The Duet (8 page)

This destination restaurant was named Mika’s (pronounced meee-kuz, of course), after the owner. Mika was probably in my top ten list of people I didn’t want to see in heaven. Though I would never actually meet the great, high and mighty mystic icon, there were clear indications that the guy was detestable. For instance, the uniforms the servers had to wear were hideous and uncomfortable. The house took a larger portion of the tips than any other restaurant in the industry. The price he charged for his Shrimp Mika, which was simply a miniature version of your basic shrimp cocktail, was criminal. The entire staff was terrified of him, and his clientele was made up of the most atrocious individuals I would ever meet.

On this day, I had been at the podium less than a week. I had been a proud employee of Mika’s for twice that, but unlike the law firm, this place believed in thoroughly training their employees. I was subjected to three days of rigorous training, during which time I was awarded exactly half of my agreed upon salary to shadow one of the other hostesses. And though seating people at a table for lunch and handing them a menu may not seem like rocket science, the training period was necessary. There were a lot of rules. This should have been a red flag to me right from the beginning.

I don’t like rules.

For starters, there was a procedure for everything from answering the phone to presenting the wine list. There was also an extensive list of regular clients, and each one had specific ‘needs’; and when I say ‘needs’, of course I mean demands, most of which were ridiculous.

Mr. Stover must have a corner table, but it cannot be the one nearest the kitchen. Judge Moningham must be served his dry martini with two olives before being presented with the specials, and he never required a menu. Ms. Christenson could not be kept waiting for more than thirty seconds or she would throw a very public hissy fit (I witnessed one of those and it’s something I never want to see again). Dr. Janice must be greeted by name each and every time you made eye contact, or he would lodge a formal complaint and you would be fired the next day without question (thus the job opening for hostess I had recently filled).

So, I’d done pretty well my first two days they set me free to do my job. Mika’s was only open for lunch, busy from eleven thirty to four o’clock every day. All tables – there were only eighteen – were full at any moment, and depending on the client, could be turned over up to four times. We didn’t officially take reservations, but certain professionals were given preferential treatment, others were turned away on standing orders from Mika.

I had just seated Mr. Stover and his guest at the best corner table, and managed to get back to the podium twenty-eight seconds after Ms. Christenson walked in. Already her face was red and I swear I saw smoke coming out of her ears. But I managed to appease her with a free soup shooter, and a compliment on her handbag. I greeted Dr. Janice, repeating his name no less than six times while we waited for his table to open up, when all of a sudden there was a ruckus at the front door.

The commotion was loud enough so that the patrons at half a dozen tables stopped to look toward the door. When I glanced up from the podium, I was shocked to see that there was just one single person making all that noise. It had sounded like a group of at least four, and the voices were so loud I figured they must be a group of frat boys out on a bender.

But nope, it was just one gentleman. And I am using the term gentleman in the most sarcastic way possible. He was on a conference call, on his cell phone, which he had on speaker, as he was entering Mika’s. Did he have a death wish?

I gave him my harshest stare as he approached the podium, but he didn’t look up at me. Yes, he would have had to look up, as he was several inches shorter than my five foot four frame – five foot seven if you took into account the torture devices disguised as shoes that I had on my feet.

This was exactly what I needed today. Every table was occupied, there was a full moon, and my feet were hurting like a sonuvabitch. And yet, here he was, Napoleon’s evil twin, walking into my place of employment, just begging for a showdown.

Since he was too engrossed in his very important conversation about light bulbs or shoelaces or whatever it was he was talking about, I had to resort to waving my arms in front of him like a baboon to get him to look at me.

He gave me the stink eye, but I was undeterred.

“Sir. Excuse me, sir? We have a very strict, no cell phone policy here at Mika’s. I am going to have to ask you to…”

“What was that?” he barked.

“I said, I have to ask you to step outside until you finish…”

“Sorry, Hal. Can you hold on? Some girl is trying to say something to me and I got distracted.”

I took a step back. What an ass!

“You!” he said waving a hand in my general direction, but still not exactly making eye contact.

I pointed at myself as if to say ‘who me?’ but the sarcastic gesture was lost on this rocket scientist.

“Get me a scotch, rocks – and don’t try to pass off the cheap stuff as top shelf, ‘cause I’ll know the difference. I have a very discernable palate. I need a table for two in a quiet corner. I have back to back clients coming in, and I don’t want to be standing here with my pecker in my hand when they show up.”

He went back to speaking with Hal, not waiting for my response. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Sir, I have to ask you to turn off the cell phone or step outside.”

“Which table is mine? Yeah, Hal, I’m still here. What?” Deep, guttural belly laugh and some extremely filthy looks from several diners. “Yes, yes, I know. Don’t tell him that. Make sure he knows that if the shipment is even one day late, we’ll see him in court.”

A very frenzied waitress hurried over to where I was standing and ducked her head toward me. “I’m getting complaints. Can’t you do anything?”

“I’ll take care of it,” I said.

“Where’s my table? And how long does it take to pour a scotch for Christ sake!”

I stepped away from the door, hoping to lead him further away from the dining room. “Sir, as you can see, we are completely full at the moment. But if you would like to…”

“No!” the little fella shouted. It was unclear whether he was speaking to me or to Hal, or to some other poor unfortunate soul at the other end of the line. “I don’t really care if it’s a holiday weekend. They’re lucky to have a job. I’ll fire every one of them tomorrow if I hear one more complaint about no overtime!” Okay, so he wasn’t shouting at me. But my relief was short-lived as the round, small man with the large ego began pacing across the restaurant, yelling into the phone.

The floor manager came sprinting over. I was glad to have some backup. But instead of talking to this rude little man himself, he came to me. “You have got to take care of this right now! I am getting threats from some of the regulars and if Mika hears about this, we’re all fired.” He ran off before I could beg for help with the situation.

I was on my own. This wasn’t going to end well.

Will wonders never cease; the little fella had finally ended his call and was now staring at me with a mixture of awe and disdain.

I cleared my throat. “As I was trying to explain to you earlier, sir. We should have a table available in the next ten minutes or so. You are more than welcome to have a seat at the bar while you wait. But I do have to ask that you refrain from cell phone use while inside the restaurant.”

Two beady eyes, which I now noticed were slightly red-rimmed and sat in a face that was cruel and hard and showed the obvious signs of decades of alcohol abuse, narrowed at me. I patiently waited for the attack.

“I’ll use my phone wherever I damn well please, young lady.”

“Well, it is a policy, here at Mika’s that…”

“Do not interrupt me. Do you have any idea who I am?”

I shook my head. The real question was, did I care who he was?

“Your hair is blue.” He said, changing tactics. I think maybe this guy had a bit of an attention deficit problem.

“You’re short,” I blurted.

“You’ve been very rude today. I have never been treated this way, and Mika will be sure to hear about this.”

“Do you know Mika?” I asked. I wasn’t quite as terrified as the little fella expected me to be. In fact, I was on the verge of exploding with laughter. This scene could have been on National Lampoon or something – it was that ridiculous.

“Mika is my brother.”

Yay!

“Are you just going to stand there like a moron, or are you going to actually do your job? How hard can it be to find me a table and get me a drink?”

With that, he pressed a button on his phone, and began another conversation, in his loud boardroom voice. I glanced over at the bartender. He made a slashing gesture across his neck, and gave me a sympathetic smile.

I shrugged, then walked to the break room to retrieve my things, leaving the podium unattended and breaking the number one cardinal rule.

When I walked back through the restaurant, the little fella was at the bar where he alternately guffawed into the phone and barked orders at the bartender. I know I should have just kept walking. It would have been the more adult thing to do. But I felt my legs carry me over to where he was sitting. I leaned my elbow on the bar casually and waited for him to notice me. He did, and his eyes opened wide, but he kept right on talking into that phone.

So I gently removed the phone from his hand and slid it into his scotch. I leaned in close as if I were going to whisper, but then I spoke in a loud, clear voice that most of the restaurant would hear. “I’m afraid your penis will still be small no matter how big your ego is.” I swung my bag over my shoulder. “I hope that call wasn’t too important.”

I popped an olive in my mouth and walked out amid a sea of open-mouthed patrons, thus ending any possibility of working in the court district in Kingston, California forever.

11

Dear Izzy,

Sometimes I look around at most of these people who are in here, and I get really angry. I know that it is human nature to take the easy way out, and just escape from the torment of life however you can; but that doesn’t mean that you should. We’ve all been through some shit – some worse than others – but we all have the ability to pull ourselves out; to change the perpetual cycle we seem to be trapped in.

Isn’t it worth trying?

I think it is.

Jay

∞

Dear Jay,

You’re coming back home tomorrow. I can’t help but feel like things will be so much different now. I loved getting your letters. It kills me to admit it – but they were a bright spot in a very bleak couple of months for me (perhaps you’d be interested to know that in the six weeks you’ve been gone, I’ve had no fewer than six different jobs – all crap!)

I know that rehab couldn’t have been a walk in the park, and that you’ll probably need to get your head straight for a bit when you come back.

I guess I’m just trying to say that I’ll be there for you. I’m not as good and eloquent with the words as you are, you wordsmith, you!

I wish I could send this.

I’m so grateful you’ll never read this.

I can’t wait to see you.

I’m terrified of the way I feel about you.

Love,

Izzy

Jay paid the cab driver and stood on the sidewalk with his duffel bag swung over his shoulder, staring up at the apartment and debating whether or not he should just go in or walk around the block a few hundred times first.

He didn’t know why he was so hesitant. Cooper was probably eager to see him, and God knew he could use some real food and his own bed. He was also looking forward to having control of the remote for a change, and taking a shower in a non-communal bathroom.

Then there was Izzy. So what? He’d written her a couple of letters as part of his therapy. She probably didn’t even read all of them. He could drone on sometimes. Besides, even though he was supposed to be open and honest, there was always just that one bit he held back from her. So she didn’t know everything.

Their relationship shouldn’t be any different than it was before he left. They would go back to being polite acquaintances. If she didn’t scowl at him quite so much and he remembered to speak to her from time to time instead of just nodding or grunting – well, then that would be an improvement.

He wondered, not for the first time, what her reaction had been to each letter he wrote. In a way it was a blessing that he couldn’t receive mail, because he knew the anticipation of her reply would have drove him mad. But still, did she take his words to be the ramblings of an addict working his way through therapy? Or did they give her some kind of insight into him that he may or may not have intended?

It didn’t matter. He may not have needed rehab the way the other occupants needed it, but he had gotten plenty out of the program just the same. Drugs and alcohol were never really a problem he had, but brooding about how unfair life had been to him was a drug of its own. He was ready to start over. First goal was to find a job. Didn’t matter what it was as long as it paid well and gave him his nights free.