Beware the Hairy Eyeball

Last week, Maya and I met for lunch.

"Let's go to the French place on your corner," she suggested. "It's the ideal day for it."

She was right. It was a gorgeous spring day - perfect weather to sit at one of the French place's sidewalk tables, order mojitos, and watch the world go by. Of course, being pregnant, I could not order mojitos. But that was not the real problem I had with the French place.

The real problem was that our hated psycho landlord, Tonya - who during the winter had threatened to evict us because we complained about having no heat - was now a waitress there.

"We can't go there," I told Maya. I then explained the reason.

"What a bummer you have to avoid such a nice place," Maya said.

"I know," I said. "But you don't know the half of it."

Not eating at the restaurant was easy enough; not walking past it was much harder. Now that the weather was nice, it seemed Tonya was there all the time, stalking me as she cleared away plates.

At first even I thought my keep-away-from-the-French-place policy was paranoid. True, crazy Tonya was just feet away, but did it really matter? She was just working, and she knew we were moving out at the end of the month. Yes, she was bizarre, but maybe I was now the one turning a business arrangement into something personal.

But one afternoon, when I was having a hard time concentrating on work, I looked out my window to find her, poised to take an order with pad and pen in hand, looking up at our brownstone. I was three stories up and a few buildings in, but the sight of her staring up still spooked me.

A few days later, walking home from the vegetable market, I passed the restaurant's corner. Still creeped out from the window scene, I crossed the street to avoid the seating area. I had almost made it past the side of the cafe when Tonya rounded the corner, frisee salads in each hand.

Almost instantly, she noticed me. She stopped walking and, shifting her weight to one hip, pursed her lips into a sour expression. My first thought was, Oh, yeah, that place does have a really great frisee salad. Too bad with Tonya working there I won't be able to eat one. But then my would-be hipster waitress-landlord narrowed her eyes in a look of pure loathing and fixed her gaze on my belly.

"She gave my bump the hairy eyeball!" I rushed home and reported to my husband, Andy.

He said, "Why do you care? You know Tonya's a nut job."

"She gave my bump the hairy eyeball!" I repeated.

"It's not as if she has special powers," he said. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

"I know that," I said. Pregnancy had made me superstitious, not totally idiotic. "I'm not afraid of her. It's just icky to have someone so openly loathing you within spitting distance from your apartment. And I don't like the idea of someone giving our unborn child dirty looks."

"She only did it to get to you."

"Well," I said, "it worked."

"We're moving in a couple of weeks," he said. "Just try to hang in there."

So that's what I was doing. Maya and I decided to meet up at a different French cafe a little farther down Smith Street. They didn't have a frisee salad, but they did have a nice one with shrimp and white beans. And instead of sidewalk seating, there was a nice little garden in back - a garden, I discovered as I entered, that Maya and I had all to ourselves.

"It's so nice back here," Maya said. She was sitting at the back edge of the garden, facing in to the restaurant. I took my seat across from her, my back to the garden's entrance. "I'm surprised there aren't more people."

"They're all eating at the French place on my corner," I said, and Maya laughed. Actually, when I'd passed - quickly, and without a Tonya sighting - it had indeed looked crowded. Soon enough, our non-Tonya waitress came and took our orders. She left, and Maya and I began catching up. As she began telling me the intricate details of a work problem, I could hear another party approach.

"Back here is fine," a woman's voice rang out, and I instinctually glanced behind me. Another party of two somewhat younger women were pulling out chairs at another of the garden's tables. I returned my focus back to Maya, but then did a double take. Either I really was paranoid or - yes! there, preparing to eat lunch, sat none other than Tonya. It must have been her day off.

Noticing my shocked expression, Maya lowered her head and mouthed, "What?"

"That's my landlord," I whispered. "Don't look!" I added too late.

A silent second later, it was obvious Tonya had noticed us noticing. I had no choice but to turn my head and face her hairy-eyeballed music. At least this time I was seated; the table would obscure my belly.

Now facing her, I mustered a noncommittal smile. She narrowed her eyes again and said to her friend, "On second thought, let's not eat here."

The baffled companion said, "Uh, okay," and the pair made a hasty exit.

"Apparently, no French restaurant is safe these days," I said, once the garden was all ours again.

"Yup," said Maya, who had to laugh. "I guess this neighborhood ain't big enough for the both of ya."

The Brooklyn Chronicles, a work of fiction, appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.