by T. F. Pruden
“I’m glad I meet your approval,” she said without shame as he stood, “and those jeans are sure tight! Gimme your glass so I can put it in the dishwasher.”
“Ah, thanks,” Wayne replied as he headed for the door, “I’ll meet you in the car.”
As he recalled the sight of her, he felt himself throb. With a start he returned to the present. He looked to his wrist a second time and knew he should get ready for the newspaper man Bill Saturday to arrive.
The reporter would be there in only a few minutes.
Wayne sighed and shook his head as he opened the door and climbed out of the car. He adjusted himself in the jeans as he stood and made a mental note not to wear them when he planned to be in Sarah’s company.
Wayne closed the door and pressed the button on the key fob to lock it. A honk confirmed engagement of the alarm. He selected the key for the restaurants’ back door from the assortment attached to the chain. It was time to show the now renovated ‘Rene’s at the Marlene’ to the local gossip and entertainment columnist.
Though he knew Bill well enough experience taught him to be on his toes whenever forced to talk to the press.
The old newsman made a habit of setting aside friendship when it came to business.
Bill Saturday pulled his ten-year old Caprice Classic to a stop a half block south of the Marlene Hotel and slid the column shifter into the ‘Park’ position.
The sky though grey above him had yet to unleash the snow that filled the heavy clouds blocking the afternoon sun. As he looked into the rear-view mirror to check the bloodshot eyes staring back at him he hoped the soon-turning-miserable weather held off until he made it home.
The rear wheel drive Caprice would be tricky in the snow and he couldn’t afford to equip it with winter tires while maintaining his required level of alcohol consumption.
He removed a plastic box of mints from his jacket pocket. He shook a pair of the white tablets into the palm of his hand. As he tossed them into his mouth, he winked a rheumy eye at his reflection and readied to climb from the big car.
Bill Saturday hadn’t seen the young Wayne Stevens since a few months before the closing of the fellows’ night club. Though he didn’t know him well, he was sure to stand him a drink or two while he showed off the soon to open new restaurant.
He hoped the candies would hide the odor of the four whiskies consumed for lunch.
Bill Saturday had been a newsman since graduating from the University of Saskatchewan thirty-five years earlier. He watched bewildered as the world grew ever more complicated around him.
Bill could only observe fascinated as technology change and moral abasement unbound most of what his school years taught. Too young for the Second World War he graduated before the cultural explosion unleashed by Elvis Presley devastated the world created by his parents’ generation. He had now viewed successive generations struggle to navigate the constant shifting tides of the popular culture.
Bill Saturday meanwhile remained strictly an observer through the decades of constant change. He stood silent on life’s sideline, like a faded yardage marker on an abandoned playing field, barely noticed, acknowledged only when necessary.
His career began as a sports reporter though he dreamed of writing the great Canadian novel. He first followed the Canadian Football League as it held sway on the prairies before the arrival of the National Hockey League. Bill progressed with time through a variety of roles including police and court reporting, local affairs, provincial politics, and finally entertainment.
As he entered his sixties and the inevitable end of his career, he remained as mystified by the changing vagaries of modern life as when a new grad.
A bachelor since an ugly divorce a decade earlier, the old newsman’s life now descended into the twin hells of alcoholism and career stall. Either of which might be enough to draw the curtain on most men’s desire to be in the public eye.
Bill Saturday was not most men.
He remained as determined to persevere with his career as ever. If the weekend entertainment columns he produced weren’t the novels he intended to write as a young lion they continued to provide a valuable service to the people of the city. At least the people featured in the columns found them valuable. The worth of his scribbles remained sufficient to keep him in free drinks and good meals as a regular attendee at socially significant occasions requiring attention from the local press.
This proved reward enough for Bill Saturday.
He exited the vehicle and moved to the front of the big car to step onto the wide sidewalk. It was bereft of snow and covered in the sandy remains of the gravel used to keep the cold from making an ice rink out of their surface. He looked up to the dancing neon sign announcing the big hotel waiting down the block and smiled.
Young Stevens was a generous and gregarious fellow often good for a quote besides a round or two of drinks.
That he bought the restaurant next door to the notorious Marlene Hotel was enough of a story to rate a column, he thought with grim sorrow. As he made his way toward the hotel entrance, he wondered again what might have possessed the young man to make such an atrocious gamble.
Bill paced through a west wind of increasing bitterness as the day moved toward what was sure to be a cold night. He looked forward to hearing the story the young man was interested in telling the city. If it wasn’t too foolish, he might fashion something readable out of it. He had a column due for tomorrows’ edition, and as yet he was without a story.
With any luck young Stevens and his ridiculous new venture would give him something worth writing about through what looked to be a chilly evening on the way.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Rene sat alone at the dining room table of his enormous home.
A sheet of white paper, folded with care, lay open and next to an envelope on the table in front of him. Rene wore the defeated look of a man receiving notice of military conscription.
He looked down to the note and read again the words upon it.
It shocked him the second time near as much as it had the first.
Rene filled with a churning mix of anger, fear, disillusionment, and grief that combined to leave him dumb.
He also found himself alone in the big house. It came as a surprise. After a long day at the offices of Lemieux Trucking he returned to collect the tall chef for the evening shift scheduled for ‘Rene’s at the Marlene’. He did not find Maurice. A quick search of the premises revealed him to be solo.
When he entered the second floor office to check his answering machine he found the note.
It waited atop the machine.
Across the white envelope in blue ink his name was scrawled. He grabbed it with one hand, noting a dark line marked beneath his name while manipulating the answering machine with the other.
He played back a message from Jane McIntyre.
The voice mail brought a reminder they scheduled a late dinner together.
He opened the envelope as he left his office in search of a soft drink from the kitchen downstairs. He read it while standing in front of the fridge. Before he could finish the note he sat at the table.
He shook his head, unsure if he read correctly. He must collect his emotions before finishing it. Rene hoped against hope it was a joke. He was near certain it was not.
As he read the words written by the tall chef, he regretted not paying more attention to his erstwhile partner’s concerns.
Rene;
I am writing this note to inform you I have decided to resign my position as head chef of ‘Rene’s at the Marlene’ effective immediately. As my interest as shareholding partner does not come into effect until the business has been in operation for six months my resignation now will allow my shares in the business to revert to your control. It is my hope this will create the least amount of difficulty for yourself and Wayne as you move forward with the new restaurant and I wish you nothing but the best with it.
I am also providing the one month of notice to vacate your prem
ises with this letter and will leave my damage deposit with you in lieu of paying the final month of rent for my room. I would like to thank you for allowing me to enjoy the comfort of your home and the support of your friendship over the previous year, it has been invaluable and I appreciate it very much.
While my resignation will no doubt come as a surprise to you as well as to our friend and partner Wayne, it is a decision that I have been forced to make as a result of the recent change to the concept of ‘Rene’s at the Marlene’ with which I was not in agreement. Rather than create arguments between the three of us as friends and partners it is my belief that my departure represents the best way to solve this disagreement.
I entered the partnership in the position of head chef for a steakhouse restaurant with the goal of operating the best place in the city. The imposition of a breakfast service onto the agreed upon concept that we had developed together I believe makes this goal impossible to achieve. As a professional with a long experience and a good reputation it is paramount to me that my career continue to traverse a path which I am proud to have represent me, and to be serving breakfast in a steakhouse does not agree with what I have decided is the appropriate course. I do not believe the change in concept will lead to success for ‘Rene’s at the Marlene’, and without faith a man is lost.
I have evaluated the young chefs recently hired by myself and Wayne and believe the kitchen will be in good hands with J.D. as head chef. The young baker Ron will provide good service as sous chef and Wayne will soon locate a relief cook of sufficient skill to spell the two of them as required. He is an extraordinary talent that Wayne, and if the business is to succeed, it will be as a result of his work ethic and many skills when it does. In any event the business is in as good a shape as it is possible for it to be in as you prepare to open the doors for the first time and again I wish you nothing but success.
Thank you for the opportunity.
Maurice
Rene sat at the head of the vast oak dining room table. It was big enough to seat a dozen for dinner in comfort. He stared through the lace curtains covering the wall of windows leading to the deck and the gathering darkness.
The verdict passed on his decision to alter the concept of the soon to be opened restaurant was definite.
The conclusion both shocked and angered Rene.
As he drank from the can of Pepsi in his hand, he thought of Wayne and what his private thoughts might be about the idea. The review Maurice’s poisoned note made of Wayne and his talent was glowing. If the young manager were thinking similar thoughts to those of the now departed chef, it would not be much of a surprise.
For him to pull a stunt such as this would create an even greater problem.
Of that Rene held no doubt.
“Tabernac!” Rene cursed, “why ‘da ‘ell did you not say somet’ang before you walk out man, eh?”
With the tall chef not there to answer the question Rene felt his righteous anger burn brighter. The shock greeting his discovery of the note was fading. He would soon overcome what was a significant setback to the business.
The man had been correct in his assessment of the two young chefs they hired. There was little reason to expect a drop in the level of skill employed by the kitchen at ‘Rene’s at the Marlene’.
His identification of the talents that young Wayne brought to the partnership was also accurate. Although the tall chef overstated his importance to the eventual success of the restaurant Rene wanted to hang onto the fellow.
At least until the restaurant opened its doors and achieved a level of awareness among the buying public allowing it to function without him.
The notion someone other than he could hold the success of the venture in his hands offended Rene more than he would admit.
“Tabernac!” he cursed again in a low voice, “it was ma’ idea to begin wit’ an’ ‘eet w’eel be ma’ idea to ‘da las’ day!”
The tall chef departed leaving no contact information. Without means to discuss the resignation there was nothing to do but reveal it to his young partner. Despite the anger gripping him he realized he must handle the delicate situation with care.
Would the young manager use the departure of his experienced colleague and new friend as an excuse to jump ship? Or could Rene use the tall chefs’ leaving as means to further secure the fellow’s loyalty to the business? How would the young chefs react to the loss of their presumed leader in the new kitchen? The questions filled his mind. Each gave birth to an entire series of new ones. Rene sighed in resignation.
He understood that like all changes this one would be difficult to deal with only until they accepted it as inevitable.
Rene looked again at the evil note. He folded it and returned it to the crisp envelope waiting on the table. He knew allowing Wayne to read it would help him accept what had happened. It would make it easier for them all to move forward.
The restaurant opened in a week and moving on was what they needed to do. This change the tall chef forced upon them. It arrived without consultation and appeared final whether they liked it or not. The only thing the remaining partners could do was continue.
He would present the note to Wayne. Together they could develop a plan. With luck the departure of the tall chef might be seen as motivation. Each of them should now be inspired to achieve the success the tall chef declared beyond their reach.
“Tabernac!” Rene cursed as he stood.
He placed the envelope into the chest pocket of his plaid shirt.
“I’ll show you ‘oo can be successful in ‘da restauran’ game, eh mon ami?”
As he turned from the dark stained oak of the long table and walked toward the front door of the enormous house he smiled. He gritted his teeth and committing to the plan now developing in his mind with the tenacity of a bulldog. Setbacks were common on the road to his success. This one would be overcome with the same hard determination he showed throughout his career.
Rene promised himself the business would emerge from it in better shape than before the unfortunate difficulty appeared.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Maurice leaned into the back seat of the Yellow Taxicab and sighed with relief.
The driver shifted the car into gear and prepared to exit the driveway of the stately Tudor home on Lyndale Drive.
“Where am I taking you today my friend?” the driver asked from the front seat.
He fixed the tall man who emerged from the house with a pair of duffel bags in his hands, with an inquisitive look via the rear-view mirror.
“I’m going to ‘da bus depot downtown,” the tall chef answered, “but I would l’ak you to stop at ‘da liquor store on ‘da corner of ‘argrave an’ h’ellice on ‘da way, please mon ami.”
“Yessir!” the driver replied.
He flipped the handle of his fare clock and pulled away, moving down the driveway toward the street.
The tall chef slumped as the cab pulled onto the wide street. It turned northwest toward St. Mary’s Road and the bridges that once crossed would deliver them to the downtown locations of both liquor store and bus depot. With a long trip across the prairies on the Greyhound bus to look forward to he planned to collect a bottle of vodka to accompany him.
The long day passed in a surreal blur.
Now on his way Maurice filled with gratitude. He packed his bags after returning from the restaurant the night before and departed the big house in a hurry. He worried his landlord might return before he could make his escape.
It was an escape, and the tall chef knew it.
He collected his final paycheck from the great and maniacal chef at nine o’clock that morning. Maurice left his kitchen for the last time at noon with neither fanfare nor acknowledgement of any kind.
The walk to the bank only a couple of blocks away from the restaurant took little time.
He withdrew half the funds he saved during the previous year. Maurice also took the proceeds of the check in cash. This to be sure he would have
adequate funds for traveling. With more than two thousand dollars held in his wallet and another five hundred in his pocket he now flushed with cash and confidence.
He could manage any incidental expense he might incur on the journey.
Maurice rode the transit bus across the river to the St. Mary’s Road stop. The short walk to the enormous home of his landlord seemed to take hours.
It lasted no more than the usual ten minutes.
The house was empty when he arrived. Maurice placed the note he struggled with through the long hours of the night on top of the machine in Rene’s office.
Rene would be sure to find it there along with Maurice’s keys to both house and restaurant.
With his ability to write in English less developed than his ability to speak the language it was a difficult task. He rewrote the note several times trying to convey his bruised feelings. Maurice was certain both of his erstwhile partners would soon read the short letter. He tried to convey his feelings about the change in concept and his deep respect for the work and talent of Wayne Stevens.
He remained dissatisfied with the note when complete but ran out of time. It must do despite his pitiful attempt at writing in the foreign tongue.
To lose Wayne as both colleague and friend disappointed the tall chef.
An interminable wait for the taxi near felled him. That his landlord would arrive before he could get away terrified the tall chef. Maurice feared Rene would demand a lengthy explanation or worse if he caught him there.
Maurice must escape before he returned.
As the bright yellow sedan with the logos and telephone number painted on its doors pulled into the driveway to retrieve him he fought an urge to run out and meet it. Maurice threw his bags into the trunk without hesitation and hurried to be shed of the place. His calm returned as the distance between the cab and his former home grew.
When they crossed the midtown bridge over the Assiniboine River he smiled and thought of the bottle of vodka at the liquor store only blocks distant.