Paul Mantee
Did you ever find yourself submerged in dismay? I have, and recently. And for several unrelated reasons. Here are three instances that pushed me into the pit. I wonder if you can relate.
The other day, Suzy the Significant and I were having coffee al fresco at the Malibu Kitchen. A young attractive woman we’d never met-twenty-ish-came up to us and told us that she couldn’t help noticing what a cute couple we were. Now, I know that I’m too old and cranky to be cute and Suzy’s quality is, to my way of thinking, more along the lines of stunning. Mickey and Minnie Mouse were cute. However, when a compliment is intended, you take the hit in the spirit it’s offered. So we thanked the young lady and engaged her in a moment of polite conversation. She was new to Malibu. From the Midwest, I think she said.
“Is that so?” I asked.
“I’m a Christian, you see, and God told me He wanted me to come to Malibu and learn to surf.”
Say what?
On relocating my jaw up where it belongs, I sensed lunacy on a couple of levels. The initial implication is: I’m of a particular faith; therefore God speaks directly to me. As we’ve seen, this kind of religious arrogance can run an airplane into a tall building. Secondly, as a society we’ve already been drenched in the fact that God is involved in the Super Bowl and the World Series; still, I’d like to know who the hell is minding Darfur while He’s presiding over this fuzzlet’s recreational life. Then my mind segued to the thousands of other privileged folks who consult a Supreme Being on everything from color combinations to parking spaces; and their inevitable progeny. Care to guess what America the Beautiful will sound like in a couple of generations?
Scary.
The second instance prompting my dismay was of a local nature. Since I’ve been banned from Marmalade for critiquing the temperature of its erstwhile waffle, Suzy and I have discovered and enjoyed the food offered at Champagne, a chic little hole in the wall next to what used to be Blockbuster. They make a delightful breakfast and create pastries that taste like pastry used to back in 1940 when I was cute. And their créme brulee is so good you want to jump in it. Rigo and Gilda, a genteel couple devoted to pleasing their clientele, have run the place seven days a week for eight successful years.
By the time you read this, Champagne will be an empty space waiting for a bank to happen because they were presented with a 75 percent rent increase and couldn’t handle it. Could you? This unique and picturesque establishment has gone the way of the Dume Room, a Malibu legend for 35 years, Dietrich’s, the most atmospheric coffee shop in the neighborhood-to be replaced shortly by another Starbucks, a minute and 30 seconds from the one on Cross Creek Road-and countless other establishments. Our local flavor is slipping into the past tense. Malibu specifically chose not to become a corporate entity when we elected to become a city in 1991. Nevertheless, Costa Mesa is on its way to the beach.
The third instance is personal.
My phone rings. I answer with a customary hello. The voice on the other end says, “Hey, Paul, how ya doin’ today?
Now I know two things. One, I don’t know this person-none of my friends are that cheery-and two, momentarily somebody is going to try to sell me something.
“I’m doing fine, thank you,” I answer. (First mistake.)
I try to cover my error by cutting to the chase. I quickly add: “Please tell me what it is you’re selling.”
Now the voice explains (Do I detect hurt feelings?) that he’s not selling anything, he merely wants to help me invest my money. I feel I’ve been a little abrupt; the poor guy is merely trying to make a living for both of us.
“So, how is your money working for you these days, Paul?”
(My crap-detector advises me to hang up. I pay it no mind.)
Boyish naiveté prompts me to share the truth with this man. “My dentist has all my money.”
“So, whataya’ livin’ on these days, Paul?”
Please understand that this guy has a nice friendly manner so I don’t want to be rude. I want to explain to him in terms he’ll understand that he’s really got the wrong fella on the phone. The guy he wants is the jackass who raised the rent at Champagne.
(Hang up, hang up, urges my inside voice.)
“I live on a pension and an occasional pittance from The Malibu Times,” I say, giving this stranger more information than-up to now, at least-some of my good acquaintances have.
“So whataya’ do all day, Paul?”
I’m pleased that the conversation is edging toward warmth. “I’m writing a novel,” I say.
“Well, stick this in your novel,” he says and, click, he hangs up.
Yes, of course I know what’s wrong with this picture.
That’s why I’m dismayed.
A man who I do not know and in whom I am totally uninterested-one who has stolen irreplaceable time from my day and who my little voice that never lies has urged me again and again to cut adrift-hangs up on me and hurts my feelings.
My inside voice asks, Will you ever smarten up?
I’ll pray on it.