, okay? Bye!”

“Shut up,” Ferris snapped, waiting a moment before finishing. “And get Ben & Jerry’s!”

With that, he ended the call, glad that he couldn’t see Demos’ smarmy grin through the phone.

Melchior was a French bistro situated just north of Foley Park. Its high ceilings accommodated rows of gold-lit lamps and the air was infused with the scent of freshly baked bread. Ferris had learned, the hard way, that Italian restaurants had entirely too much red sauce for a first date and there were apparently some people who didn’t like sushi. He hoped, quite warily, that French would be safe.

The entrance was filled with patrons waiting for their tables, though some had filtered into the street for a cigarette or two. Trying to think over the sounds of conversation and clinking glassware, he scanned the tables for anyone who might be sitting alone.

Two rows in, he spotted the back of her head. It seemed she had mustered up the courage to arrive, dashing his hopes of being stood up. At least with a no-show he wouldn’t have had to make an excuse to his mother as to why he wasn’t engaged yet.

“Hi,” he said, peering past her as he approached the table. “Are you Alexis?”

“Um, yes,” she replied, throwing together a quick smile as she looked up from the menu. “Just ‘Alex’ is fine. You must be Ferris.”

“That’s me,” he replied, sliding into the seat across from her. He glanced at her water glass, which was already half-empty. “Sorry, were you waiting long?”

“Waiting? Oh, not— well, I came a little early, to get relaxed. I’m not really great at meeting new people. I get anxious and start rambling. Oh, god, I’m already rambling,” she said, covering her face with one hand.

“Don’t worry,” he said, giving her a faint smile. “I’m not good at meeting new people, either.”

She gave a nervous laugh, turning her hand to fidget with her hair. A moment later, she realized what she was doing and quickly forced her hands into her lap. Ferris watched her for a moment, trying to recall if they’d met before. Her copper-red hair fell to her chin, its shade one he couldn’t possibly have forgotten.

“I feel like I’m supposed to know you from somewhere,” he admitted. “But… I can’t seem to place you.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We’ve never met. Our moms play mahjong together on Tuesdays.”

“Ah,” he said, making a realization. “Does your mother do this a lot?”

“All the time,” Alex said with a sigh. “I keep telling her it’s a waste of time and… oh! Not that this is a waste of time.”

She quickly averted her eyes, tensely using both hands to adjust her glasses.

“It’s okay,” Ferris said, glad to see that she shared his sentiments. “You can admit it. I’m tired of these things, too.”

“Yeah?” Alex said, looking up and giving her first genuine smile of the night.

“Yeah. But, you know, there’s no winning against Mom. I just don’t know how to tell her…”

“Oh, are you gay?”

“W-what? I— what gave you—”

“Ah! I’m sorry. I just thought… well, that’s a really nice shirt for a straight guy.”

Ferris laughed, rubbing the back of his neck as their waiter approached. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked such a thing. He made a mental note to never wear one of Demos’ gifts to a date again.

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked, readying his pen.

Ferris welcomed the distraction, quickly skimming the menu and locating the New England cod. Alex ordered an entree of duck confit, as well as a bottle of wine for the table. Normally, he would have welcomed the distraction of alcohol, but now found himself genuinely curious about the woman in front of him.

“Anyway,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “What do you do?”

“I work in accounting,” he said helplessly. “Thrilling, right?”

Alex made a sound that seemed to be the start of a laugh, but quickly ended when she cleared her throat.

“That’s okay,” she insisted. “I don’t even have a job — I’m still in school.”

“Oh? What are you studying?” he asked, leaning forward over his folded hands.

“I’m getting a masters in biochemistry at SPU,” she mumbled, staring down at her glass. “But I guess that’s pretty boring, right?”

“Are you kidding me?” Ferris blurted, his attention piqued. “That’s amazing. When are you graduating? What do you want to do afterwards?”

For a moment, Alex only stared at him. It was apparent that this was an unusual response and it took her a second to process his excitement. As she gathered herself, a grin swept across her face.

“I’ll be done next year. I want to do clinical research, or maybe forensics. My friends say forensics is gross, but I don’t know, it’s like… like finding order in chaos. Like having a big box of puzzle pieces that are just wreckage and ligaments and putting them together to find a story — the whole story. Though I think I’d honestly be more afraid of being a court witness than dealing with a corpse. I just — um, sorry, is this weird? This is weird, isn’t it?”

Ferris honed in on her words, too focused on them to notice the arrival of their wine, nor the fact that he was blushing.

 For the rest of the evening, he forgot that he was taking part in one of his mother’s contrived arrangements. Their conversation flowed animatedly from one thing to another, to molecules, taxonomy, and unbearably long books written by long-dead authors — topics which Seamus and Demos would sooner fall asleep to than chat about.

Two orders of profiteroles completed their meal, followed by the bill. Ferris reached for it instinctively, faltering when their hands met on the black holder.

“Let me get it,” she said, flushing as she drew back her hand.

“But it wouldn’t be right,” he insisted. “You’re a student.”

“A grad student,” Alex corrected, taking the opportunity to place down her credit card.

“All right, well, I’ll get it next time,” Ferris offered, then paused to touch the back of his head. “Um, if you’d like to, that is. Have a… next time.”

“I’d really like that,” she said, her voice softening.

For a minute, neither spoke, both needing a moment to take in what they’d agreed to.

“Oh god,” Ferris muttered. “I’m going to have to tell my mother she was right about something.”

“Me too. She’ll never let me live it down,” Alex said, her face contorting with the realization.

“Just tell her I was horrible and spilled wine all over you.”

“Only if you tell yours that I fell asleep at the table.”

“Deal.”

It was only when Ferris got home that he realized the time. He also realized, after noticing the glow of lights and the sound of the television, that Demos had kept a spare key.

“What took you so long?” the Italian asked as Ferris closed the door behind him. He was immediately greeted by the clicking and panting of Stanley, who hopped circles around his ankles as he removed his shoes. Ferris had gone through an arduous custody battle with his mother over the pug, eventually winning him over in spite of his guilt. Now, as he looked down at the rolls of fat and lolling pink tongue, he wondered if it was actually worth the effort.

“Sorry, I lost track of time,” Ferris replied, moving to join Demos on the sofa. It seemed his friend had already gotten started on the ice cream.

“Yeah?” Demos said, tapping the clean end of the spoon against his lips. “How did it go?”

“Really well, actually.”

The room was silent for a moment. Though the television had been muted, it continued to cast a flickering glow on the side of Demos’ face. His expression was blank, impossible to read in the dim light of the room. A clench of fingers on his pint, however, betrayed his surprise.

“Oh?” he finally said.

“Yeah,” Ferris replied, allowing Stanley into his lap. “She was smart… really smart. It was so easy to talk to her and, well… I think I’m going to see her again. Maybe next week.”

“Oh,” Demos repeated, this time more weakly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Demos replied, hurrying to rearrange his features. He smiled. “That’s great. It’s nice seeing you happy for once. Ah, you are happy, right?”

“Of course.”

Demos’ eyes softened, watching Ferris for as long as he could bear. He could see it in Ferris’ expression — that familiar spark, the one that came forth when he read a great book or learned a new song — that look of happiness that was normally so terribly rare.

Slowly, Demos glanced back at the television.

“Then so am I.”