A Change of Plans

Something as mundane and ordinary as a spoon should not have become as important as it did, but dream, like life, is completely unpredictable, and nothing could have prepared us for the drama that the tiny utensil would bring.

We were sitting in a high class restaurant somewhere in Paris, the kind of place where you not only pay by the dish but also by the hour and you tip your server every time he comes to your table. The ladies looked fantastic, almost majestic, and there was no denying the glamour that dripped from the diamond jewellery and perfectly fitted floor-length gowns that framed each woman’s unique beauty in the perfect way. In a word, the evening was exquisite.

The maître d’ gave firm yet professionally hushed direction to his waiters in perfect aristocratic French and the restroom had beautiful daybed seating for those who found themselves in wait for one of the plush, elevator-sized stalls. Each plate of food came on sterling silver 19th Century style covered dishes, with delicate gold leaf inlay on each lid, and the food between the precious metals was no less lovely. Course after course we were pampered with the finest that France could offer.

It was the third dessert selection that changed the mood. With his usual, graceful bow our waiter presented our dish. With a flourish he removed the lid and revealed...

... A large ice cream sundae.

Ashley looked at me with a question in her eyes. I tried to offer a wordless response; I didn’t ask for it. I don’t know what’s going on. Suddenly a young man burst through the double doors at the entrance of the restaurant. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a white t-shirt and a light washed pair of jeans. He looked like Fonzie, but this guy was not the Happy Day’s star. This was a 50’s or 60’s version of Jon Margeson.

“Hey there, dolls!” He shouted from across the room, hopping light-heartedly over other horrified guests as they sipped at expensive soups or sliced delicately at warmed peaches with miniature forks and knives. Jon slipped past an astonished waiter as he tried desperately to keep his five plates of food in composed balance. Then Jon skipped over to our table and grinned at the giant sundae that sat, untouched between us. “Wowee, what a bash! And would you check out this cat here?” Jon was waving his arm towards the frustrated maître d’ who was trying to hustle Jon back out the door without making an even more intrusive scene for the patrons of his restaurant. “Cool it, Clyde, we’re gonna cut out of here in a flash if you just lay back and give me a chance to explain! You don’t have to get so frosty, man, ya dig?”

Jon turned his attention back to our table. Marsena’s jaw had dropped in shock during that last speech and her facial expression would have easily spoken for the rest of us, if we hadn’t already been expressing our own disbelief; Jessica had dropped her glass and its contents were leaking across the tablecloth towards the place where my last mouthful of cheesecake had fallen, and Ashley looked like she was struggling to make a decision between gracefully fainting to the floor or taking Jon my the ear and throwing him out of the restaurant herself. Before she could act on either, however, Jon has seized our sundae in his left hand and one of the long sundae spoons in his right. He proceeded to scoop the cherry off the top and toss it into the air, catching it, along with the following glob of whipped cream, in his mouth. Then he licked the spoon clean and began to twirl it like a baton around the fingers of his right hand. “So,” he grinned, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” In perfect unison every lady at the table shook her head. No, I thought, Let's not. We don't even have to say we did.

Jon, with a mischievous smile on his face, had evidently taken our stunned silence as licence to continue. He began drumming his spoon against the rim of the sundae cup along to the song “Johnny B. Goode” that had just started playing over the restaurant’s speaker system. As soon as he tapped at the lip, every shimmery-gowned woman, coat-tailed gentleman and all of the waiters and attendants in the room froze in place, with the exception of my dinner party and our personal Pied Piper, leading us through the maze of beautiful, life sized marionettes to the back of the restaurant to the doors of the kitchen. Jon gave the swinging doors a swift kick and my friends followed him into the next room. I hesitated, looking back into the room I was leaving. The people looked so terribly still, so caught in the actions of life... life unlived is not alive at all, and this scene was unsettling. Jon came up just behind me, now humming the appropriately titled Herman’s Hermits hit, “This Door Swings Both Ways” to himself. He rapped his spoon against the bowl of the glass three times and suddenly everyone sprang back to action, as though nothing more disruptive than a collective sigh had taken place. Satisfied and smiling once again, I turned to follow him through the still-swinging doors.

The first thing I saw was the long counter, not of the high society professional kitchen I had anticipated, but that of a 1950’s style diner. “Ah, the good life!” Jon called out to the guy behind the counter. “Ladies, please let me introduce my pal, here...” But no introduction was required. We already knew this friend, more or less. Behind the counter, flipping burgers with one hand and in a permanent salute with the other, stood a member of the Queen’s national guard with a traditional chef’s hat on top of his own bearskin mountain, and he had a cow-print apron overtop of his red uniform jacket. He also had an incredible moustache, the specific description of which I will leave to your own imagination. It was Brian Jaques. He put down his barbeque flipper and, still in salute, pulled a flask from one of the apron’s pockets. He took a swig and then splashed a dose on the sizzling hamburgers. “Lime eet up. Eetz dah seeecret engreeedient, yaah.” He was an obvious imposter of the accent, but he kept it up consistently and was always smiling, so no one bothered him. “Vaat tave you been doeenk zis eevenink, Jon ov zee slicked back hair ov red?” Jon pulled a small comb from his back pocket and smoothed the sides on his hair into a perfect ducktail. “Well, I just picked up these chicks in some fancy joint in ol’ Pari’ and I’ve got a big gig in about an hour.” He leaned in to Brian in faux secrecy and whispered, “These gals would be late for everything if we weren’t around...” He gave the group of us a smart-aleck wink and added, “Imagine, showing up late to get circled!”

Brian chuckled heartily at the joke and the rest of my dinner party, apparently not yet filled from our dainty French meals, hiked up the hems of their gowns and hopped up onto the stools in front of the counter. I joined them, surprised at the renewed hunger that the kitchen smells had brought out in me. Brian flipped the hamburgers backwards and over top both of his hats in quick succession, each patty landing perfectly centered atop the toasted buns that had magically appeared before us. We couldn’t resist... in a flash our prim and proper ladylike manners went down the drains and our appetites got the better of us. For a few minutes we ate in silence, listening to Jon jabber on with Brian as he finished what was left of the sundae. When the last drizzle of chocolate sauce was gone, he stood up from the counter. “Time’s up ladies. It’s been a kick, sugar-booger, but we gotta jet. Places to be ya know.” With a salute back to our chef he started once again to rap against the edge of the glass with his spoon. At that moment the scene froze again and Brian, with a patty in mid-flip and one hand to his brow smiled his farewell. The burger didn’t fall to the grill again until we had almost passed through the double doors at the back of the kitchen, when Jon reappeared to free him from the spell of the spoon with three sharp raps. The last I saw of Brian Jaques, he was reaching into his apron once more for his flask.

The area through the double doors was more like stepping into an alternative universe than into another room of any kind. We were, quite suddenly, outside. It was springtime and the sunshine was fresh and warm. On either side of me were rows and rows of collapsible chairs filled with friendly and familiar faces. My dinner party was walking ahead of me slowly, trying to take in the scene. Their dresses shimmered in the morning light, their jewellery sending rainbowed reflections in every direction. The path before me was a deep blue, the colour of sapphire, and there was something white scattered along the ground. Marsena had picked up a basket of flowers that was by the back door of the diner and was dropping them along the path. I looked down to my own feet to have a better look when I suddenly realized for the first time exactly what kind of gown I was been wearing.

It was... whiter... than I remembered.

Marsena, Ashley and Jess walked up the aisle and to the left, wiping tears from their eyes and smiling with the kind of smile that struck fear into my racing heart. Helplessly, I followed, now acutely aware of my trailing train and wobbly high heels. Janis suddenly appeared to my side and passed me a bouquet of white lilies and lilacs. I smile in spite of myself.

The flowers had done their job to distract me, for the next moment I looked up, I was at the front of the chapel, facing Jon who was still holding the sundae cup, though in the past few seconds he had added a thin black tie to his wardrobe. He began to tap the side of the glass again, but this time there was no stillness. Instead, they fell into a quick silence and turned their attention to the front of the room as Jon began to speak.

“Dearly beloved, ladies and gents, we are gathered here today to witness a uniquely awesome and blessed event...” In an unusual mix of dread and curious delight I turned my head ever so slowly to the right, to my mysterious groom.

And then I woke up.