by Alan Osi
They laughed at me, all of them. It wasn’t forced laughter, more like I actually said something funny.
Mark said, “You’re going to have to trust me when I tell you that won’t help them one bit.”
“But,” said Hailey, “we’ll talk about it and get back to you.” The other two looked at her, surprised. “We will,” she said. “We’ll discuss it, if we can work out a win-win, you’ll get the information you want.”
“Is there anything I can do to bring you closer to yes?” I said, looking at her. Her eyes narrowed.
Percival answered. “If we need sweater-vests or a smart pair of loafers, you’ll be the first to know. Scout’s honor.”
Mark snorted. I could only sigh before continuing. On to the last thing on my agenda. I said, “Well. That concludes the important business of this meal. But, seeing as we still have a lot of time to kill, what do you guys say we talk a little bit, really generally, about moondust?”
Percival rolled his eyes.
“Like, what do you want to know?” the pretty stoner girl said.
“Like, everything,” I said. “I want to know everything about your life.”
“Hell, no,” she said.
“I’ll settle for how moondust has affected it. What’s changed? What you’ve learned. If you think you can stop. That sort of thing.”
At this point, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my trusty digital recorder. I put it center table.
“What’s that?” asked Mark.
“A recorder,” I responded.
“No. No tape.”
“It doesn’t use tape, it’s digital.”
“Get it off the table, smartass,” Hailey said.
“Why? What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing, and because we said so.”
We all sat staring at each other for a second, in a minor battle of wills. They, like spoiled brats, didn’t give an inch. I sighed again; I pretty much had what I needed anyway. But, if they weren’t going to talk, I didn’t see a point wasting my time here in Hipster Ville.
I grabbed the recorder and put it back in my pocket. Then I stood up, grabbed my wallet, and pulled out a ten and a five. “Guys, if you don’t want to talk, I’m going to get going. Here’s fifteen bucks for my food. Call me when you have the info for me.”
On that note, I left. In any relationship, one needed to recognize the moment to step away from the table. The balance of power had to be maintained.
76. NAOMI
“Yo! I need table eight. Like now,” I said. Fernando, on the line, waved me away, like I was a nuisance. Which from his perspective I probably was.
But there was never any time for arguing, so I grabbed the appetizers up for six and scurried my little behind out the door. Stopped by the bar for an espresso for the creepy loner at four, grabbed a check, took an order, and then it was back to the kitchen again. But, not before being flagged down by table twelve, the annoying table—not for anything the foursome there was doing, they were fine. It was just the location. Tables twelve and thirteen were in a section of the restaurant all by themselves. Made it really hard to manage if you were busy and you basically had to wait on two different sections of the restaurant, as I did this afternoon.
“How are you guys doing?” I said, hoping they would be fast. And noticed that there were only three of them now. I figured number four had gone to the restroom.
“We had a situation come up,” said one, the guy with the green army-style hat. He was giving me the eye. Wasn’t too bad looking. But, I wasn’t a fan of the neck tattoo. “Our associate had an emergency,” he said. “He had to bounce. I don’t know how cooked our food is. But, if you can cancel his, go for it. Or, if you can’t, eat it for lunch or something. He gave us money for your trouble, so the money’s yours anyway. Either as part of the bill or part of the tip.”
“So…” I thought for a second—”He had the Florentine, right? You’re saying you don’t want it. But, will—what?—pay for it anyway.”
He flashed me a smile, then. Impish, you could call it, on the winning side, too. “Call it a token of appreciation.” I looked over to the woman at the table. She had a twinkle in her eye and was sipping her mimosa, studiously avoiding watching this exchange too closely. He continued, “People don’t appreciate how hard this job is. But, I do. I want to take care of you like you’re taking care of us. Do whatever you need to with the food, the money’s yours anyway. If that means we’re going to over-tip?” he shrugged. “Truth be told, I’m not sure there’s any such thing. Definitely not for you. I think you’re worth it.”
Now both the other two people at their table had a little smile on their faces. I had cracked one too. But, I had far too much to do to really entertain flirting right now. “Right, well, thank you,” I said. “I’ll bring your food out real soon.”
“Great,” he said, smiling that smile again. “Thanks.”
As I started power-walking my way back to the kitchen, hoping to grab the food for table eight, I heard their conversation start-up again.
“So,” said Neck-Tattoo, “Back to business. Hailey? You really think we should tell the suit our most prized secret?”
That was the thing about waiting tables. You could catch snippets of what might be the most fascinating conversations sometimes. But, you were always on the periphery, barely brushing up against other people’s lives in these small and intimate moments. So close, involved on a certain level, yet so far away.
Their conversation continued: I only heard it in the sparest, most disparate fragments. The other guy was saying when I dropped off the food, “It’s your idea. Why should we jump on this sword for you? It’s only fair, Hailey,” and the woman protested, sputtering about flirtation and their lack of chivalry. One of the boys said, as I was zipping away, “Are you asking for special treatment?”
Later it seemed like they discussed other things entirely, and the thread of the conversation was far out of my reach. It was that way with everyone in a restaurant; worlds that touched, but never enmesh. Even the flirting happens through invisible panes of glass, like prison visits or red-light Amsterdam seductions.
77. HAILEY
Once the brunch finished, and I was on my way home, riding the subway, I decided to get it over with and call the suit. I could do so thanks to my lovely cell phone booster thingy, which allowed me to get a signal from anywhere, even underground.
I dialed the number Perce gave me and punched send. He picked up before too long.
“Maxwell Smith.”
“This is Hailey, from brunch. I have your answer.”
“My answer?”
“You asked for two things. The first was how we make it. The second was the date of our thing. Right now, we’re shooting for having it next Sunday, October 8. But, it’s not set in stone. As to the other thing… we won’t tell you how we make moondust, we’ll show you, instead. Is that cool with you?”
“It’s ideal. And, not that I mind at all. But, why am I hearing this from you and not from Beaver?”
“Beaver? Oh, you mean Percival, because you’re dealing with me for now.”
“I’m a lucky man,” he said, forcing silky sounds. I rolled my eyes, again.
“Listen. You try anything with me, and I mean anything, and I’m kicking you in the nuts. We’re doing show-and-tell on the eighth, so clear your schedule. That’s Thursday night, unfortunately. Be on your Ps and Qs. For reasons you don’t understand yet, the minute you hit on me the… stuff… we’re making will be ruined. And so will your testicles. Understand?”
“You just said I didn’t.”
“I’m asking you to confirm that if you try flirting with me, I will hurt you.”
“I heard you,” he said.
“Good. Come to 9573 Walter Avenue at eleven Thursday night. Call this number when you get there. I’ll see you then.”
“Wait,” he said. I sighed. “Can I infer, because you’re calling me and threatening my unborn children, that you
and I will be alone Thursday?”
“You can, and you can also infer that I wish we weren’t. See ya.” I hung up. Infer, who used words like that?
Damn them for making me do this. Of course, in their shoes—having a good excuse to make someone else deal with Maxwell—I would have done the exact same. I guess I drew the short end of this stick. Happened sometimes.
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
78. GREGORY
“Father Clarke,” I began and then decided to use his first name, for effect. “Winston. As I always have, I find your dedication admirable. I truly do. Your care for people, whether members of our flock or no, speaks well of you and all of us. This attribute is from God, purely. There can be no doubt.”
Clarke’s eyes were large and unsettled as he watched me. He was sweating, and as my office was not overly hot, it occurred to me that the sweat could only be a result of some inner heat. His animation when he had spoken was clear. He needed gentle handling to bring him back into proper balance.
I continued, “And I understand your specific concern in this case well. It indeed sounds like this substance—moondust, you called it?—could be a very harmful, indeed. Heretical in its very nature, as you said. Blasphemous in its use. Given what you’ve told me is correct, of course, I agree completely.”
Hearing these words, Father Clarke deflated a bit. For he surely could sense what was coming, he was always perceptive that way. But, his idea for some immediate action could not be, and there was nothing I could do to change this. Instead, I decided to try to build him up a little more.
“I will pass this matter along to the cardinal. It could be that, very soon, this issue will reach the ear of the highest members of our church. It could be that what you have done here will give us forewarning of a serious threat, and because of that possibility I want to reiterate what an excellent job you’ve done in bringing it before me today.
“But, there will be no public statements. Not yet. You see, as we live in the age of rampant media, it is important that we consider, along with other concerns, the image of Mother Church. It is an image, I’m afraid, that is under consistent and virulent attack. You are aware, of course, of the terrible lies that are being told about priests all over the globe. There are those, my son, who want us to fail, to be seen as backward, to be reviled as monsters instead of respected as the simple servants we are. We have enemies, and while their existence is extremely lamentable, we cannot ignore it simply because it doesn’t sit well with us. We must always act accordingly—with grace, wisdom, and most importantly, patience.”
“But,” Father Clarke said, “surely the best thing we can do, given this, is provide the best spiritual guidance and care for all of God’s children that we can and as soon as we can?”
“Indeed, we should. And, we are. But, we must do so intelligently. And, we must do so without myopia that would make things more difficult for us in the future. Which means that we must consider our image and act in ways that strengthen our standing in the community at large, never in ways that weaken it.
“You understand, Father, that witch hunts must never happen again, even if we are hunting powder witches and not human ones? We cannot seek to root out the blasphemous. We have engaged that type of folly in darker days of our church, centuries ago. But, they were darker days for humanity at large, so the fault is less with us than with the times, I think. Nevertheless, we must show that we have moved on, you see.”
The priest began to speak. But, I held up a hand to silence him. When his mouth closed, I continued.
“This is not to say I believe we should do nothing at all or that we will do nothing at all. No, Father, it is a matter of timing. At this moment, this drug is unknown. Have you considered that, by condemning it publicly, we could indeed aid in its spread and simultaneously would be forever linking our beloved church to it in the minds of the people? This would clearly be folly, as I’m sure you understand.”
I waited. “Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, I do.”
“Good.” I reached across my desk and patted him on the arm. “I knew you would. And I’m very glad you gave me this little bit of it, evil as it is, for us to study. In time, the church will come up with a plan on how to deal with this danger. We can both be sure of that. But, this is a decision to be made at the highest level, I think. There is so much to consider.”
Having finished saying what needed to be said, I focused on watching him. I could see his youthful idealism struggling against the common sense wisdom I’d just imparted. The wisdom was winning, weighted, as it was, by the respect he had for my station.
“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Bishop,” he said, finally, in a voice laced with respect and disappointment.
I smiled in return. “Thank you, Winston, for your vigilance. My door is always open.”
79. WINSTON
Standing outside, the sense of disquiet I felt surged and catalyzed my indecision. Everything the bishop said was true, his instructions to wait, clear and necessary. The matter was too big and too serious for me to deal with myself, for I did lack the experience to understand the nuances of such a complicated issue.
And yet however elegant his argument, the memory of the woman who took moondust counterbalanced it. If I could use a single word to describe her, she was fractured. To have an event so thoroughly confuse the issue of faith was more than any psyche could bear. Moondust would destroy any who came across it.
How many souls would be thrown into torment while we waited for official word? How clear it seemed to me that the decision to wait would consign some awful number of innocents to the soul-sickness of questioning God! I was fundamentally unable to do this, even if it were expressly ordered by His Holiness himself. I was shocked by the inherently blasphemy of this admission. But, the way of Jesus meant following God by caring for one’s neighbors, no matter the consequences. When, as a child, I’d fallen in love with Christ, the Savior, I had done so because of his perfect love. And given how close the two events were in time—the woman coming into the confessional, and the newspaper man entering my office—it seemed likely that God brought this to me for a reason.
But what could I do? I was as unwilling to violate the dictates of the Catholic Church as I was to ignore my duty to humanity. So as I began to walk toward the nearest subway, dodging the teeming masses without real thought, I searched the bishop’s words for wiggle room. As when I was a child planning some innocent mischief, perhaps I could find a loophole in the rules as explained that would allow me to follow the letter of the law. But, not necessarily its spirit. It was shaky ground to be sure. But, it was a way forward.
Thinking it through, I realized everything the bishop said pertained to agents of the church, and not, specifically, me. In a sense, every priest was two entities in one. I was Father Clarke, a representative of God and a part of the church, and I was Winston, an individual person. Father Clarke received a direct order to do nothing while the church considered this problem. Winston, however, had not; as long as I acted as a person and not as a functionary of the church, I was free to tackle this problem. If my actions were unassociated with my station, and if I stayed true to my vows, then I could go rogue.
It was all of our jobs to care for the spiritual wellbeing of humanity. I pledged to Christ to do so and so would.
But how?
As if sent from God, this answer came quickly. The mid-morning streets were fairly packed with people today, the usual mix of locals and a few slow-moving tourists, so I eased to the side of the street and reached into my back pocket for my wallet. Inside, I grabbed the number for the reporter and then gave him a call on my cell phone.
“Maxwell Smith.”
“Mr. Smith, hello. This is Father Clarke. We spoke Sunday.”
“Yes, Father, I remember. Has a decision been made?”
“I’m afraid it has, Mr. Smith. We will be unable to provide you an interview at this time. But, as soon as we are willing to make a public s
tatement, it is my hope that all concerned will agree to make it to you.”
“I see,” he said. He didn’t sound all that disappointed, strangely.
“I’m very sorry we couldn’t give you what you wanted.”
“I am too. But, I understand.”
“I was wondering if you could do me a favor. You had said that you came across this drug in Midtown Manhattan. Do you remember where?”
“Sutton Street. Right on the water, close as you can get.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith. Again, I’m sorry. Have a wonderful day.”
“You too, Father,” he said. And hung up.
Sutton Street was uptown, not far from Madison Avenue and other famous meccas of the Manhattan elite. It was a very rich area, full of restaurants and shops catering to those with money and time to spare. Where I was going, by the river, was a dead end street, and at its end sat a little area with benches overlooking the water. The street leading up to this area was entirely residential, and the houses were best described as mansions. One wondered what kind of people lived there, and how they made their millions. And how much they gave to charity.
Having already changed into civilian clothes, I sat on one of the benches in the park at the end of the street and waited—for hours. People came and went: A group of tourists. A young black construction worker with glasses and skin the color of driftwood. A pair of bicyclers, perhaps husband and wife, in matching biking suits. A lone woman, wearing a black top and skinny jeans, sat writing in a notebook while looking out at Roosevelt Island. After about four hours I started doubting my decision. So I prayed.
I prayed for a good twenty minutes, keeping my mind focused, asking the Lord to send this person to me. I repeated the reasons and reminded God that this was all in service to Him and to the people of the world He’d created. I prayed with all my might, reaching a semi-meditative state, feeling nothing, but the wind on my skin and the hymn in my brain. I kept my eyes closed for this time, and when I finally opened them, I was not alone.