Pepino Voce Is Cute

Before picking up Lacey, his girlfriend of nearly a year now, and heading out to dinner, Nicholas Pocard had to call USA Trade Bank and transfer money from his savings to his checking account – an action which reminded him of the need to find a job soon, or else be unable to pay for his and Lacey’s routine Fancy Fridays. To Nicholas, Lacey wasn’t particularly demanding, but she kept to traditional gender roles which meant that she never deigned to enter a cab first, remove her own coat, or pay for a formal dinner. Mostly because of Lacey’s striking beauty, this ladylike obsession (no doubt inherited from her wealthy Alabaman mother) annoyed Nicholas no more than a slight tic would have, as if instead of draining one hundred dollars from him each week, Lacey was merely stretching her fingers on the edge of her seat every three minutes.

An automated bank teller’s “Thank you,” came through the earpiece and then, as Nicholas was taking the phone away from his ear, “Please stay on the line for our brief customer survey.” Nicholas, not one to bend to corporate interests beyond what was needed, hung up the phone, buttoned his shirt, slapped on a scent and left to pick up Lacey.
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Lacey Allon looked like a teenaged angel when she opened the door for Nicholas Pocard. Like always, she was wearing a more-than-a-little formal gown for their Friday evening out. Nicholas noticed that her outfit and hair, together with the shape of her body, made her appearance not unlike that of a giant-sized bishop from a chess set, with the bottom two-thirds painted a rich blue by a player more interested in aesthetics than strategy.

Lacey skipped down the stairs of her front porch ahead of Nicholas. “Where to, darling?” she smiled, turning to face her boyfriend at the bottom of the stairs. Nicholas, hands in his slacks (which were only a bit too small for him) walked down the stairs two at a time, but slowly.

“I was thinking Pepino’s,” he said, taking his right hand from his pocket and placing it on Lacey’s cheek. After a kiss, the two turned hand-in-hand towards Nicholas’ Dodge.

“I like that,” said Lacey. “Anything else?”

“I just thought of Pepino’s,” said Nicholas.

“You only thought of one idea?” said Lacey, who, like the lady she was, waited for her door to be opened.

“Just the one,” said Nicholas. Opening Lacey’s door, Nicholas gasped at a nearly-empty package of cigarettes lying on Lacey’s seat. Lacey picked up the cigarettes without a word and, straightening her skirt against the backs of her thighs, sat down calmly, her knees hardly separating throughout the whole motion.

Nicholas sat down on something small which gave way. “You’re sitting on something,” said Lacey.

“I’m sorry. I left them on your seat,” said Nicholas almost dismissively, trying to steer the controversy towards chivalry – clearing the lady’s seat – rather than the more troublesome issue of Lacey’s hatred of tobacco products.

“You left what.”

“Smokes.”

“Do you smoke?”

“They’re Trace’s.”

“Trace’s,” said Lacey, with mock epiphany.

“They are. How could I smoke? You know how much I run.”

“When was the 10K again?”

“I don’t know when the 10K was, Lacey. Two months ago, maybe,” said Nicholas, trying to be peeved at Lacey as much as she was at him.

“Well, keep up the running there,” said Lacey, putting her hand on his thigh. “Don’t get mad, Nick. We’re not fighting.”

Nicholas took a second or two to speak. “I know we’re not. Lean over and kiss the driver, please.” She did. “So, Pepino’s? Or something else?”

“Let’s do Pepino’s. I like their shrimp,” said Lacey, leaning over to kiss Nicholas again.

“Pepino’s it is, then.”
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Pepino Voce was a thin, one might say gaunt, Italian man not over five and one-half feet tall. An exceptionally polite host, he greeted diners as if they were entering an art gallery filled with paintings by his late father. Each man was greeted with a warm, firm handshake that made him reconsider Pepino’s size, as if he had mistaken a contrabassoon for a piccolo. This handshake between host and gentleman, it must be noted, naturally only came once each lady in the party had been embraced, kissed, and relieved of her coat.

Mr. Voce’s restaurant was like a projection of the man into dining room format. Pepino’s, at once small and spacious, hummed like a harmonica with its popping corks, an attentive wait staff, and carefree conversation without there ever being a moment when one did not have a secure sense of quietude. Pepino’s restaurant was as inviting, and as full of charming contradictions, as Pepino Voce himself.

But even the best of hosts cannot be equally hospitable to all, and Pepino Voce quite preferred pretty girls. So that when Lacey Allon and Nicholas Pocard entered his restaurant, the smile and handshake which Nicholas received were as cryptically, almost imperceptibly, cold and jealous as Lacey’s welcome was mildly tinged with sex. A distant observer with great vision could never have failed to notice Mr. Voce’s lecherous scowl as Lacey and Nicholas were ushered to their table.

Lacey ordered shrimp and Nicholas had the veal. Nicholas tried to order a bottle of wine, but the waiter asked for identification. So they both had iced tea.
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“This was a good idea,” said Lacey, signaling she was finished eating by taking her napkin out of her lap and folding it next to her plate. “I always forget how much I like Pepino’s until I come back again.”

“Agreed,” said Nicholas, still eating.

Lacey sat, faintly smiling with her hands in her lap, and looked about the room for a moment before she spoke again, as if counting diamonds in a jewelry store. “You know what half of it is? I mean what’s great about this place, you know what half of it is? It’s Mr. Voce. I just love him. Isn’t he the nicest little man?”

“I like him.”

“He’s the cutest thing,” said Lacey, shaking her head at Pepino Voce, who looked up, found Lacey’s face like a walnut among almonds, and gave a quick finger-wave.

Just then, the waiter walked over and asked Nicholas if they needed anything. “I think we can do the check, please,” said Nicholas. Then, to Lacey: “I thought I was cute.”

Lacey reached her hand across and laid it on Nick’s. “Oh Nick, you know I think you’re cute,” she said. Nicholas stood up to kiss her across the table.

“And you, my darling, are ravishing,” said Nicholas, emphasizing the last word in a hauty accent.

“Don’t! Don’t talk sexy in my mother’s voice,” giggled Lacey.

“Talk dirty to me.”

“Stop,” said Lacey, and slapped Nicholas’ hand.

They looked at eachother until Nicholas continued. “I’m serious though, Lace. Let’s talk about this. I mean, I really wonder. What makes two people as different as Mr. Voce and I are both ‘cute’?”

“Why is that so hard?”

“Well, for example. I mean…Okay, I got it. I mean, when girls say ‘cute’ – and I’m making an assumption here – I think when girls say the word ‘cute’ they don’t exactly mean it like the dictionary says. Like, you could say that a bear cub is cute but that doesn’t mean the same as ‘Pepino Voce is cute.’ When you say it about a person – a male person – it’s something else.”

“That’s quite an assumption.”

“I think I’m onto something. You’re nervous.”

“Am not. You’re just over-analyzing everything I say. What exactly do you mean by ‘something else,’ anyway?”

“I don’t know really. But I almost want to say it’s sexual,” Nicholas said, looking to the ceiling for confimation. “Yeah, I’d say it’s sexual.”

Lacey was more baffled than offended. “You think it’s sexual.”

“I really do,” said Nicholas, putting his own napkin on the table. Just then the check came;
Nicholas slipped a Visa card into the black leather folder and balanced it on the edge of the table.

“Even if you don’t Lace, just go with it for a second. I’m onto something.”

“How much money do you have anyway? Seems like it’s been forever since you had a job,” said Lacey. “Before the 10K, even, and we both know how long ago that was.”

“Don’t be mad, Lace. I’m just trying to make a point.”

“That women are sex fiends.”

“Only some,” said Nicholas, who lightly kicked Lacey’s shin beneath the table in a failed attempt to resurrect some sense of levity. Coughing, he went on: “I’m not saying you want to have sex with Pepino Voce.” Lacey stuck out her tongue and Nicholas grinned. “But I do think that, if a girl finds one guy sexy, and she uses a single word to describe both him and another guy, then she must think the other guy is sexy, too.”

“That’s silly,” said Lacey, and thought for a moment. “I know what that is. It’s…a syllogism. A bad syllogism.”

At times like these, Nicholas became filled up with anger, all due to Lacey mentioning a subject which she had more familiarity with than he did. In this case, it was Lacey identifying Nicholas’ argument as a syllogism, a term not quite in his vocabulary, which sent Nicholas into such a hidden, embarrassed fury. Nevertheless, Nicholas seldom was one to confess his ignorance and therefore had to make some retort in order to save face. So he said:

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is. We just learned about it in Humanities last week. Just because I use the same word to describe you and Mr. Voce doesn’t mean that I think of you in the same way. That’s like saying that the Eiffel Tower is tall, and Tom is tall, so therefore Tom must be the Eiffel Tower.”

Nicholas couldn’t speak. He felt defeated.

As if prompted by a temperature gauge hidden in Nicholas’ collar, their waiter reappeared to take the bill. But the waiter, who performed a small bow as he lifted the billfold from the table, was stopped by Lacey Allon. “You don’t have my card,” she said and, reaching into her bag, pulled out a credit card and handed it to the waiter. “Just split it, please.”
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To someone watching, Lacey Allon and her boyfriend Nicholas Pocard would have looked like a typical – not exceptionally happy – couple as they made their way through the parking lot of Pepino’s Italian Dining. Talking at a low, inflectionless volume, they held hands until Nicholas opened the passenger door for Lacey and closed it gently behind her.

Inside the car was different. “I don’t know what’s going on with you tonight, Lace. I don’t get what the hell that was back there.” Lacey was silent and pouty. She stared at Pepino’s restaurant in the rear view mirror on her right, her arms crossed, her knees together. “Good. Now you don’t want to talk. Perfect.”

“Just what the hell do you want to talk about? You said something, and you were wrong and I’m right, and that’s it,” said Lacey, surprising Nicholas by speaking. Nicholas, rather than reply, turned on the radio.

Music and traffic were the only sounds in the car for several minutes. When Nicholas sensed the atmosphere lighten, he turned the radio down so he could speak over it. “My only point, Lacey, was that it’s just awful funny how two guys, who are as different as Mr. Voce and I are, could be described with a single word, and I was trying to figure that out is all.”

“That’s stupid,” said Lacey, and then, after only a tiny hesitation, “What I don’t get is how two people, as different as you and I are, could ever have been in a relationship for so long.”

“Opposites attract, Lace. You said it yourself when we first started dating.”

“I did,” said Lacey, contemplating the fact. “I think I was wrong, though. Opposites don’t attract. Opposites just stay together for a while.”
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When Nicholas Pocard was driving to his house later that night, staying in the rightmost lane and keeping the radio low, a desert hare darted in front of his car and fell victim to the Dodge’s tires and undercarriage. After pulling the Dodge over, Nicholas eventually found the hare in a stretch of gravel between the road and sidewalk. Squatting, he stared silently at the flattened vermin and after a while, letting his head fall forward into his hands, he wept.