“You establish a fake museum in a country that doesn’t exist,” Zach says. “You go all around to the great museums toting these phony programs for past sold-out shows, hyping your exhibition to the curators, pissing them off that every other guy’s best Impressionist piece is going to be in your show, but not theirs. They’d be throwing the stuff at you. Van Goghs . . . Monets . . . Manets . . .”
“Mayonnaise,” Phil chimes in.
“Renoirs,” Zach continues, ignoring him. “Anyway . . . you’d get these great works of art delivered to your door.”
“What’s the address of this imaginary country,” I ask.
“It’s actually a warehouse in the Bronx,” Zach says.
Phil, Jonas, and I all simultaneously roll our eyes. Then Jonas, thankfully, changes the subject. “I made a reservation at Brother Jimmy’s on Ninety-second for Thursday’s game.” Jonas went to Duke with Phil and me. Zach went to Carolina. Thursday’s game is Duke/UNC. “Thursday night, Brother Jimmy’s. Good vs. Evil. You in?”
“Go to hell, Heels,” I say. “Yeah, I’m in.”
“Oh yeah, Tarheels,” Jonas says. “I was, of course, referring to us vs. Zach, but I guess the Good vs. Evil applies to Duke/UNC as well.” Zach tosses a burnt mini-pizza at Jonas.
“Hey!” I say. “No tossing of food items. Especially after the olive incident.” Zach and I bow our heads simultaneously and say, “Rest his soul.” Phil and Jonas look confused but don’t ask.
“All right,” Jonas says. “Count on Scott Mulcahey coming along as well. I think you guys have met him before. He’s the asshole who blew the curve in every class I took freshman year. Lady Zachary, pending the outcome of any bets that may or may not be placed, should I make ready your corset?”
“No need for that,” Zach says. “However, after you’re done with your impotency pills, I’m sure Brady’ll want some.”
“Those things don’t work,” Phil says.
“No shit,” Zach says. “I’m taking like ten Levitra a day and I still can’t throw a football through a tire.”
“That’s okay,” Jonas says. “I’m loaded up on Cialis and can’t even find my rubber ducky.”
“I don’t have herpes,” I say. “But those Valtrex commercials sure do make it seem like a hell of a lot of fun.”
“Are we playing poker or what?” Zach asks. And we settle into a poker game that lasts till some time between three and four. In the end I’m too tired to look. Or too depressed. I lose. Again.
Heaven
Everybody is just waiting for me to fuck up again at work. I can feel it the minute I walk in, and it doesn’t go away. It’s like I’m in an alternate reality watching myself go through the motions and even I’m waiting for me to fuck up. This is not a good feeling, and I can’t shake it.
So I start thinking about the worst possible scenarios and imagining how they’d play out. And I write a fake letter of complaint about myself just to ease the tension and make a joke out of it—an example of how asinine some of the customers are. Here’s how it turns out:
February 2, 2004
Temple Restaurant
ATTN: Manager
575 Mercer Street
New York, NY 10003
Dear Sir and/or Madam:
I have had occasion to dine at your establishment approximately six or seven times during the last few months. I think it is fair to say my wife and I are “regulars.” Though the service and food are generally exemplary at Temple, I regret to inform you of our most recent—and decidedly unsatisfactory—visit to your restaurant.
On the evening of January 21, my wife and I arrived for dinner at 7:30. We were seated in the section of a young woman who appears to still be “learning the ropes” of the restaurant business. This is by no means reflective of a sexist attitude—my wife and I share a joint checking account, in fact.
This young lady introduced herself as “Heaven”—an unusual name, which I assume is fake to go along with the “Temple” restaurant theme.
In an attempt to get things started “on the right foot” I made a joke, arguably inappropriate, in which I mentioned that my wife was menstruating—an event which generally heightens her appetite. “Better get her fed quickly, Heaven. This time of the month, she’s ravenous!” Heaven seemed annoyed by this comment—even though I was talking about my own wife’s menstruation—to which I have a right. I’m sure you’ll agree? In any case, it was no excuse for the events which followed.
My wife asked what wines you offered by the glass and she told us merlot, cabernet, chardonnay, pinot grigio, and white zinfandel. My wife asked for the white zinfandel and this waitress returned with a glass of pink wine. Pink!
“I asked for white zinfandel,” my wife said.
“That is white zinfandel,” Heaven replied. Does this woman think we are stupid and color blind? This wine was no more white than the majority of your staff.
The salads arrived in short order and were excellent. I tried to extend an olive branch to Heaven by quipping that there’d be “no more menstruation comments—period.” I thought this rather clever, but it did not improve her mood. When our entrées arrived late, Heaven told us that the kitchen was a little backed up. I pointed out that, given my dodgy colon, I too am often “backed up,” but I wouldn’t use it as an excuse for poor service. Well. In an angry tone, which was highly inappropriate, Heaven told me that she had no interest in hearing any more about my colon or my wife’s vagina. Let me repeat—your waitress mentioned my wife’s vagina.
Finally—the pièce de résistance. As we drank our coffee at the end of our meal, I found myself needing to blow my nose. Generally I carry a handkerchief, and certainly I should have had one with me. But, alas—I did not. Since our tablecloth had been somewhat stained by my wife’s spilled glass of “white” zinfandel (Ha!), I assumed your establishment would have the need to launder it after our departure. Given that fact, I couldn’t see what difference it made if the cloth was a little more soiled. Although I’m not proud of this fact, I was in great discomfort, so I discreetly blew my nose into the tablecloth.
Unfortunately, Heaven had singled us out for her wrath on this evening. She must have been watching me from across the room because she stormed over and asked me if I “needed a tissue.” Can you believe the nerve of this girl? I found this to be highly impertinent and, frankly, embarrassing. I told her, “No, thank you—just the check.”
Not content to leave bad enough alone, Heaven pointed out that I had left “a big bloody booger” on the tablecloth.
A “booger.”
Sir or Madam: Zagat’s gives your restaurant their highest rating. And you risk your reputation by having a waitress who uses crude language to customers. Appalling.
Naturally, I was quite indignant. I told her that as far as I was concerned, that “booger” could serve as her tip.
This seemed to (finally) put her in her place. She flounced off without another smart-alecky comment.
I’m sorry to complain, but—really—what are things coming to when a man can’t spend a dignified evening enjoying some fine dining with his wife without a churlish (although attractive) trollop ruining the evening with her gutter mouth?
I would be happy to accept one year’s free dining as compensation for this nightmarish experience (provided we can sit in someone else’s section!). I sincerely hope to resolve this matter absent the threat of litigation.
Sincerely,
Royston Felcher, Jr., Esquire
I enjoy my composition so much and think it’s so funny, I print it out and mail it to the restaurant as a joke. I can’t wait till they get it.
I see Brady on my way out of the apartment building, and he’s got a cactus in his hand. It appears to be dead.
“You managed to kill a cactus?” I say.
“Yeah. I remembered the no water bit but forgot the plenty of sunlight part.”
“Sorry. So what are you doing with it?”
“Honestly?” Brady says. “I don’t know. I fe
lt bad throwing it away. I couldn’t do it. So I thought I’d . . . I don’t know. Lay it to rest somewhere out here. Maybe near a tree or in a bush.”
“That’s really sad,” I say, because it is. It’s also kind of heartbreaking. And sweet.
“Yeah, I’ve kind of been wandering up and down the block looking for the right spot,” he says.
“Maybe it had a great life. All plants die,” I say, trying to make him feel better. “It’s a living thing. And all living things die.” That didn’t come out as uplifting as I’d wanted it to. “So cheer up,” I add. “Because today it was just a cactus. Someday it’ll be you.” Yeah, that wasn’t much better.
“What’s next? You gonna tell me Santa Claus isn’t real?”
“Worse—you know how they tell you when you go to the Olive Garden, you’re family? You’re not really family.”
“That hurts.”
“Love to stay and chat, but I gotta go to work,” I say. “Sorry again about your cactus.”
“Thanks,” he says, pretending to wipe a tear the way Letterman sometimes does.
I’ve decided I’m going to speak with an accent at work today. I think this is a good idea for two reasons. One, it’s a good way to entertain myself, and two, it may help me stay out of trouble. If I’m busy focusing on the accent, and therefore in character (somewhat), I won’t react to bad customers in my normal fashion.
It’s a toss-up between Australian and white-trash Southern, but I go with Australian. There is a big difference between Australian and British, though to the layman they sound quite similar. I can do Australian perfectly. British too, for that matter. In addition to my keen sense of smell I’ve got this uncanny knack for accents and imitations. When I was little I was like a mynah bird. It caused all sorts of trouble. I’d constantly repeat things I heard—often at inappropriate times.
Like once when I was seven years old I overheard the dental hygienist arguing with my dentist. And when I walked out into the waiting room I proudly said, “For fuck’s sake, Gerald, I don’t blow you for my health. Either you leave her or I’m going to shove her PTA boat up her ass.”
The whole office got quiet. My mom took my hand and walked me outside, where she said, “It’s a PTA book, not boat. You can’t shove a boat up someone’s ass.” To which I replied, “I must have heard her wrong.” My mom was always very cool.
So I’m Australian today, and so far so good. When people ask, I tell them I’m from Sydney, and I really love being here. I just hope I can renew my visa when it runs out.
Brett the not-so-new busboy has been mumbling to himself all day. He won’t stop. It’s definitely a mumble, not a hum. I’ve heard the word fuck at least thirty-two times. He’s always pissed off. It’s kind of amazing how he’s never been anything but irate. I don’t know what they were thinking when they hired him. I don’t know how he’s managed to stay around.
Table 4 has been asking me questions about Australia all night, and I’ve been playing it up. But they seem to know a lot about my “homeland” already.
“So do you think you’ll win another Equestrian?” one guy asks.
“Pardon?”
“You’ve won three in a row at the Olympics. This would be your fourth consecutive gold medal.”
“Oh, the Olympics. Right. Yeah, we have some good horses,” I say. “Can I get you anything else?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“No, I’m great. This soup is fantastic. Bet you don’t have anything like it down under,” he says.
“No, we don’t have much soup there,” I say, which is completely lame, but what the hell am I going to say.
I entertain these people for the better part of my night, taking time away from other tables, because they’ve been the nicest. They also have the biggest check, which translates, hopefully, to the best tip.
When they leave, they wish me well and hope that I can extend my visa. I open their check and they’ve left no tip. This makes no sense whatsoever. They were way too nice to do that.
Brett sees the expression on my face, walks over and takes a look at the check.
“Motherfuckers!” he says, seemingly more angry that I am. In fact, I’m not mad at all. I’m more shocked than anything. Brett, being the busboy, gets a percentage of my tips—so he’s taking this personally. He’s steaming. But then he smiles this giant grin. He reaches onto their table and picks up their digital camera, which they’ve left.
“They’ll probably come back for that,” I say. “They know where they had it last.”
“Better believe they will,” Brett says, putting the camera in his pocket and walking away with it.
“They were my table,” I say, walking after him. “You can’t keep it. I’ll be the one to get in trouble.”
“I’m not gonna keep it,” he says, continuing into the kitchen.
About fifteen minutes later the customer comes back. I assume it’s for his camera, but it’s not.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I meant to leave cash when I signed my credit card. I don’t leave tips on my credit cards, and I guess I had too much wine. I completely forgot.”
“No problem,” I say. And he takes some cash out of his wallet and hands it to me. See? I knew they were too nice to stiff me.
“Here you go. Thanks again. You were great,” he says and turns to leave.
“Wait,” I say suddenly. “You forgot your camera.”
“Oh my God! I didn’t even notice,” he says.
“Hang on, let me get it,” I say and go into the kitchen to find Brett. He’s not there. I look all over, but he’s nowhere to be found. I panic, thinking he decided to finally quit and take the camera with him. But finally I spot him coming out of the bathroom and breathe a sigh of relief.
“Brett, I need the camera. The guy came back.” Brett smiles this really strange smile.
“He was commenting on the soup, right? He really liked the soup.”
“Yeah,” I say as I take the camera from him.
I race back to the guy and return his camera.
“Here you go. This is a nice one. Don’t go leaving it at your next stop,” I say with a wink.
“I won’t.” He winks back. “Thank you so much.”
Brett walks over to me. He looks annoyed.
“You were awfully chummy with the guy that stiffed us,” he says.
“He didn’t. He didn’t even come back for his camera. He came back because he realized he forgot to tip.”
“How do you forget to tip?” Brett asks and now he seems even more angry that the guy came back and tipped us than he was when he thought he stiffed us.
“I don’t know. It happens. He’s drunk. He paid with a credit card.”
“Fuck,” Brett says.
“What?”
“You’re not gonna like it.”
“What?” I say.
“The guy was commenting on the soup, right?”
“Yeah?”
“I heard him saying how much he liked it.”
“Yeah?” I say impatiently. “And?”
“I just took a picture with his camera. Of me pissing into a bowl of soup.”
“You what? You peed into soup?”
“Yes.”
“And took a picture of it.”
“Yes.”
“What is wrong with you?” I fairly scream in his face.
“I hate people. It’s fucking cold outside. I’m thirty-seven years old, and I’m a busboy. How much time do you have because I can go on and on—”
“Brett! I can appreciate all that . . . but you just did something really bad.”
“Hey—I didn’t know he was going to come back and tip us.”
I feel sick. I feel clammy and sick. I can’t believe he just did that. I’m mortified. Partly because I can’t fathom how someone could do such a thing. And worse, I’m one of them. I can’t believe I spit in that guy’s Caesar salad a month ago. I feel awful. Granted, it’s not pee, and I didn’t take a picture of myself
doing it, but I feel truly awful just the same. Sydney was so right. Forget karma paying me back—my own guilt and shame are doing plenty for that cause. I hate myself for doing that. What have I become? I know that nine out of ten waiters have spit in food or much worse, but I could have been the one that didn’t. And Brett doesn’t even think what he did was wrong. Except in the context that the guy came back. If he hadn’t tipped us Brett would feel perfectly justified.
“Look,” he says. “If it comes up, just say you don’t know how it got there.”
“If? If it comes up?”
He grabs his crotch. “It’s obvious you didn’t do it. A guy had to do it so you’re off the hook.”
“They can figure out who was working tonight, you know.”
“What are they gonna do?” Brett says. “Make us all pull out our dicks in a lineup?”
“Who knows?”
“Just don’t worry about it,” he says and walks away.
Brady
This morning I wake up feeling a little confused and a lot hungover. Heaven is sitting on my bed, and my reality seems a little distorted.
“Hi,” I say, not sure how many beers I drank last night and wondering what the hell went on.
“Morning,” she says, and she doesn’t seem happy at all. Did something happen between us? I’m going to hope for no if this is her reaction to it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask hesitantly.
“Everything,” she says. She falls onto my bed and buries her face in the pillow. “How did this happen?” she asks. At least I think that’s what she asked. Her voice is so muffled with her face in the pillow.
“Too much alcohol?” I offer, now thinking that maybe we had sex.
Stupid and Contagious Page 14