Pamela Klaffke - Snapped

I hate the girl with the parrot on her shoulder. I dont want to but I do. Shes nineteen, maybe twenty, smoking as she waits in line at the restaurant. Theres always a line now for Sunday brunch and I know its my fault. Sometimes I should just keep these things to myself. But the Parrot Girl. Shes wearing shiny blue short-shorts with white piping, soccer socks with the stripey tops pulled up to her knees. I can tell her cowboy boots have been scuffed and distressed on purpose, the leather warped and discolored by water, theyre scratched and dirtyshe probably dragged them behind a car through an unpaved alleyway then invited her friends to stomp on them with their filthiest shoes. I know all the tricks. Still, the boots are too stiff. She wears a short gold satin jacket that the parrot keeps snagging with its claws every time it readjusts itself on her shoulder. From where Im sitting I cant see whats underneath the jacket and the way the sun is reflecting off the satin, I cant get a clear view of her face. Plus, the parrot is in the way. Ted has a better view and assures me her face is good, so I polish off my third champagne cocktail and grab my camera bag from under the table.

Up close I see Parrot Girl has a tiny diamond stud in her nose. Her makeup is perfect: smudgy kohl eyes and sticky mascara, smeared lips, classic morning-after face. But her hair is too clean and smells like apples, her face freshly moisturized. I wonder how long she spent getting ready this morning, if she had a fitful sleep editing all the possible combinations of outfits in her head.

Excuse me. I tap Parrot Girl on the shoulder. My name is Sara B. and I was wondering if I could take your picture?

Parrot Girl turns to look at me. Her friends titter behind her. She lights another cigarette and I notice her hands are shaking slightly. She knows who I am, Im sure of it. She takes a deep drag and shrugs. Yeah, okay, thats cool.

I lead her away from the line and ask her to face my camera. The satin is tricky in the sun and the parrot wont look at me. I think for a moment that the parrot is smarter than either of usit knows how ridiculous this all is, and doesnt want any part of it. I get the shot and Parrot Girl signs the release allowing the magazine to use the photos however we see fit. She doesnt ask the obviousit never occurs to the ones who try so hard to be a DO that they could possibly be a DONT.

I push my way back through the line and to our table by the window, which is open onto the busy street. A couple of people call my name and wave. I have no idea who they are, but smile and wave back anyway. One of them yells, Sara B.! Take my picture! I smile again and sit down.

Genevieve is breast-feeding the baby in the washroom. She wont do it at the table anymore after last week when a woman in bad camouflage pockety pants that emphasized her puffy abdomen berated her for drinking one champagne cocktail, then feeding the baby an hour later. According to Genevieve, this was typical. The situation was made worse when the Bad Camo Woman broke from her rant and narrowed her eyes at Genevieve. You! She pointed a finger in Genevieves face. You! Youre that singer! Gen-Gen! You had that songwhat was it called? Jtaime, Jtaime something

Jtaime My Baby Tonight, Ted spoke up. Genevieve glared at her husband.

Bad Camo Woman snapped her fingers. Thats it! Wow! I used to listen to that song over and over when I was a teenager! Youre Gen-Gen! Andrew, look, its Gen-Gen! Andrew, who had been hanging sheepishly in the back, nodded a quick hello. He, too, was wearing bad camouflage pockety pants. So do you think I could get your autograph? Here. She shoved a crinkled receipt in front of Genevieve and produced a pen from her fake Louis Vuitton bag. Sign this.

Genevieve obliged, scrawling Best Wishes, Gen-Gen across the crumpled paper.

Wow, thanks. I cant wait to call my friend Angela. She was my best friend in school and she loved you, too. Were not that close nowshe lives in Vancouverbut we try to keep in touch, you know. Its hard, though, with our kids and our jobs and

How would you feel about me taking a picture of you two? I interrupted. I couldnt take it anymore.

Of us? Bad Camo Woman brought her hand to her chest.

Sure. But lets do it outside. Theres not enough room in here, I said as I ushered the Bad Camo Couple to the door.

Check it out. Jack nods toward the table behind ours. Were silent, we listen. They have the magazine open to the DOs and DONTs fashion page and I can see my shot of the Bad Camo Couple staring out as the man holds it up to take a closer look. They are the featured DONT, the biggest DONT of the week, more DONT than the unitard juggler or any of the three other DONTs on the page. Could be a good look for us, the man jokes.

Ugh. Put that thing away. The woman snatches it out of his hands. Its so mean .

Jack leans into me and whispers, I like it when youre mean. Then he kisses me on the neck. I order another drink and he does the same. Ted asks for the check.

What? No more champagne, Ted? Oh, yeah. I guess youve got that long drive ahead of you, I say. Im tipsy and when Im tipsy I cant help needling Ted about having moved to the suburbs.

Its not that bad, Sara. You should come out sometime. You might even like it.

Well see about that, I say. Ive refused on principle to visit Ted and Genevieves new house. Jack says Im being stubborn and immature but Jacks young and doesnt get it.

As soon as Genevieve and baby Olivier arrive back at the table, Ted announces its time to go. He has to mow the lawn. Genevieves parents are coming for a barbecue supper. She has to make potato salad. Genevieve hands Olivier to me, freeing her hands to pack the baby gear and pop open the stroller. I grip the baby firmly, but not too close. Jack tickles Oliviers nose with his finger and makes goo-goo baby-talk sounds that I hope Ill be able to block out the next time we have sex. Which wont be for three weeks, I remind myself. Jacks leaving for his home in Toronto late this afternoon.

Hugs. Kisses on both cheeks all around. Safe drive, have a great time. Give my best to your parents, Gen. Call me tomorrow. Ill see you at the office, Ted. Theyre gone and I slump back into my chair, knocking back the champagne cocktail thats been placed in front of me. Then Gen suddenly reappears. Shes frantic. Olivier is wailing. His pacifier has disappeared. We look between plates, under napkins. Jack finds it on the floor and hands it to Gen. She gives it a quick wipe on her shirt and pushes it into Oliviers mouth before scrambling back out the door. I shudder. Doesnt it have to be sterile or something?

Jack looks at me but says nothing. His smile is crooked and his eyes are warm. That is one cute baby, he says.

Yup, I say, my eyes darting around, trying to find a waitress, a hostess, a bus boy, anyone who can get me a drink.

Do you ever think about it, Sara?

I cant look at him. I catch the eye of our waitress and point to my empty glass. She nods.

Weve never talked about this, you know. Jack is not letting up. I hate this conversation more than I hate Parrot Girl.

Thats true.

I have to be honest with you, Sara. And you need to be honest with me. Youre thirty-nine and you know Im totally cool with that, but I also know that, well, your time is

Running out?

I guess, yeah. Jacks voice is very quiet.

I laugh. Jack, I dont want to have a baby, if thats what youre worried about. He looks relieved. My drink arrives and I immediately suck half of it down. Im not one of those women.