Turning Eighteen, Part Six

I borrowed a button down from Mr. Mendes so that I could dress up a bit for the Thai restaurant. My jeans were ok, but it wasn’t really a t-shirt place. And since this would be our first ‘date,’ I was determined to look good.I found this burnt orange shirt in his closet that was perfect. It’s a hard color to pull off, though—it looked hot on me, but it wouldn’t work for Mr. Mendes. Jesus, I’d have to do something about his wardrobe. For a gay guy, he didn’t have much fashion sense.I liked the look of the restaurant when we stepped inside. It had Asian-style murals on the walls, but it wasn’t overdone. And it was busy, but not overcrowded. I could see myself working in a place like this.“Is this place kosher?” I asked as we took a table.Mr. Mendes shook his head. “I doubt it. The best kosher places are in the city. There’s a great French kosher restaurant on 46th. We’ll go there next time.”He didn’t have to get more specific—‘the city’ always means Manhattan. But I bit my lip as I thought about what he just said. I’d just gone through a lot of trouble to learn the kosher rules. Why was he brushing them off?“But if it’s not kosher, why are you eating here?” I asked.He shrugged. “I stick with vegetarian food in non-kosher restaurants. There’s not too much that can go wrong once you take meat out of the picture.”“Yeah, but the plates won’t be separated into meat and dairy.”“I know,” he said as he opened up his menu. “I don’t worry about plates outside my house.”That annoyed me. “Then why do you worry about them inside your house?”He put his menu down and grinned at me. “Jason, you always want people to be consistent. You’re setting yourself up for a lot of disappointment.”I rolled my eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”“It’s not uncommon for Conservative Jews to keep kosher inside their house but not out of it,” he explained. “Rabbis don’t like it, but I think it’s an acceptable compromise. Does that satisfy you?”It didn’t, but I just shrugged. Mr. Mendes was right—I hate it when people aren’t consistent. And compromise isn’t my strong point. I’m the all-or-nothing type.I dropped the kosher talk as we placed our orders. Fortunately the conversation moved on—I didn’t want to risk losing my temper over something as stupid as that. What the hell did I care if he was consistent with his religious rules?We talked about the Mets and what they had to do to avoid another royal fuck-up at the end of the season next year. And then we talked about the Giant’s chances of making the NFL play-offs. We didn’t talk about the Jets, though. They were a lost cause.The conversation went all over the place after that. Mr. Mendes was always easy to talk to. He touched on subjects that I didn’t know much about, but he didn’t make me feel stupid. I was able to follow him. And then we talked about stuff that I knew more about—stuff like cooking and painting and woodwork.But pretty soon my Mom came up again. That was my fault. I knew that she would like the tom kha soup—she likes anything with coconut milk—so I said so.Mr. Mendes nodded at that and then cocked his head at me. “Have you come out to your Mom?”I shook my head. “No, but I think she guessed. She opened my underwear drawer once and gave me a weird look when she saw the silk boxers. She asked me if I was gay or something.”He rolled his eyes at that. “What was she doing in your drawer?”“Looking for drugs. I never had any—I remembered what they did to my Dad. But she never believed me.” I stopped talking long enough to give him a bitter smile. “She never believed me about anything."He risked a smile back. "Then at least she's consistent."I had to laugh at that. "Yeah," I agreed. "But now do you know why I don’t want to talk to her?”“I understand why you want to cut your ties with her,” he said softly. “And I respect your decision.”God damn him. I wish he had just picked a fight with me instead of trying to be understanding. I sighed and stared down into my food. “You’re only saying that. You don’t agree with me at all,” I said.“No, I don’t agree with you,” he owned. “But I don’t have to. She’s your mother—you have to decide how to handle her.”“You think I should call her?” I asked as I pushed my food around with my fork.He shrugged. “I think you’ll regret it if something happens and your Mom can’t reach you,” he said. “But you don’t have to talk to your mother. You could leave a message with your aunt instead.”I thought about that. “I could,” I admitted. “But she’ll try to get me to talk to my Mom again. She’s always trying to get everyone to kiss and make-up.”Mr. Mendes smiled at that. “Well, that’s not a bad thing.”I made a face. “It’s an annoying thing,” I told him.Not that he’d understand. Mr. Mendes is like my aunt—always optimistic about people. I guess he has to be, considering his job. At least half the kids he works with have fucked up family lives. If he didn’t believe the best about people, he’d have cut his wrists open by now.I stopped pushing my food around and started eating it again. It was pretty good. I was already thinking of ways to make it better, but it had a lot of potential.I glanced back up at Mr. Mendes and managed a grin. “I’ll call my aunt,” I said in between mouthfuls. “Does that make you happy?”He smiled back at me as he lifted his glass of water. “Yeah,” he said. “It does.”