Dark haired Sarah was running down an elegant Hollywood back street near a major movie studio in a subdued and reserved corner of the movie making community–no ugly movie production wardrobe trailers ever profaned this hidden street.

While running, she was remembering the European word for, “Good Evening.”

Her wobbly scuffed high heels were clacking. Her Hermann liked her in high heels, but it was hard to hurry in them. Sarah wanted to please Hermann tonight, “Everything’s gotta be perfectly right and perfect,” she thought. She hoped he didn’t get here already before her, this restaurant was so near “the lot.”

Ah, there, she must be getting close, there was that Europe cooking smell, this must be it, and this here large, dark-shaded, no-sign front window, except for: let’s see, well, up there’s the same goldlettered number over the door—same written address numbers magic markered on he r hand, checking them in the bluish LED flashes of a passing Lamborghini’s headlights and then she grabbed the cool carved door handle, feeling its chilly whorls of churchy brass carving, very European, gotta be it, but she first stopped, made The Sign of the Cross reverently, said a short success prayer; and then standing herself straighter pulled open the door—it was French she was trying to remember, “Bon” something; and now only part in, she looked down–her blouse–ooh, out in front—tuck it back in, her bobbling breasts in running had pulled it out, and better brush back her wild hair, now she whooshed the heavy door all the way open and—oooh—there was that wonderful feeling! the goose bumpily thrill on her arms, she kept herself decorously erect, but brimming over with quivers, thinking, what fun this is gonna be for Hermann.

Sarah was always doing stuff for somebody and this little goose bumpily always came.

Do unto others that which they had forgotten or don’t know how to do unto themselves.

The wooden door was now whooshing shut behind her—oh, what a glorious smell…some-kind-of-Eyetalian, French, Spanish spicy aroma–truffles, basil. Her breathing was loud now in this inside silence, gotta breathe hard quieter.

Yes, this is it, lots of people eating in here with miniature chews because moving their jaws too much would be bad manners; this has gotta be it, one of those exclusive,no-name-on-the-outside restaurants Hermann told her about, only rich movie people came here—so what about her reservation? Every table looked already taken?

Languidly these diner’s slitted eyes were rising from their oval lavender plates covered with magazine food—super classy arty food: streaks of some yellow, mustardish cream,Technicolor bright beansy vegetationals, and some brownish,maybe used-to-be meat.

Long, mauve plates were being slid onto the no-creases, lighter-purple tablecloths, and then were disappeared microseconds after the heavy, softly-clinking, sterling silver forks had only part emptied them, sliden away by hovering vested and bowtied waiters who communicated only by signs and swallowed whipers.

Oh, she thought, totally stoked, this is so totally high-class, and me, I gotta look weird waiting up here. Sarah’s worried fingers were discovering little white blouse bits still sticking out, tucking them back into her black skirt.

But where was her reserved table in this bunch of flickering, chimneyed table candles–all taken? I got the address right?–she looked quickly down again at the number written on her palm skin, but quickly closed her hand for nobody not to see the black number on her hand, but there was not a single vacant table between these white mustaches, dinner jackets, barely moving in the little candle penumbras,dim funeral parlorish forms of barely animate diners, mouse murmuring through compressed lips—everybody wearing black bowties, naked back black dresses. She must keep her hand closed until she washed it.

No maître d’, she thought, and me up here with my hair just come out of curlers that I didn’t have time—oh, oh, a terrible fear suddenly struck her–she shook her head slightly, testing, sometimes in hurried dressing she left curlers in–now she shook her head: you could tell if one was still up there by the weight—and, if it was left in, she’d just back herself right back out—no, nothing up there. But flyey, hair wisps were probably still sticking out–she knew she was a bit blousy and a trifle plump–oh I hope, she thought, I didn’t call too long ago so they just forgot, or maybe Hermann already came and left?

She shifted from one foot to another, these high heels hurt her toes—the shifting drawing the gaze of several sedate masticators.

Ah, at last she remembered, Bon Jour, that was it, the French she wanted.

She swallowed, smiled, nodding to any eyes that met hers.

No one nodded back.

She wanted to ask somebody if… but their communal gaze only touched hers and then glazed quickly back into that inward, splendidly vacuous, but very stylish, Californish, I’m-not-here look, they were peering intently, with a little panic down inside themselves, looking at vast halls of empty inner space.

But, look back there, way in back, next to that man on the telephone, that dark place, what was that? That darkened alcove back there.

Oh, my sad Hermann, she thought, have I spoiled it? If this is the right place, please let them remember my reservation, Hermann needs feeling special; it’s just happiness he’s never had in his life.

Hermann was the grandson of a severe Nazi general, but Sarah was sure he had a mine of personal spiritual gold inside just waiting her appreciation.

She smiled at a boney faced, deeply wrinkled, scowling old woman at a single small table here up front, with heavily powered, taxidermied wrinkles. The smilee didn’t smile back. Sarah murmured a prayer, “Let the Holy Ghost show her a happier way.”

Well, Sarah was concluding, no maître d’ because notables; her shoulders ached with mounting tension—reservation must be gone—my fault for calling too early and now Hermann, who didn’t really even want to… .

Suddenly that dark suited telephoning man in the rear turned round, saw her, smiled, while flipping a wall switch.The little dark alcove brightened, as though from a wandering sunbeam. Slowly an interior golden halo arose, softly touching a quaint little table, raised slightly above the rest, shyly revealing its curved legs protruding just below its little lavender tablecloth, carved curving legs, an exquisitely laden little table, clearly a place of honor up on the dais, glinting with the argent gleams of a silver service.

—and, thank you Lord–here he came, the light switch flipper with magisterial strides, maybe he’s even the maître d’ Michelangelo?

Michelangelo, was that the name of a Pope? But for Sarah it was a phone voice, a wonderful European accent too long ago, way last week that took her reservation, but her heart began thudding with restored hope—it was always like this when one of her surprises was about to surprise, her mouth was dry.

She pointed at him with raised interrogatory eyebrows and mouthing, with exaggerated lip movements, ‘Michel Angelo’? Maître d’ Michelangelo silently acknowledged with a nod and smile.

Oh, she thought, so could that really be it? The still brightening alcove, was that really hers? Its rising soft illumination, its rounded Europe-type little ceilinglet with little fatty bellied puti, tousle haired urchins presenting to the viewer their chubby-fingered floppy flowers. Extremely cool,if it is, thought Sarah, trembly—but maybe Michael Angelo could still say to her, ‘Whom are you to have this most beautiful of all of our tables?’ I gotta show him by remembering, what was it, Bon soir? or Bon jour? Gotta sound elegant? She had taken French in high school.

“Bon soir,” she whispered tentatively on sudden inspirationas he neared–oh, mistake!—Michel Angelo was clearly Eyetalian, what was she thinking of?

“Buona sera,” he whispered back, “I am Michelangelo,”with a delightfully Europe accent, totally suave, cooly perfect, “Saarah Soden?”

​”Yes, oh yes, it was me phoning, so long ago; I’m so sorry it was–I’m afraid all the way back last Thursday or Wednesday–is that…?” and she half-pointed, hardly daring at the glowing alcove, nodding a hopeful yes at Michelangelo? She must say his name altogether in one swell swoop.

Michelangelo nodded.

“Oh,” it was! A murmur of tearful relief escaped her as she stood there, enjoying the little table’s elegant beauty and then, with little looks back at Miguelangelo—Miguel or Michel? Cautiously approaching it herself, softly through the other tables–her little one up there was become a delicate fawn timidly nestling in its alcovian corner—look at it, sparkling with tiny little glints of its deeply patterned silver plate, every kind of midget butter knife, soup spoon, a full service just like Sarah dreamed it; and, rising above all, perching in their cut crystal goblets were violaceous napkins,two tall, unlit, mauve candles in squat, Europeany, silver candelabras, on the backs of fat-bellied bumply toads cast in precious metal, covered with toadish tubercules, and silver kids standing on the toads holding the candles up.

Right out of Hermann’s stories, this total classiness—stories of famous but unknown-to-everybody, Hollywood hidden places—she’d found this one in a library book—Hermann had shown her pictures of movie insiders hobnobing, industry royalty–he will love this place.

She took a deep breath of relief, smiling to Michel-angelo and whispering, “How wonderful is this? Too totally perfect.”

Diners were covertly watching her.

“Oh Miguelangelo,” she finally said putting his names together, smiling familiarly up at him, her old friend of at least 20 seconds—but this too caused bits of muted murmurs from the other diners–”Who was this woman, obviously from Bakersfield or Minnesota, getting so familiar with Michelangelo?” A very erect quiet man in his Italianate dark suit, with a violet silk tie and amethyst tie pin, like the restaurant’s napkins and tablecloths and plates, Sarah whispered on, “Miguelangelo, if, when you bring it in,” now they were both reverently approaching even closer, whispering, “put it just right here, it’ll make Hermann so totally stoked and, please, let it come first. Oh, it’ll be such a total glory.”

Sarah stamped her foot, a short stamp of subdued exuberance. Her already pinking cheeks now flaming up to bright red, “just know it’s gonna be too perfect Miguelangelo!”

Michelangelo whispered, “I’m sure eet will.”

Oh, the goose bumply thrill—zoowee-what a super goose bumply–but she stopped—caught herself getting so bubbling overdelighted, and remembering too well what would happen on such occasions from the unendurable anticipation, that her bladder would do an uncool, absolutely unmentionable thing.

Michelangelo said, “What-eh time will de gentlemen bearriving?”

“Oh, right now” whispered Sarah, “but please, Miguel,where is the… the… you know,” she was tentatively backing away, uncomfortale but not wanting to lose sight of her treasure, repeating, “where is the…” more urgently, pointing to different room corners, not wanting to say the vulgar word… Michelangelo pointed down the hall for her. The restroom.

Sarah paused at the hall corner for a last table glimpse,making a thumb and first finger “o” of delight in the air, dancing a shuffling, mini-happy dance and rushed off, chuckling herself out of sight.

Creak went a hidden restroom door down the hall.

A time passed.

Creak again, Sarah returned, still smoothing her black hair, dress straightening, but now with freshly reapplied, very red lipstick, and the uncontainable, bumpily, joyish, almost scared feeling was making a thrill lump somewhere in her…oh, in her chest, throat, someplace–oh, thank you God, she was even starting to run to the large wooden front door, butno—please stop, she admonished herself,’ please don’t do nothing not elegant, straightening up her back—it was not, remembering her high school French, comme il faut—gotta be cool, with a self-shushing finger in front of her red lips, she proceeded more sedately.

There were quiet chuckles amongst the eaters, but the old taxidermist near the door merely glared up as Sarah went by, it was getting unbearable in here, the joy level was downright perilous—pandemic happy contagion mercilessly inoculating even these morbidly encapsulalted, self-vacinated, terminally sour bystanders.

​Sarah rewhooshed open the unmarked front door, stuck her head out for a mini peek but yanked it back in very quickly, her smile larger than her face–taking several steps backward–whispering loudly, “he’s coming. Oh, he found it… .”

Everyone paused in mid-chew and waited with her.

Whoosh, a short fussy man, looking down, shouldered open the heavy door, his weary face slumping, gazing at the grape juice colored carpet, hands jammed in baggy pockets, rather paunchy, who could this be? wearing a wrinkled blue suit, forehead furrowed with irritation—and then, only part in, he froze athwart the doorstep, his shoulder holding the door open, his eyebrows up in astonishment—amazed at finding Sarah not seated, but right up here in ambush.

“Herma-n-n-n-n,” Sarah shrieked, springing her surprise.

Hermann furtively glanced past her and—oh, no! he recognized a famous producer, a director; and gasped, quickly averting his eyes to keep from being recognized, rapidly reversing, “Sarah? Shhh!” he whispered, pulling her with him “you didn’t tell me, I’m not dressed–I can’t… .”

But she gently captured him with a hug, pulled him back in, whoosh went the partly closed door back behind him, “Herma-a-a-n,” here she sweetly paused, cocking her head tenderly to one side, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Such a sweet endearment as would tenderize the heart of a serial mass murderer, cannibal child torturer from this angelically radiant woman, shining her fierce little Sarah love sun of joy into the gloom Hermann’s reticence, shemercilessly went on, “This’s very special and just for you my dearest sweetheart,” ugh, how déclassé, thought the numb surrounding masticators, didn’t this unfortunate woman realize that such corrrrny, unimaginative, unclassy, p.d.a.,fearlessly declared had long since become uncool here in air kissing Hollywood, even in front, or especially in front of cameras, and more especially before these extremely with it, quintessentially cool, unimpactable men with $500 haircuts, themselves full of issues, wearing $800/dram Japanese fragrance, and their bling covered trophy wives with painfully expensive wax jobs on pimpled thighs.

But this disruptive joy blazing from brilliant Sarah–why, even these sad, self-obsessed souls were suddenly…uncomfortable, perhaps even a micro infinitesmal warmed? There must always be maintained an essential protective alienation in modern life otherwise we might come to… well, affection, joy, feelings?

​Of course this boney scowling woman sitting alone up front here, was a particularly hard case, maliciously scrutinizing Sarah for the inevitable Hollywood phoniness. But even her indifference was teetering, in danger—perhaps a dust mote got into her eye? Some fierce joyful pathogen was penetrating her skeptical armor of years–there were sudden tiny drops in her wrinkled old eyes—what in the world could those annoying, unfamiliar things be? not tears?… onto those thirsty taxidermied wrinkles, dry for decades? Her blue lips twitching to regain control.

But birthday boy Hermann was embarrassed and terrified, hissing, “Sarah, this is one of those places I told you about, we can’t… .” twitching little quiver-lipped smiles around to what he fancied were annoyed film Industry aristocracy, escaping in little shaky steps, backing himself and Sarah up out the front door again, saying to her, “Sweetheart,” as Michelangelo approached, whispering into her ear, “Only very important film execs can ever come here, sweetheart, stars, don’t you know you’ve gotta have a reservation months in advance? know somebody, bribe the maître d’? sweety—can’t just come in here off the street? sides I’m just a P.A., a production assistant.”

“Right dees way sir, per piacere,” Michelangelo had seen the need for his intervention because Hermann’s considerable butt was already pushing back open the big wooden door—“Your table ees up here.”

20 Industry eyes were on him so Hermann had to follow, but saying to Michelangelo, “We don’t have a…” then whispering, “Sarah, does he think that you… ?”

But intrepid Sarah was not releasing him—Hermann was sure he’d never work again.

She whispered with a little chirp of delight, “Sweetheart, look up there, see? In that little place, our precious reserved table’s just waiting for us,” and squeezed his arm in excitement. This was the crucial moment, “please Hermy, “now pressing herself very close, her warm bosoms, hugginghim,” everybody here just admires you stud,” this always gave him confidence, “it’s your special birthday, this is your glory time big man,” stroking Hermann’s hair, “you deserve this,” then stopping right at the little table, looking very tenderly, deeply in his eyes, slowly soothing his fearful displeasure, “Happy birthday Herma-a-a-n,” elongating the syllable.

“Just for us, Hermy; isn’t it adorable? Let’s–can we sit down? Everybody’s,” here she made a sweeping gesture including the onlookers, “just happy for you sweetheart.”

Hermann said, “How’d you get a reservation?”

“I know,” Sarah said, “it’s just all of a sudden sweetheart and a scary surprise, but this is a good, sweet surprise Hermy,” Sarah’s brave smile sun immediately sprang out again and the goosebumply feeling in full force while Michelangelo pulled out a welcoming chair for him, simultaneously whisking a butterfly folded napkin from a table goblet which he presented like an award to Hermann Guderian.

So all he could do was sit.

Hermann, who was related to an authoritarian Nazi war hero, sat.

When Michelangelo was gone Hermann said through unmoving, lips, leaning forwards, teeth together, to Sarah, who was now caressing him gently with her knee under the table, “this place costs a fortune,” his eyebrows smashing together a small center group of forehead wrinkles against one another in a furious frown.

​ But she only said, “Isn’t it beautiful? Don’t worry sweetheart; we’ll just have a good time.”

“I gotta worry,” Hemann said with a stone face. Her hand was reaching across to him, “Don’t you realize, Sarah,” he said to the hand, “it looks like I’m, me, just a P.A, don’t know my place and putting on airs coming here to their restaurant, there’s a hierarchy in Hollywood,” sliding his hand inconspicuously away, “coming to one of their places? Sarah, you gotta keep a very low profile,” his eyes were kept thrust down.

Sarah said, “Everyone knows it’s your day, you deserve a wonderful birthday, everybody does,” she was smoothing wrinkles out of the linen tablecloth, as she hoped to smoothout the squashed together wrinkles of Hermann’s worried forehead.

“Sarah,” he whispered, “do you even realize who’s in here? Good golly, that blond guy over at that table?”

Without looking at that blond guy, “He gets $30 million a picture. We’ll just sneak out,” Hermann was taking stuttering breaths.

“But Hermy, isn’t our table beautiful at least,” Sarah said with a little soothing laugh.

“Don’t order,” said Herman, “we gotta leave, I’ll give the maître d’ a tip and we’ll get the hell out. I’ll leave some money,” he was fishing out his very overloaded wallet, “probably should be at least twenty. Maybe even more, entrées in here cost over $150 I think. I just hope that no one notices that… .”

But there was singing, the already the dim lights dimmed further and from somewhere came–singing?

Waiters suddenly emerged from out the kitchen? tall dignified Michelangelo and two others: “Happy birthday to you,” began the first, a little, fat, balding waiter in front of the procession in a high falsetto, “Happy birthday to you,” and a redhaired younger waiter with a deep voice and bow tie, wearing a black waiter’s vest; and–oh no! What were they doing? Not coming this way? “Happy birthday dear Her-r-r-r-r-mann,” all three harmonizing; and, holding at the center of their joyful little group, a royal birthday cake lit with many red candles, fit only for Steven Spielberg with lavender bunting and gay flowers, exquisitely enthroned on abrilliantly flowered platter, slowly advancing in the warm shifting lights of these dozens of dancing little candles, that cast a roseate glow of happiness.

–all the distinguished diners were now murmuring, “Beautiful,” in spite of themselves.

“It’s for you Hermann,” she whispered.

Hermann jumped up, his eyes spread in horror, hissing down at Sarah, “You silly, silly woman. You’ve ruined me.”

And dashed out through the wondering diners, keeping his head low, whooshing open the large wooden door, leaving Sarah alone here in her special little ornate alcove at her special table with her splendid cake.

Michelangelo first stopped singing, then fat Rubens, but the last and youngest, bowtied Raphaelo persisted, still just looking down at his lovely cake, boyishly enjoying being a joyful messenger.

Michelangelo touched his shoulder.

Silence.

No forks or glasses clinked in all the restaurant.

Many heads now turned back to Sarah, to her dropping tears streaking through the wavering birthday candlelight. One tear took longer, making its way down her nose through her recently applied powder, collecting little fragments, becoming cloudy at it reached her nose end.

But the huge, merry birthday cake remained cheerfully liton the table, its little red candles dripping birthday wax…for no one.

Suddenly there was movement near the door–that formerly scowling old woman? Seated alone at the single table? Name of Mathilde, she rose and walked back through all of the tables up to the alcove, stopping and standing very upright bythe weeping, embarrassed Sarah.

She turned round and surveyed all the staring diners—everyone knew from the beginning anyway that this fragile moment had to go wrong, such sappy, sentimental…but the dauntless, magic birthday cake candles continued to cast a transforming soft glow on even Mathilde’s face; and she–it began slowly–Mathilde’s mouth corners were definitely migrating upwards to an unfamiliar posture, her eyes surveying the restaurant talent, for what?

Settling over there on the 30 million dollar star nearby, that blond guy–

Who was already looking with sad concern at Sarah, at Mathilde, with large attentive green eyes.

Smiling Mathilde made a slight, silent, come hither motion to him with her gray, heavily hair pinned head.

A slow reciprocal smile began on the famous young man’s broad generous mouth, he touched his chest, meaning me? Mathilde nodded yes. He nodded and arose–quite tall, with very broad shoulders and a strikingly square jawed face; now walking over to Sarah’s table, first checking with old Mathilde again, to see if he understood correctly?

Smiling Mathilde made another slight head gesture, eyebrows raised, downward with her head, pointing with her chin towards Hermann’s vacated seat—the celebrity winked at her, sat as instructed and watched Sarah across the lighted cake for a moment.

Sarah’s large tearful brown eyes looked up at him,surprised.

He said, ever so softly, as if asking for permission, “No sense letting a good birthday cake go to waste?” He leaned forward, forming his generous lips into a blowing posture, and, foooof, blew out all of the birthday cake candles, “Don’t worry,” the star went on, through the candle smokes, “he’ll come around. It’s the most beautiful birthday cake anyoneever saw and a cool idea.”

Michelangelo, and the others were retreating: but elderly Mathilde called after them, “We need cake plates out here please, about 10 of them,” in a cheerful tone she’d not used in years.

“About 10,” the young blonde man repeated, counting the house, and laughing, in a wonderfully deep and resonant voice and winked an understanding up at Mathilde.

Sarah just looked at him. The waiters disappeared into the kitchen.

“A birthday is a terrible thing to waste,” said wise Mathilde.

The bowtied young waiter quickly reappeared carrying a deep pile, of carefully balanced, slightly tottering stack of lavender plates–this had never been done in the history of the restaurant–clacking within itself, over to Sarah’s table and set them down, bowed slightly and went away.

The blond young man selected a silver knife from Hermann’s vacated place setting, got up and smiled a wide tanfaced smile down at Sarah–very green penetrating eyes, his large strong hands were now lifting a newly arrived cake plate from the tall stack and plunging the silver knife into the moist white frosting with large red cake writing across it: Happy Birthday Herman.

“Lucky Hermann,” chuckled the young man cutting through the thick, creamy frosting, breaking through little yellow sugar roses with delicate green petals and blue bachelor buttonesque flowers, then neatly balancing the cut cake piece on the cutting knife–no fingers– and suddenly he flipped it so the piece gracefully lit with a flump on a little lavender plate.

He set this first piece in front of Sarah.

She looked up at him, and said, “But you’re famous… .”

“I hope you won’t hold it against me,” he said laughing and cutting another piece with the same quick, graceful, competent motion, flump into another plate and another piece, whispering to Sarah, “You’ve spread some joy around tonight, you’re wonderful.”

Mathilde next saw the fat waiter clearing a table; she seized up two of the cake filled plates and went over, smiling her unaccustomed smile again, and thunk, thunk, set down the cake filled plates in front of a very serious man wearing a madras cravat and a woman wearing a two or 3 carat wedding ring and a low cut sequined gown revealing an ample chest,who looked up at the arrived cake plates, at Mathilde, then over at Sarah’s table, the continuing cake cutting, and the young man.

She smiled. The third smile of the evening.

Mathilde ceremoniously walked back for more filled plates. A communal murmur started growing—more smiles–and, when much cake had disappeared into the many more plates that had come out of the kitchen and been distributed, the first woman with the large diamond and sequins? rose with slightly moist eyes and a sweet, broad, joyful smile, began singing in a beautiful contralto, “Happy birthday to you,” the man at the table rose alongside and joined her in a resonant baritone and raised a grass to Sarah, Mathilde and the blonde young man.

Some of the more adventurous diners one by one joined more quietly in the chorus.

“Happy birthday to you.”