152. MIKE AND ME

      You may remember the frightening case of the West 82nd Street Terrorists back in 2022, when persons walking the block between Broadway and Amsterdam were attacked by water balloons. I had promised Detective Kibble that I would keep an eye out for the villains, little suspecting that Annabelle was the chief terrorist. There I was, like Ulysses, stuck between Scylla and Charybdis. Did I confess to Detective Kibble that my three delinquent cats were the terrorists and throw them to the mercy of the law or did I say nothing?

      When I confronted the cats with my discovery, Thatch and Annabelle begged for mercy. Stella copied their actions and mewed loudly as well.

      “Okay, okay,” I said. The loud lamentation and wailing continued, “Okay! Listen to me! Shut up, please!” The cacophony ceased.  “No more balloons, Missy. Understand?”

      “Oh, I guess so.”

      “I’m going to throw these balloons out, and this will be the end of it.”

      “Thank you, Daddy,” Annabelle said. “We’ll visit Pebble and Oyster on the fire escape.”

      “Will you open the window for us?” Thatch asked.

      I could see the two pigeons looking at us through the window, so I walked to the window and opened it. Three cats leaped onto the windowsill and ran out to play with their friends.

      A few days later, I had to see my ophthalmologist for a cataract surgery checkup. As I stepped out of the car in front of my apartment building, I heard a familiar voice call my name. I looked up from the walker. It was Mike Kibble, and it was really, really nice to see that two years of pandemic had done nothing to destroy his handsome features.

      “Hello, Detective!” I said.

      “Mike, Larry,” he responded. “We’ve known each other for – what? – five or six years now.”

      “Sorry . . . Mike,” I said. “It’s nice to see you. What are you doing so far from the precinct?”

      He laughed. “So far? It’s only half a block away. I was getting some lunch at the corner bodega, and I thought I recognized you. I just wanted to say hello.”

      “Well, thank you. It’s nice to see you, too. How do you like my walker, my new best friend?”

      “I think you could use a spiffier model, something with a seat, maybe?”

      “Madame Esmé says I use this to remind myself to get medical help to get off the damned thing.”

      “Madame Who?”

      “She’s an old . . . an old . . . crone I encountered several years ago. Sort of a fortune teller.”

      “Oh. Okay”

      I wasn’t going to tell him that Madame Esmé was a two-hundred-year-old cat living inside a battered old sofa in a Chinatown alley who had seen and knew everything. It was too difficult to explain.

      “So, are you working on another big case?”

      “Actually, it’s been quiet lately. There’s been no more water balloon attacks, and no serious muggings. All I’m dealing with these days is a break-in on West 85th Street.”

      “I hope things stay calm. I’d hate any violence . . .  well, I don’t want to keep you from your lunch.”

      “Do you need any help getting into the building?”

      “No, thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got my comings and goings and wrestling with the walker down to a fine art. I’ll be okay. Besides, I don’t need the embarrassment of you watching me crawl up the lobby steps on my knees.”

      “If you’re sure . . .”

      “I am. But thanks for the offer. Enjoy your lunch.”

      “Okay. Then, I will see you on Wednesday, I hope.”

      I laughed. “Lunch, one o’clock, Café 82, I wouldn’t miss it. I’m looking forward to it. Have a good day.”

      “Wait a minute. Do you have my card??”

      “Card?” I asked. “What card? I don’t think so.”

      Mike reached into his pocket, removed his wallet, and took out a business card. “If you can’t make it, call me.”

      “Okay, I promise. Thanks. I could just call the precinct . . .”

      “I may not be there. Mow you’ve got my cell phone’s number.”

      “Okay. Thanks. See you next week. One o’clock, Cafe 82, right?”

      Mike laughed. “Tell the cats hello. I’ll see you next week.”  

      “Yep. I’m looking forward to it.” I looked at the card. Mike Kibble was really Mike Kebbel. I’d had his name wrong for– what?– more than five years. I have to tell the cats, I thought.

      I watched him turn and head back to the corner. As he walked away, I gave his body a thorough check. Body by God, I thought, or Michelangelo. Still, no matter what Annabelle claimed, I had learned years before –  after several romantic disasters –  not to confuse kindness and friendliness with romantic interest.

      I reached into my pocket for my keys, turned the walker to the front door, and began to lurch toward it. Just before I stepped under the fire escape over the front door, a water balloon landed on my cap and exploded.

      I counted off the days to my lunch with Detective Mike Kebbel in my usual wishy-washy modus operandi: looking forward to lunch one day and thinking about canceling the next. The cats were no help at all

      “Thatch and I like him. He likes you, Daddy.”

      “Annabelle, I’m seventy-six, and he’s – what? – maybe forty? I’m way too old for him.”

      “We all like Detective Kibble, don’t we, Thatch?”

      “Yes!” Thatch cheered, and Stella hit her tambourine. Does she ever put that damned thing down?

      “I forgot to tell you. His name isn’t really Kibble; it’s Kebbel. Mike Kebbel.”

      “What’s in a name? He likes you. I know you like him. You. Are. Going. On. This. Date!” 

      “Oh, God, Annabelle. It isn’t a date.”

      “You believe that, Thatch?”

      “I wouldn’t mind a second daddy,” Thatch told us. “He seems to like us.”

      “Everybody loves me,” Annabelle replied. Then she turned back to me. “You’re getting old, Daddy. You’re about a hundred now, right? This could be your last chance to settle down.”

      “Oh, I don’t know. I’m too neurotic to date anyone.”

      “You said this wasn’t a date,” Thatch observed.          

      “You make no sense at all. Does he, Thatch?”

      “You know, Missy, I am, very, very curious to learn why someone young and attractive has a grandfather complex.”

      “Does that mean you’re going?”

      “I haven’t decided.”

     “I will never understand humans and love,” Thatch told us.

      “That’s because you’re neutered, I thought. Instead, I said, “It’s complicated, Thatch.”

      “No, it isn’t,” Annabelle stated. “Come on, Thatch. We’ll listen to the original cast album of ‘Company.’ That should teach you all you ever need to know about humans and love . . . and Mahler.”

      Of course, when the time came, good ol’ wishy-washy me hadn’t called Mike to cancel or postpone. I spent the morning wondering how he would react if I stood him up and wondering what he would order for lunch.

       “Well, babies” I said, “I will see you all when I return.”

       “Why are you wearing that?” Annabelle asked. “You want to scare him off?”

       “I’m comfortable,” I said defensively.

       “Turn around,” Annabelle ordered.

      I turned around. She was clearly disenchanted with my T-shirt, shirt, and shorts, and as I turned, I could feel her disapproval burning holes into my back. “Look at him, Stella,” she moaned. “It’s no wonder he’s been single for the past hundred years.”

       “It’s lunch with a friend, Annabelle,” I responded, “not a date. This is not a date!  You’re behaving as if I was dressed in rags. I think I look pretty good for an old man on a walker!”

      “What are we going to do with him, Thatch?”

      “I don’t know, Annabelle. Maybe we should just wish him luck. Or a good time.”  

      “You’re no help at all.”  

      “I have to push that damned walker to Broadway, and it’s a warm day. I want to be comfortable.”

       “He’ll never ask you out again.”

       “Annabelle, listen to me. Every time I ‘ve seen Detective Kibble – I mean Mike; I am not used to calling him that!  – every time he’s seen me, I look like I just left my coal barge or garbage dump.”

       “I think you should change into something nicer.”

      “Well, that’s life, Missy. I gotta go. I don’t want to be late.” I limped to my walker.

       “Thatch!” Annabelle bellowed, “Will you talk some sense to him?”

       “Don’t bother, Thatch. I don’t want to be late. Now, listen up, you three devils: behave while I’m gone. I don’t want to come back and find the police, firemen, or the FBI taking you into custody.”

       “Have fun!” Thatch called as I opened the door.

       “Don’t you scare him off!” Annabelle screamed.

       I pushed the walker into the hall and headed for the elevator. As I rode down to one, I thought, I’d better walk slowly so I don’t arrive all sweaty and overheated.

      I walked off the elevator, negotiated my way cautiously to the front door and out to the street. Before my mobility became poor in 2013, I could make the walk to Broadway in less than three minutes. Walking with a cane, I could do it in five, but after the 2020 operation and my loss of balance, using the walker tripled the time it once took me to accomplish things. I wanted to arrive before him; I didn’t want to embarrass myself as he watched me struggle to get off the walker and into a booth.

      As I walked toward Broadway, I wondered, why am I so excited to have lunch with Mike Kebbel? Yes, he’s hot, but I was never good at romance. God help me; my last fling was a brief one around 1994. Oh God, that was nearly thirty years ago. Speaking of thirty, what was I doing chasing a man over thirty years younger than I? Am I chasing Mike Kebbel? Is he chasing me? And why the fat hell is he taking me to lunch? Maybe it’s just lunch between friends? Oy! I’m a mess.

       I pushed my walker into Cafe 82. A kindly waiter helped me with the two doors. “Thank you,” I told him once I was inside. “I’m meeting a friend for lunch. Is there a table near the door?”

      He pointed to an empty booth just inside the door. “I can have this one cleaned for you now, sir.”

      “Oh! This is perfect. Thank you.”

      Within minutes, the dishes were removed, the table washed off, and new place mats set down. The waiter helped me sit; then he folded up the walker and set it against the wall a short distance from the booth. I ordered a Coke and opened the menu. As I flipped through the pages, I thought, I don’t know why I bother reading this. I’ll get what I usually do. Still, reading the menu gave me something to do while I waited.

       “Hello, Larry,” a familiar voice said as Mike Kebbel slid into the seat across from me. And there he was, looking something like a cross between a white knight, a Greek god, and a shipwreck. “I hope I’m not too late.”

       “Not at all, Detec- . . . er, Mike! I’m sorry.” I laughed. “I guess I will always think of you as Detective Kibble, the very patient police detective I pestered when my cats were lost.”

       “Well, I was happy to help . . . I was, uh . . . I’m sorry I’m so sweaty . . . I was finishing up some paperwork, and when I saw how late it was, I ran most of the way here.” He laughed. “I don’t ever remember early May being this warm . . . and the Republicans claim that climate change is a hoax. Why are you laughing?”

     I wanted to say, laugh again, Mike; I love your smile. Instead, I replied, “Two things. I thought the same thing when I stepped out of the apartment onto the sidewalk. It really is warmer today than I expected. It’s easier getting my game right leg into a pair of shorts than trousers. And . . . politics! Now I don’t have to worry that I’ll drop the friendship because I hate your politics.”

       He laughed, “Well, as far as I can remember, my family on Long Island’s always been Democrat.”

       “Your family? I remember . . .  you have a brother in . . . uh, Yonkers, I think?”

       “Good memory! And one in Tucson, and a sister in Albany.”

       “I vaguely remember that!”

       “And your family?”

       “Middletown, Ohio, just north of Cincinnati . . . two brothers. I took the cats back to visit in . . .when was it?  Summer, 2019.” I laughed, “Never again! The cats hated it.”

       The waiter came to our table. “You ready to order?” Mike asked me.

       “Yes!” I replied with maybe too much exuberance.

      I ordered my Cafe 82 usual, deluxe cheeseburger and fries; Mike ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, chili, and we decided to split a small salad. As soon as the waiter left us, Mike asked me, “So, I have the impression you’re single. Were you ever married or in a long-term relationship?”

       This was embarrassing. I get uncomfortable talking about my personal life, and here was this extremely hot man asking me about my romantic past. I may have blushed.

      “No, I . . . I, uh . . . I was never good at romance. I certainly had several crushes over the years, and I even lived with a boyfriend for maybe a year between 1984 and 85, but I’m too neurotic and paranoid. If you had met my mother,” I laughed, “you would understand.”

      “That’s an interesting comment.”

      “She had her problems; I have a lot of unresolved issues. I guess, when it comes to romance, I had too much baggage.”

      “Are you being a bit hard on yourself?”

      “I could be clueless. That boyfriend I lived with for maybe a year? He had a major cocaine addiction! I swear, I never knew.”

      “How did you find out about his addiction?”

      “It was a mess. He ended up owing a lot of money to the dealers where he worked, and he had to confess it all to his parents – they had a lot of money – and enter a rehab program at Lenox Hill Hospital. His parents gave me the money, and I had to go to his job and pay off the dealers. That was a bad day, I was carrying a lot of money, around $10,000 in cash, and I was terrified I’d be robbed or murdered for it.”

      “You’re lucky you weren’t. Where did he work?”

      “I’m not telling. And that’s enough about my love life . . . so, what about you?”

      “I was a big jock in high school with a lot of girlfriends. I dated a girl through college; almost married her, but . . .”

      “What happened?”

      “I almost got married a couple of times, but I always got cold feet. I finally figured out I was gay. That was around 2005. I played around a lot, but I never saw anyone I wanted to settle down with.”

      “I don’t mean to be rude, but I am nosy: how old are you, Mike?” I laughed, “I should have said Annabelle wanted to know your age.”

      Mike laughed, “Well, I won’t be coy and ask you how old you think I am! I’m forty-two; I’ll be forty-three in a couple of months. So, tell me your age.I know you’re retired, so I’m guessing you’re over sixty-five.”

      I laughed. “I’m way over sixty-five! Annabelle thinks I’m one hundred. I’m seventy-six. On the really bad days, I feel like I’m seven hundred and seventy-six.”

      At that point, the waiter arrived with lunch, and I breathed a sigh of relief that that discussion was over. As we ate, I made him laugh with stories about the cats and my career, and he told me a few amusing tales, along with several unsettling stories, about crime on the Upper West Side.

      “How was your lunch?” I asked him.

       “Not bad. The company was better.”

       “Well, I really liked my burger, and, even better, I had a good time. I’m glad we did this.”

       “Me, too. We should do it again soon.”

       Embarrassed, I thought, after he sees this decrepit old man try to get out of this booth and onto a walker, I’ll never hear from him again. Instead, I asked, “Would you help me with my walker? It’s sitting over there, against the wall.”

      He helped me out of the booth and got me on my feet. I grabbed the walker like a life preserver.

      “I’ll walk you back to your building.”

       “I move at a snail’s pace,” I warned him. “If you’re in a hurry to get back to the precinct, you might -“

      “I told them it could be a long lunch. I’ll get you back home safely. You know, those water balloon terrorists have never been caught.”

       I laughed. “You know, I should tell you that I know who the terrorists are.”

      “I suspected they might know you.”

      “I should have told you earlier, but . . .”

      “Don’t worry about it. The case will remain unsolved . . . if you can assure me it’s over.”

      “I’m so embarrassed. You know, Annabelle’s really crazy about you, and I didn’t know how to tell you.”

      “And why is that?”

      “They failed at doing community service, you know.”

      “Hey, it’s fine. When I called you about the water balloons, I thought, 202 West 82nd Street?  It couldn’t be those caroling cats?”

      “I’m sorry. They did stop when I learned they were the terrorists, and I . . .  I, uh . . . Jesus, I just didn’t know how you would react.”

      “It’s fine. Don’t worry

 about it.” As we approached my building, Mike said, “You know, I forgot to ask you the big question!”

       I stopped. “The big question? What’s that?”

       “My sister in Albany has a high school daughter who’s looking into colleges. She wants to be a musical theatre major. Can  you give me any recommendations?”

       I started walking again. “Sure can. Do you want to write them down?”

       “No, can you email them to me? I can send your email to my sister.”

       “I could if I had your email address.”

       “Didn’t I give you my card?”

       “Uh . . . uh, yes. Yes, you did last week . . . but I don’t remember where I put it. I’m sorry.”

       “Okay. Hold on,” Mike reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He removed a business card, turned it over, and then wrote something on the back of it. “This is my home phone number and email.” He handed it to me.

      I looked at the card, turned it over, and read the phone number and the email address back to him.

      “You got it,” he smiled.

      “I guess I do,” I said maybe a little too coyly. I put the card into my shirt pocket. “And here’s my building.”

      “Can I help you in?”

      “No. No, thank you. I told you before, I’ll spare you the embarrassment of watching this old gimp crawl up the stairs to get to the lobby. You’ve got more important things to do, like chasing down felons. Hop to it.”

       He laughed. “Okay, boss, I’m going. Thanks for the college info in advance.”

       “I’ll write that email as soon as I’m back in the apartment. And thank you for a wonderful lunch.”

       “You’re welcome. We’ll do it again soon.” He turned and walked toward Amsterdam Avenue.

      As he walked away, I watched him move down the street. Now that, I thought, is one hot man. I sure envy his self-assurance. I wanted to burst into song:

      Dear bobby, c’mere, bobby, and change my point of view;

      People say that I’m the daughter of crime

      And I want to be raided by you . . .

With a sigh, I folded the walker and put my key into the lock on the front door.  Still thinking about Cole Porter and watching Mike Kebbel stroll away, I pushed the front door open, missed my step, and fell on my face into the foyer.

©2025, Larry Moore