My Life Among the Apes

by Cary Fagan

  “I’m s-s-sorry,” Edison says. “But now I’m the only one on duty.”

  “I understand.”

  PERHAPS THE SALESMAN HAS FALLEN asleep, or is just resting; in any case, he doesn’t move from his chair, not even to uncross his arms. As long as he is there, Edison feels obliged to stay open, and makes sure not to disturb him as the hands of the oversized clock pass nine-thirty, ten.

  He hears a woman’s clicking heels before he sees her in the passageway. Edison raises his eyebrows; it is the Wasp, who every morning fights her way to the counter without speaking a word. Now her face looks more gaunt, even jaundiced, the mouth drawn further downwards, as she hesitates at the entrance and looks first at the salesman and then the waiter. Instead of the tightly belted skirt, she wears a bare-shouldered dress with a spiral of glittering sequins. Her stockings, too, shimmer as she darts to the table farthest from Mr. Lapidarius, perching on a chair as if it were unclean or might collapse. Edison waits a beat before making his solemn approach.

  “Do you have any liquor?” She does not look up.

  “I am s-sorry, Madame. This is not a bar.”

  “Damn.”

  “We do, however, have a bottle of c-cognac which the proprietess sometimes adds to her own coffee.”

  “Bring me one like that.” She gives him a dark glare.

  “Very good.”

  A healthy person would avoid such a look, or even return it in kind. But Edison only draws it in, as if to extract some poison from the woman. Someone not a true waiter might be injured by those glaring eyes. But my profession demands an acceptance of such psychological displacements. Who or what has made her so miserable I cannot know, but that I should serve as a stand-in is a fate to which I uncomplainingly submit. Hate me and feel better.

  Edison himself feels a little light-headed, perhaps from the sound of his newly stirred inner voice or the mere aroma of the cognac. He puts the cup down on her table by a folded napkin. Immediately the Wasp takes a long swallow; she makes an appreciative sound, like the sigh of one descending into a hot bath. But Edison has no time to linger, for he hears a sort of flapping of enormous wings and turns to see the Hand Woman fluttering her shawl in the doorway. Perhaps fearing that Beatrice is about, she displays herself peacock-fashion. Seeing only Edison, she lets the shawl fall to her shoulders again and, smiling, takes her regular seat. Then she waggles her fingers at him.

  Edison stares; she has never called him over before. An instant later he stands dutifully by her side. “May I help you?”

  “What’s the drink called with the foam on top.”

  “Cappuccino.”

  “No, I mean whipped cream.”

  “That’s a Viennese coffee.”

  She looks up at him and he notices a few wiry hairs growing from her nostrils and chin. But her eyes, her hazel eyes, must have been beautiful when she was young. At least to somebody.

  “I’d like to try one of those.”

  “With p-pleasure.”

  He hunts under the sink for another real glass, washes it, and makes the coffee. By the time he sets it down on her table the whipped cream is beginning to melt into pale swirls in the coffee below. She picks up the glass with both hands, nails blackened, and puts it to her mouth. When she put it down again a spot of whipped cream clings to her nose.

  “Do you like it?”

  She ruminates on the question, making a chewing motion with her mouth. “Well,” she says finally, “it doesn’t disappoint.”

  OUTSIDE, EDISON IMAGINES, THE DARK of night is changing: growing deeper. But here, in this little underworld, beneath the weight of sixty-three storeys it is always the same, as if time does not exist. Edison’s two patrons sit in their chairs as if in an airport waiting lounge, their flights eternally delayed. What a shame I can’t do more for them. Ah, fool. Know your limitations. A waiter provides solace; he can’t heal.

  Someone deliberately clears his throat behind Edison. He sees three men in dark coats, bunched in the doorway as if holding on to one another. They are dressed identically — Edison can see dark trouser cuffs and patent leather shoes — but otherwise are in no way alike. As Edison approaches, the gangly one says, “Open, are you?”

  “Yes, w-we are.”

  “That’s lucky. You wouldn’t happen to know of a private office party around here? Name of Mecklinger.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “That’s a shame. We must have got the wrong floor. Or building. Or name.”

  “Or year,” says the short one.

  “Whatever the reason, it puts us at rather loose ends. We were counting on the hors d’oeuvres,” says the rotund one.

  “I can make you s-s-sandwiches,” Edison says.

  “That would do very well.” Only as the three file in does Edison see the battered instrument cases that had been hid den behind them. At the table they remove their coats, revealing bow ties and tails. Edison is already working on their double-decker sandwiches, and when he returns the trio fall upon them ravenously.

  WHEN A MAN AND WOMAN with an infant arrive at eleven p.m., Edison is no longer surprised. By now it seems almost natural that people should be wandering about, looking for somewhere to take shelter from the inevitable disappointments of this night. The man looks familiar, but it takes Edison a moment to identify him as Mr. Blood without the toilet paper bits. The woman he also recognizes; she, too, is among the morning crush, or used to be, for he hasn’t seen her in some months. He could not remember the two of them ever speaking or even looking at one another, yet here they are with this bond sleeping in the woman’s arms, mouth open and nose encrusted. Mr. Blood holds the diaper bag. They sit at the table beside the Hand Woman, whom he acknowledges with a reserved nod.

  Edison bends towards them, speaking in a whisper so as not to wake the child. “Would you c-care for s-something?” “Do you have hot cider?” the mother asks. Mr. Blood looks away.

  “Certainly. And — perhaps some warm m-m-milk?”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ve got my own.”

  “Of course.”

  He sees the woman try to take Mr. Blood’s hand, who pulls away from her.

  Returning with the ciders, Edison hears the opening bars of a Schubert waltz. The three musicians have taken out their instruments — violin, viola, cello — and now play softly, so as not to wake the baby. They do not play well, but their presence is fortunate, adding as it does a kind of soundtrack to the accumulated coincidences of the night. Crowded between the table and the counter, the musicians elbow one another as they bow, whispering insults under their breath. But to Edison they are a sweet accompaniment to the clinking of glasses and spoons.

  The baby wakes, a sudden wail. The woman puts it to her breast, where the infant struggles before settling down.

  WHEN THE CLOCK READS TWELVE minutes to midnight, only Edison appears to take notice. The earth spins, the year reaches its end, we are propelled into the future even without knowing.

  More orders come from the tables, a lively atmosphere prevails, and Edison moves with that quick dance-like step peculiar to waiter with a full house. He is carrying a tray of lemonade (refreshment for the musicians, compliments of Mr. Lapidarius) when a woman hurls herself into the café and halts just short of colliding with him. She has a rather horsey face (that is, if a horse can look as if it is in agony) and wears a dress like a flapper. Even as she is making her apologies, Edison can see behind her the Wasp slowly rise from her chair. The first woman must have sensed her presence, for she turns around and the two looked at one another with — what? Fury, alarm, hope, desire; there are no emotions they do not experience.

  “My God,” Mr. Lapidarius calls out in mock exasperation. “If you’re not going to embrace one another then at least dance!”

  Everyone laughs, if hesitantly. The two women, suddenly embarrassed, laugh too. They do embrace, after which they start to dance quite gracefully. Edison puts down the lemonades and, having no call for his service, surveys
the café before him. He sees the Hand Woman smiling in her chair, Mr. Blood impulsively reaching over to take the hand of the woman nursing the baby, the women dancing, Mr. Lapidarius acknowledging the thanks of the musicians. It must be admitted that something unusual is occurring, not likely to repeat itself, allowing Edison to feel that nothing needs to be different from the way it is.

  And then he sees them. Mr. and Mrs. Wiese.

  They are staring into the café, hunched in their twin fur coats. They lean so close that their breath makes clouds on the glass wall. Edison moves between the tables to meet them at the entrance.

  “We left our party to come and get you,” Mrs. Wiese says. “It wasn’t much fun. We worried that you were here all by yourself.”

  “It turns out we are q-q-quite busy.”

  Mr. Wiese says, “We looked around and realized that the others didn’t matter.”

  For the first time, Edison realizes how much he looks like his father. He says, “I c-can’t go anywhere. I have to look after these p-people.”

  “Then we’ll stay,” his mother says. “Look after us, too. We brought some champagne.”

  His father hefts the paper bag in his hands with an oversized bottle inside. Edison says, “All the tables are taken.”

  “A string trio.” His father moves his head to the tempo. “But you’re right. There’s no room, Florence. We’ll go.”

  “Excuse me.”

  It was Mr. Lapidarius, who has risen from his seat. “If you are looking for a place, I am all by myself. You are welcome to join me at my table.”

  His mother looks over her glasses at him. “How gallant. But we don’t want to impose.”

  “No, stay,” Edison says. Here I am a waiter but if I must also be a son, then so be it. He pulls out their chairs and, making his usual bow, heads back to the counter with the bottle of champagne.

  Edison hears a loud popping sound. Confetti and streamers rain over their heads. “Happy New Year!” shouts Mr. Lapidarius. He lights another paper cannon, a third. “Happy New Year,” people call to each other. There is much shaking of hands and even kisses.

  Using the proper technique, Edison turns not the cork but the champagne bottle; there is another pop and everyone applauds.

  THE MUSICIANS PLAY, THE CHAMPAGNE is drunk, the dancers move across the floor. Not until after two do they begin to leave: first Mr. Blood and the mother and baby, then the Wasp and the flapper. Mr. and Mrs. Wiese linger at the entrance, while she tries and fails to speak. Edison kisses her on each cheek and sends them home. Mr. Lapidarius helps the musicians pack up. “A good New Year to you, my friend,” he says, clasping Edison’s hand with emotion.

  Edison cleans the tables and sweeps the floor. He turns off the espresso machine and then the lights. He slides shut and locks the glass door. When he enters the corridor of the mall it is deserted. Instead of heading straight to the subway, he rides the escalator up to the lobby of the office building where a guard has fallen asleep at the vast marble desk behind which blink the changing images of the security camera screens. Edison crosses to the revolving doors, pauses a moment (they always make him dizzy) and pushes his way out.

  The events of this night are so unlikely that they might as well never have happened. It is true that such exceptions to the general run of things can sometimes do more harm than good. However, let no more be said on that theme. As Edison emerges onto the sidewalk, the lightest possible snow is falling. The soreness in his heart unfolds, flutters into the dark sky, and then comes back to rest inside him once more. In a few hours the sun will rise over the New Year. Edison will go home and sleep the humble sleep of a waiter. And then he will return. The café must open again, for people must have somewhere to go.

  Acknowledgements

  “The Floating Wife” was first published in The Antigonish Review.

  “Shit Box,” “My Life among the Apes,” and “Dreyfus in Wichita” were first published in Taddle Creek. The quotation in “Dreyfus in Wichita” is from Richard D. Mandell, Paris 1900, University of Toronto Press, 1967. Used by permission.

  “Wolf,” under the title “Berlin,” was first published in Grain.

  “The Creech Sisters” was first published in The Fiddlehead and Best Canadian Stories 00.

  “The Little Underworld of Edison Wiese” was first published in a limited edition by Hungry I Books. It is dedicated to Susan Matoff.

  Thanks to Bernard Kelly and Rebecca Comay for their close readings of these stories. And to the journal editors who offered valuable suggestions: Conan Tobias, Norman Ravvin, Dave Margoshes, and Richard Cumyn. And finally to Marc Côté and the crew at Cormorant.

  I am grateful for the financial support of the Ontario Arts Council and the Toronto Arts Council.