Shaved ch 2 Bungalow for two
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Waiting around for the interpreter, I realized I hadn't offered Shiggie anything for breakfast, and it was now almost 2 p.m. During the few days he had been along on our West Coast swing, he'd seemed to be pretty familiar with American-style cuisine, and hadn't made any waves when we'd visited various kinds of restaurants.
I could have scrambled the poor bastard a couple of eggs while we were in the apartment, but in all the confusion, I had forgotten.
Two o'clock sharp, Amy Parkison walked into Mitchell's office. Wow! They'd told me she was a babe, but I hadn't given the concept adequate consideration. She was wearing a conservative business suit, but the skirt was short and form-fitting and the legs were -- oh, shit! The legs were fantastic!
She was the kind of woman who, when she walks into a room, makes the head of every guy's penis do that little involuntary twitch, just because you've made eye-contact. The kind where you try to introduce yourself, but you momentarily forget your own name.
I'm going to be living with this woman. Oh. Life is so hard!
Mitchell introduced us, explaining to Amy Parkison a little about my Special Role in the Americanization of Shiggie. Mitchell suggested that the three of us adjourn to his conference room to discuss the matter and make plans for our three-way house-move. He gave me the address of our new home-to-be, passed out keys to all three of us (with an extra for me as Master of the House), and repeated his offer of assistance in making the move.
"We haven't had lunch," I said. "I didn't give Shiggie any breakfast, either. Why don't we all three find a restaurant and make our plans there? How about you, Ms. Parkison -- have you had lunch?"
"Call me Amy," she said, smiling sweetly. "We're going to be roommates, after all." In deference to Mitchell, she'd said little since arriving at his office, but now, for the first time, she did more than just shake Shiggie's hand. She launched into rapid-fire Japanese (much to his surprise and obvious delight), and I knew they had established instant rapport.
"Explain to him that we're going to lunch," I said to Amy. "And ask him if Italian is OK."
She did as I asked -- I think -- and soon we were back in the parking area, climbing into the Escape. Suddenly, I saw a half-dozen Japanese-looking reporters and photographers running across the open lot in our direction. I hustled Amy and Shiggie into the car and got out of there quickly.
The press was going to be a continuing hassle. That much was clear.
I took them to an Italian place I'd found on the other side of the Inner Harbor -- an excellent place even by Baltimore's high standards. (Italian restaurants are not in short supply in Charm City, but this one, although a mere hole-in-the-wall, was special, at least to me.)
Pasta is a gift from God!
With Amy's translating assistance, Shiggie ordered, and I persuaded Amy to at least have a glass of red wine while we ate our lunch.
When the food arrived, Amy looked at our plates and I thought she might have wished she'd lied about already having eaten lunch. "That looks super!" she said. "This is a first-rate place!"
"I hope Shiggie likes it," I said. "When we were in Oakland and Los Angeles, he seemed to be willing to try most anything."
"There's one good Japanese restaurant in town," Amy said. "It's pretty authentic, and I think Shigeo would enjoy some home-style cooking, now and again."
"That's OK by me. Incidentally, we don't call him 'Shiggie' just for convenience. He actually asked us to call him that."
"Shiggie," she repeated. Shiggie thought she was seeking his attention, and looked up expectantly from his pasta. Amy noticed and ran off some more unintelligible (to me) Japanese, to explain our most recent exchange.
"We're going to have to work out some ground rules," she said to me. "Either I'm talking to him, and you don't understand, or I'm talking to you in English, and he's left out of it. It gets kind of awkward. And it seems rude."
"Look, Ms. Parkison --"
"Amy."
"Right. Look, Amy, Shiggie is your job. And for now, at least, you're his only communications link. I think you should generally speak to him, primarily. I mean, he needs you more than I do, y'know? I can talk to anybody. Shiggie only has you. And he's brand-new here -- in the city, in the whole country! It's gotta be pretty weird for him."
"You're right, Sam. And it's good that you're sharp enough to realize all that. I should tell Shiggie about this conversation, too -- and about how neither one of us wants to -- y'know -- leave him out of things."
"Yeah. And tell him I said his translator is a Stone Fox!"
Amy smiled. "Stone Fox? Do guys actually still use that phrase?"
I blushed. "I don't know about what the most up-to-date phrase is for it," I said, "but I know the prospect of having you for a roommate isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me."
"That's sweet, Mr. Bailey -- but remember what I'm here for."
"OK. Don't tell him you're a Stone Fox. The phrase probably doesn't translate. Anyway, ol' Shiggie's got eyes! He probably knows that not every American woman he meets is gonna look like you!"
I happily attended to my lasagna while my two new roomies got better acquainted. Some of the other patrons of the restaurant looked over curiously from time-to-time, while an animated discussion took place in Japanese, in an Italian restaurant, in an east-coast American city.
Amy ordered a second glass of red wine. I told them to bring the bottle and two more glasses.
The wine was from Chile.
After our late lunch we went looking for the house that Mitchell had lined up for us. True to his word, he'd found a first-rate place -- a huge white house -- quite elderly -- but with a pleasant front and back yard, a big old-fashioned porch around the front and one side, and a porch swing looking out on the street from a considerable elevation.
Inside, the place was great. Recently redecorated, the downstairs had a living room, a "parlor," a dining room and a big modern kitchen in the back. There was also a half-bath downstairs -- built onto the back of the house, probably within the past decade. Upstairs, there were four large bedrooms, well-separated, one from the other, and two full baths.
It would most definitely do. In deference to my nominal position as leader of our little pack, Amy told me to take the front bedroom. I'd be sharing the first bathroom with Shiggie. Amy chose the back bedroom and claimed the second bathroom as her property -- subject to sharing when and if we got another temporary co-tenant, assigned there by the ball club.
We decided we didn't need the help of the Orioles' organization to make the move. We were all traveling light, and Amy had an older brother who owned a pickup truck.
"My brother, Ford, can move me in," she said -- and we can carry anything from your apartment that you need."
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