During the dinner that Sarah and I would both come to think of as our first date, she suggested that we go to this tiny Mexican restaurant owned by honest-to-God Mexicans. This is unusual in Seattle, where Mexican restaurants are all seemingly owned by Welshmen who gargle hot candle wax.
Over dinner she gushed about how much she loved the place. "I even love that ugly pelican picture!" she said.
"That? It's really ugly," I replied.
"I know! But it's somehow perfect."
For her birthday a month later, I knew what had to be done. I went back to the restaurant and asked to speak to the owner. She was a 60-ish Mexican immigrant straight from central casting, right down to the clunky jewelry and the scarf over her head. As she wiped her hands on a towel, I told her I wanted to buy the pelican picture.
Her English was thickly accented but impeccable. "Oh noooo," she said, shaking her head loudly like only immigrants can. "That peecture was given to me by my seester. Before she died."
Uh oh. This is really gonna cost me.
And so I did what white guys do best, soullessly peeling off $20 bills until she couldn't not break her own heart by parting with the picture her dead sister had given her. I believe she sold her soul for $140 that day. And as I absconded with the picture, quickly, lest someone talk her out of the sale, she and another woman started to weep.
I am going straight to hell for this. Well, not just for this. But this is very possibly the final nail.
I gave the pelican to Poor Sarah, who said she loved it. Nine months later, figuring it wasn't exactly going to be hung in Rich's house, I asked her to return it. She didn't protest. Surely she didn't want to look at it any more than I wanted her to have it.
And so I snuck back into the Mexican restaurant and hung it on its still-bare nail, right over the perfectly sized clean spot on the wall.
