“Are you waiting for somebody?” George Harrison asked. I didn’t say a word. “That . . . wasn’t a trick question,” he continued, chuckling.
“Maybe I am. It depends,” I ventured, not letting my guard down.
“Oh, I get it,” he said, wiping the smile off his face.
“You get what?”
“Somebody stood you up.”
“Funny, I thought you were waiting for someone yourself.”
“Actually, I’m worried somebody may have been waiting for me and then left because I was late,” he said, eyes on his watch once more.
George Harrison scratched his forehead, a habit I’ve observed in men when something is troubling them. My own go-to tic is twisting and twirling my hair around my index finger. Who was I to judge?
“I drove the whole night to be here for this, only to pass out like a fool in my hotel room. I overslept,” he said with a sigh.
“Call her and apologize.”
“I would if I knew how.”
“Oh, I get it.”
“Get what?”
“Not a very smooth move, showing up late for a blind date. But let me set your mind at ease: you were the one who got here first. I’ve been here for a half hour and haven’t seen anyone who fits the bill, unless you pick up your women in pairs, in which case, your dates are seated at the bar.” He still looked troubled.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease. I didn’t mean anything by it. Bottom line: your date never came, so either she’s the one running late, or . . . you’ve been stood up.”
“Fair enough. Since it seems I’m not the only one who got left high and dry, any chance I could sit down with you for a bit while I wait?”
I glanced at my watch. It was seven thirty.
“Sure, I suppose. Why not?”
George Harrison took a seat, appearing just as uncomfortable as I was. He flagged down the waitress and asked me what I was drinking.
“Pimm’s,” I said.
“Any good?”
“Yes. But quite sweet.”
“I think I’ll go with a beer. And you?”
“The same, please.”
“Meaning . . . a beer?”
“No, another Pimm’s. Please.”
He took a breath. “So . . . what brings you to Baltimore?”
“Can’t you try something a bit more original? Maybe a question you don’t know the answer to?”
“Ha! And I’m the one who’s supposed to be good with comebacks? This round goes to you, hands down.”
“Now . . . your real name isn’t George Harrison, is it? Admit it, you’re an actor!”
“Actor? Me?” he said, laughing. “Never heard that one before. Does that mean you ripped off my favorite game?” He had a charming laugh. I had to give him points for that.
“Maybe. Maybe I did.”
“What else did you come up with?”
“I had painter, musician, filmmaker . . .”
“That sure is a lot of hats for one man to wear! Impressive, but wrong. I’m a carpenter. And George Harrison Collins is absolutely my real name. Sorry if that comes as a disappointment.”
“Disappointment? Not at all. It just means . . . you’re not as funny as I had hoped.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet.”
“Oh, no. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Don’t I get a second chance?”
“Afraid not, it’s a bit late for that. You came here on a date and now you’re hitting on me? I may be alone, but I’m nobody’s plan B.”
“Who said I was here on a date?”
“Okay, that point goes to you, but you’re still losing.”
“Can’t we call it a draw and stop keeping score? Anyway, for your information, I was not hitting on you, thank you very much. But just out of curiosity, since you’re obviously very fixated on first names: What’s his name? The guy who stood you up? You can trust me, you know. One plan B to another.”
“Fine, let’s call it a draw.”
“So, backing up. What brings you to Baltimore?”
“An article for my magazine. And you?”
“My father.”
“That’s who you’re waiting for?”
“Sort of. It’s who I had hoped would show up.”
“I have to admit that’s pretty bad, getting stood up by your own father. My dad would never dream of doing that. But couldn’t he just be running late?”
“I’ve been waiting for him for thirty-five years. I think ‘late’ might be a bit of an understatement.”
“Wow, that’s awful. I really am sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.”
“Well, I am nonetheless. I lost my mother last year and I know how much it hurts . . . to be missing a parent.”
“Let’s change the subject. Life is too short to dwell on pointless things like sadness and regret.”
“Well said.”
“I can’t take credit. My mother liked to say that. But enough about me. Your turn. What are you going to write about Baltimore?”
Moment of truth, Elby. Make a choice: Do you trust this man or not?
“Your lips are moving,” he said, “but no words are coming out.”
“You said you drove all night. Where were you coming from?”
“Magog. It’s a small city about an hour outside Montreal, in the Eastern Townships.”