The Eyes

This particular chapter details an interaction between the narrator and a guest he is serving who sparks a memory.

Location: Kobe Japanese Steakhouse, Bloomington, IL sometime in February, 2014. 


   “Hey, Kenn. There’s three at hibachi three,” my manager tells me.  

   I pull out my pad and begin writing my name next to the “Server” portion and fill in for table three and he says, “It’s the daughter’s birthday.”  

   “Neat,” I say, but, S**t, I think.  

   The first thing you must always do when taking a hibachi table is to turn on the hibachi grill. It takes about ten to fifteen minutes to heat up properly before a chef can come out to cook and perform the show. Believe me, having forgotten before, it is one of the most awkward and embarrassing things a person can do. The chef will come out with his cart full with trays of rice, broccoli, carrots, and onions, and mushrooms, noodles, lemons, and eggs, and chicken, salmon, shrimp and steak, with teriyaki, soy, and ginger sauce, and salt and pepper, and knives and spatulas, and sake and vodka, and with Mr. WeeWee (a plastic fireman doll whose pants the chef pulls down to squirt water out onto a makeshift onion volcano for part of the show), and he will arrive and notice the clean cold grill before him without the telltale black spot in the middle, denoting that it is not ready yet. Then, he will leave the table with hardly a word, leaving the guests confused, to talk to me, and I will feel my heart drop, and I will have to break the bad news that this misstep is my fault, and, regardless of how good my day was, it will be ruined, and I will look back upon my mistake that night, and many nights to come, losing sleep over how I fucked up and how I deserve the five percent tip I had received.


   So, I turn on the grill and I look up, and, although I can tell that all three are fit or slender, I am not paying attention to what they look like yet. Instead, I look through the family while I recite one of my automatic, regular greetings,

   “Howdy-ho there, friends. How are we doing tonight?” 
   “Good. How are you?” they ask politely. 
   “Eh, a little hungry, but don’t worry about me, I’ve got some fried rice in back,” I joke for the hundredth time and we all chuckle.  

   “But, my name is Kenn,” I continue, “and I will be taking care of you tonight. Is there anything I can get you to drink while you browse around our wares? How about for you, sir?” I always start from my left. He’s a fit gentleman, probably in his early fifties, greying but not grey, with a dark brown blazer over a white undershirt.

   “A Bud Light bottle, please.”
   “Bud Light,” I repeat and turn to his wife who sits upright, properly, with a light blue cardigan over her shoulders, “and, for you, madam?”
   “A glass of Moscato, if you wouldn’t mind,” she says with a smile. 
   “Moscato. Sounds great.”

   I turn to the birthday girl while writing her mother’s drink order, “And, for you?” I ask, and look up. She’s in her late teens and wearing a white dress, and has silky black hair that falls just above her shoulders, with a tan complexion and freckles adorning her face and cheeks complimenting her coy disposition and bashful smile. I meet her large dark eyes as a faint and distant rhythmic noise grows, and there’s a soft sensation of someone lightly pressed against my palms and I can feel every nervous, quiet breath softly entering and stumbling out of me, brushing along my lips as she opens hers to break the muffled notes, “A Sprite, please,” and I’m back at Kobe in front of the family. “Is Sierra Mist okay?” I ask as I check if their grill is on.


   Her chef, a stout Cuban from Miami named Danny, and I are sitting in the break room eating some after 9 P.M. dinner, but she is still on my mind and apparently his as well. 

   "Dat chiquita, though," he says, staring at his food, chewing, "Dio! She’s a girl ya’ bring home to mama." 
   "Yeah, never before had I so strongly believed in love at first sight."
   "Nah, ya' thinkin’ of - infat - of infatuation."
   "Well, yeah. It’s called hyperbole - poetic license."
   "Oh, okay. Well, she gotta be a li’l Latino o' 'talian wit dat skin tone. An’ doze freckles…" 
   "Yeah…" The muffled noise returns.
   "Doze eyes, too." my vision is displaced.

   She's approaching in her silver dress, alone against the dark vague faces of my memory, sparkling white in the moving lights, and I realize that I’m pathetically under-dressed in my torn jeans and faded flannel, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I had dressed up; she’s perfect and all else looks insignificant, even derelict next to her. She tells me, “Kenn, dance with me.” 

   Who am I to say no?  

   My nervous hands are on her waist. They take care not to be too arrogant or careless, but, regardless of any intention, they’re memorizing the curvature, the contour of where they’re placed, how soft and delicate and how warm she feels. I wish I can say I know which song is playing, but it’s still just muffled tones hidden behind the quiet sounds of my quivering breaths. I’m concentrating as hard as I can not to embarrass myself. I look up, but all around her may as well be only black; nothing else is worth noting except her dark brown hair, her freckled face, and her eyes -

- her eyes are a dark reflective canvas, but she alone holds the brush. Yet, in this moment she chose to look at me, and in her eyes the picture I wish she’d paint.

   “Eh hem,” I clear my throat, returning to work, “Yeah, those eyes.”

   There’s a silence as I wonder, Was it Jumper by Third Eye Blind? and the song finishes within my mind.

   And if you do not want to see me again  
   I would understand, I would understand  
   I would understand, I would understand  
   I would understand, I would understand  
   Can you put the past away? 

Author's Note

This is my first draft and very much a work in progress. The book is going to be an episodic thing with an overarching plot, whose chapter, or vignettes, can be taken, read, and appreciated in and of themselves.

Also, I just edited it and read through it once more. Apparently some of my formatting didn't stick or transfer. I tried to correct it. Yet, if you see anything off, please let me know.

Reviews

[Mr. Lopez]

I'm unclear as to whether or not this is based on a true story or not but either way ,it will be very relatable to many readers for the simple fact that many a young man has had his love at first sight experience. I know I have. I found myself falling in love all over again. I read the review of M.L.Franchello and agreed with her suggestion to trim it back a tad. I thought you could use less explanation of the meals ingredients but more of the love and enchantment. Believe it or not my friend,I'm still a romantic at heart. As a young man I had a very similar experience to your story and I remember very vividly how magical and powerful the spell of love was for me. Very nice HandsomeKen

[Kibbles and Quips]

Hey! Thanks for reading this and reviewing.

Being a romantic can be fun, though; especially when it comes to writing. It's a great joy to hear that had that feeling of falling in love (to a degree) while reading this. It gives me a sense of fulfillment.

As for that list, I agree and have been working on shortening it but I don't want to do anything drastic quite yet. This is a middling "chapter" (a vignette, to be technical) of an episodic book/novella I am working on. So, somethings will be changed around or expanded upon later down the road. With that said, I did write this with a bigger overarching plot in mind. So, that paragraph is somewhat important to it, and is supposed to be taken in, or appreciated, through hindsight. The list will probably be trimmed, though; that much I agree with. I just gotta figure out how much and settle on the conceit and tone.

Anywho, enough of my cathartic exposition and wondering. Thanks again for reading, man! It's always a pleasure to read your thoughts! I will be keeping them in mind.

[Mr. Lopez]

No problem , and if the list serves a purpose as of yet to be revealed in future chapters well then I'd leave it as be. I'm not nearly as educated and informed with the technicalities of writing as you are and I trust that you know what your doing. Sorry it took me so long to honor your read request. I just yesterday figured out where my read requests even were. Looking forward to reading more.
Peace
Mr.Lopez

[Chris]

You might try another font type - this one seems to not work in the site's text box line character limits.

As for the story - It works. Life has a way of intruding in a person's perceptions of what IS a "presence".

[Kibbles and Quips]

Yeah, this is an older piece. I don't remember the format being like this so thanks for bringing that up. I will have to edit this in a bit.

But thanks for reading! I am glad you enjoyed it.

[M. L. F.]

This is something I danced between for a long time in my own fiction. The feeling that all authors have that the reader won't understand us, unless we explain everything blow by blow. You have a real raw talent here. But a few places I would trim, justttt a little bit... to leave just a little bit more for them to imagine, because you have a good grasp of emotional range, and for a lot of writers that is hard to do.. to evoke emotion in the reader... but it is a killer instinct, and I see it here. Let me show you an example:

"She's approaching in her silver dress, alone against the dark vague faces of my memory, sparkling white in the moving lights, and I realize that I’m pathetically under-dressed in my torn jeans, black and white unbuttoned flannel with a black Nirvana shirt underneath, and a White Sox baseball cap atop, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I had dressed up; she’s perfect and all else looks insignificant, even derelict next to her. She tells me, “Kenn, dance with me.”

The start of this paragraph is almost just perfect, and you are starting to evoke feelings for me, big ones... so don't lose me with a few too many details afterwards... look: this part is very very emotional and pulls me in:

"She's approaching in her silver dress, alone against the dark vague faces of my memory, sparkling white in the moving lights, and I realize that I’m pathetically under-dressed"

After this part, you begin to describe the way he is under dressed. If you tailored it down just a bit it might not distract from this rich flow of inner emotion and turmoil you've got going for the reader....

Original:
"and I realize that I’m pathetically under-dressed in my torn jeans, black and white unbuttoned flannel with a black Nirvana shirt underneath, and a White Sox baseball cap atop, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I had dressed up; she’s perfect and all else looks insignificant, even derelict next to her. She tells me, “Kenn, dance with me.”

But what if you said something like:
and I realize I'm pathetically under-dressed
in my torn blue jeans and the faded old flannel that barely covers my old concert tee. But it wouldn’t have mattered if I had dressed up; she’s perfect and all else looks insignificant, even derelict next to her. She tells me, “Kenn, dance with me.”

Also breaking the sentence helps the flow. You can tell me where to shove my ideas, or you can take some of it into your mind and mull it over, totally up to you. Just shooting out options. Also, I like the dialogue.. but I wish you would have a teeeeenyyy bit more of the prose also, simply because you are great at pulling the emotional strings... again, an ability a lot of people never obtain. Great work! Thanks for sharing it with me.

..Misty

[Kibbles and Quips]

Yeah, well, you can shove your ideas right in... with my appreciations for such an awesome review!

That is something I do sometimes and I am glad you pointed it out. To paraphrase David Foster Wallace, "I have this problem where I don't think the reader understands so I'll explain something five, six, seven times." And sometimes I do that with details, too. I'll focus way too much on semantics or rhythm and completely forget about how too much detail can bring the reader out.

Anywho, this is still the first draft of a middling chapter for the book, so, much will be moved and edited by the time the entirety is finished. I am so glad you gave me good, honest feedback. All too often I just get the praise and I sit back, thinking, "Come on B, I grow by critiques not compliments."

But, thanks for the compliments as well! And thank you again for reading this and doing this critique!

[M. L. F.]

haha! No problem Kenn. I have the same, that I am very descriptive and very busy listening to my own flow.. my own rhythm. It's deathly important to me. I'd saw off one of my own fingers before I would post anything I had not read aloud many times first. I'm sort of a Tolkien in that respect... Description wise. And that can fall well if you do it right.. but not when we are saying... I passed blue street, black street, yellow street, red street, and white lane at the end... when it would have been much more beautiful and advantageous for both us and the confused reader to have read us say: I passed each street named after hues till I landed at the one I'd actually come for, and I stopped to stare at the sign. White Lane...

Nice to meet a fellow fiction perfectionist like myself.. :)

[Kibbles and Quips]

Hahaha Oh, I love your analogy.

And yes, definitely a perfectionist when it comes to words and how some might better compliment one versus another, et cetera, et cetera. Truly neurotic sometimes haha.

If I may ask one question since we talked about details, and since I had forgotten to bring it up in the initial response, what do you think of that paragraph and list about the contents of the cart? That's one area that I've cut down a bit since I wrote this first draft. Since then, I have been concentrating on making the list flow well (punctuation, phrasing, et cetera).

If you could do me that last kindness I'd be most happy.

If not, then, well, thanks anyways!

[M. L. F.]

If it was a poem, I could review that fast... It's after three am here and now I'm going to work a bit on my teaser for my new suspense story.. which also needs finishing.. neurotic indeed. :) And since you have a solid thing starting up here and it's fiction, I really like to detail the reviews and try to brainstorm with the writer, as above... let me have a look at it this weekend for you? Tomorrow is Thanksgiving here... well not for dutch ppl, but I'm an American so yeah, you know..

[Kibbles and Quips]

Oh, yeah, whenever works for you! I am in no rush. I like to workshop in my reviews, too. Sometimes I feel like people don't like reading that type of feedback, though (compliments versus critiques). Whatever, I try to help and don't like being insincere; it hurts. But, please, go ahead and work on your teaser! You must sent it my way when you finish it; us neurotics gotta stick togetha'. :)

P.S. Happy Thanksgiving fellow American! I hope you enjoy whatever the day may be.

[M. L. F.]

The day may be fake little chicken turkeys, aka "baby churkeys"... but yeah... *rolls eyes*... But thank you... Happy Thanksgiving to you too, a very happy one.. And LOL ... yes we do have to stick together, even if it's in our straight jackets.. ;)

[Shae-Leigh Johns]

omg I loved it so much. the emotion behind it,everything about this makes me want to read more.

[Kibbles and Quips]

Thanks for reading it! I'm happy you enjoyed it. However, this is the first draft of this particular chapter. As the book takes shape this will change and adjust.

[Shae-Leigh Johns]

yeah, well let me know ok

[Kibbles and Quips]

Will do! It'll be at least a year before I finish it, though.

[Shae-Leigh Johns]

alright :)