Page 36 of Bringing Home the Bacon
“That depends. Should I call you Cookie? Or Colleen? Or maybe you cycle through names depending on the day?” I try to keep my voice neutral, but the sarcasm is strong.
“Colleen is good.” She winces. “I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I ran off on you. Mostly, I’m sorry that I blew my chance with an incredible guy who made me feel like?—”
“Yes, Chef! Yes, Chef! Yes, Chef!” a family shouts out the window of a passing cab. I give them a subtle wave. This has been happening more recently, with me getting recognized for the show. I can’t say I’m comfortable with it, but overall, the interactions have been positive so far.
I clear my throat. “Sorry. You were saying?”
“So you’re a celebrity now, huh?” She smiles.
“I wouldn’t say that. Wait. That’s not why you’re here now, is it? Because suddenly I’m?—”
“No,” she says emphatically. “Of course not. No.”
I want to believe her. But it is a bit suspect to disappear for months, then reappear the moment I get some level of notoriety.
An older couple walks by, holding hands. The man points and says to his wife, “Look, hon! It’s your chef boy!” His wife gasps and approaches me. “You’re even more adorable in person, sweetheart. We’re so glad you won!”
“Oh, uh—Thank you, ma’am.”
“Can I pinch your cheek? I’d love to pinch your cheek,” she says earnestly.
“Why not?” I say with a shrug and jut my chin in her direction.
She startles me by pinching my ass instead. Then with a delighted squeal, she and her husband are gone.
“Not a celebrity, huh?” Colleen smirks.
“People are just being nice. It’s the holiday season too, so there are lots of tourists in town. Actual New Yorkers don’t give a shit. About anything.”
“Gotcha,” she says and stares at her feet.
“That wasn’t a dig at you,” I’m quick to explain. “You know, because you lied about being a New Yorker.”
“Though technically, I am a New Yorker. Fork Lick is in New York,” she says.
I narrow my eyes at her. “We both know that’s not the same thing.”
“You’re right. We do.” She stares at her feet some more.
She’s nervous talking to me. And I hate it. What I hate even more is that I want to make things better for her. Easier.
“What would should we call your people?” I ask. “Fork Lickers? That sounds like an insult somehow.”
“No, that’s right. We are Fork Lickers. And generally, we’re very proud to be Fork Lickers. Except for when we aren’t.” She pauses. “I’m not making much sense, am I?”
“Not really, no,” I admit.
“Can we go somewhere and really talk?” she asks, just as a blustering cold wind whips past.
“Yeah, we can. Want to come inside?”
“I’d like that, thank you.”
I guide her through the main door of my building, and we make our way through the lobby. A woman with gray hair and a tiny dog winks at me as she gets off the elevator, and we get on.
Colleen stifles a laugh as the double doors close.
I press the number for my floor. “It seems I resonate strongly with the older female population.”
