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Rafe's Cafe

By Jackie Zack

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Chapter 1

Out of the corner of his good eye, Rafé Sinclair sensed someone watching him. Turning to get a better look, he jolted at the sight. An oddly shaped woman stared at him from a dark alcove. She was a hideously proportioned and, thank heavens, a blonde. A wave of relief washed over him as he realized it was only a lamp in front of a portrait of a woman. But the sudden adrenaline rush added to his nervous condition. All he had to do was add caffeine to the mix, and he’d probably blow up.
He tried to calm down with the fact that Iggy’s Italian Restaurant provided a unique, relaxing atmosphere for a first date. The soft lighting warmed the surroundings decorated in earthy colors. The bookcase covering one wall added a nice touch. If things went poorly, he could always read his date a story. He half smiled to cheer himself. Didn’t work.
Why had he allowed himself to be involved in a blind date in the first place? He glanced at the ceiling as if it held the answer. Weren’t matches like that a thing of the past? It was the 1990’s after all.
He knew nothing about his date except she had dark hair, was about four years younger than himself, and went by the name of Patricia Blackford. Rafé sighed. “Definitely not much to go on.” What a way to spend his over-the-hill, thirtieth birthday.
He scoped out the lobby of Iggy’s Italian Restaurant for a brunette beauty. Patricia…what a beautiful name. Would they like each other? He dared to hope so. Nothing in his life ever worked out; he was overdue for something good to happen.
He did a double-take upon noticing an unusual machine. When did it arrive? For the price of a dollar, one’s personality type could be determined by his weight and length of stride over a flat, metal rectangle on the floor. On impulse, he walked over and slid in four quarters. Now all he had to do was wait for her. His amusement stopped short. Was it a fair thing to do to someone? But a contraption with flashing lights couldn’t give an accurate reading of a personality type, could it?
While deep in thought, a shadowy presence moved close to him.
“Rafé?” The soft voice was female.
“Yes.” He turned in the voice’s direction. “Are you Patricia?”
A tingle of surprise swept over him when she blushed ever so slightly and nodded. The old superstition of not letting a black cat cross one’s path popped into his head. What would be his fate now? She was dressed in black, topped off with black hair. He swallowed hard. She also had black lipstick and black fingernails. Whoa. But yet, she seemed shy and sweet in her demeanor. Her eyes held a gentle quality.
“It’s great to meet you. How did you know it was me?”
A hostess beckoned them to a table. He focused on his date’s black lips to decipher the answer above the rising restaurant noise.
Patricia averted her path to walk around a small child who broke loose from his parents. Suddenly, lights flashed and an alarm sounded. The machine lit up with the personality types of jolly and good-natured. Even though he changed his mind about his blind date coming in contact with the machine, it had happened anyway.
Her black eyebrows drew together. “What? Why did it do that? That’s totally weird.”
“Yeah, that is strange.” He looked at the machine like he’d never seen it before. He directed her toward the hostess and changed the subject by repeating, “So—how did you know it was me?”
“Oh, that was easy. I talked to Stoopey before I came. How does a man get a name like that?” She flailed a hand, not waiting for an answer. “He said to look for a guy with brown hair.” She paused covering her lips to hide a smile. When she moved her hand away, she’d returned to a somewhat serious expression. “Wire rim glasses, and a mustache, a black shirt and white pants. He also said you have nasty bite marks on your hands. I was lucky no-one else fit the description.”
“Yeah.” Rafé wouldn’t wish his predicament on anyone. “Stoopey is derived from his last name, Stoop.” How odd to be explaining Stoopey as they stooped over to sit opposite each other in booth seating.
“Ah. How’d he know what you’d be wearing?” Her glance shifted to his fingers. “And about your hands?”
“I live across the street from the drugstore where he works. He’s a pharmacist…did you know?”
Her green eyes studied him intently from behind a menu, and she shook her head. He hoped his bad eye appeared to be in good tracking form with his right eye. Maybe there was a good glare on his lenses concealing it.
“Stoopey saw the bite marks earlier and suggested some medication. It’s, uh, kind of an ongoing thing.”
“Same thing happen to your…” She lightly touched her nose as she scrutinized the end of his. “Or did you go to a bad piercing place?”
Rafé almost rushed to say that in no way was it a piercing gone awry. But he’d seen from her eyebrow, lip, and nose ring that she did like piercings. Oh, and her earrings.
“It’s the same thing that happened to my hands.”
“Oh.”
He smiled inwardly. Would she ask how he’d got the marks? He surveyed his menu and waited. Hmm, maybe bite wounds were a common occurrence with her crowd. He glanced over the top edge of his menu, and she peeked at him in the same manner. When their eyes met, hers crinkled as she smiled.
A matronly waitress appeared to take their order and frowned, evidently upon seeing a girl in black and a man with a lazy eye. “Ready to order?”
Patricia leaned toward him and whispered, “What should I get?”
“The lasagna is good,” he whispered back. He had no idea why he was whispering.
“I’ll have lasagna and water,” she said to the waitress.
The older woman scribbled on her tablet and turned her frowning expression to Rafé.
“I’ll have the spaghetti with a meatball and a Coke.” He swallowed back his laughter. Really? Spaghetti and a meatball? Iggy’s only offered their spaghetti with one giant meatball and not several small ones. Couldn’t the cook count? His deriding thoughts ended when he realized he had just ordered a drink with caffeine.
“Got it.” The waitress headed away from their table.
“Do you work at the zoo?” Patricia looked again at his hands.
“The zoo? You mean, how did I get the bite marks?”
“Yeah, it looks like it’s from some sort of little animal.”
“It’s from my pet ferret.” He paused. What did she think? Her expression was unreadable. “Do you have any pets?”
“I had an iguana for a while.”
Thank goodness. Some common ground. “Was it a nice pet?”
“Yeah, Rosie was nice. She liked to bite too, but she only picked on my friends. Then one day she was gone.”
“Oh, she died?”
“No, she just disappeared.” Her eyes widened. “I don’t have any idea what happened to her.”
“Disappeared from—”
“My house.”
“Huh. How big was she?” Could it be the animal took a dive down the toilet? Or a drain? Through some sort of vent?
“Good size.”
“How big is that?”
She lifted her hands apart to approximately three feet.
“That is big.” He had no idea how the critter could have escaped. Surely she would notice a busted out screen. “Just vanished?”
“Like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“That’s too bad—and really strange.”
“Yeah, there isn’t any sense of closure.” Then he figured she tried to lighten the mood when she said, “But I have some cool, pet rats now.”
“Rats…oh.” Rafé was unsure how to respond. He hated rats. Being in the food industry practically demanded it.
With the thought of rats eating bags of rice, and rat tails drifting over loaves of unprotected bread, their lunch arrived.
Patricia picked up her fork and took a corner bite of the lasagna. “Good—hot—it’s good.” She gulped her ice water.
“Glad you like it.”
She set down her glass. “That’s one giant sized meatball you have there.”
He nodded. “Probably the biggest meatball in town.” His lunch showed itself to be on the gluttonous level. The meat spanned at least four inches in diameter.
Rafé used his fork to cut off a bite of the meatball, and it lunged forward on his plate. He overcompensated with his knife, and the huge meatball sloshed off his plate onto his lap. Oh, no! Good thing it wasn’t steaming hot like Patricia’s lasagna.
He grabbed the sloppy thing with both hands and plopped it back onto his plate. His white pants looked like ground zero for the Iggy meatball, super bomb. How could he get the orange-red color off? The best he could do was wipe off some of the sauce.
Was Patricia laughing? If so, she hid it very well. Wasn’t she supposed to be jolly? Well, maybe this revealed the good-natured part.
“Having trouble with an escaped meatball?” She appeared to be struggling to keep a straight face.
“I didn’t know I’d have to capture my own lunch.” He attempted a smile, not knowing if he succeeded.
If only he had worn his black pants, then the disaster wouldn’t be so obvious. Plus, he would have been wearing all black like his date. Yes, just a couple of goths out on the town. Hmm, Rafé the goth. He wasn’t sure if he liked the sound of that.
The rest of their date went by easily, but he couldn’t determine what Patricia thought of him. He learned where to get all the best goth clothing and accessories which, of course, was at the store where she worked, Hot Gothic. She was way too futuristic for him by catching the new wave style of piercings and goth-dom or whatever it was. At least he had worn his black, button-down shirt and showed himself to be half goth.
When it was time to leave and pay the bill, he’d forgotten all about ground zero until he stepped in the aisle. People stared, but he tried not to notice. Just another day of being himself.
He worried saying goodbye to Patricia would be awkward, but she understood he had limited time to get to work. As he opened his mouth to say he had a nice time, she interrupted and said she had his phone number and would give him a call. Hmm? Really? Shouldn’t he be the one to do the calling?
He was still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that Stoopey’s cousin’s daughter-in-law knew Patricia, and somehow they had arranged the blind date.
She waved goodbye and stepped into her older, black car. A Ford Fiesta. Cute. He nodded and bent down to slip into his ’79 Honda Civic. Another thing they had in common—compact cars. But cars and pets was where it started and ended.

Rafé entered his apartment, thankful there wouldn’t be much time to contemplate the weariness of being alone. Even though his home sported cheerful colors, it offered no peace. His mother had helped him put things together in a ‘60’s retro style. Was it possible she’d been gone for three years now? Since then, the royal blue couch and olive green, over-stuffed chair had lost their comfort, and the beanbag chair had turned lumpy and misshapen. The orange shag carpet had even lost its zip.
He crouched down to open his pet ferret’s cage. The fuzzy animal scurried out, and Rafé petted him as he watched the neon sign, Rafé’s Café, light up the kitchen. Nothing, not even the sign, held much meaning anymore.
A sharp nip on the finger brought him back. “Wormil! Not again.”
His pet had systematically attacked his fingers one by one. He now suffered a complete set. Maybe his pet would be happier if he let him out of his cage more, or if he got him a friend. But definitely not a female; he didn’t need a whole herd of ferrets.
Minutes later, Rafé headed to the employee door of Harry’s Pizza. He looked down at his clean white shirt and black pants. Time to get started. Upon entering the door, a great commotion ensued.
“Quick! Get the fire extinguisher. The pizza in oven three is smoking. What did you put on that pizza?” Harry yelled at Tuffy the chef.
“I don’t know what’s in there, boss. I didn’t put a pizza in oven three yet.” Tuffy’s short red hair seemed to stand on end.
In an instant, Rafé guessed what had happened. He grabbed the tongs and slowly opened the door. He was partial to oven three. It was a good pizza oven. The other men watched, riveted to whatever lay inside. Just as he suspected. Cheesy, the bus boy, had stuffed his apron in it to dry. The kid always spilled glasses of water on himself. Rafé didn’t have to say a word. Cheesy’s name appeared on the charred apron for all to see.
Harry’s face turned red with anger, not to be outdone by Tuffy’s which raced to beet red. Harry sucked in half the air in the room and started to holler. “Cheesy. I told you to never use the ovens as driers. Our customers don’t want to smell a burning apron.” As he spoke, the new sprinkler system started. The three men were immediately drenched.
Tuffy frowned. “Now we look like drowned rats.”
Patricia came swiftly to Rafé’s mind. He hoped he could see her again soon. What was he thinking? The woman had pet rats. She’s a goth, remember? His good eye looked heavenward. He couldn’t let himself be so impetuous. While looking up, he saw the water wasn’t coming from the sprinklers, and turned to see Cheesy holding a hose attached to the basin faucet. The boy looked very upset, as he had every right to be. Harry closed in fast, getting ready for another blast.
Rafé stepped between the two and looked at the teenager. “Promise us you won’t do it again.”
“Scout’s honor.” Cheesy held up three fingers.
Whew, the boy had missed another blast from Harry who still took in air. After hearing his promise, he began to let it out again.
Tuffy shook his head back and forth and grabbed a mop to clean up the mess, his face still a darker shade of red than his hair.
Rafé dried off his black wire-rim glasses and the rest of him the best he could. Nothing like a wet, slicked-back hair style. He and Cheesy put on dry aprons and retrieved large containers to clear off the tables. As they headed out the swinging doors, they smiled. Cheesy, a.k.a. David, had irritated the two older men with a near catastrophe, then Rafé had unintentionally added to their angst by taking the teenager with him to clear off tables instead of making him clean up the mess. Eh, they’d get over it.

****

Rafé arrived home later that the evening and saw a light blinking on his answering machine. A sales call—had to be. He pushed the button which gave a dull click. A woman’s garbled voice came through the machine. “Oh. Patricia.” Had a storm passed through creating static? He glanced out the window. No, he thought not.
He listened to the recording several times. From what he could decipher, she’d invited him to her place for lunch tomorrow. She gave her address and directions how to get there. If he couldn’t come, he needed to call her back.
For the life of him, he couldn’t make out the phone number. The poor connection made it impossible. Now he had to go—there was no way out. Just after he’d rehashed it over a million times, deciding that they were too different. He ran a tired hand through his hair. Happy Birthday.

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