Melancholy Baby

3

Rosie had on her black-and-white leash, which matched her black-and-white collar, which matched her coloration. She pranced, and I walked along Atlantic Avenue through the maelstrom of Big Dig construction to Spike’s Place on Marshall Street, near Quincy Market. Spike used to manage it when it was a casual restaurant during the day, and perform in it when it was a comedy club at night. Now he owned it. The first thing he had done was change the name to Spike’s Place. The second thing he’d done was to retire from show business. He canceled the comedy club and upgraded the dinner menu.

The décor was still the bare-beams and weathered-brick look it always had been. But the food was greatly improved. The service was good. The help dressed better. And Spike, now with a financial stake in things, had attempted an attitude upgrade, which, given his temperament, was not entirely successful.

Inside the front door of Spike’s Place was the hostess stand, and on the table was a small sign that read No dogs allowed, except seeing-eye. The hostess, a pretty young woman in a yellow linen dress knew me, knew Rosie, and made no comment as she led us to a banquette for two along the wall at a right angle to the bar. Rosie hopped up beside me on the banquette.

“You want to see Spike?” the hostess said.

“Please,” I said.

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” the hostess said. “You want anything?”

“Just some coffee,” I said.

“I’ll send some over,” the hostess said.

She spoke to a waitress as she walked toward the back of the room. The four women at the next table were having an early lunch and discussing a recent production at the American Repertory Theatre. They seemed enthusiastic. The waitress brought me coffee and a roll.

“Roll’s for Rosie,” the waitress said.

“Thank you.”

I stirred some milk and Splenda into my coffee. Rosie fixed a beady, laser-like stare on the roll. I broke off a small piece and put it on the table in front of her, and she ate it.

A mature woman with harlequin eyeglasses gazed at us in horror.

“That’s offensive,” she said.

I leaned my head back against the banquette and closed my eyes and took in some air, and said nothing. When I opened my eyes, Spike was standing in front of my table. He was a very big bear of a man, in all senses. His hair was short and his shirt was crisp white and his tan slacks had a sharp crease. He wore mahogany loafers with no socks. The loafers had a high shine. He was looking at me hard. Then he pulled a chair away from another table and sat down across from me.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

The mature woman gestured to the hostess, who walked over.

“I’d like to speak with the manager, please,” she said.

The hostess was charmed.

“That would be me,” she said. “I’m Miranda.”

“Well, are you going to do anything about this dog?”

“Well, Rosie is sort of a regular patron,” Miranda said.

“Which I gather means you do not plan to intervene?”

“Perhaps a happy compromise,” Miranda said, “would be to offer you a different table.”

“I prefer to sit where I am,” the lady said. “And I wish to speak with your superior.”

“You certainly may,” Miranda said. “The owner is sitting right next to you. Spike himself.”

The mature woman and her three mature companions all spoke as if they had taken elocution lessons at Radcliffe. And they looked as if they shopped at an Ellen Tracy discount store.

“How do you do,” the mature woman said.

“How do you do?” Spike said.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I saw your sign when I came in. It says No dogs allowed, except seeing-eye.”

Spike looked at Rosie, and then at Miranda, then back at the woman.

“Oh, of course, ma’am. I see your point completely.”

He stood up.

“I’ll take care of it right away.”

Spike walked to the hostess stand and reached behind it and opened the drawer. All of his movements were as graceful and precise as if he weighed half of what he weighed. He took a black felt-tipped Magic Marker from the drawer, bent over, and carefully, after the part that said except seeing-eye, wrote in a neat hand: and Rosie Randall. Then he put the Magic Marker back in the drawer, stepped back, and looked at the sign. Nodded with satisfaction, and returned to his chair.

“Thanks for caring,” he said to the lady in the harlequin glasses.

“But you... you... you can’t just change the sign and allow dogs to eat off the table in a restaurant.”

Spike looked at them, puzzled for a moment. I knew he was struggling with his attitude adjustment.

“Perhaps if Miranda got you a better table,” Spike said.

“It’s not a question of a better table,” the mature woman said. “It’s a question, if I may say so, of hygiene.”

The adjustment was sliding.

“Rosie’s had all her shots,” Spike said. “I don’t think you’ll infect her.”

Miranda had been hovering near, knowing how tenuous Spike’s hold on civility was.

“Ladies, if you’ll come with me,” Miranda said. “There’s a lovely table by the window. I’ll have your server move everything... and lunch will be on me.”

It was a chance to finish lunch, preserve their dignity, and save a few bucks. They took it. In maybe a minute they were reseated, their plates were transferred, and they were eating again, though all of them glared occasionally at me and Rosie and Spike.

“Never fire Miranda,” I said to Spike.

“God no,” he said. “I’d put myself out of business in a month.”

We were quiet. Spike looked at me. Then he got up and came around and sat on the banquette beside me.

“Something bad is bothering you,” he said. “And I want to know what.”