2013.06.07 - Double Rejection

The door jangles with one of those bell thingymabobbers when a young man, a teenager, enters through the front door. Short and thin, Peter Parker has bushy brown hair and wears a black t-shirt with a longsleeved grey shirt underneath, as well as a pair of jeans. Over his shoulder he carries a backpack.

As he steps up to the hostess stand, he waits for a moment as it is temporarily un-manned and un-womanned. Finally, as Tiffany gets back, Parker explains that he needs a seat for two, a booth, and that he's meeting someone here. Two menus are pulled from the stand and Peter is led off to a booth that sits alongside the window between the sidewalk and the road.

It's quiet right now in the restaurant, a few tables already occupied but the real rush yet to begin. Fern looks up from her task of wrapping silverware in napkins, smiling as she spies a familiar face. Jerry is already heading to the table but Fern waves him off, indicating she'll take care of the customer herself. Tiffany holds up two fingers to the waitress, and Fern snags two glasses, fills them with ice and water, and squeaks her way lightly over to the table. "Hey stranger," she greets with a warm smile. "Haven't seen you in here in ages, how've you been?" Of course, she assumes this young man to be her friend, Ben Reilly.

Peter looks up from his StarkPhone with a droppy face before shaking his head slowly, "Sorry, you must have me confused with someone else. This is actually the first time I've ever been here." He smiles a bit, "I'm running a bit late. You didn't see a blonde girl in here by chance, did you?" The blonde girl in question is Liz Allan, and she has not been present at any point. Coming here was her idea. Peter had left her a text message to let her know he would be 15 minutes late, but never got a response.

For a moment there's a confused frown light on Fern's lips, before her eyes widen slightly as she remembers things Ben had confided in her. Her smile comes back easily, with a soft apology, "Sorry, you resemble a friend of mine." Technically, Ben resembles Peter, but potato, potato. The young waitress shakes her head, then absently reaches up to push back the lock of hair that the motion dislodges. "Not that I've seen, and I've been here since before opening. Maybe she's just running late," she adds helpfully. "Can I get you something more than water while you're waiting?"

"Not a problem," Peter says with a nod. "You actually resemble a friend of mine, too, so we're even." His face twists a bit as he begins to get that pit in his stomach that perhaps Liz Allan may not be joining him after all, and he tries to decide whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. "Yeah, I'll take a cola. Whatever you got, thanks.

Fern notes the expression, her smile fading just a shade, hardly noticeably, but it strengthens again immediately. "Pepsi, hope it's ok." She herself is very particular about her cola, but she knows that most aren't. There's an order pad in one pocket of her muted mustard yellow uniform, a misspelled nametag branding her as FREN, but she doesn't reach for it. With a quick about face she's squeaking her way lightly across the floor, to disappear into the kitchen. It's just a moment later that she returns, the glass of soda in one hand, a basket in the other. Both are set in front of Peter, and she offers, "Anita just got some rosemary bread out of the oven, so I've snagged you some while it's still warm." There's also butter in the basket with the few slices of fragrant bread, and the silverware and bread plate are already on the table.

"Awesome. Thank you." Peter does his best not to show precisely how hungry he is and tries to keep his devouring of the starches to a pace which might avoid embarassement. He's obviously hungry, but the truth is that he's always hungry. Intermittently, Peter is checking his StarkPhone, waiting for a text that doesn't appear to be coming. After a few minutes of looking out the window, he lets out a sigh.

Fern had politely drifted away, but she didn't go very far. It's clear that her customer is a bit pensive about his missing companion, and she keeps looking from him to the door, at one point concentrating as if willing the girl to appear. It does nothing, Fern has no powers, but still, she gives it a try. Finally she meanders back over. "Probably a traffic jam, or the subway got delayed," she offers gently. She can't help but feel she knows the young man, knowing Ben as she does. It's a little odd, actually, but she doesn't feel uncomfortable with it. Every stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet, after all. Unless they're trying to kill you, sure.

"Yeah," Peter says, giving a reassuring smile. "I'm sure she'll show up." He's not sure at all that she will show up. "Do you mind if I order while we wait?" It's about a half an hour now since Liz was supposed to show up. He does not mention that Liz lives in the area and would not be taking a car, nor would she need the subway. She picked this place precisely because it was close for her, even though it was a far jaunt for Pete. Liz is that kind of girl. But she had good things to say about this place. And really, what girl doesn't love Italian? Pete figures he might as well get a meal out of the deal. In regards to the mysterious case of the missing identity, Pete has no such conflict. While Fern looks fairly like Mary Jane Watson, she clearly is not. Peter certainly looks more like a dead ringer for Ben.

The smile curves Fern's lips again at the question, "Of course. Today's special is the rigatoni with meatballs, but Julius is in the kitchen today and in a pizza making mood." Her nose wrinkles a little as the smile turns into a grin, "The rigatoni is good, but if you like pizza then that's what I recommend. Julius makes it an art. There are people who will phone up almost every day to see if he's making it just so they don't miss it." It might be gleaned from the one particularly large framed photo on the wall that Anita and Julius are the owners, shown in the shot with former mayor Ed Koch.

"Having worked at a pizza joint--" Until he was fired. "I've had about enough pizza for a lifetime. I think, despite Julius' expertise, I'll go ahead and try the rigatoni." Peter's cell phone buzzes and he looks at it out of the corner of his eye. It's a text message from May. The phone displays the first few characters of the message. It says 'Hope you're having fu'. A light, exasperated sigh shows his disappointment.

Fern nods, understanding the feeling, "Yeah, I don't go out for Italian any more if I'm not eating it here. Not that it's as good anywhere but here," is added with a soft laugh. Gotta keep the loyalty. While she tries never to be nosy, it only seems to work about half the time, and Fern's eyes drop to the phone as it buzzes. She can't see anything on it, but there's a hope that it's from the missing blonde. His sigh tells differently. "Rigatoni with meatballs it is then," she chirps, being cheery in hopes that it'll rub off on him or at least make his disappointment a little less sharp. "I'll get a soda refill for you, too." Again, the sharp spin, and the light squeaking away toward the kitchen.

Peter sits with his head in his hand as he mopily looks out at the passersby. It was against his better judgement that he'd said yes in the first place. Was this just a cruel trick? Was there a specific reason? Did she just forg--no, Liz always had her cellphone. He knew this was a bad idea and should have listened to his gut. His gut. Well, the good news is he's at a restaurant.

The sound of light squeaking heralds Fern's return, and a fresh soda and straw hit the table. She doesn't seem in a hurry to abandon Peter to his musings further, as she leans against the side of the bench opposite his seat. "Did you try calling?" she asks gently.

"I did. Twice, actually. Went after 6 rings the first time. 2 the second. And you know how when you decline a call, sometimes you'll get cut off mid-ring and sent to voicemail? I'm pretty sure the second one got declined." Peter chuckles and shakes his head, taking a sip after finding that pesky straw as it abandons him and slides all over the glass. Just then, Peter sees something out of the corner of his eye. A blonde girl is walking, holding hands with a tall blonde young man with a buzz cut. It is Flash Thompson. And it is Liz Allan. Peter almost seems to become one with the booth as he tries to avoid being seen. "Oh, man."

Fern sighs softly herself, nodding in commiseration, "Yeah. I know how that is. It sucks." Plainly and honestly spoken. She tries not to grin at his game of chase-the-straw, but that impulse is gone as soon as she notices his change in demeanor. She looks out the window, seeing the pretty blonde girl and her companion. Fern is a smart girl, and it doesn't have to be spelled out for her. Her eyes narrow slightly, before her demeanor instantly changes. At once she is all bright smile, looking down at Peter warmly. Her words are soft, although they don't need to be as there's no risk of being heard through the window. "Don't you even look that way again, look at me and smile and try to look like you don't have a care in the world," she encourages. Should the MIA date look over, she won't see anyone moping over her, but a young man enjoying his time waiting for a meal that he didn't need any flightly blonde for.

Peter looks over at her, shaking his head and smiling ruefully. It's his best attempt, but it's a bit sarcastic. "Oh well. Not the first time, not the last. At the very least, I'll get a good meal out of it." It seems as though Flash and Liz have gotten back together. That'd explain the lack of a response. In the end they're probably better for each other anyways. And between 3 jobs and life as Spider-Man, Peter is left to rationalize to make himself feel better. "I haven't a care in the world," he says, repeating Fern.

Maybe Fern forgets that this isn't Ben for a moment, maybe Peter just looks like he could use some human contact, maybe it's a bit of both, but she reaches over absently and pats Peter's shoulder softly. Hopefully he's not one of those people who react badly to having his personal space invaded, but it's brief even so. "Clearly, you're better off for it and she doesn't deserve you." Her words will accept no argument, and she glances over toward the kitchen. "Your rigatoni should be ready, I'll be right back." *squeak*squeak*squeak*

Peter smiles faintly as Fern makes her way back to the kitchen. It's not clear how he takes the words, but he knows that regardless of whether or not they're true, he should really try to believe them anyways. He leans forward again, catching the straw, and the glass of cola lowers, lowers, and lowers more as he gulps.

It takes a little longer for Fern to return this time, but when she does she's carrying a tray, easily upheld on one hand. A deft wrist twist brings it down once she gains her target, and Peter's meal has arrived. Rigatoni with sauce and four large meatballs. More rosemary bread to go with it, because you have to have bread to mop up the sauce. Another soda. It's all set out as she talks, "I'm Fern, by the way. Don't pay any attention to what the nametag tries to tell you. It means well but it's never gotten my name right. And you are....?" She straightens from her task, eyes settling on him expectantly.

"Peter Parker is my name," he replies in a sort of silly way. "Nice to meet you, Fren. Wish it was under better circumstances, but I'm sure the food will make things better." Without wasting any time, he digs in. Between mouthfulls he says, "This is really amazing. This is the rigatoni to end all other rigatoni's. I can see why Liz digs this place."

His use of her misspelled moniker brings a soft laugh, and Fern nods, "Food always makes everything better. It's nice to meet you, Peter Parker." She lingers for a few moments, grinning at his enthusiastic appetite. "I'll pass your kind words on to Anita. Right now, in fact," she promises. She turns to leave him to his meal for a little while. As soon as she's turned away from him her smile disappears like a switch was thrown, and the closest thing she gets to a scowl darkens her features. Just let that little witch come in here, she vows, and she'll get shorted on her meal. If she was less scrupulous, Fern would plan to spill something on her, but that's just mean. But she'll get even for Peter in other ways. One meatball instead of two, for example, since the rigatoni does only come with two meatballs.

Liz will come in someday. Not today, but this is her favorite place of course. Fren's revenge will be severe and sweet, no doubt. Meanwhile, Peter seems to be thoroughly enjoying his meal. By the time Fern returns to his table he's almost finished. He sees her approach and holds out his check card. "Thank you very much," he says.

Fern doesn't return empty handed, but with a dessert plate, upon which rest two delectable looking cannoli. "The special includes dessert," she fibs smoothly, exchanging the new plate for the offered card. "I'll be right back with your receipt." The light squeak carries her away.

Peter's eyebrows come together in confusion at the issue with the card. "That's funny, I should have plenty of money in there." What Peter doesn't realize is that his Amazon account was hacked last year and the culprit has been siphoning funds from his account little by little. The good news is that this will inform him of the intrusion. The bad news is that the 5,332.67 he's lost over the past three years will never be replaced. For Fern's efforts, Peter leaves a 40 percent tip. His Uncle Ben always taught him to tip waitstaff well, and since MJ worked as a waitress and since he worked as a pizza delivery person for a while, he's keenly aware of how important tips are to survival. The only problem is that Fern won't be able to actually spend the tip. "Thanks a lot for everything," Peter says as he stands up. "I really appreciate it."

Fern gathers up the receipt, pen, and some dishes that Peter is finished with, stepping back as he stands. "You're welcome, Peter Parker. Hope you stop in again soon, it's always nice when friends come back." She's not bothered about the lack of an actual tip, in this case it's the thought that counts. Pen and paper are stuffed into her empty pocket, and she pauses before she squeaks away. "You'll do better than that," she says simply, with a twitch of her head toward the window. "I think she's just done you a huge favor. See ya soon," she chirps before she turns away to take the dishes she carries back to the kitchen.