Three Coins in the Fountain

I had a boozy brunch today by the World Financial Center with a handsome gentleman caller.  The sky was perfectly overcast, yet his smile seemed to be tattooed above his flawlessly dimpled chin.  He is the type of person that seems unflaggingly happy, so I am still unsure if I was ever his smile's cause or if it was indebted to the several rounds of Bloody Marys.   

We were seated on the outdoor patio with a view of bobbing yachts in the marina.  Our waiter was a handsome young man whose skin shone like wax in the blurred-out sun.  I wore my sunglasses whenever he stopped by our table for fear of being blinded by his disco-ball radiance.  After he came with our drinks, he asked if we were ready to order and we asked for a few more minutes to look over the menu.  A short while later, he came back to the table and paused before he greeted us with, “So... did you have a few minutes?” as if he worried we may have been caught in a vortex while he was in the kitchen and had lost all concept of time.  It felt like the kind of question a nurse's aid would ask when you awaken from a coma.  Then, when I ordered the Eggs Benedict, he asked how I wanted them cooked to which I said, “Uh… poached?”  Later, when we ordered our coffee, he brought us two separate canisters of milk and two separate sugar caddies.  I almost hoped he had drawn a line down the center of table with the wrappers of our straws and hummed the opening of "West Side Story".

This waiter's whole existence seemed to be an indistinguishable blend of tragic and hilarious, but my date seemed to be so polite that he refused to notice.  With that, the rules had been clearly defined that my making a joke at the waiter’s expense was entirely off-limits.  So, the conversation stayed as light, like my POACHED eggs. 

Luckily, some children wandered over to the fountain next to our table and distracted me by being cute.  They’d been given pennies by their granddad and were instructed to toss them into the water and make a wish.  The girl was older and more methodical with hers while the boy quickly lobbed his like a hot potato.  They both watched transfixed as the coins rocked back and forth until they sank to the bottom with a "plunk". 

The boy immediately asked the girl what she had wished for.  She looked at him like he'd spit in her face and told him that she couldn’t tell him her wish or it wouldn’t come true. 

Even though I have heard that same line of flim-flammery more times than I have blown out candles on a birthday cake, I celebrated the boy's defiance. 

“Yeah?  Says who?”

“Everyone,” she sighed.  “ That’s who.”

“Oh,” he said as they began to amble away, fully contented to accept the girl’s word as gospel.   

It made me realize that whoever first thought up the idea that you cannot reveal your wish must have been a modest coward.  And those that preach that your wish cannot be revealed until after it has come true are merely opportunistic at hedging their bets. 

Hearing that exchange made me want stand up and take a fistful of everything that jangled in my pocket and throw it with abandon into the Hudson.  And you want to know what I would wish for?  I'd be happy to tell you.  I would have wished for the permission to make fun of that shitty waiter until my date grabbed at my forearm while his jaw unhinged with laughter so I could finally rest assured that I was, indeed, responsible for his irrepressible smile.