The Chasing of Echoes
DISCLAIMER: Written at a very young age, edited five years later. Enjoy.
The Glenville cafe in the western section of Greenwich, Connecticut sat on a rather steep slope overlooking Riversville Road. The Glen, as many locals called it, was a nostalgic nod to the 70's and had remained an institution for the residence of Glenville County. Modeled after the owner’s former home in Paris, the original color of chestnut that at once was charming had now faded––just like many other things at the Glen. The bright and perky neon sign, that had been changed from The Glenville to The Glen and back to The Glenville, could at once be seen flashing from miles away; but now it hung unlit and slanted in a very unappealing way.
Chefs at the Glen changed numerous times since it had opened, and now Leonardo, the current chef, was attempting to revive an already deceased place. In fact, the only thing that remained the same at the Glen from the time of it's opening was the sign that everyone associated with the has-been Café––“A homage to true American spirit.”
It was hard getting that sentence out of your head when you finally left the place; it was just about everywhere you looked. Before you were to grab the door handle to walk in, it was plastered on the glass in front of you. When you received your menu, that sentence was stapled on the cover underneath an amateur drawing of the American flag. And at the end of your meal, when you were to pay the bill, right beneath the cost was that same exact sentence. Maybe they considered paying a substantial amount of money for overcooked mussels essential to the American spirit.
Whatever it may have been, many had abandoned the notion of ever receiving a good meal at the Glen after Alejandro, the first and only chef to do the place justice, left for London. And while since his departure, the food and the service remained something to be desired, the atmosphere was not.
It had been said through passing that the only guarantee at the Glen was that when the doors to the cafe would swing open; whoever was to enter would always have a story to tell. And though the stories would change throughout the day, essentially they were always the same.
The elderly men and women who ate breakfast at a quarter to seven often spoke of the disadvantages they faced having to depend on their grandchildren, yet oddly, they all seem to feel the same hatred for nursing homes.
The stay-at-home mothers who would come in for brunch usually spoke of nothing but their children until someone brought gossip to the table––and believe me, someone always did.
The seats in the afternoon were usually occupied by the teenagers from Glenville High School who all ordered the same exact thing––a cheeseburger with French fries. And after quickly eating their meals in a short amount of time, they'd sit and talk incessantly about their seemingly attainable future goals. When hours passed and the conversations and self-indulgence seemed to have come to a halt, they would finally pay the bill and allow the investment bankers (the ones who worked in the city but lived in Connecticut) to take over their seats.
Though the investment bankers didn't order much, they still ran up a pretty large tab made up entirely of drinks. The conversations were loud and everyone talked over one another. Yet when they got up to go to the bathroom––which they so often did––the volume decreased drastically. Suddenly, when you listened in on the right side of the room, you could hear excuses and explanations being made about how the New York Jets could be crushed by the hapless Oakland Raiders. To the left side of the room was where the self-righteous conservative investment bankers sat and spoke of how the majority of our past presidents that were democrats have all been self-contradicting nihilist.
And lastly, to the very back of the Glen, you couldn’t really hear much besides pots and pans banging in the kitchen. No one really liked to sit in the back of the Glen, but at times when the restaurant was crowded, there wasn't any other choice.
There was something bittersweet about being at the Glen. Though no one really wanted to admit it, there wasn't any other place around like it. It was at the Glen’s bathroom stall where Mimi Gunner went into labor. It was at the Glen’s parking lot that Aaron Baldwin proposed to Edna Ganger. And it was at the Glen that Lester Caulfield would first lay eyes and hands on Zoë Lane.
Lester Caulfield was a 39 year old investment banker who had made quite a name for himself over in the city. He was 6'1, with a slender physique that he tried very hard to alter night after night at the gym. He had a young mans face with large dark eyes that gave off the impression that he was somehow always surprised to see you. His brown careless hair reached almost to his shoulders and looked a bit too young for a man his age, but made him all the more attractive.
He had a 17 year old son named Landon with his wife, Ellen Richer, a sort-of-but-not-really successful writer whose father, before he passed away, was a former editor for the New York Times.
When Ellen first met Lester, they were both Yale attendees who shared a passion for adventure and agreed that a life made up of routines was a waste of time painstakingly.
It had been the evening of Lester’s young republican’s meeting and after exiting, he had decided he’d take, like he so often did, the long route back to the dormitory. As he crossed one of the many bridges surrounding the Yale campus, he thought of how much he hated New Haven, or more specifically; Yale. He hated the person Yale had forced him to become, and wanted nothing more then to leave it behind once and for all.
However appealing the idea of leaving Yale sounded, he knew that deep inside his feelings of wanting to leave could only be shown (not even uttered) on that bridge that separated the Physics and English department. It was on that bridge that Lester thought all the thoughts that he wasn’t allowed to think.
He paced back and fourth on that bridge, occasionally stopping to glance over at the lake (that may or may not have been very deep) and pictured his lifeless body sinking to the bottom. Just a few feet from where the bridge came to an end were benches that had been covered entirely with dead leaves abandoned by the fall season. And aside those very leaves sat Ellen, staring at the boy who at the time she barely knew, but couldn’t take her eyes off of.
As Ellen would later explain it at countless dinner parties, when Lester walked off that bridge and sat alongside her on the bench, she knew that he was the boy who she wanted to spend the rest of her nights with.
The response to that story was always an “aww” followed by a compliment that may or may not have been genuine. And despite the fact that Ellen would always receive the same “Aww…you guys are perfect for each other,” she knew that Lester was no longer the same tragic boy who sat next to her on a bench one night. He was now a tragic man with issues not even Ellen could begin to comprehend.
Lester
When Lester was not dressed in the traditional investment banker suit, he would wear T-shirts and jeans that fit his body great, but left very little to the imagination in the groin section. After work, or on his days off, Lester spent as much time out the house as he could; either going to the gym or going to the Glen for a drink.
One Thursday evening, after getting off of work, Lester rushed back home to Glenville to try and get a work out in before the gym closed. He had almost made the 6:45 train at Grand Central Station but was delayed by a bus and car collision on Madison Avenue. Sitting in the taxi cab, Lester strained to see the fumes and ambulance up ahead. He glanced over at the clock and back to the accident and realized that he had missed his train; the one and only thing that Lester looked forward to, and got him through the day, was now gone. And just like back at Yale, he wished strongly that he was no longer alive. Though there was no lake to picture his lifeless body floating in, there was now an ambulance to picture his dead body lying in.
When Lester finally got on the train and arrived to the Glenville station, it was already a quarter to 9 and the gym was to be closed soon. A saddened Lester figured that a drink at the Glen would be a nice treat since he missed his only true motivation for getting through the day.
Lester arrived to the Glen at 15 minutes pass 9 and parked his car in the parking lot to the back of the café. He entered and was overwhelmingly greeted by a room filled with men all dressed exactly like he was. This made Lester contemplate running for the door while removing his suit simultaneously. And he might have just done it if it weren't for a table being vacant in the back––far away from the others.
The waitress, who Lester requested the table from, gave him a look that he could only imagine was skepticism. Knowing that since so many investment bankers thought it a sin to sit in the back, she would not have dared offered it to him if he didn’t request it. Despite her confusion, she showed him to his seat.
Lester’s table was just steps away from the kitchen, so whenever the door would swing open, it would bump his table and send the salt shaker jumping 2 inches closer to the pepper shaker. Lester watched while every time the salt would move a bit closer to the pepper, the pepper would move that much further away. He thought of how his relationship with Ellen had become so much like the salt and pepper shakers on the table; made up entirely of synchronized movements that seemed to push them further apart.
For so long, Lester had loved Ellen and wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with her. This was never something Lester would have questioned if it weren't for one morning when he awoke to find Ellen lying beside him, still asleep, just like the night before and every night before that.
You see, it wasn’t so much as Ellen lying beside him as it was the fact that he knew that every morning when he awoke, he would always see her lying beside him. She would always be facing in the same position to the right side of the room with blankets creased between her legs and a pillow resting between her right arm and breast. That feeling of constant predictability became the guiding force behind Lester distancing himself from Ellen.
What else could he really have done? After all, It shouldn’t have bothered Lester; that was his wife, the mother of his child, the woman who he had stood in front of on their wedding day and promised that he would forever be faithful and devoted to her.
However, this was the same woman whose everyday routine no longer left any room for creativity. Whatever love that was once felt for Ellen had since disappeared––and Lester had no intentions on trying to find it. And deep down inside, as much as Lester wanted to yearn for the day where her presence didn’t annoy him to the point of disbelief and they could be reunited in love, he decided that he would be content with the salt and pepper shakers being reunited first.
And while Lester awaited that reunion in the back of the Glen that Thursday evening, a voice of a young woman would get his attention first.
“Excuse me…excuse me sir...hello?”
Lester awoke from gazing at the table where now, just the salt shaker stood (the pepper shaker had fallen and shattered all over the floor.)
“Yes?” Lester responded
“May I please get the salt?”
“yeah...yeah…sure,” Lester glanced over at the table and grabbed the salt. As he looked back at her, he noticed an incredibly gorgeous, yet incredibly young, girl staring back at him. She was probably no older than 18, but in Lester's eyes was still beautiful. He looked up and admired her long blond hair that was connected tightly in a ponytail. Her green eyes, when contrasted with her pale white face made her seem more serious than she actually was. He let his eyes wander down to his hands that was still holding the salt that awaited departure.
Her silky skin made Lester wonder if she used some sort of special lotion for her hands. He looked at her face and wondered if it too were soft.
“Thank you,” she responded, stretching out the words to somehow indicate something was happening that she wasn't all too comfortable with.
That was when Lester realized that he had not stopped caressing her hand even after the“thank you” had been given. He quickly let go of her hand and with an embarrassed look on his face, he shifted his eyes to the kitchen as if the food he had not yet ordered (in fact he had not even opened the menu) was somehow going to appear on a plate in the hands of the waitress.
Not wanting to look like a complete imbecile, Lester thought of something clever he could say to the girl he had just touched that would make him seem less like an idiot.
“I would offer you the pepper but sadly, it ran away.” Lester lifted his feet to give her a better view of the pepper that was spilled all over the floor.
She laughed immaturely to a joke not even Lester found funny. Normally that would have turned Lester off, but it actually made her all the more adorable––something Ellen was no longer.
“I’m Lester,” he announced with a sigh of relief, optioning out his hand for hers while rubbing both his thumb and index fingers together to poke fun at the caressing that was just done a little while ago.
“I’m Zoë,” she dropped her hands into his and allowed him to caress it once. Hoping maybe he'd do it again, she left her hands there, even after he began asking her another question.
“Zoë? What type of name is Zoë?”
“The type of name that a person named Lester is in no position to question.”
“Ah, Touché”
Zoe had finally pulled her hand back and began salting her fries.
“Isn't it a bit late for you to be here? I thought the high school students left at 6:30.”
“Well, normally I would have left by now, but there isn't much I would be doing at home. So isn't only logical that I would stay and have dinner here?”
“I'm sure your parents must be wondering where you are.”
“No, I'm sure that's probably the last thing they're wondering.”
Zoe shifted her eyes from Lester back to her fries. She picked one up and shoved it in her mouth even though she wasn't really hungry.
“Well, if your parents don't mind, I see no reason you shouldn't be here.”
“I'm glad you see that Lester.”
The two exchanged no words for the next 10 minutes or so. Lester finally opened his menu and after reading that nights specials twice, he finally came to the conclusion that he was not hungry. What he was, in fact, in the mood for, was a drink.
“MAD-DE-IN is it?” Lester asked the waitress whose name card read MHADINE
“No, it's HAY-DINE, the M is silent and there's a Y between the A and D”
“Oh, well look at that.”
“Well, HAY-DINE with a silent M and an invisible Y, I'll have a dry martini, but in a Collins glass. And I want it filled right up to the brim.”
“Would that be all?” Mhadine asked in a fed-up-with-his-shit-sort-of-way
“Yes, that will be all HAY-DINE”
Mhadine walked away muttering the words asshole, presumably geared towards Lester and his mispronunciation.
“You know she's gonna spit in your drink right?” said Zoe, offering her two cents on the situation
“It's fine, I know Mhadine; I come here all the time.”
“Oh. Well why haven't I ever seen you here before?”
“I usually arrive back in town at around 8. You're probably home asleep by then.”
Zoë then responded to Lester's insult in a way that made her seem even younger than she actually was.
“Stop treating me like I'm four years old...I'm 17. I'm gonna be 18 in the summer.”
Lester chuckled at her age and thought of a flattering response:
“Well, I must say, I've met quite a few 17 year olds and you're probably one of the most mature ones I've ever met.”
“Do you mean it Lester? You're not just saying that?” Zoe asked in an all-too-eager-way
“No, I mean it. You're very mature for your age.”
Zoe smiled a very adorable smile that made Lester stare. Then she asked him the question that had been running through her mind ever since her already salty fries “needed” more:
“Well if I'm so mature...why haven't you asked me to join you to dinner?”
As Zoë was speaking those words, Lester was taking the first sip out of his drink that had just arrived.
“Would you care to join me Zoë?”
“I would love to.”
Zoë grabbed her French fries and book bag and moved in beside Lester in his round booth.
“What does your book bag say on it?” Lester asked, staring at her book bag that laid beside her hips.
“It says Lady DuBois, after Blanche DuBois, from a Streetcar Named Desire.”
“Haven't seen it or read it.”
“Oh you've got to be kidding me.”
“No, actually I haven't read it. What is it about?”
“Well it's about this fragile southern beauty named Blanche. And Blanche is visiting her sister Stella in New Orleans. Stella is married to Stanley, a jerk of the worse kind. Stanley has a bit of temper and doesn't really like Blanche. And he will make sure that Blanche doesn't ruin anything for him and Stella. It's a wonderful play, you should really read it.”
“From your description, it doesn't seem like much happens in it.”
“Oh, but a lot does happen. At one point, Stanley even rapes Blanche. Then, sends her off to the loony bin.”
“How did he rape her?”
“Well she first tried to hit him with a bottle” Zoë grabbed Lester's empty Collins glass and acts out a hit to his head. She then grabs his hands and places them on her wrist.
“... but before she could connect, he grabbed her wrist and forced the bottle out of her hand. He then picks her up and carries her over to the bed.”
Lester's hands were still on Zoë's wrist. He contemplated moving them but didn't; he liked the way her skin felt against his.
“Just like this?” Lester asked Zoë while moving his hands lower and lower down her arm
“Yeah, just like that,” she responded while fidgeting in her seat.”
“Did you think Blanche liked it?”
“I don't know, it didn't really go into much detail in the play.”
“Well I'm sure she probably liked it a little.”
Lester touched Zoë's shoulders, then let his hands slide down to her back as he felt the strap of her bra and wished that her shirt didn't separate his hands from her skin.
“People are looking Lester,” she said in a cracking low voice.
“Well, let's make sure they don't see anything.”
Lester slid his hands down Zoë's back and made his way towards the front of her stomach. He lifted the white shirt she was wearing and began unbuttoning her pants. With each opening of the kitchen door came a bump of the table. And each time the table would shake, so would Lester's hands. Lester unzipped her pants as Zoë tried her hardest to engage him in a conversation so it wouldn't look suspicious.
“Where do you live?”
“Just a mile from here,” Lester responded while touching her just shaved pubic hairs.
“You live alone?”
Instead of answering the question, Lester moved further down to her clitoris. He began by letting his index finger trace the shaping of it before he pulled back the hood. Then he allowed for his pinky finger to continue the job.
“How does that feel?” Lester asked Zoë while the kitchen door hit the table once again and the Mexican table buster reached his hand out, a gesture that meant he's sorry.
“It's okay,” she responded to both the Mexican and Lester
Lester wondered if her response was to him or the table buster. Either way, he was to continue on with what he was doing. Lester thought of how if it was only okay now, she had no idea what was in store for her.
“Tell me when it hurts. Don't say stop, don't moan...just tell me when it hurts,” he ordered
Lester slid his ring finger inside Zoë's vagina with his left hand and signaled the waitress for another drink by lifting his glass with his right. Zoë's eyes were still closed, but her lips would quiver every time Lester would push the finger in a bit harder.
As the waitress poured Lester's drink from the martini shaker into the glass, he pushed in a bit harder, but still kept the majority of the finger outside of the hole.
Zoë's lips quivered even more.
The waitress began writing the extra drink to Lester's bill and soon after, she looked over at him. Lester hesitated and pulled out his finger, causing Zoë to open up her eyes and look over at the waitress. The waitress pointed her finger out to the both of them, and swung it from left to right, as if she were asking with just her hands if they were together. A scared Lester misinterpreted the gesture and mouthed, “no.” Zoë whispered to Lester: “She means are we on the same bill.”
An embarrassed Lester chuckled a bit and looked over at Zoë.
“Again, but this time, don't open your eyes,” he said
Lester pulled her underwear to the left (while still trying to decide what print was on the front) and began moving his finger inside slower and slower. He glanced over to see the waitress just a few tables away.
Trying his hardest to test boundaries, Lester pushed his finger all the way inside, causing Zoë to let out a closed-mouth scream that only Lester and probably the Mexican heard.
“What's on your finger? It's cold,” she asked after she caught her breath
“I said don't say anything.”
Lester smiled at the waitress who was now just a few feet away from his table. When she arrived, she barely paid any attention to Zoë. She placed the drink down on the table and walked into the kitchen.
Lester moved his finger in once more and now, instead of making a sound, Zoë simply flinched. Lester felt the moisture beginning to fill the walls of her vagina. He knew if he went inside once more, even just half way, she would have climaxed.
Instead he removed his finger and wiped his hand with the tables cloth. He glanced over at Zoë with a smile and took a sip of his drink.
“It's not filled all the way to the top.”
“What's not?” Zoë asked, breathing heavily with a bead of sweat dripping down her neck.
“My drink.”
Zoe sat there, confused, while Lester finished his drink.
“Do you want a ride home?” he asked her, almost as if he owed her the favor
“Umm, yeah, that would be great.”
Lester signaled over for the check and did his best to try and hide his bulging erection that was now visible. As Lester tapped his credit card on the table and waited for the bill, he looked over at Zoë.
“What was that on your finger that was so cold?” she asked him, almost worried that he might have hurt her.
Lester waited for the waitress to come and take the credit card before he answered. He muttered the words: “A homage to true American spirit,” and smiled.
He pulled his pants once more to allow more space for his penis to roam, and then lifted his left hand and placed it on the table.
Zoë stared at the very finger that was just inside of her. She thought of how good it felt, yet when her eyes noticed the silver band reflecting in the light above their heads, she asked:
“You're married?”
