Big nipples, the chef said.
The chef made a smile like mine, then said something in his language to Kung Fu salad guy, and they laughed.
Like horse, the chef said.
I took it to mean he liked me.
Ignorance. The necessary condition for all learning.
About an hour later, I was standing next to Fiona in the kitchen, picking up a salade niçoise. Chef Som Chai yelled across the kitchen, Muffy! Get Horse Dick out of kitchen!
Fiona looked at me and I looked at Fiona.
Chef? Fiona said.
You heard me! the chef said. I hate him! Mother Teresa always smiling! Get him out of fucking kitchen!
In no time, Fiona and I were outside the swinging red doors, standing next to Harry.
You’re smiling, Fiona said.
I see you’ve met the chef, Harry said.
Horse Dick? Fiona said. It was a question.
Harry was waiting.
A New York minute.
Really, I said, It just looks big.
A shower not a grower, huh? Harry said.
I guess, I said.
Helmet Head? Harry said, Or Anteater?
What? I said.
Circumcised? Harry said.
Me? I said.
You, Harry said.
Yes, I said.
Helmet Head, Harry said.
Cool, Fiona said.
The whole rest of the night, I was my mother’s nerves, following Fiona around. I kept asking her, asking Harry, what I was going to do, how was I going to work in a restaurant if I couldn’t go into the kitchen?
Maybe I should just confront, I said, The chef, I said, Maybe I should talk to Daniel.
Relax, Fiona said. Don’t take it personal. Get a glass of water for table one. See if table three wants another martini.
He’ll make you kneel, Harry said. Make you bark like a dog.
This too shall pass, Fiona said. Ask your Higher Knowing.
I don’t know, I said, My Higher Knowing.
Start kneeling now, Harry said. Don’t growl when you bark. Treat it like a performance piece.
DANIEL WAS SITTING at the table he always had his dinner at by the bar. It was just after his fourth trip downstairs to the bathroom with the cocaine. I served Daniel his soft-shell crabs, ground pepper on them. Fiona freshened up his spritzer.
My breath in. My breath out. I was out of breath.
Chef Som Chai, I said, Hates me.
It is really that big? Daniel said.
What? I said.
Your horse dick, Daniel said.
Hell of a fix.
Can you talk to him? I said.
Daniel’s restaurant smile. I’ve talked to a couple horse dicks in my time, Daniel said.
I mean, I said, The Chef.
Daniel put two fingers to his lips, made a sucking sound.
Roll me one of those, Daniel said.
There was a cigarette already rolled in my shirt pocket. I handed the cigarette to Daniel.
Daniel’s face was moldy bread.
No, Daniel said. Roll it.
So I rolled Daniel a cigarette.
The match under Daniel’s face. Green-gray under his eyes.
What you doing after work tonight? Daniel said.
I’m, I said, Busy.
How busy’s that? Daniel said.
Then—abracadabra!—just like that, Fiona was pouring Daniel more water.
Tickets for P.S. 122, Fiona said. John Kelly. Sold-out late show.
Daniel blew out smoke.
Muffy Macllvane, Daniel said, Who is talking to you?
Susan, Fiona said. Susan Strong.
Can’t you talk to the chef? I said.
Sorry, pal, Daniel said. No schmoozee, no talkee.
Harry was waiting for me at the waiters’ station by the swinging red doors.
No schmoozee no talkee? Harry said.
No schmoozee no talkee, I said.
Then bark like a dog, Harry said.
THE CLOCK ABOVE the swinging red doors said eleven-thirty. Aftertheater rush: the restaurant was full, loud, café society. I hadn’t been back to the kitchen. John the Bartender gave me the Beefeater martini up mistake he put an olive in instead of a twist and I one-gulped the martini. Then a Salty Dog mistake: one-gulped that one too.
A woman in a deep blue velvet dress dropped her fork; her long blond hair hung down as she bent and picked it up. You could see down her dress, breasts rife with pink right there next to me.
Surrounded all around, famous people eating pâté campagne, steak frites, mousse au chocolate—white linen napkins stretched across laps, foodstained, red-wine-splashed, lipstick-smeared. Heavy white plates scrape against white plates, hands touching hands, thighs to thighs, men, women, after-theater fashion-beautiful, cool tall wineglasses to lips, cigarettes to lips, cocktails, all around talking, talking the beautiful, the lovely, the important conversation.
Then, out of the blue, taking off his long coat at the door was Charlie 2Moons. Long wavy raven hair. His deep-set eyes, the gap between his teeth, the scar. All around me, the beautiful conversation was dogs barking. A ringing in my right ear. The pain in my forearms up to my shoulders. Splash down through my heart, cattle prod to cock. My feet, sensible black shoes striding under me. Toward Charlie, beloved Charlie. When he turned and his sad eyes looked into mine, I saw his great love for me.
But it’s not the truth.
The guy wasn’t Charlie.
Eleven-fifty. Two more martini-up-with-olive mistakes. Even I was beautiful, funny. New Yorkers were looking at me, at my large body moving through the dining room the way I move when I’m alone with the blinds drawn. I was carrying a drink tray with three Stoli Gibsons up to table ten; I was serving the drinks from the right like Fiona trained me. I still hadn’t gone through the swinging red doors, back into the kitchen, not once.
You’re going this way and then shit happens and then you’re going that way.
Oh . . . my . . . God! Fiona said.
Then, from behind me at the bar: Oh, my God! Harry said.
The little scream that gives it all away.
I looked at where Fiona was staring, then looked up at the ceiling. Sistine Chapel God, his finger.
What’s wrong? I said.
Argwings Khodek! Harry said.
Fiona ran toward me and Harry.
Oh . . . my . . . God! Fiona said again.
That’s the moment, in all the world, right there on that spot in Café Cauchemar, on the white tiled floor with the black grout, at the waiters’ station by the bar, under the Sistine Chapel God, the hand of man reaching, almost midnight, everybody beautiful, and there he was.
Rose.
All six and half feet of him, all two hundred and sixty pounds, his black black skin in the bright Café Cauchemar light darker than his skin really was, Rose’s black skin so much darker than the pink-white of the skins of the rest of the after-theater fashion-beautiful crowd.
Rose’s head was shaved, his beard partially gray. The earrings were rhinestones and holograms and big gold loops. Bracelets up both arms, gold, copper, brass, Bakelite, costume jewels. Capris, I guess you’d call the pants. Avocado Capris, mid-calf, tight, big basket, big butt. The largest red Converse tennis shoes I’d ever seen. A leather bag from the shoulder. A T-shirt with something written on the T-shirt, the neck scooped out, cut to expose Buddha belly and two ropes of muscles up his back. Two strands of pearls, matinee length.
That’s Argwings Khodek? I said.
In the flesh, Fiona said.
But it’s not the truth.
It was Rose. I just didn’t know it yet.
Daniel, the boss’s brother, the maître d’hôtel, was guiding Rose through the crowd toward Fiona’s section, toward me, on Daniel’s face the smile that was the restaurant smile but, with Rose that night, something underneath.
At table thirty-six, a Wall Street—type in a business suit, and just as Daniel passed by the table
with Rose, the suit leaned over and whispered to a woman in a suit just like his. The suits laughed.
Rose stopped walking, took a deep breath, tucked his chin, raised his shoulders, and turned toward the table, bracelets clack-clack.
Colorful nigger, ain’t he? Rose said to the suits, loud enough for the whole town.
Quiet that only New York can get that fast.
You don’t think it’s too much, do you? Rose said to the suits.
Rose’s hand moved dramatically up and down his body.
No, the suit said. His smile something underneath too.
The suits acted as if they were already dead and wished Rose were dead too.
Then: Why were you staring at me? Rose said.
Nothing from either suit, only the smile.
Excuse me! Rose said. I’m asking you a question. Just what do you and your friend find so funny? I’d like to know.
Nothing.
Your table is right this way, sir, Daniel said.
Daniel’s arm sweeping to the empty table, the table right next to me.
Ex-cuse me? Rose said, eyes narrowed at Daniel. Head thrown back, chin tucked even more, shoulders higher and higher, bracelets clack-clack. I am talking to this rude man here, Rose said, And when I am finished, and when I am ready, and only then, will I sit down at your lovely table.
My AUI! Fiona said.
Her Absolute Ultimate Idol! Harry said.
Rose stared at Daniel for several dramatic moments, then turned back to the suits.
I would suggest, Rose said to the suits, That from now on, if you have something to say about me or my outfit, that you say it to my face, rather than snigger it to your little friend here. Of course, Rose said, If you were to have the balls to address me directly, I’m sure I’d respond that if I were interested in your tiny opinion I would ask for it.
Rose lifted his arms, bracelets down his arms, clack-clack.
Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, Rose said. Good evening. Enjoy your lovely profiteroles.
Daniel seated Rose at the deuce, table ten, the table I was standing next to.
Just like that, in the dining room, it was dogs barking and people talking again.
That’s when Fiona said to me, It’s the perfect time for your first New York customer.
What? I said.
I couldn’t possibly wait on him, Fiona said. I’m going shit-spray! Fiona handed me the dinner check.
Shit-spray?
Susan Strong always goes shit-spray when she’s around genius, Harry said. And this is genius, Harry said. This is AUI Argwings Khodek!
Then you, I said to Harry, Wait on him.
Can’t, Harry said.
Can’t?
Vomit-spray, Harry said. Susan Strong goes shit and I go vomit-spray.
But, I said, The kitchen! I can’t go in the kitchen!
I’m shitting my pants! Fiona said, took off her apron, and started running down the stairs.
You just don’t understand, Will, Harry said. That’s Arwings Khodek! The first person to take performance art into the realm of complete presence!
Harry took off his apron and started running down the stairs.
Harry! I said. Get back here!
Don’t wait for the chef to ask you, Harry said. Just kneel. Then bark. Three times. Loud. Don’t growl.
WHEN I FINALLY stood myself at Rose’s table, my ballpoint pen was ready. The dinner check was on the drink tray in my hand. I was smiling, so I stopped smiling.
Good evening, I said.
Negroni, Rose said.
My mother’s nerves.
Excuse me? I said.
Ex-cuse me? Rose said. The chin, he started to tuck the chin.
I didn’t hear, I said.
Negro, Rose said. You know Negro, don’t you? Rose said.
Yes, I said. Negro, I said.
Very good! Rose said. Now it’s Negroni, Rose said.
Negroni? I said.
Rose threw up his arms, bracelets clack-clack.
Rose yelled, Go ask the fucking bartender. And get me a Mediterranean salad.
Harry was back at the bar. He looked kind of green and he was spraying Binaca into his mouth.
Negroni, I said to Harry.
Tall glass lime setup, Harry said. Three-fifty.
Negroni, I said to John the Bartender, writing down Negroni on the bar chit, the bar chit with my name, the date, the day, the table, the tall glass iced, garnished with lime, and the straw, the cocktail napkin.
When I delivered the Negroni, I read what it said on Rose’s T-shirt.
CURE AIDS: FUCK THE CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL.
Just like that—I didn’t mean to—I laughed out loud.
Rose’s chin tucked, moving only his black eyes straight into my eyes at an angle just above his rhinestone reading glasses.
Ex-cuse me? Rose said.
I was just laughing at what your T-shirt says, I said.
Do you know what AIDS is? Rose said.
No, I said.
Maybe you know it as GRIDS, Rose said. The gay cancer—gay-related, you know. Gay and Haitian, that is. At least that’s the White Paranoid Patriarchy’s fucking scapegoat propaganda.
Gay cancer, I said. Yes, I’ve heard of it.
Then why are you laughing? AIDS is a terrible disease, Rose said. And not something at all to laugh about. Do you think just because it’s black people and queers who are dying it’s something to laugh about?
No, I said.
Well, then, Rose said, I suggest you stop your little comic outburst and just go do it.
I said, Do it?
Yes, yes, go do it! Rose said. Just do it! Go fuck the Centers for Disease Control!
At the bar for the second Negroni, my hands shook as I did my setup.
Don’t let it get to you, John said. She’s a local Diva—come in here before. Some kind of Shakespearean ac-tor, specializing in Othello, John said.
Othello? I said.
She’s black, ain’t she? John said. Got one of those new ethnic names. Armadilla Kowabunga or something.
Argwings Khodek, Fiona said.
Fiona was beside me. Fiona’s circumcised lip.
John said, Performance Art, right? That Lower East Side shit. Those kind are all the same, black or white or blue. Underneath the attitude all you got is another Norma Desmond queen.
Harry whispered in my ear. There it goes. The lip, Harry said. Susan Strong’s lip is getting large. Performance Art, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, or Argwings Kodek, never fuck with any one of them around Susan Strong.
I watched Fiona’s lip, and sure enough, Harry was right.
Sometimes it grows so fast it peels her lipstick back, Harry said. Remarkable phenomenon. Only other thing I’ve ever seen grow like that’s a hard-on.
Fiona was kneeling on top of the bar. Her face poked into John the Bartender’s face.
When you make something more of your life, bartender, Fiona said, Besides blowing the boss’s married brother, and meeting the boss’s pour in your little playpen back here, I’ll listen. Until then, dickhead, Fiona said, Pour the fucking drinks I tell you to pour and shut the fuck up with your expert attitude.
John closed his mouth. His eyes clouded over. His face started melting.
This is where the large lip becomes lazer lip, Harry said. Lazer lip: Why she’ll never see Sections Four or Five, Harry said, Let alone Section Six.
You’re going this way and then shit happens and then you’re going that way.
I can’t believe what I do next.
Just like that, I am marching through the swinging red doors, past Georgette, past the reach-in, into the kitchen. I am writing down the date, the day, the table, my name, and Med Sal on the yellow chit. I am just about to call out the order in my clearest, strongest voice, when I see this: Crummy Dog. My Crummy Dog is sitting on the gray-painted cement floor in front of the dinner station, smiling the way he always did, tail flipping, tongue hanging out. B
arking like a dog.
Just at that moment Chef Som Chai slips and, trying to get his balance, reaches out for the deep fryer, misses, and sticks his hand into the boiling grease.
Fatum. I look over just as Chef Som Chai’s hand goes into the grease. I see nothing else.
Everyone is just standing around, so I start hollering and pointing and reach over and grab Kung Fu’s plastic salad tub, dump the lettuce out, run to the ice machine, fill the tub with ice, run behind the service line to Chef Som Chai, grab him, spin him around, stick his hand and arm into the ice up to his elbow, walk with him, my arm across his shoulder, guiding the chef out of the kitchen, past Georgette, yell at Georgette to call 911, walk through the swinging red doors, Crummy running ahead of us, the chef walking along with me, getting pale, looking at me like I am the Big Guy above us on the ceiling. We walk through the dining room—me holding the chef’s arm in the tub of ice, Crummy leading the way through the crowd—the chef getting paler with every step, past Fiona going shit-spray, past Argwings Khodek Rose, bracelets clack-clack, past his Negroni, past Harry standing with a piece of gâteau au chocolat, the candle melting, Harry just about ready to belt out Happy Birthday, past Daniel, the boss’s beer-can-dicked-married-getting-blown-by-John-the-Bartender brother, and then out the front door.
There was no ambulance, but two cops in a car drove by. I yelled to the cops, Burn victim! Stop! But the cops kept going.
Then, just like that, all at once, Kung Fu salad guy pulled up in a black Mercedes, got out, opened the passenger door, and helped the chef inside. The chef was not pale anymore. He was green.
Mercedes better than ambulance, Kung Fu salad guy said. Then: Thank you, he said, I manage from here.
The black Mercedes drove off, east, evens east, shit from New York Shinola. I stood on the street, Manhattan wrapped all around me. Steam rolled out of the manhole in the street, the Mercedes driving deeper into the form, into the function, into the dark.
Beyond the pile of black plastic garbage bags, through the steam, people inside Café Cauchemar gathered at the window. The street, ahead of me, behind me, not a dog in sight.
My grandpa shoes on asphalt skin. I looked up my body, my black pants, white apron, looked up the buildings, across to just the tip of the Chrysler Building, up to the moon rising over 46th.
In the City of Shy Hunters Page 11