Chapter 06: Taco Mac Part II, Or Em Discerns her Part in the Game

“I have this book.”
Leave it to Em for the first words out of her mouth to be something like that. Then, a beat later, she quirks an eyebrow at me. “Did you…?” she asks, before trailing off.

“What do YOU think?” I ask.
“I’ve been trying to get you to read this for -”

“Ages,” I finish. “I know. Open up the back cover.”

Inside, written in gold ink, is a little message for her.
“I have this book.”

Leave it to Em for the first words out of her mouth to be something like that. Then, a beat later, she quirks an eyebrow at me. “Did you…?” she asks, before trailing off.

“What do YOU think?” I ask.

“I’ve been trying to get you to read this for -”

“Ages,” I finish. “I know. Open up the back cover.”

<3 Love, Jamie 

On top of that, there are five little blue envelopes tucked away inside the package, as well as a disposable camera. Anna and David are cracking up at Emily’s ever-increasing grin.

“This is so crazy,” she says, taking the envelopes and inspecting each one.

The first one

For Emily

My Adventure Co-Pilot

You have never been a great follower of rules. I know this.

It is, believe it or not, one of my favorite things about you. So it's going to be a little odd that the following will not only ask you to follow some rules, but follow them for an extended period of time. How extended are we talking? That's something you'll have to see for yourself.

Rule #1: Document your progress. Included is a pair of disposable standard cameras. You may, at your leisure, make use of digital photography just so long as it's something higher resolution than an iPhone camera.

Rule #2: You must not peek ahead. This is a Very Important Thing. I know that this is a lot to ask of someone who can't measure out her cotton candy intake, but I ask you to do this for the purposes of the game.

Rule 3: Complete the tasks in order. Do not be surprised if tasks take some legwork (or wheelwork, as it will) to accomplish. Do not be surprised if there is something of a stretch between tasks.

Got all that? Good.

Here, then, is your assignment.

This is a game in which you will achieve mastery of time and space. If it sounds like a tall order, you're simply not thinking forth-dimensionally enough. Think of this like your Jedi training. Think of this in terms of The Doctor and his companion. What you will achieve, however, will be something greater and more subtle. Curious? I hope so.

First, you must travel to a space in which you can access multiple worlds and lands. This "hub" world will be central to your adventure. You will not be able to complete the entire adventure at once. Your brain may be stretched somewhat.

It's all right. All part of achieving mastery of time and space.

The next part of the adventure awaits you at a place dubbed "The Cape May Cafe."

See you there.

 - The One Who Moves

"Cape May Cafe!" Emily bursts out. Except it sounds more like "Caymaycafe" when she's really excited.

“That part is not a surprise," I grin. "You planned the Cape May Cafe trip like a month ago.”

“I know,” she says. "But it's still awesome.”

I'll let her have that one. It'll come in handy later, for obfuscating the details of the unfolding plan. Remember, Emily is the Grand Master God-Emperor Champion of Ruining Surprises. I need all the help I can get.

“Sure it is, love. Sure it is.”

Chapter 05: Initial Presentation

It’s nighttime at the Taco Mac on Peachtree, I’m clutching at a manila envelope, and my breath hitches in my throat. It’s the same feeling that I get on a roller coaster, after the lap bar’s gone down and the train’s started to move. Certainly, I’m not out of the station. I have a tiny amount of time to back out. That’s how roller coasters are. You pitch a fit while the underpaid staff can see you, and one of those poor souls will hopefully stop the thing and let you off. But nobody really does that. Just like me, we sit it out and ride up the lift hill, our faces concrete with stoicism.

Tonight is kickoff night, but Em doesn’t know it. She’s got a hell of a birthday present coming to her.
Anna and David have already gotten us a table and I’ve gone racing ahead to go to the bathroom. Well, as covert as I can be with delivering this package while under the guise of going to the bathroom. Remember, for those of you playing at home, I’m not exactly a subtle creature.

That’s why I’ve got Anna.

Em is comfortably playing on her phone in the car -I think- and I jet to a halt at Anna and David’s table. It’s one of Taco Mac’s patented rock-hard wooden booths, the kind that inspires one to drink to forget the seething lower back pain. Or, alternately, inspire a nondrunk customer to leave. That is, if you can get your check over the cheering and yelling. Someone’s playing someone else on the giant TVs. I’m pretty sure there have been political revolutions quieter than this place.

But then, this is Taco Mac. The point of this place is to chow on wings and see how many different beers (of their approximately six hundred zillion) you can try without going in for a closer inspection of the linoleum.

As Anna sees me, her face lights up, an impish grin playing across her features.

“So that’s it, huh?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “That’s it. This is gonna come last after your presents.”

“Ah hah ha.” Yes, Anna pronounces her evil laugh quite phonetically. I’m glad she’s on my side. “This is going to be good.”

I allow myself a rare smile at the proceedings. “I hope so. Let me grab Em from the car.”

Five minutes later, Em and I stroll into the Taco Mac. Barring special circumstances, she’s always on the left, and I’m always on the right. The way her gait works means she uses her right arm for balance more than her left, and having someone to hold her hand improves her pace and her balance.

Which is all lovely, but naturally, the real reason is that smile, those blue-gray eyes, the high cheekbones, all framed by her glasses and the thin, academic lines of her eyebrows.

Yes, I’m smitten.

“Well, aren’t YOU Mister Proud Of Yourself,” she teases as we walk in. Perhaps I’m strutting a little much, but I’ve put in a lot of work since that fateful day I got the reservation at Disney. The master plan is beginning to stir to life.

“I mean,” I say, which is a verbal tic we share. The jury’s out on which of us said it first. “It’s your birthday. And I think you’re gonna like your present, Miss Spoilerpants.”

“I only kind of spoiled my Christmas present.”

I shoot her a look. “Right. You wanted one hint. One. And you figured it out from that.”

She grins. “Not my fault you’re not good at surprises,” she teases.

Oh, wait until you see, Em.

“Fair enough,” I say, letting the conversation dissipate into the din of the restaurant as we sit down with Anna and David.

The meal proceeds easily enough, and it’s only after Em finishes opening her presents from Anna and David that I glance across the table from us, looking pointedly at Anna.

“Oh yeah!” she says. “Looks like something’s come in the mail for you.”

She hands a thick manila mailing envelope to Emily. Clearly, it’s been well packed.
“Gallifrey Bureau of Logistics?” Em grins. “Doctor Who. I wonder who THIS is from.”
I laugh. “Open it up.”

Inside is the last book that Emily ever expected to see: Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes, by Maureen Johnson. It’s a favorite of Emily’s, despite her having gone on record with quotes like “okay, it has the girliest cover of all time” and “well, it IS young adult fiction.” Don’t believe it when she downplays the book. She loves every last word.

Not only that, but she’s been trying to get me to read it for ages.

“I know it’s girly, but why don’t you give it a shot?” - Typical Emily plea

“Well, maybe, but it won’t be for a while. I have tons of other studying to do first.” - Typical (of me)
noncommittal topic-ender, specifically as I’m reading the book on the other end of the phone.

Perhaps here is a useful time to describe the basic plot and structure of the book, Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes. It concerns a girl, Ginny, who receives a curious parcel from her Aunt Peg, who until recently, resided in Europe. It's especially curious, because Aunt Peg has been deceased for some time now - it's as if Ginny's aunt is reaching across time to communicate with her niece. 

Inside Ginny's parcel are the eponymous thirteen little blue envelopes, as well as a debit card and a set of instructions telling her how this escapade is going to work. She ends up traveling all around Europe, from London to Italy to France to Greece and more, following the path that Aunt Peg laid out for her before her death. Ginny's travels through Europe mirror the journey that Aunt Peg undertook all those years ago when she arrived, young, inexperienced, and nearly penniless in London.

For being young adult literature, and for being incredibly girly (we're talking about measuring estrogen in quantities usually reserved for the study of astronomy here), it's an incredible book. I chalk this up nigh-upon-entirely to the talent of the author, Maureen Johnson, who manages to nail each separate voice in the story with ease that comes off as casual to the reader. 

All the Doctor Who trappings? I threw those in for fun. 

Chapter 04: April, Or, Of Reservations and Revelations

“Good morning! Victoria and Albert’s speaking - my name is Danielle - how may we serve you?”

I’ve been pacing my tiny office for the longest five minutes ever. My computer’s clock reads “6:57 AM.” The sky outside shows glimpses of light through the cloud cover and I press two fingers to an aching temple. It’s been a long day already.

 “Yes, hey Danielle. My name is James, and I’d like to reserve the Chef’s Table for Saturday, October 13th.”

 This was a long shot.

 Allow me to explain. First things first, Victoria and Albert’s is without question the most expensive and exclusive restaurant that Disney owns. It’s one of the most expensive and exclusive restaurants by any measure, a seven-to-ten-course hurricane of 19th century French opulence and service. This is the sort of restaurant where courses rest in their own private fog banks that creep across your table, and where one finds cuts of beef from cattle fed rice wine and massaged until slaughter. Each meal is a complex production where the supporting cast is quail egg and mushroom cappuccino and savory hypnosis of the nose.

 Meals at Victoria and Albert’s are not eaten. They are experienced.

 This also makes reservations damn hard to come by. And here I am, precisely six months in advance of my day - without even any hotel reservations, park or plane tickets, or any other plans whatsoever - trying to get a seat in the most exclusive room of the most exclusive restaurant. Guess how many Chef’s Tables there are at V&As. One - just one.

But I, as far as I know, am the first one asking for it. It’s why I’ve been carpet bombing their phone all morning. A reservation at all is nigh-on impossible to get to in this place.

 “I’m sorry, sir, but the Chef’s Table is already booked.” I quirk an eyebrow at this. Wait. Taken? How is this possible? I’m the first one allowed to make reservations here. This is the start of the 180-day window-

 “- guests with prior hotel reservations paid in full have an additional 10 days to reserve seats,” says my receptionist, Danielle, completing the sentence she’d begun while I wasn’t paying attention.

 “Well, do you have any spots in the main dining room?” I ask.

 Danielle considers a moment. I can hear the faint chatter of typing from her end. “Yes, we can seat you there. And we will put you on the waiting list in case the Chef’s Table opens up again.”

 “Thank you,” I say, although I’m not hopeful. If someone reserved it one hundred and ninety-four days in advance, it stands to reason they wouldn’t be giving it up. Of course, it’s hard to be too disappointed, as my plan will work regardless of location in V&A’s. And really, when the regular room is $135 a head and extraordinarily exclusive, who can complain too much?

 “Yes, thanks, that’ll be great,” I tell Danielle. “And please let me know if anything comes up.”
 I don’t have long to wait.

A week later, I walk into my office from a morning meeting and my phone shows I’ve missed a call, complete with voicemail.

 Danielle, from Victoria and Albert’s.

 Thirty seconds later, I’m pacing the tiny room waiting for them to answer. Please pick up, I say in my mind. Please.

 “Good morning! Victoria and Albert’s speaking this is - “
 “- Danielle?” I blurt. My tongue is ahead of my brain. “Er, sorry about that. I see I, ah, missed a call from you and when I heard your voicemail - “ At this, my fatigued brain gives a momentary pause, enough for the cool and collected Danielle to swoop in and rescue the conversation.

 “Yes, Mr. Cotton, excellent news. We’re pleased to say that the Queen Victoria Room is still open. Would you like to reserve - “

 “Yes.” There I go again. “Sorry again, Danielle.” She laughs, quite politely. I’m certain she’s spent hours honing that at Disney boot camp. “Quite all right, Mr. Cotton. We get that a lot. I’ll put you down for the Queen Victoria room, Saturday evening, October 13, 2012.”

 “Thank you so much,” I tell her. We exchange a few more service-industry pleasantries, but to be honest, my speech mechanisms are pretty much on Politeness Autopilot at that point. I’m floored. Whatever Disney voodoo spirit has been playing with me has clearly nudged me in the right direction.

There are, after all, regular seats in Victoria and Albert’s, and then there is the Queen Victoria Room. I’ve read the description, but in my myopic frenzy, I never considered the most opulent room of the most opulent restaurant. How could I have overlooked THAT room? For starters, there is exactly one seating per night. Four tables, ten courses, two waiters apiece - who could be sous chefs at lesser restaurants - and unparalleled service. The price is head-spinningly high - two hundred ten dollars a head, before tax, before tip, before any form of alcohol. But then again, this is a once in a lifetime moment.
 “Do it once,” I tell myself, “do it right.”

 Now, all I need is, well, the rest of the vacation to line up perfectly around that event.

Chapter 03: Initial Research

“Please stand clear of the doors. Por Favor Manténgase Alejado de las Puertas.”

 The monorail accelerates beneath us, a white fiberglass cocoon of air conditioning. Even in the (relatively) cool January, it’s still Florida, and we’re at Disney World.

Of course we’re at Disney World.

The intent and purpose of this initial trip, of course, is to go to Harry Potter world. It’s Em’s Christmas present. I’ve spent a few months preparing for it, but just a few weeks ago, she burst the surprise wide open when I made the mistake of giving her a hint that hit a little too close to the mark. I don’t like to pat myself on the back too much, but I think I did well on the setup. I prepared a poem for her, just like the Sorting Hat sings in the Harry Potter books when the new students arrive. (Heck, I had it down to the meter of the poem.) It was hidden in a little old boot in my house that she had to search for - naturally, the boot represented a Portkey, the magic teleportation device from the books, commonly disguised as useless or innocuous objects. Her wonder at the accuracy of Hogsmeade and the wizarding world of Harry Potter has only been eclipsed by how much she wants to go to Disney World while we’re here.

 So naturally, we’re at Disney World.

The monorail gives a little bump and I stagger. Emily beams up at me from the seat. We’re taking a little tour of her favorite kind. It’s pretty simple. All you have to do is pull into a Disney resort like you own the place, then explore it and/or pig out at the restaurants to your arterial content.

 We’re just leaving the Polynesian, and all I can say is: "Wow". As much as these little explorations have gone against my plan, I can’t say I resent them; the Polynesian’s island theming is subtle and spectacular at the same time. A massive waterfall towers in the main lobby, overgrown with jungle plants as you tour upon a cool, black slate floor. The paths outside wind through the jungle while tiki torches burn above you, a romantic touch in the evening air.

 That said, our next stop is the Grand Floridian, and as I step into the lobby, instantly a sense of realization washes over me.

Perhaps it’s the Victorian-esque opulence of the place, where a massive lobby acts as a sounding board for a live jazz band playing big-band arrangements of Disney music. Perhaps it’s the conflux of serenity and bustle to the place, how the grandeur holds these two opposing forces in a pleasing balance.

No, that’s not it.

It’s my right hand, how the blood is being squeezed out of it as Emily draws in a massive breath, her slender little form a coilspring of tension and awe.

 “Dance with me,” she whispers, as we stride out onto the carpet. Nearby, an elderly couple is doing just that. Stiffly, I attempt to convince my anxiety that this is the correct thing to do.

 It is. Those big, steel blue eyes glint with happiness, a reflection of tiny tears in their corners. This is, as I have found, our happy place, here in the opulent heart of the resort. The live jazz rings around us, with Emily’s arms around my shoulders. Like high schoolers dancing to the Goo Goo Dolls’ “Iris,” both couples, old and young, gently rock back and forth in the cool golden air of the Grand Floridian.

 That sense of realization? No different than when I nearly blurted out the magic words in Charlotte. I know for certain now that I will propose here, at Disney World, and heaven permitting in this magnificent hotel. My ability to plan a complex scheme has been confirmed, but my ability to execute it, and critically, to keep it quiet is not.

 Nine and a half months to go.