Page 25 of Tito

“I’ll be right back,” the waitress said with a smile.

Reggie eagerly gulped down what was left of her wine and reached for her fork. “Sorry I went on that tirade. I just. I don’t know. I really don’t care for the entire motorcycle thing like I thought I would. I’ve never been one to sugar-coat my responses, either. I’m like the first base umpire. I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

“Are you a baseball fan?”

“Not really,” she said. “That’s just a phrase my dad always said, and now I find myself saying it.”

“The police officer?”

“Detective,” she said, correcting me. “He investigates all reports of bikers riding wheelies on the freeway.”

“I don’t ride wheelies.”

Smirking ever so slightly, she cut off a section of fish and lifted it to her mouth. “You’ll stay out of his crosshairs, then.”

I tried the octopus. Pleasantly surprised at the smoky flavor, I pierced another section and paused. “Is your father a baseball fan?”

“The biggest,” she replied. “When he’s not ridding San Diego County of wheelie-riding scumbags, he’s watching baseball.”

“Who’s his team?”

“The Padres. His father was an original season ticket holder. He started watching them in the 1960’s. He took my father to all the home games. He fell in love with baseball, and his home team. Now, when the Padres are out of the playoffs, he’s done watching for the season.”

“Sounds like a real fan.”

“He is,” she said. “Believe me. He lives and breathes baseball.”

“What does he do in the off-season?”

“He watches golf.” She acted as if she were vomiting. “The most boring sport in the world.”

The waitress delivered our wine. Reggie and I continued our conversations throughout the meal and well beyond, focusing on nothing in particular.

It was not what I expected. It was, however, exactly what I hoped for and everything I needed.

She tilted her half-empty wine glass in my direction. “How were the octopi?”

“They were much better than the shrimp,” I responded. “Not that the shrimp were bad. The octopus was fabulous.”

“Did you know octopodes is the correct plural term? No one uses it, though.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe it’s because it sounds weird.”

I found it interesting that she knew the Anglicized Latin plural term, octopi—which was acceptable in the English language—was grammatically incorrect. The word octopus is Greek, not Latin, leaving the only true acceptable plural term as octopodes.

“How do you know things like that?” I asked.

“I retain useless information.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “I have no idea why. Things just stick in my head. From school. Reading. Studying.”

“The American people assumed the word was Latin,” I explained. “Because it resembled words like syllabus and alumnus. So, they used what would be the Latin plural term, octopi. The word octopus, however, is of Greek origin.”

She drank her wine, studying me the entire time. Apparently, she wasn’t accustomed to men who retained as much useless information as she did. When she finished her wine, she leaned toward the center of the table.

“Come here,” she said.

I moved close enough to taste the sweetness of her wine-laced breath. “Yes?”

“Let’s go to my place,” she whispered.

“You’ve had quite a bit to drink,” I said. “You sure you’re up for this?”

“Three glasses?” She leaned away and gave me a stink-eyed look. “Pfft. That’s nothing.”