My Oxford Year(27)

I back farther away. “I have a thing tomorrow.” I have no thing tomorrow. “But, thanks. Again.”

He isn’t leaving.

I stop walking.

We look at each other.

WE’RE ABOUT TO walk into the pub and my phone goes off. I take a quick glance; it’s Gavin. I turn to tell Davenport that I have to take it, but he’s already signaling that he’ll get us a table. I answer my phone, standing under the dripping eave, my feet sinking into the waterlogged industrial mat.

“What was that thing in California you mentioned in the last call?” Gavin asks.

I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Prop. Thirteen.”

“And it cut public school funding? Gutted the arts?”

“Among many other things, yes.”

“Because . . . ?”

“It stipulated that the maximum amount of any ad valorem tax on real property could not exceed one percent of the full cash value—”

“English.”

“Okay. Property taxes, which largely fund public education, can only increase at an annual inflation factor not to exceed two percent based on 1975 assessments—”

“Durran! Cut to the chase! Pretend I’m stupid.”

I take a moment. “Who mostly goes to public schools in the U.S.?”

“The poor and minorities.”

“Who pays property taxes?”

“People who own houses.”

“Statistically, who owns all those houses?”

“Not poor minorities?”

“You win the washer/dryer. California, the state with the most expensive housing markets, has a public school system consistently ranked well below my home state of Ohio.”

“Thanks, kid,” Gavin says, and, per usual, hangs up without actually saying good-bye. I see a few are you all right??? texts from Maggie and Charlie and answer them in the affirmative (without details like current location or company) and then enter the pub.

The interior of the place feels like any dive bar back in the States. Granted, there are the ever-present low ceilings and beams, and ancient, uneven floors, but there’s neon, and darts, and even a jukebox. The plaster walls are stained yellow with nicotine from centuries of cigarettes, cigars, and pipes. It looks as though the layers could be scraped off with a putty knife.

He’s sitting at a booth next to the bar, and—surprise, surprise—a waitress has her arms around him, planting kisses all over his face. Undaunted, I walk over and slip in opposite him. The waitress—who I now see is middle-aged with spiky bottle-red and gray hair—turns to me and says, “Sorry, love, but he’s spoke fer.”

A potbellied, cow-necked guy pulling pints behind the bar calls out, “I heard that, Lizzie!”

“I weren’t whisperin’, Bernard!” she yells back. They share a laugh as she scuttles away.

I set my phone down on the sticky table, opposite his. Their presence makes this feel less like a date. Which is good. He points to my phone. “Everything all right?” he asks.

I take a breath and quickly fill him in. Talking about my job gives me confidence. About everything. His impressed, wide-eyed nod also helps. See? Not a total disaster after all, prat.

Just as I wrap up, Lizzie appears again, this time with a tray. “Here we are!” she sings, dropping everything off, then leaves.

I take in the haul on the table: two pints, a small bucket of bulk popcorn, and a basket of tortilla chips with a little plastic container of salsa. I stare at the array. The song changes to Nicki Minaj. “Give me a moment,” I say. “I need to let the authenticity wash over me.”

He grins and lifts his glass. “Welcome to England.” I lift my (insanely heavy) glass and clink his.

Then there’s a funny moment of silence. Which is unexpected. He takes a sip of his beer, and I take a sip of mine. He studies my face, gauging my reaction. “Well?”

It’s not carbonated, it’s room temperature, and it’s really, really bitter. “Disgusting” is the first word that comes to mind. I venture in for another sip. It’s weird, I don’t like it, but I like it. I don’t want any more, but I wouldn’t mind another sip. The beer, I remind myself. Not the man sitting across from you. Finally, I answer him. “For pond scum, it’s absolutely delicious.”

He throws his head back and laughs. He’s got a hearty laugh. I like that.

I grab a chip and open the salsa container, settling in, already glad I did this. “So,” I begin. “How did you find yourself at Oxford?”

Just then, a lanky teenager sidles up to the table, smiling. “Had to dig it out the back,” he says, dropping off a half-filled bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. “Nobody’s had a drop of the stuff since you left. See the pen line? Not a millimeter down.”

Jamie slaps the kid’s shoulder, gazing in wonder at the whiskey. “Cheers, Ricky. Grab yourself a glass, mate.”

He’s already pulling one out of his apron. “Couldn’t possibly.”

Jamie pours them a healthy shot. “Don’t tell your mum, yeah?”

“Who?” They clink glasses and shoot them. Ricky turns to me. “And this lovely is . . . ?”

I jump ahead of Davenport. “Ella. It’s a pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Something silent passes between Jamie and Ricky. The kid looks away. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Welcome back, JD Cheers.”