Chapter 19 #2
Sam groans. It’s just as he feared; it’s worse, even, because it’s all three of them together.
Over the years, Sam has gone on many dates with many men found for him by each of these three women.
They have been… interesting. Some of the guys have been perfectly lovely, if not entirely thrilling to Sam; some of them have not been his cup of tea but have entertained him deeply in terms of what they said about the matchmakers’ respective tastes; some of them have been, genuinely, train wrecks.
One of them had been a literal train wreck: He and Pierre, who had turned out to be both a close-up magician and an aspiring improv actor, had been trapped for hours on the way to dinner behind a train-versus-unfortunate-fallen-rock situation.
Things had thankfully started to move again eventually, but part of Sam died in that car.
When, afterwards, he asked Joanie where she’d even found the guy, she’d shrugged and said she met him in line at the post office.
But he’s never once been subjected to a man chosen by all three of them together. Even the idea chills his blood a little, for all he loves each one of them and knows they mean well.
Luckily, before he has to work out a way to express this that will not end in his having dinner out of guilt with someone who, for another example, scoops a dollop of baked beans off Sam’s plate with his hand halfway through the meal, Sam is saved by the bell.
He turns, delighted by the cheerful sound of the front door dinging open, and his grin dims only a half watt when he realizes it’s Marty.
Marty, Sam reminds himself, is the landlord of the building behind them, and a long-standing regular who has been eating here for years; Marty isn’t the one who organized or signed off on the Kiss of Death review; it’s not Marty’s fault Jake wrote it, or that Jake slept with Sam without bothering to bring it up.
Marty, if he did anything, did Sam a favor by accidentally spilling the beans.
At least Sam found out before things got any further entangled.
Given how much it’s hurt already, he kind of can’t imagine the horror of making that discovery any later than he did.
There’s an expression of nervous anticipation on Marty’s face, which makes Sam groan for the second time in ten minutes. “Holy crap, not you too. Tell me they didn’t rope you into this setup thing?”
“What?” Marty says, looking wrongfooted and genuinely baffled, as Deb, behind Sam, snorts. “God help me, I haven’t come back in weeks; have I somehow put my foot into something again? I’m sorry. It’s physiological and can’t be helped.”
“It’s all right, you’re innocent. He’s trying to accuse you of colluding with us.
” To Sam’s surprise, Joanie’s tone of voice is one Sam usually sees her pull out exclusively around men whose vibes scream, “I am a monstrous asshole.” When he glances at her, she’s giving Marty a lingering once-over.
“In our dastardly plot to find him love and happiness. Rude of him, really. I don’t believe we’ve ever even met before. ”
“We haven’t. If we had,” Marty says, a slow smile breaking over his face, “I’d remember. I’m Marty.”
“Joanie,” Joanie says, dimpling at him. “Can we get you something, Marty? Cold beverage? Something to nibble on? It’s on the house, since Sam went and insulted you like that.”
“You don’t work here,” Sam and Deb point out together.
Joanie ignores them both, and so misses the look of excitement they flash at one another, quick as lightning.
If Sam’s excitement is partially selfish—he would love the focus to turn, just now, towards Joanie’s romantic prospects instead of his own—it’s not like he has to say so.
“Since you’re kind enough to offer, I sure wouldn’t say no to a corned beef sandwich with Swiss and a glass of iced tea.
” Marty says this as though it’s just occurred to him, as opposed to the same lunch he’s been ordering for years.
He still hasn’t looked away from Joanie, or so much as said hello to Deb, who Sam knows for a fact he went to high school with.
“Coming right up.” Joanie’s practically purring. “Sam’ll put it together for you himself, won’t you, Sammy? Go on, don’t keep the nice man waiting.”
Sam opens his mouth to point out, again, that she does not work here, and also that he not only works here but is, in fact, the boss.
But Deb catches his eye and makes an entreating face, and, more importantly, steps away from the doorframe, clearing the path to the kitchens.
Realizing he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, he flees with a nod and, feeling a little silly about it, satisfies his pride by taking his sweet time about preparing the dish.
He also sneaks Pastrami a couple of bites, ensuring Marty’s sandwich will come out ever so slightly light on meat.
Is it a little petty? Sure. But Sam thinks he’s earned a little pettiness, all things considered.
By the time he returns with the order all boxed up and bagged, Joanie has made her way around to the front of the counter, where she’s leaning against the deli case in a way obviously intended to accentuate her curves and laughing uproariously at nearly everything Marty says.
Joanie has done this sort of thing in front of Sam before; her method of flirting is bold, assertive, unmistakable, and fairly singular.
Its results, as far as Sam can tell, are…
mixed. Men usually either shrink back and away from the onslaught of attention or act bored by it, unsurprised, as though they think it’s their due.
But Marty looks deeply and genuinely delighted by her, and there’s a bright, satisfied gleam in Deb’s eye.
When Sam walks past her with Marty’s bag in hand, she leans over and whispers in his ear, “I can’t believe I never thought of introducing them!
He’s been moping around that building ever since he got divorced a few years ago, and his ex is a nightmare; she made sure she got all the friends in the split.
He told me last Thanksgiving that he’s been making friends with his tenants for people to talk to!
” She slaps him lightly on the arm and hisses, “Don’t spoil it, oh my God, just give him the bag and back away slowly.
” Sam has to choke back his laughter—the urgency in her voice suggests life-or-death stakes—but he does as he’s told and makes his escape.
He tries to make his escape, anyway. Before he can slip out back to take a fifteen and, hopefully, allow enough time to pass that Joanie, Talya, and Deb forget about setting him up entirely, Marty finally turns away from Joanie and says, “Sam! Wait! Where are you going?”
“On… break?” Sam says, confused.
“Where?” Marty pushes, his expression suddenly nervous again. “Is your break, like, something you could do here? In the dining room? Where I can see you?”
“Am I under surveillance?” Sam says this jokingly, but the expression it produces on Marty’s face isn’t exactly a comfort. “What’s going on, man? Why do you need to be able to see me?”
“Oh, uh… no reason,” Marty says, slightly wildly. He glances at Joanie, and, too quickly, says, “The shop next door, right? I’ll come see you… I should just go, quickly, because… Right. Yes. I am leaving. Nice to meet you! Sorry! Goodbye!”
Baffled, Sam stares at him as he turns on his heel and starts hastily walking towards the door. Joanie, he notices, is doing the same thing, but with a lovelorn look that seems only to have been intensified by this bizarre behavior.
But when Marty reaches the door, he pauses, two fingers resting on the handle.
It’s a long moment that he stands there—such a long moment that Sam starts to wonder if he’s entirely all right—before Marty swears, shakes his head, says, “You know what? I can’t do this,” and stalks back up to the front.
“Right,” Marty says, planting one hand palm down on the counter and rooting around in his bag with the other.
“So, the thing is, I promised him I wasn’t going to do this.
I promised him! I like the kid; he’s my friend.
He laid out the whole thing for me and said the least I could do was go along with things his way, distract you like he wanted, keep my mouth shut if he didn’t want me to tell you.
That seemed fair enough to me, after I blew up his spot the other week.
But I just think—I mean, I’d want to know, if I was you.
And I think he does want you to know; why else would he tell me about it, right?
It’s not like my track record with his secrets is so great. ”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam’s heart is hammering in his chest for all he has no idea what’s about to happen; his body feels slightly ahead of his brain, somehow. “Who—”
“Just hold on,” Marty says, “it’s stuck under my… There!” And he pulls out, with a flourish, a slightly crumpled issue of Hearth that Sam has never seen before. In fact:
“Jesus Christ, is that a print issue of Hearth?” Is Sam trying to avoid the impact of what he suspects that magazine contains? Sure, but still: “I didn’t even know Hearth still did those. I thought they were phased out alongside VCRs and landlines, back when Al Gore invented the internet.”
“Who?” Joey asks innocently, before Marty can reply, which makes him, Joanie, and Deb laugh, and Sam scowl.