Chapter 5--Everyday

Everyday

Dante let Clark lead him back into the drab subway tunnel.  A peculiar miasma seemed to blur his vision. He blinked, but the fog remained. 

    Clark stopped at the base of the stairs, next to the Italian graffiti, and straightened Dante's tie.  "Now that you look presentable, what say we get a spot of lunch?"

    Dante had to admit that sounded good.  He hadn't eaten since finishing his shift at the restaurant yesterday, right before Jesse had dumped him. The hollow pit in his belly reminded him that life had to go on.  "Sounds good.  Except..." He let the word tail off.

    "What, no moola again?  You mean you didn't have a pouch of gold hidden in your boxers?"  He grinned.  "Don't worry. I already figured that.  I've got you covered.  I know just the place to go for lunch.  My treat."  He snatched Dante's hand and tugged him up the stairs.

    Two flights up ended in a what appeared to be a cramped maintenance closet, filled with mops, buckets, and other cleaning supplies.  Clark opened the only door in the closet and gestured for Dante to step on through.

    Dante entered a dingy hallway illuminated by a string of bare, incandescent bulbs in the ceiling.  He turned to Clark and let doubt show in his voice.  "This looks like a basement.  How would anyone ever know to catch the subway from here?"

    Clark's handsome features dimpled. "That's the point, don't you know?  Rumor has it J.P. Getty built the subway back in the forties when he was living in Mayo Hotel.  It was a way to get to his airplane factory without exposing himself on the surface.  Rich dudes back then were paranoid about being kidnapped."

    Dante frowned.  He'd heard rumors about hidden underground tunnels in Tulsa.  Still, Clark's explanation didn't make sense, but then neither did a subway station in his basement. 

    Clark took his hand again.  "Come on. I want to show off my cool wheels." 

    Another flight of stairs led to another door, which in turn led to a narrow alley.  Over-flowing trash cans stood next to the brick wall, and newspapers fluttered in the chilly Oklahoma wind, but what caught Dante's eye was the car that was parked there.  It was a two-tone, crimson and cream monstrosity, boxy, and looked to be large enough for a family of twelve.  Or massive enough for a squad of Rangers going into battle. 

    Clark gave the hood an affectionate pat.  "What do you think? It's the latest thing."

    It didn't look much like the electric vehicles Dante remembered seeing advertised. "It looks like a nightmare from the past."

    "Nah.  It's the wave of the future.  It's an Edsel."

    Dante frowned.  "Never heard of it.  What is it, Korean or something?"

    Clark snorted.  "Korean.  That's a good one.  It's from Ford.  Hop in.  It's a short drive to where we're going."

    Dante slid into the passenger seat.  A bench seat, not buckets.  He ran his fingers across the surface.  Vinyl.  Like an antique. 

    Clark started the engine and turned on the radio.  "It's only a few blocks to La Scala.  The owner, Tony, is a cool cat.  Lots of business dudes hang out there.  I bet we can make a connection for you.  Maybe get you a job, if you're interested."

    "I've got a job."  Still, waiting tables wasn't exactly a career. A new start might be good, especially after yesterday.  A job without Phillipe and his phony French accent. "I'm open to something new, though."

    While Clark drove, Dante sneaked a closer look at him.  An aura a mystery clung to the man.  He did kind of look like Clark Kent, but he kind of looked like Jesse, too.  Except, of course, Clark was alive, a real, living, breathing person.  Dante wondered if 'Clark' was an alias.  If so, surely his real name wasn't Kal-El.  If it was an alias, his real name must signify something, something mysterious.  Maybe something important.

    The song playing on the radio sounded kind of folksy, sort of a love ballad from another era.  The lyrics sang of everday getting closer, going faster than a roller coaster.  Just like his life, at least at the moment.  At one time, he'd thought love would surely come his way, just like the guy singing the song.  Then Jesse said it wasn't Dante, it was him, and everything came apart. 

    Screw it.  Jesse was so over. Time to move on.

    Dante stared out the window without really looking at anything.  Brilliant sunshine gleamed off cars without warming the early fall day.  The song's folksy lyrics felt like a portent of his future.  The final refrain played as Clark pulled them into a crowded parking lot.  Everyday, it's a-gettin' closer, goin' faster than a roller coaster. 

    Whatever 'it' was, it couldn't be good.  In Dante's life, the future never got better.

    Clark killed the engine and said, "Here we are.  Get ready for an awesome meal."

    The place didn't look especially promising.  A cheesy, hand-painted sign hung over the door announcing "the finest continental food west of New York."  In Tulsa, that would be Prossimo's, or maybe even The French Hen.  He'd never heard of this place.  He certainly didn't remember any restaurant in this part of town. In fact, as far as could recall, it was a vacant lot.  But cars jammed the parking lot, so his memory must be faulty.  In fact, based on the collection of vehicles, it looked like vintage car convention must be taking place in the restaurant.  He recognized classics like a  fifty-seven Chevy, but what was a Hudson? Or a Studebaker?  Sounded like some German dish. Some kind of strudle, maybe?

    He followed Clark into the interior, where a busty woman with frizzy hair and wearing a fake French maid outfit stood behind a lectern.  She looked like she'd put on her lipstick by eating it and had applied spray paint to her face instead of makeup.  A candy-colored clown.  Her ruby lips split in a big smile, and she said, "Clark, so good to see you.  Your usual table?"

    "That would be wonderful, Yvonne.  How's Tony?"

    "Slaving away in the kitchen, as usual."  She gathered menus and led them to a table for two. More vinyl covered the table, this time placemats that advertised various businesses Dante had never heard of.  Not that he had much occassion for florists, dairies, or beauty parlors.  The menu was typed on a sheet of paper and clipped inside a folder that listed drinks and cocktails.  Typed. Not even printed.  A cocktail sounded good, maybe a gin and tonic. But the only thing on the menu were fruit cocktails, "large" and "small." 

    Continental cuisine indeed.

    Clark glanced at the menu, then said to Yvonne, "I'll have a Doctor P.  My buddy here will have the same."

    "Be right back, dearie."  She founced away.

    Dante muttered, "I was kind of hoping for something stronger.  Like maybe a G and T."

    "What's that?  Doctor P is great.  I'm gonna have the New York Strip, with fries and cole slaw.  You want the same?"

    Dante glanced at the menu.  A dollar fifty for a steak "with all the fixin's."  That had to be a joke.  Still, Clark was buying, and so it was free.  "Sure.  Why not?"

    Yvonne returned with their drinks and Clark ordered for both of them.  After she left, he scanned the room. A smile lit his face, and waved at someone a few tables away.  "That's my man Mark.  He's a jive dude if ever there was one. He's big shot with in the ad department at Spartan."

    "You mean Spartan Aviation, the trade school?"  That didn't sound at all impressive.  Tacky ads on late-night TV. 

    "Never heard of that.  Spartan makes fancy trailers.  You know.  Sleek aluminum things that look like the airplanes  they used to make back in double-you-double-you-two."

    He must mean Airstream trailers. Dante had heard of those.  Not that he cared enough to comment. 

    When Clark's buddy Mark approached their table, he turned out to be a pudgy guy in his twenties, sporting a blond crew cut. His loud, plaid sport coat, rumpled corderoy slacks, and scuffed, two-tone Bobby-sox loafers didn't exactly scream "executive."  He peered at Dante with piggy eyes and stuck out his hand.  "Name's Mark."

    His gnarly gaze and greasy hand didn't do anything enhance his image. "Dante here."  He resisted the urge to wipe his palm on a napkin.

    Mark pulled a chair from an adjacent table and sat in it backwards, his arms draped over the back.  He faced Clark and asked, "What's up, my man?"

    "My buddy here is in the market for a job.  I thought, with his looks, he might be a model." 

    "No shit?  So happens, we've got a big ad campaign planned for our new economy models.  Spreads in all the big 'zines--Argosy, Saturday Evening Post, Look, and Life." He turned to inspect Dante.  "He's a looker, all right.  Just ethnic enough to get the housewives' hearts fluttering, but not so Spic as to turn off their husbands."

    Clark's expression grew more expansive.  "So, how about it?  Offer him a contract?"

    "We can give him a try.  Why not?  A spread like the one we've got planned could launch a career for a guy with his looks.  Stop by my office tomorrow and we'll do a shoot.  Try him out and see if the camera loves him."  Mark stood and glanced at his watch. "Let's say tomorrow afternoon, maybe two-ish?"

    Clark nodded.  "We'll be there with bells on."

    "Good. We've got a dame from Hollywood visiting this week who's helping us out. She knows the film industry, even dated Tab Hunter if you believe her jive. If your boy plays it right, no telling where her connections might lead."  He smirked and lifted his eyebrows.  "Gotta get back to my table.  See you tomorrow."

    Dante watched him leave, doubt hardening his features.  Who the F was Tab Hunter, and why should anyone care?

    Clark seemed impressed, though. "See, I toldja things were gonna look up for ya.  Every day the future's headed your way, faster'n a roller coaster.  You'll see."

    Yvonne showed up with their meals--burned steaks and greasy French fries.  So much for fine continental cuisine.  Dante was hungry enough to not care.  He may as well let Clark drag him to that stupid interview tomorrow, too.  It's not like he had anything better to do. 

    The place was clearing out as they finished their meal.  A glitzy, starburst-shaped clock hanging on one wall of the restaurant read 12:53. Time enough for a quick toke and maybe even a nap before his shift at the Summit.  "I need to get back to my place.  Could you maybe take me?"

    Clark wiped his mouth with a napkin and answered, "How about I drop you off at the subway?  Trains run pretty regular.  Just catch one going the opposite direction to the one you took getting there.  There's only one route, and it's a big circle."

    That would have to do. "Okay.  Thanks."

    Clark shrugged.  "Sure.  I was kind of hoping we'd spend more time together though.  Maybe tomorrow, after your shoot? We could go clubbing."

    Whatever.  For now, Dante just wanted to get out of here.  "Sure."

    Clark beamed at him. "It's a date.  Meet me around ten at the subway station and we'll pick up your new suit.  Dazhbog should have it ready by then."

    Dante's phone vibrated in his shirt pocket, but he wasn't up to answering.  It couldn't be important. It's not like he knew anyone worth talking to.  He let it roll to voicemail.  Whoever it was, it couldn't be important.

                                                 
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"Dreamin' Life Away"