The Other Side of Now

By Danielle Lattuga, 11-15-07

It is impossible for us to recount every single moment in our lives in order to provide meaning to the present, to explain it, make sense of it, understand it.  So typically, what we do is take a series of significant moments and string them up on a clothesline of memory, where color, sensation, emotion, words, weather, and dreams dwell.  And in the background of those snapshots, there is a tapestry of other elements that may or may not belong to someone else, and may exist in their memory vividly, yet somehow different. 

You learned to fly a hot air balloon, because as a child you went to the hot air balloon festival in Quechee Gorge and will never forget the bright colors against the blue sky.  There was a woman there that winked and said, “May your feet leave the ground,” as she handed you a pink swirl of cotton candy.  You don’t remember her, but she remembers your blond curls and the twinkle in your eye, and how badly she wished that someone would have freed her with their words, when she was small.

The world stops for people all the time, ever so briefly, so that only particular qualities of those moments stand out, and any one of us may be part of the blur that surrounds them.

I lowered the square white dessert plate onto the table in front of her, and instead of chocolate dream cake, there was a mahogany box enshrouded in flowers—maroon, white and deep red. 

She looked down at the plate, and her eyes slowly rose to meet his.  I turned and stepped away from them, dark motion in the corner of their field of vision.  Fading. 

They were seated at a tiny round table, in the corner, tucked away from everyone, except the world outside.  Our customers that didn’t like that table called it the fish bowl because it looked out onto the street and had a glass wall behind it.  Those that loved it knew it as the corner of romance, the only “private” table in the restaurant, because, while people from the street could see it and it was positioned by the front door, words that were shared there stayed there. 

Stories hid from me at that table.  Out in the other parts of the restaurant, stories floated around and tangled up freely.  In that little nook, I only got the fragments that hit me like shrapnel or ocean spray when I stepped in to check on my customers.  But this story, I’d seen it unfold.  Granted, all I knew of it was what transpired at the restaurant, but I was invited into this particular chapter by him. 

He’d been coming into the restaurant for years.  I always enjoyed his visits.  He was courteous, kind of quiet but not unfriendly and always appreciative.  I often found myself bemused by the fact that he could get up in front of a crowd and play hip, innovative, original rockin’ tunes, because his dark hair and accessible gaze portrayed an undercurrent of calm, an unassuming sort of character. 

Even though we rarely interacted outside of the walls of the bistro, I considered him a friend, because I could always count on him for pure pleasantness.  I liked his smile.  He liked my wine recommendations. We’d come to rely on each other in a way: he for consistent, attentive and friendly service, me for the ease and enjoyment of serving him.

When he came into the restaurant just days before he was going to propose, shared his intention, and asked for my help, I was honored and slightly terrified. 

His girlfriend was one of those sleepers of a beauty. You know, one of those women who was always easy on the eyes, but when she dressed up, it was nearly impossible for the eyes to leave her.  She had a big smile, a great figure and a nice way. Her sexiness—but not over the top sexiness—suited him, I thought.  She always had on a perfectly cute ensemble, like a polka dot dress with shoes made for it, and red lipstick.  She could wear red lipstick.  I am always envious of that.  I can’t wear red lipstick.  I become one big lip.  Look out Mick Jagger.

We devised a plan and I practiced not looking like the cat that ate the canary. 

It was their anniversary so naturally we placed them at the table of romance.  Since it was a special occasion already, it was easy to spoil them and not let on that there was anything else going on.  The restaurant was slammed.  My whole section was overflowing and I was slightly pleased and slightly peeved that I had 11 tables requiring perfect service and one table requiring exceptional service.

He was sweating and I could see that he was forcing himself to eat his dinner. Normally, I would have asked if there was something that he was displeased with, but I didn’t want to call attention to it.  She probably noticed he wasn’t eating much anyway.  I was second-guessing everything, speculating, perseverating and still smiling through it all.  And I wasn’t the one proposing. 

When it came time for dessert, I went through the checklist of tables in my head—made sure they were all good, because time was going to stop for a few moments.  I asked one of my co-workers to keep an eye on table 10 and clear their plates if necessary.  I walked behind the bar, opened a drawer and pulled out the little wooden box.  I stepped back into the kitchen, grabbed a dessert plate and set the box in the center. 

Our salad guy looked at me and smirked. 

“Cover it in chocolate sauce.”

“Very funny.” My voice kind of cracked.  I laughed then.  “This is ridiculous.  I am a wreck.”

“It will be fine, D.” He was fanning avocados across plates of field greens.  “Did they enjoy their meal?”

“Yeah, except he’s so nervous that he had trouble eating it.”

“Dude, I can’t imagine.”

“The only reason I can is because I could blow the whole thing for him.” I sorted through the container of fresh garnish flowers.  I needed red.  And they needed to be big enough to conceal the box slightly. 

“Oh, what, are you in some way going to convince her to say “No.”?”

“You know it’s all about me.” I rolled my eyes. “I just want it to be perfect.”

I asked our singing dishwasher to go cut a couple of flowers off the bouquet on the bar, and to be subtle about it.  Subtle is not his nature, but he knew I was serious and expeditiously retrieved the three particular flowers I wanted.  None of them were roses. 

Once they were arranged around the box, I pinched the corner of the plate between thumb and forefinger and raised it in front of me, a little higher than usual.  As I walked from the kitchen to the table of romance, all the noise seemed to muffle and I watched my customers’ eyes drift from each other to what I was carrying.  They do this, instinctively, when a plate exits a kitchen and passes their tables.  With this plate, I saw little impish smiles emerge, I saw hands slide across the table to each other, I saw eyes get watery.  I held my breath the whole time. 

I stood there, holding the plate, just high enough for her to only catch a glimpse of the “garnish.” Exale.  “I know you guys are full, but it’s your anniversary, and I wanted you to have the chocolate that you love so much.”

She smiled.  I set the plate down.  The moment became theirs alone.  Believe me, I wanted to hover and listen and react, but I just had to walk away.  One of my tables grabbed my arm. 

“Did you just deliver a ring?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, it’s our anniversary today.  That’s so sweet.” They smiled at each other.

I checked on the rest of my tables.  I cast sidelong glances to the corner.  My section was buzzing, and suddenly less chaotic.  I poured four glasses of champagne.  Delivered two to the anniversary pair. Waited for the embrace in the corner.  Let them settle back in.  Delivered the other two to their table.  “Congratulations.”

They both looked a little numb, although you could see relief playing across his face. 

I suppose I loved being part of it, because it was all about love and surprises.  I know that when they think of that day, they probably won’t think about me, and that’s fine.  That’s the point.  They should be thinking about that moment as their own.  I was honored to be part of it, because it meant he trusted me to make it work.  As a server, it isn’t necessarily always your role to be memorable, it’s your role to make things seamless, and sometimes that means being part of the tapestry in the background that subtly affects the tone and motion of a moment. 

But that doesn’t mean you can’t gain something from that moment.  I loved it because it was a rare occasion, because it meant that two good people were taking a big leap together, because it celebrated one of the beautiful aspects of humanity.  Romance, truth, raw emotion, bravery, elegance, insight.  And it affected more than just me, those around them felt it, some were more engaged in it than others, but it took people to their own raw moments. 

Above everything, it reminded me that our singular moments send waves and ripples out beyond us, and they color and change the singular moments of others, whether we realize it or not.  Our joy can illuminate a fragment of memory for someone else, just as our pain and anger can drag them down.  Be careful with each other, because you will never know how you will feel on the other side of now.