The Rosie Effect

5

My mother’s Saturday night Skype call from Shepparton came through on schedule at 7.00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time; 9.00 a.m. Australian Eastern Standard Time.

The family hardware store was surviving; my brother Trevor needed to get out more and find himself someone like Rosie; my uncle appeared to be in remission, thank God.

I was able to reassure my mother that Rosie and I were fine, work was also fine and any thanks for my uncle’s improved prognosis should be directed to medical science rather than a deity who had presumably allowed my uncle to develop cancer. My mother clarified that she was just using an expression, and not submitting scientific evidence of an interventionist god, God forbid, which was also just an expression, Donald. Our conversations had not changed much in thirty years.

Dinner preparation was time-consuming, as the mixed sushi platter had a substantial number of components, and by the time Rosie and I sat down to eat I had still not conveyed the Gene information.

But Rosie wanted to talk about the pregnancy.

‘I looked it up on the web. You know, the baby isn’t even a centimetre long.’

‘The term baby is misleading. It’s not much advanced from a blastocyst.’

‘I’m not calling it a blastocyst.’

‘Embryo. It’s not a foetus yet.’

‘Attention, Don. I’m going to say this once. I don’t want forty weeks of technical commentary.’

‘Thirty-five. Gestation is conventionally measured from two weeks prior to conception and our best guess is that the event occurred three weeks ago, following the Roman Holiday impression. Which needs to be confirmed by a medical professional. Have you made an appointment?’

‘I only found out I was pregnant yesterday. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a baby. A potential baby, okay?’

‘A baby under development.’

‘Right.’

‘Perfect. We can refer to it as the Baby Under Development. B.U.D.’

‘Bud? It makes him sound like a seventy-year-old man. If it’s a “he”.’

‘Ignoring gender, it’s statistically likely Bud will reach the age of seventy, assuming successful development and birth and no major change to the environment on which the statistics are based, such as nuclear holocaust, meteorite of the kind that caused the dinosaur extinction—’

‘—being talked to death by his father. It’s still a male name.’

‘Also the name of a plant component. A precursor to a flower. Flowers are considered feminine. Your name has a flower connection. Bud is perfect. Reproductive mechanism for a flower. Rosebud, Rosie-bud—’

‘Okay, okay. I was thinking that the baby, speaking in the future tense, could sleep in the living room. Until we can find a bigger place.’

‘Of course. We should buy Bud a fold-up bed.’

‘What? Don, babies sleep in cribs.’

‘I was thinking of later. When it’s big enough for a bed. We could buy one now. So we’re prepared. We can go to the bed shop tomorrow.’

‘We don’t need a bed yet. We don’t even need to buy the crib for a while. Let’s wait till we know that everything’s okay.’

I poured the last of the previous evening’s pinot gris and wished there was more in the bottle. Subtlety was not getting me anywhere.

‘We need the bed for Gene. He and Claudia have split up. He has a job at Columbia and he’s staying with us until he can find somewhere else to live.’

This was the component of the Gene Sabbatical that may not have been well considered. I should probably have consulted with Rosie before offering Gene accommodation. But it seemed reasonable for Gene to live with us while he looked for his own apartment. We would be providing for a homeless person.

I am well aware of my incompetence in predicting human reactions. But I would have been prepared to bet on the first word that Rosie would say when she received the information. I was correct by a factor of six.

‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Unfortunately, my prediction that she would ultimately accept the proposition was incorrect. My series of arguments, rather than progressively breaking down her resistance, seemed to have the opposite effect. Even my strongest point—that Gene was the best-qualified person on the entire planet to assist her in completing her thesis—was rejected on essentially emotional grounds.

‘No way. Absolutely no way is that narcissistic, cheating, misogynist, bigoted, unscientific…pig sleeping in our apartment.’

I felt that accusing Gene of being unscientific was unfair, but when I started to list Gene’s credentials Rosie went to the bedroom and shut the door.

I retrieved George’s card to enter it into my address book. It included the name of a band: Dead Kings. To my amazement, I recognised it. Due to my musical tastes being formed primarily by my father’s record collection, I was familiar with this British rock group whose music had been popular in the late 1960s.

According to Wikipedia, the band had become active again in 1999 to provide entertainment on Atlantic cruises. Two of the original Dead Kings were actually dead, but had been replaced. George was the drummer. He had accumulated four marriages, four divorces and seven children, but he appeared, relatively, to be the psychologically stable member. The profile did not mention his love of beer.

When I went to bed, Rosie was already asleep. I had made a list of further advantages of Gene living with us, but decided it would be unwise to wake her.

Rosie was, unusually, awake before me, presumably as a result of commencing her sleep cycle early. She had made coffee in the plunger.

‘I figured I shouldn’t be drinking espresso,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘Too much caffeine.’

‘Actually, plunged coffee has approximately 2.5 times the caffeine content of espresso.’

‘Shit. I try to do the right thing—’

‘Those figures are approximate. The espressos I get from Otha’s contain three shots. Whereas this coffee is unusually weak, probably due to your lack of experience.’

‘Well, you know who’s making it next time.’

Rosie was smiling. It seemed like a good time to introduce the additional arguments in favour of Gene. But Rosie spoke first.

‘Don, about Gene. I know he’s your friend. I get that you’re just being loyal and kind. And maybe if I hadn’t just discovered I was pregnant… But I’m only going to say this once and we can get on with our lives: we do not have space for Gene. End of story.’

I mentally filed the ‘end of story’ formula as a useful technique for terminating a conversation, but Rosie contradicted it within seconds as I swung my feet out of the bed.

‘Hey, you. I’ve got writing to do today, but I’m going to kick your arse tonight. Give me a hug.’

She pulled me back to the bed and kissed me. It defies belief that a person’s emotional state could be deduced from such an inconsistent set of messages.

In reviewing my interaction with Rosie, I concluded that her reference to kicking my arse was metaphorical, and should be interpreted positively. We had established a practice of attempting to outperform each other at The Alchemist. In general, I consider the artificial addition of competition to professional activities to be counterproductive, but our efficiency had shown a steady improvement. Time at the cocktail bar appeared to pass quickly, a reliable indication that we were enjoying ourselves. Unfortunately there had been a change of ownership. Any alteration to an optimum situation can only be negative, and the new manager, whose name was Hector but whom we referred to privately as Wineman, was demonstrating this.

Wineman was approximately twenty-eight years old, estimated BMI twenty-two, with a black goatee and heavy-framed glasses in the style that had once marked me as a nerd but was now fashionable.

He had replaced the small tables with longer benches, increased the intensity of the lighting and shifted the drinks focus from cocktails to Spanish wine to complement the revised menu, which consisted of paella.

Wineman had recently completed a Master of Business Administration, and I assumed his changes were in line with best practice in the hospitality industry. However, the net effect had been a fall in patronage, and the consequent firing of two of our colleagues, which he attributed to difficult economic conditions.

‘They brought me in just in time,’ he said. Frequently.

Rosie and I held hands on the walking component of the journey to the Flatiron neighbourhood. She seemed in an excellent mood, despite her ritual objection to the black-and-white uniform that I, personally, found highly attractive. We arrived two minutes ahead of schedule at 7.28 p.m. Only three tables were occupied; there was no one sitting at the bar.

‘You’re cutting it fine,’ said Wineman. ‘Punctuality is one of your performance measures.’

Rosie looked around the sparsely populated room. ‘Doesn’t look like you’re under any pressure.’

‘That’s about to change,’ said Wineman. ‘We’ve got a booking for sixteen. At eight.’

‘I thought we didn’t take bookings,’ I said. ‘I thought that was the new rule.’

‘The new rule is that we take money. And they’re VIPs. VVIPs. Friends of mine.’

It was a further twenty-two minutes before anyone ordered cocktails, due to absence of clientele. A party of four (estimated ages mid-forties, estimated BMIs between twenty and twenty-eight) arrived and sat at the bar, despite Wineman attempting to direct them to a table.

‘What can I get you?’ asked Rosie.

The two men and two women exchanged glances. It was extraordinary that people needed the advice of their friends and colleagues to make such a routine decision. If they insisted on external counsel, however, it was best that it came from a professional.

‘I recommend cocktails,’ I said. ‘As this is a cocktail bar. We can accommodate all known taste and alcohol requirements.’

Wineman had taken up a position to my left, on the client side of the bar.

‘Don can also show you our new wine list,’ he said.

Rosie put a closed copy of the leather-bound document on the bar top. The group ignored it. One of the men smiled.

‘Cocktails sound good to me. I’ll have a whiskey sour.’

‘With or without egg white?’ I asked, in line with my responsibility for order negotiation.

‘With.’

‘Straight or over ice?’

‘On the rocks.’

‘Excellent.’ I called to Rosie, ‘One Boston sour over ice,’ slapped my hand on the bar and started the timer on my watch. Rosie was already standing at the liquor shelves behind me, and I knew that she would be sourcing the whiskey. I put a shaker on the bar, added a scoop of ice and halved a lemon as I solicited and clarified the remaining three orders. I was conscious of Wineman watching. I hoped that, as a business-administration graduate, he would be impressed.

The process I had designed and refined makes best use of our respective capabilities. I have the superior database of recipes, but Rosie’s dexterity level is higher than mine. There are economies of scale in one person squeezing the total lemon juice requirement or performing all of the pours of a particular liquor. Of course, such opportunities need to be identified in real-time, which necessitates an agile mind and some practice. I considered it highly unlikely that two bartenders working on individual cocktails could perform as well.

As I poured the third cocktail, a cosmopolitan, Rosie was tapping her fingers, having already garnished the mojito. She had kicked my arse, at least in the first round. As we served the cocktails with the simultaneous movement of our four arms, our clients laughed, then applauded. We were accustomed to this response.

Wineman was also smiling. ‘Take a table,’ he said to our customers.

‘We’re fine here,’ said Boston Sour Man. He sipped his drink. ‘Enjoying the show. Best whiskey sour I’ve ever had.’

‘Please, sit down and I’ll organise some tapas—on the house.’

Wineman took four wineglasses from the rack. ‘Did you see Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom?’ he said.

I shook my head.

‘Well, Don, you and Rosie just reminded me of the scene where Mr Jones’s assailant shows off his skills with a sword.’ Wineman pointed to our clients drinking their cocktails and made some moves that were presumably meant to simulate swordsmanship.

‘Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, very impressive, four cocktails, seventy-two dollars.’

Wineman picked up an opened bottle of red wine. ‘Flor de Pingus.’ He poured four glasses and made a sign with his hand, holding his index finger and thumb at ninety degrees with his remaining fingers folded. ‘Bang, bang, bang, bang. One hundred and ninety-two bucks.’

‘Jerk,’ said Rosie as Wineman delivered the drinks to a group of four who had arrived during our cocktail-making. This time her tone was not affectionate. ‘Check out their faces.’

‘They look happy. Wineman’s argument is valid.’

‘Of course they’re happy. They hadn’t ordered anything yet. Everybody’s happy when the drinks are on the house.’ Rosie put a highball glass in the rack with unnecessary force. I detected anger.

‘I recommend going home,’ I said.

‘What? I’m okay. Just pissed off. Not with you.’

‘Correct. Stressed. Creating cortisol, which is unhealthy for Bud. Based on experience, there is a high probability that you will initiate an unpleasant interaction with Wineman and be stressed for the remainder of the shift. Restraining yourself will also be stressful.’

‘You know me too well. Can you cope without me?’

‘Of course. Numbers are low.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ She laughed and kissed me. ‘I’ll tell Wineman I’m feeling sick.’

At 9.34 p.m. a group of eighteen arrived, and the table that had remained reserved and unused for the entire evening was extended to accommodate them. Several were noticeably intoxicated. One woman, aged in her mid-twenties, was the focus of attention. I automatically estimated her BMI: twenty-six. Based on the volume and tone of her speech, I calculated her blood alcohol level as 0.1 grams per litre.

‘She’s shorter in real life. And a bit porkier.’ Jamie-Paul, our bartending colleague, was looking at the group.

‘Who?’

‘Who do you think?’ He pointed to Loud Woman.

‘Who is she?’

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

I was not kidding, but Jamie-Paul offered no further explanation.

A few minutes later, with the party seated, Wineman approached me. ‘They want the cocktail geek. I’m guessing that’s you.’

I walked to the table where I was greeted by a male with red hair, though not as dramatically red as Rosie’s. The group appeared to be made up entirely of people in their mid- to late-twenties.

‘You’re the cocktail guy?’

‘Correct. I am employed to make cocktails. What would you like?’

‘You’re the guy with—like—a cocktail for every occasion, right? And you keep all the orders in your head? You’re that guy?’

‘There may be others with the same skills.’

He addressed the rest of the table, loudly, as the ambient noise was now significant.

‘Okay, this guy—what’s your name?’

‘Don Tillman.’

‘Hello Dan,’ said Loud Woman. ‘What do you do when you’re not making cocktails?’

‘Numerous activities. I’m employed as a professor of genetics.’

Loud Woman laughed again, even more loudly.

Red Hair continued. ‘Okay, Don is the king of cocktails. He’s memorised every cocktail on the planet and all you need to say is bourbon and vermouth and he’ll say martini.’

‘Manhattan. Or an American in Paris, boulevardier, Oppenheim, American sweetheart or man o’ war.’

Loud Woman laughed. Loudly. ‘He’s Rain Man! You know. Dustin Hoffman when he remembers all the cards. Dan’s the cocktail Rain Man.’

Rain Man! I had seen the film. I did not identify in any way with Rain Man, who was inarticulate, dependent and unemployable. A society of Rain Men would be dysfunctional. A society of Don Tillmans would be efficient, safe and pleasant for all of us.

A few members of the group laughed, but I decided to ignore the comment, as I had ignored the error with my name. Loud Woman was intoxicated and would likely be embarrassed if she saw a video of herself later.

Red Hair continued. ‘Don’s going to pick a cocktail to fit whatever you want, then he’s going to memorise everybody’s orders and come back and give them to the right people. Right, Don?’

‘As long as people don’t change seats.’ My memory does not handle faces as well as numbers. I looked at Red Hair. ‘Do you wish to commence the process?’

‘Got anything with tequila and bourbon?’

‘I recommend a highland margarita. The name implies Scotch whisky but the use of bourbon is a documented option.’

‘Oh Kaaaay!’ said Red Hair, as though I had hit a home run to win the game in the bottom of the ninth inning. I was one eighteenth of the way to completing my task. I refocused on the drinks orders rather than on constructing a more detailed baseball analogy around this interesting number. It could wait until my next meeting with Dave.

Red Hair’s neighbour wanted something like a margarita but more like a long drink but not just a margarita on the rocks or a margarita with soda but something—you know—different, like to make it more unique. I recommended a paloma made with pink grapefruit juice and rimmed with smoked salt.

Now it was Loud Woman’s turn. I looked carefully but did not recognise her. This was not inconsistent with her being famous. I largely ignore popular culture. Even if she had been a leading geneticist, I would not have expected to know her face.

‘Okay, Rain Man Dan. Make me a cocktail that expresses my personality.’

This suggestion was met with loud sounds of approval. Unfortunately I was in no position to meet the requirement.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about you.’

‘You’re kidding me. Right?’

‘Wrong.’ I tried to think of some way of asking politely about her personality. ‘What is your occupation?’

There was laughter from everyone except Loud Woman, who seemed to be considering her answer.

‘I can do that. I’m an actor and a singer. And I’ll tell you something else. Everybody thinks they know me but nobody truly does. Now what’s my cocktail, Rain Man Dan? The mysterious chanteuse, maybe?’

I was unfamiliar with any cocktail of that name, which probably meant she had invented it to impress her friends. My brain is highly efficient at cocktail searching based on ingredients, but is also good at finding unusual patterns. The two occupations and the personal description combined to produce a match without conscious effort.

A two-faced cheater.

I was about to announce my solution when I realised that there might be a problem—one that placed me in danger of violating my legal and moral duty as the holder of a New York State Liquor Authority Alcohol Training Awareness Program Certificate. I took remedial action.

‘I recommend a virgin colada.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m a virgin?’

‘Definitely not.’ Everybody laughed. I elaborated. ‘It’s like a pina colada but non-alcoholic.’

‘Non-alcoholic. What’s that supposed to mean?’

The conversation was becoming unnecessarily complicated. It was easiest to get to the point. ‘Are you pregnant?’

‘What?’

‘Pregnant women should not drink alcohol. If you’re only overweight, I can serve you an alcoholic cocktail, but I require clarification.’

As I rode the subway home at 9.52 p.m., I reflected on whether my judgement had been affected by the Rosie situation. I had never suspected a client of being pregnant before. Perhaps she was merely overweight. Should I have interfered with a stranger’s decision to drink alcohol in a country that valued individual autonomy and responsibility so highly?

I made a mental list of the problems that had accumulated in the past fifty-two hours and which now required urgent resolution:

1. Modification of my schedule to accommodate twice-daily beer inspections.

2. The Gene Accommodation Problem.

3. The Jerome Laundry Problem, which had now escalated.

4. The threat of eviction due to (3).

5. Accommodating a baby in our small apartment.

6. Paying our rent and other bills now that Rosie and I had both lost our part-time jobs as a result of my actions.

7. How to reveal (6) to Rosie without causing stress and associated toxic effects of cortisol.

8. Risk of recurrence of the meltdown and fatal damage to my relationship with Rosie as a result of all of the above.

Problem-solving requires time. But time was limited. The beer was due to arrive within twenty-four hours, the superintendent would probably accost me by tomorrow evening and Jerome could attempt an act of revenge at any time. Gene was about to arrive and Bud was only thirty-five weeks away. What I required was a means of cutting the Gordian knot: a single action that would solve most or all of the problems at once.

I arrived home to find Rosie asleep, and decided to consume some alcohol to encourage creative thinking. As I reshuffled the contents of the fridge to access the beer, the answer came to me. The fridge! We would get a bigger fridge, and all other problems would be solved.

I phoned George.