Royally Screwed

by L. J. Vickery

  ****

  Huxley was seventeen and out of control. His sisters were in the midst of their own turmoil, having graduated high school the previous year and succumbed to their addictions. His father seemed at a loss as to how to handle any of his children. It was only the end of September and Huxley had just been suspended from school for the third time for fighting. Only this time, he wouldn’t go back.

  Early in the day, he entered the family farmhouse by the back door and snuck up to his room. He knew everyone was at work, but Hux took no chances. He worked silently. Grabbing an empty duffel bag from his closet, he threw it on the bed. The contents of his money jar—$347 he’d earned cutting lawns over the summer—got put in, followed by socks, underwear, jeans and T-shirts. He grabbed his comb, toothbrush, and toothpaste from the bathroom he shared with his sisters, and at the last minute remembered deodorant. He didn’t want to stink while trying to find a job.

  Winter would be coming on fast. In Maine, it always did. So he tied a pair of boots to the end of the pack then searched in the back of his closet for his winter coat. The last thing he felt like doing on a seventy-five-degree day was carrying the heavy thing, but he had no choice. Hux slung it over his arm and headed back downstairs.

  He went to the kitchen and rummaged in the junk drawer for a pen and paper. He loved his family, he truly did. He needed to leave a note. After all, it wasn’t their fault they didn’t understand him. Hell. He didn’t understand himself.

  Huxley wrote quickly, telling them he’d been kicked out of school again, for the last time. He was off to see what else the world held for him, and not to worry. He’d be in touch. He propped the note up next to the coffee pot, and with a final nod toward self-preservation, opened a cupboard and loaded up his big coat pockets up with power bars. He had no idea how long it would take him to find a ride in to Bangor.

  He was smart—no one ever accused him of not being canny—and the first thing he did when he got to the city was run around applying at every place that displayed a help wanted sign. Each time he approached a new establishment, he ditched his bag behind a dumpster, or asked some nice person sitting at an outdoor cafe to watch it for him. Then, holding himself erect and assuming an air of confidence, he’d walk in and ask for an application or an interview, whichever they’d give him.

  He was tall and well built, so only a few places asked him his age. Of course, he lied and told them eighteen. The problem was, no place wanted to hire him on the spot. They needed a phone number where he could be contacted.

  Huxley hadn’t worked that through, and made it a priority to get a phone. It would have to be a cheap one, as he figured he’d need money to put himself up for a week until he could garner a paycheck.

  As the day wore on, Huxley became bolder. Fuck it. If he had the balls to apply at fast food joints, why not something a little swankier? The next place he chose was an upscale restaurant. He walked into the cool hush of a richly appointed dining room, knowing this was the job he needed.

  Hux approached a gentleman in a suit. “Are you the person I would speak to about a job?” he asked politely, wishing he wore chinos instead of jeans.

  The man looked him up and down, not answering right away.

  “The sign outside said you are looking for help.”

  Huxley finally got an answer.

  “We’re looking for a busboy, but you’ll need to come back tomorrow to speak with the woman who does the hiring.” Huxley was given a name, but refused to accept his dismissal.

  “Are you shorthanded tonight?” Huxley took a chance. If they were, it was a Friday night—perhaps the busiest night of the week for them—and he could prove his worth. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll work tonight for free and show you what a hard worker I am.”

  It was an enormous gamble. Huxley had never worked at a restaurant before, but when he put his mind to it, he was a quick study. As an added bonus, adults liked him. He didn’t know if it was his willingness to work hard, or his earnest demeanor, but once they got to know him, they trusted him. It must be something he’d gotten from his dad.

  Hux did a mental high five at the amused assent from what turned out to be the maître d’, and agreed to be back in two hours to start a shift. Huxley never looked back.

  He procured a room at the Charles Inn—normally $98 a night—but since they weren’t full and they were between summer season and leaf peeper season, he talked the manager down to $40 a night for a room next to the maid’s laundry facilities.

  His next stop was a cheap electronics store, a two mile walk, where he picked up a phone for $19.99. Hux got a number, loaded the device with $50 worth of minutes then counted his change. He’d have a little more than a week before he was broke…if he ate frugally at a fast-food joint for every meal. That left the problem of clothing, which the man at the restaurant told him had to be black slacks and a black button down shirt.

  Huxley used the phone store’s demo computer to find the nearest thrift store. He hoofed it back past his hotel then a half mile north to buy himself just what he needed for a total of $12.50.

  All this accomplished, he returned to the restaurant ten minutes before his slated shift, and proceeded to make himself indispensable. They hired him that night.

  Huxley never came close to going broke. The waiters and waitresses shared tips with him at the end of each evening, and his late night meal always got eaten in the warmth of the kitchen after the dining room closed. After a week of tips plus a paycheck, he had enough to get a cheap, studio apartment. That wasn’t to say he didn’t have to talk the landlord out of the whole “first, last, and security” bit of business. He did. By promising to trim grass, rake leaves, and shovel walkways once winter came. In the end, he and the landlord both made a very good deal.

  Huxley thrived in the atmosphere of the restaurant. He learned every job and never said no when asked to fill in or work an extra shift. Within six months he’d moved up from busboy to waiter, and so charmed people that he started having regulars who asked for him. Huxley cleaned up on tips.

  He had long since paid his landlord the requisite deposits and stopped his off-time manual labor. He bought himself a small, beat-up subcompact, and on a rare night off, found himself at a stop light looking into a new gym that had just opened.

  Before he quite understood what he was doing, he’d turned the car into a parking lot and gone in. He signed up for kickboxing lessons, where he would spend almost all of his free time for the next two years, honing his skills and developing his massive physique.

  He dated, but infrequently and nothing serious. Usually it was someone he met at the gym. They’d hook up for a while and part company amicably.

  Huxley reestablished contact and then kept in touch with his family. He travelled back to visit occasionally, and his sisters had both crashed on his couch a time or two. Things were going well, but Huxley fixated on where his future lay.

  For a while, he pondered becoming a professional waiter; heading to New York City or Montreal, where he could make good money at a five-star establishment. But the more he frequented the gym, the more the place felt like home.

  Before the next year came to a close, he wanted a workout studio of his own. None existed in his home town. And moving back to the farm, living there and having his own place of business, was at first appealing, and eventually an obsession.

  He talked to his dad at length and applied for loans. But even with his father’s backing, his lack of a college degree—not to mention a high school diploma—put him in a category that no bank was willing to finance. They all considered him a high risk.

  At the rate he earned money at the restaurant, Huxley figured it would be ten years before he’d save enough to rent and furnish a second-rate gym let alone own one. It got him down, but he persevered.

  Then one night, almost two years to the day since he’d come to Bangor, he met Miranda Worthington.

  Huxley had seen her in the restaurant many times. She had a
favorite table in a section he never worked, where the owner sat the wealthiest patrons, and up until that night, only two waiters served those tables. It was Huxley’s luck that one of the two had called in sick.

  “You want to work the high-end section tonight?” He’d never thought to hear that question from his boss.

  “Absolutely,” Hux responded, and that’s all it took. From that moment on, Mrs. Worthington asked only for him and he blossomed under her flattery. She tipped more than any other patron he’d ever served, and he kept his eye on the door every Saturday night in anticipation of her arrival.

  She was something he’d never come across before. A woman in her early sixties, still in exquisitely good shape, who seemed completely in charge of every aspect of her life. She didn’t have a husband, but always came into the restaurant on the arm of a younger man. Sometimes a much younger man. Her escorts would change monthly, sometimes reappearing, sometimes not. She spared no expense during her meals and always picked up the tab.

  On an uncustomary Tuesday night a few months after meeting Hux, she came into the restaurant early for dinner and alone.

  “How are you, Huxley?” she inquired, after being seated. He never spoke to her first, but waited for a cue she was interested in having a short conversation.

  “Fine, Mrs. Worthington.” Huxley stood back while the busboy poured her water. “Are you expecting company this evening?”

  “No.” She looked up at him as he handed her the leather-bound menu. “I hoped for some extra attention from you during dinner.”

  The statement surprised Huxley, but he took it in stride. She had to mean that she wanted him to make sure she didn’t wait around for anything, since she ate alone.

  “I’ll be sure that everything comes to your table in a timely fashion,” he assured her.

  “Not necessarily what I meant.” She looked around, checking out the many empty tables. “I’d like to know if you’ll help me with something. After all, you’ve been serving me now for several months, and I’ve gotten to know you.”

  Huxley was pretty sure a woman of Mrs. Worthington’s caliber would not be interested in acquainting herself with a high-school dropout, but he didn’t blink an eye. “What exactly would you like, ma’am?” He waited patiently while she looked over the all-too-familiar menu. He quickly realized this was some kind of a test.

  “I’ll have the scallops with rosemary, and a glass of that nice pinot grigio that you brought me last week. When you return, you can tell me whether you have plans for next Sunday evening,” she said blithely, taking a sip of her water.

  Huxley couldn’t have been more flummoxed. He kept his face blank as he turned to the kitchen to place her order. Exactly what did she ask? Did she want to take him out on a date? Pretty laughable. Perhaps she had a daughter or a niece who needed an escort to something. Sure. That was it…although he’d never seen her dine with another woman.

  He placed her order and hurried back out with her wine. There was only one way to find out.

  Huxley showed Mrs. Worthington the bottle, wrapped in a white linen napkin, and at her nod of approval, he poured a glass.

  “It happens I’m not busy this coming Sunday,” he managed to get out levelly then stood waiting for her response.

  “Lovely,” she said. “Would you consider serving for a private party—with a few other waiters, of course—a small gathering I’ll be having at my house?”

  Huxley hoped he disguised the sigh of relief that swept through him. He chided himself for being foolish. Thank God she hadn’t asked him on a date. Although why he believed a woman like her would have been interested in him now seemed ridiculous. His natural smile came back.

  “I’d be more than pleased to work for you,” he assured her.

  After a little small talk during the course of her meal, she gave him the time of the party and her address.

  “What shall I wear?” Huxley was used to the black shirt, black trousers uniform of the restaurant and hoped she didn’t want him in a black tux. He didn’t own one and didn’t want to spend the money to rent one either. He tried to save every penny.

  “Just wear street clothes.” Did she just look him up and down? “I have a uniform for you to wear.”

  It sounded good to Huxley, and as he pulled out her chair to bid her goodbye, she slipped him his biggest tip yet. It looked like this was his lucky week.

  ****

  Huxley’s mind came back to present. He paused in his narration to Dani, wondering if he could have a sip of water. Dani again tried to cajole him into silence.

  “Hux,” she said, bringing him water. “Why don’t you just try to take it easy? You don’t have to talk.”

  He became agitated as she supported his head and sent water trickling down equal parts inside his mouth and the outside of his throat. “I need you to hear this,” he spluttered. Dani wiped the errant water away with her sleeve, but missed her own tear, which he watched track down her cheek.

  “All right, then,” she said, and he must have lost consciousness for a moment, because he could have sworn he heard her whisper to the queen. “As soon as he loses consciousness for good, I’m cutting him open. There’s no way he can survive without intervention. I can’t harm him any worse by attempting to operate.”

  Yeah. Craziness. He must be hearing things.

  “Like I said,” he continued. “I thought it was my lucky week.”

  ****

  Hux showed up at Mrs. Worthington’s house at the prescribed time, to see a few other cars parked on the street where she’d told him to put his. They were all of a much newer and more expensive make, but nothing too flashy. They must be the cars for the help.

  He brought himself around to a back door as per her instruction, and got let in by a tall, well-built man about ten years older than Huxley.

  “New meat,” the guy called over his shoulder, getting a chuckle and a few abusive comments from within. He cuffed Huxley on the shoulder. “Don’t mind me. Vicious sense of humor.” And yet, the humor didn’t make it to his eyes.

  Huxley walked into a large kitchen, busy to the extreme. Large pots boiled on one of the three stainless steel stoves he could see, and fixings for salads had been cut up on a vast steel sideboard. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said he’d entered the kitchen to a restaurant. The only thing different, and a little bit odd, was that none of the help were female. It seemed like Mrs. Worthington had an eye for who served her, and as far as Huxley could see, it looked like they’d all stepped off the pages of some upscale men’s magazine.

  “Dinner’s in two hours, but hors d’oeuvres have to be brought around first, starting in,” The door greeter looked at his watch, “half an hour.” He pointed toward a hallway across the kitchen. “Changing room is the second door on the left, that way. You’ll find your uniform in there. When you’re dressed, head through the door at the far end of the hall. The missus likes to have the waiters line up to make her guests welcome.”

  It sounded odd, but he thanked the man and did as he was told. The bathroom was unlocked. He wondered if he’d arrived earlier than the other servers, or later.

  Hux couldn’t locate the uniform. All he could find was a bunch of small, soft, buff-colored chamois on a velvet chair. He picked up a piece of the material and swallowed back his shock. It was actually a loincloth, or a pile of loincloths in different sizes. Was he supposed to put one on? Fuck.

  He crept out of the bathroom to the door at the far end of the hall, and eked it open a small crack. When he put his eye to the opening, it became all he could do not to make a noise. Six men, of various shapes and sizes, stood side by side with their legs shoulder width apart, and their hands behind their backs. They all stared straight ahead without expression, and they all wore the small covering.

  Huxley shut the door quietly and leaned back against it, breathing hard. He’d been wrong about the males being magazine models. They were obviously exotic dancers. Mrs. Worthington had mentione
d the pay for tonight’s gig, and it had seemed way over the top. Now he knew why. What the fuck?

  The best thing to do would be to walk out and never speak to the woman again. But damn, it was good money. He needed it. And nobody could force him to do anything against his will. He’d proven he could best everybody who went up against him at the gym. Just let these pretty boys, or Mrs. Worthington, force him into anything.

  With that in mind, Huxley returned to the bathroom and put on his costume. No way he’d call it a uniform. He’d noticed no shoes, so he padded out barefoot, took a deep breath, and sidled his way into what looked to be a small banquet room. He shuffled to the end of the line and assumed the position of the others. Not one of them turned to give him a look or a smile. It would be a long shift.

  Huxley made more money that night than he made in a month at the restaurant. As he brought food around, women from the ages of about forty and up took what he offered and just the tiniest bit more. He was brushed against, patted and even squeezed, but every touch got accompanied by a bill or two being tucked into his loin-cloth. And they weren’t small bills.

  A new, and faster way of making money now lay at his disposal. Despite the fact that the whole thing felt skeevy, once a month for the next six months Huxley found himself back in the serving line. He sucked it up and smiled for the ladies, growing a little bolder each time as the more experienced waiters flirted and bent to show off their assets. He convinced himself there was no harm, and Mrs. Worthington seemed pleased as he became more adept at mixing with her guests.

  Finally, toward the end of one evening, Mrs. Worthington had asked Huxley to meet her in the sitting room. He wondered if he’d done anything wrong. His socializing had been more overt that night than ever before. Perhaps she would fire him.

  Turns out it wasn’t firing she had in mind.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked Huxley, her back to him as he walked into a dimly lit room. She didn’t wait for his response, and poured him a measure of whiskey. Coming to stand next to him, she handed him the glass and looked up into his curious face.