Monkey Suits (35 page)

Stuffing the pouch away in an inside pocket next to his wallet, which contained his driver’s license and passport, he leaned back. Ed would understand. Ritchie and Lee, too. Maybe he’d write to his parents. Other than that, who cared about him, after all?

He forced a yawn as his ears popped again. The sun shifted, slitting a golden streak across the cabin. Leaning to the window for a last look, he wanted to see what he thought was the source of all his problems disappear, at the same time half-knowing that the problem lay not in a city, or the people in it, nor even in his hastily assembled luggage.

Nevertheless, he wanted one last look, but it was too late. New York had already faded under a blanket of cloud.

37
As one hand scratches the back of another, so does one in power assist
a friend in need. Following the benefit fiasco, the editors of
New York
decided to run a lavishly photographed “in-depth” story on uptown’s most popular caterers, Fabulous Food. It told the American fable of the hard-working owners who sweated out the years to rise to the top, becoming New York’s premiere food service company and raking in over fifteen million dollars a year. Of course, the company frequently made donations to charitable causes, the article noted.

Flattering and intricately staged color photos featured some of the company’s “hardest-working captains,” among them the beaming Neil Pynchon. The caption described him as an “aspiring actor.” Carefully posed in another photo was co-owner Fenton Gill amongst a crew of chefs in crisp paper stovepipe hats.

Noticeably absent was Philipe Berget, who was “unable to attend the photo shoot.”

The night of the last spring fete at the Temple of Dendur, a kind of dread swept over the staff. Resentful bitching about the article fluttered through every conversation. Rumors spread, mumbled accounts exchanged during the cacophony of arranging chairs and tables:

“We’re doing a party for that magazine next month.”

“We’re getting paid, but Fabulous isn’t billing the magazine a penny.”

“I heard Brian Burns took off for Spain with a painter.”

“No, Portugal.”

“Why don’t we ask Ed? Isn’t he working tonight?”

Over the pile of glinting silver, as hands with napkins briskly wiped the utensils clean of spots:

“Everybody who was at the party has to go to the office and take a lie detector test.”

“Kevin will never work again.”

“Oh, I saw him last night. He’s already got a bartending job at that new club. It’s fabulous.”

And by the stone reflecting pool, among the small cluster of candle lighters and arrangers:

“I heard Philipe’s in the hospital.”

“Yeah, but it’s not what you think it is.”

“And what is it you think I think it is?”

Once again, Philipe was not supervising. Ron Bellows, the new head captain, was an awkward replacement. His attempts to rule with an iron fist were met with giggles, rolling eyes, and dubious submission. He’d also forgotten to tell someone to ice the champagne, and another to set up the coat racks. But the men and women had worked the place so many times, they could practically feel a gap in their efforts if anything was forgotten.

Despite their help in filling the blanks, they were running late. A few early guests stood waiting at the door to the Temple while Ron rushed through last minute instructions. His round face blushed red. A dozen waiters, rushing to clean and arrange the bars, hadn’t been given enough time to don their tuxes. Nevertheless, they sat, or stood, obedient.

By the time the tables were set for the party to celebrate the merger of Rothman, Fuchs & Beame with the investment firm of Transcorp, International (a merger which would be deemed illegal by the Securities and Exchange Commission nine months later, and whose private dealings would bring the top chairmen to federal grand jury indictments as well), the waiters sat along the stone bench that skirted the Temple.

“Don’t sit on the chairs,” Ron shouted his new dictum. Roll was quickly called.

Ron eyed the museum party planner, a chubby queen who paced impatiently along the reflecting pool. Returning to his clipboard, he clarified yet another new instruction.

“You will say, ‘Here,’ or ‘Yes,’ and you will raise your hand.” Ron spoke loudly, his face as cheerless as the stone temple behind him.

“Now, about the rules of eating and drinking, which have been pretty slack up to now,” he continued. “Fenton Gill himself has said if anyone is caught drinking alcohol or eating food when not on their meal break, they will be fired. You know our two captains, Neil Pynchon and Andrew Spears, are going to be watching you as well ...” He gestured to the men as they stood near him.

While Andrew seemed to take the duty of having to rat on his friends with a bit of distaste, Neil broke into a proud grin.

“And if anyone gets caught,” Ron warned, “I hope it’s not someone I like. I mean, every time I say this, that’s it. Absolute.”

“Absolut?” whispered Marcos into Lee’s ear. “I could do with some of that right now.” Lee punched his thigh.

Ron glared at them. “So, do that. Stand there, look good ... and ... well, just do it.”

Silence.

“Now, those of you who haven’t, go and change.”

“Shenge, shenge,” a few waiters mumbled in a last shred of humor.

“No! No!” Ron blasted. He pronounced it deliberately, without a trace of an accent, holding his finger like a general. “Change.”

Not only had Lee suffered through the lurking beginnings of a cold, he was sure Cal had given it to him. One misplaced sneeze and the whole table would lose their appetite. Frank, the service bartender, wouldn’t let him have any juice.

“I’m not gonna have enough left for drinks!” he squealed.

“So pour it straight up,” Lee snapped as he took a glass.

“We don’t have enough for every waiter to guzzle.”

“What? This company makes fifteen million a year and can’t afford to give me a glass of juice?”

“No.”

“So That’s fuckin’ bullshit.” Lee snapped. Frank glanced around. A few waiters stood by, listening. “Do you want me to sneeze all over my table?”

Frank sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? Lenny said no juice for the waiters.”

Lee, who had spent most of his life avoiding conflict, who cringed when arguments erupted near him, whose knees quivered at the sight of a clenched fist, suddenly felt rage. Not the rage of before, but more singular, clearly honed. He knew where to point it. His rage was at himself and his self-imposed serfdom.

“You tell Zooty Menooty I took his juice without your permission,” he said as he poured a second glass. “And if he wants me stoned to death for it, he’ll have to do it with my guts full of Fabulous Food-owned orange juice.”

“Getting some guts now, after you chickened out at your little demonstration?”

Lee put the glass down, dumbfounded by Frank’s sly smirk. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Any idea.”

After ducking into the rest room, Lee ran cold water over his face, toweled off and combed his hair. As he put his glasses back on, he cringed for a moment at the reflection. His bow tie was crooked, his shirt wrinkled. His tux felt about three sizes too large. His face was pale as a clown. He suddenly realized his problem. He was in enemy territory.

The ‘clear the plates’ signal had been given moments before he returned to the floor. A line of waiters, one plate in each hand, moved briskly in a line toward the drop-off area. Lee rushed to get back to his table, but the guests had already left.

“Could we have more wine?” a man at someone else’s table asked. He nodded silently and immediately forgot the request. He had dessert to serve. These people would never understand.

As the clatter of final breakdown filled the back hallway of the Temple, Lee griped with Marcos as they handed dessert plates to the cleanup crew, their white aprons smeared like butchers with raspberry sauce and gravy. “I don’t know if I can take this anymore,” Lee said. A wall of milk crates had yet to be filled with dirty dishes. His feet were pounding.

“Face it,” Marcos said. “You do this kind of work because you hate yourself.” He wiped his hands on a tablecloth. “You think of yourself as nothing more than a slave. That’s as far as you will ever get, and this is as close to wealth as we’ll ever get.” He wiped his finger on a napkin and tossed it into a trash bag of laundry. The crashing noises of a rushed clean-up rumbled about them.

“Well, what about you?” Lee asked as they headed back for more dessert plates.

“I’m not saying I’m any happier. I just don’t care about them.” Marcos pointed to the Temple’s cluster of empty chairs. “They don’t care about us. They do not see us. I have come to terms with that. I have a life. But you and most of the others ...” He nodded to the rushing parade of harried young men. “I wish more of these girls would pack up and leave like Brian did. The future is crowded.”

“Let’s not talk about Brian.” Lee still hurt from Brian’s disappearance, how he didn’t so much as call, as if he had left him in this world to fend for himself.

“Ooh, still a sore spot.” They walked back out to the noisy cluster of tables. Neil Pynchon shouted an order to the phalanx of men bagging chairs.

“Don’t scrape them! Pick them up!” The herding moans of wooden chair legs on granite lightened.

“Look around you,” Marcos nodded to Neil Pynchon. “That power queen that just got jacked up to captain. I mean, you know that pretty face sucked dick to get there, and you know what’s dumber? She thinks it’s an honor!”

They pulled a tablecloth and folded it ceremoniously like a flag.

“I saw her on TV last night.”

“Really?” Lee asked.

“Yes, and she’s been braggin’ about it all day! She’s doin’ one a those infomercials, hawkin’ tooth bleach!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Braggin’ about it! Like it’s her big break!”

“Next stop Silverlake.”

Neil’s voice cut through the two of them. “Are you two working or chatting?” His bleached smile made Lee grin for all the wrong reasons.

“We can do both at the same time, dear,” Marcos snipped.

“Fine, just do it faster so we can get out of here before dawn?” Neil moved on like a princess. Marcos hissed at his back. Neil turned back, but addressed Lee. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I forgot all about a break for little Malcolm X here.”

“What did you say?” Lee set down a milk crate full of dirty plates with a clatter.

“Once more with filling, dear,” Marcos hissed.

“I said, you can go on break now.” Neil eyed them warily before swiftly sauntering off.

“Really.” Marcos dumped the tablecloth on a pile, watching him go. “A trail of dry ice would have been appropriate.”

Lee sighed, and did what always helped prevent him from hurling a plate.

He thought of something else, some other time, a pleasant memory. Gay Pride Day, almost a year before, he had met Glenn, a guy in shorts, boots, a Safe Sex T-shirt, and a backpack full of condoms to give away. They’d paired off in what became whirlwind day of meeting people, watching the parade, and stopping in delis every few hours for food and drinks. They’d danced until morning and strolled on the pier, holding hands, kissing. Glenn asked Lee if he wanted a ride home. They had both been too impatient and walked to Tribeca, where they fucked in the back of Glenn’s van. As they calmed down in the cloistered darkness, Lee had said how it felt familiar. Glenn then said, “Maybe we were both locked in a pyramid thousands of years ago, servants and lovers to the last breath.” The idea had charmed Lee for the longest time.