Elevating Overman. Bruce FerberЧитать онлайн книгу.
can’t stop thinking about that waitress.”
“What waitress?”
“What waitress? I’m sorry, I forgot who I’m talking to. Oh, now I remember. The broke, paunchy schlamazel who can apparently land any young chick he wants.”
“You mean the waitress from last night?”
“With the lips,” Rosenfarb reminds him. “She was incredible. Can I have her number?”
“Jake, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“You never were one for sharing.”
“I wasn’t going to call her. I did that to make a point,” Overman informs him.
“You weren’t even going to call her and still you don’t want to give me the number? How do you sleep at night, Overman?”
“What about Rita?”
“You despise Rita.”
“But you don’t. Do you really want to see this waitress?”
“No. I just wanted to see if you’d give me the number. And now I have my answer. Nice talking to you.”
Rosenfarb hangs up on him. What a piece of work this guy was. Overman might assume the friendship was over if he didn’t know better. Beating this head case at love three sets in a row guaranteed that Rosenfarb would continue to be part of his life, like it or not.
The phone rings again. “Overman,” he answers curtly. Better to get this over with.
“Hi,” says the sweet familiar voice on the other end.
“Hi,” says Overman, looking up. He sees Maricela smiling at him as she talks into the phone.
“I didn’t want to come over there because Hal might follow me. Are you doing anything after work?”
“After work?” Overman stammers. “Let me check my calendar.” He shuffles through a day planner that has never been written in. “What do you know? I happen to be free tonight.”
“I thought maybe you could come over to my place, have a glass of wine—”
“I’d love to, but…don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“Yeah. I really want him to meet you.”
There is a long pause. This was not how it was supposed to go, according to the calculations of a man reborn. Thus far, the unique experiences that had recently come his way had been trouble-free. This one was the most exciting, yet had a giant wrench thrown into it.
Maricela sees Overman staring into space. “Is there a problem? Do you not want Rodrigo to be there?” she asks, seemingly willing to cut the boyfriend out of the picture.
“Oh, no, I’d love to meet Rodrigo,” Overman sputters, immediately thinking what an idiot he is because she gave him the out.
“Great. I’ll email you the address. Come by around 8.”
While Overman deliberated on what his evening might bring, Jake Rosenfarb pulled into the driveway of his Laurel Canyon home, relieved to be away from the screamfest to which he has been subjected for most of the day. He had long ago learned that if his upscale Los Angeles clientele weren’t one hundred percent happy with their new plantation shutters, they would become as angry as if they were actually being enslaved on a plantation. It made no sense, but these people seemed to blame their inner unhappiness on subcontractors. All he could think about now was getting in the house, plopping down on the family room sofa and pouring a single malt scotch.
Rosenfarb is barely through the door when he sees a frowning Rita standing in their brand new $350,000 kitchen, arms folded as if she is about to scold him.
“Hello darling,” he musters, girding himself to hear what he’s done wrong now.
“Take me out to dinner. I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Honey, I had a horrible day. I just want to relax,” Rosenfarb pleads.
“You’ll relax at the restaurant. How about sushi?”
“I don’t want sushi.”
“Italian. We’ll go to Angelini Osteria.”
“Too noisy. And I don’t feel like Italian.”
“Fine. Let’s get you a steak.”
Rosenfarb didn’t want a steak. No food sounded appealing to him, but Rita was determined to get out of the house. He tried to think of what would be the fastest possible dining experience. She quickly rejected the In ‘N Out Drive-Thru. Rita had to sit down and be waited on while his head throbbed. Suddenly, it dawned on him.
“Jerry’s Deli.”
“You went there last night with Overman,” Rita says, confused. “You still have the leftover sandwich in the fridge.”
“Which I would be glad to eat, but you want to go out.”
“I don’t think they have anything for me,” Rita informs him.
“Their menu is thirty-two pages long. I’m sure you’ll find something.”
Rita reluctantly agrees. Rosenfarb knows exactly what he is looking for and it’s not on the menu. He is obsessed with Corned Beef Kim Basinger, partially because of her attractiveness, more so because she is attracted to Overman. Suddenly his headache is gone and he informs Rita that he wants to change into something more comfortable.
A half-hour later, peacock Rosenfarb in his $250 Nat Nast silk bowling shirt is tearing his hair out as his wife puts in the world’s most complicated salad order with Corned Beef Kim, who seems to have no recollection of him whatsoever.
“No onions, no dressing, extra spinach, light beets, double jicama…” etc, etc.
The waitress looks even more stunning than last night, prompting Rosenfarb to inquire as to whether she recommends the rye bread or the bagel chips to complement his matzo ball soup.
“They’re both good,” she replies, not tipping her hand.
Unsurprisingly, Rita has an opinion or two of her own. If he gets the rye bread, he’ll want to butter it, and he doesn’t need the cholesterol. The bagel chips are dry and less fatty but sometimes they’re burnt. “Are the bagel chips burnt?” she asks Kim.
Kim doesn’t think so, promising to do her best to find some unburnt ones.
“The rye bread might be safer though,” Rita re-considers, as if the bagel chips were somehow irradiated with nuclear contaminants.
“I’ll bring you both and you can decide,” says Kim, the perfect hostess, wanting to get away as quickly as possible.
“That was nice of her,” Jake comments.
“She’s just lazy. Wasting the company’s money. If she were my employee, I’d fire her ass. I’m going to wash my hands.”
Rita gets up to go the ladies’ room. Rosenfarb’s chance to make his move. As soon as his wife is out of sight, Jake intercepts Kim on her way to another table.
“Excuse me, don’t you remember me from last night?”
Kim’s expression is as blank as white roll-up shades.
“Jake Rosenfarb. I was with another gentleman—”
“Mr. Overman,” she smiles, apparently delighted at the thought of him. “Do you think he’ll call me?” she inquires hopefully.
“I don’t know. Can I just ask you one question?”
“Sure. Seeing as how you’re a friend of his, you can ask me anything you want.”
“Why?”
“Why