Monkey Suits

by Jim Provenzano

  A pair of hands clamped down on each of their shoulders. “I trust you like zeez hours?” Philipe grinned, as if he’d caught two boys playing hooky. “Where are you supposed to be?”

  “At the reception,” Marcos said.

  “On the floor.”

  “Fine. Then go out and serve ze food instead of eating it, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brian walked toward the main floor. Where the hell was his table?

  “Oh, young man.”

  A nasal New England voice called out behind Brian. The path in front of him was too crowded to avoid the request. He turned back to see the portly pockmarked face. He couldn’t place him, but the voice was oddly familiar.

  “Yes, sir?” Although not assigned to drinks, he felt relieved to fulfill this man’s request while he tried to find the face of his B waiter.

  “Could I possibly get a scotch and water?” The portly face grinned ever so slightly.

  “Certainly, sir.” Brian turned and headed for the bar.

  “Hey, Billy.” Brian sidled up to the service bar, crowded with guests requesting a dozen vodka tonics at once. He scooted up close to grin at Billy Heath, who once again took the job of bartending for the evening. Coincidentally, Heath’s recent birthday party had been unusually well stocked with liquor.

  “Hi, Bri, how’s it goin’?”

  “Okay. Gimme a scotch and water rocks for that stunning figure of decrepitude.” Brian nodded behind himself.

  “Oh boy. You know who that is, doncha?” Billy said as he whipped the bottle over the glass. An amber stream of alcohol arced from the jigger pourer to the glass and over ice.

  “No.”

  “That’s our host for tonight, Winston Fuller.”

  “So?”

  Billy fingered Brian close to him. “He edits that conservative rag, The American Republic.”

  “So?”

  “So, this month that old bastard called for a quarantine of all gays until there was a cure for AIDS. Didn’t you read the Post?”

  “No.” Brian reached to put the drink on his tray.

  “Wait a sec’.” Billy took the glass, then bent down behind the bar with the drink in his hand. In a brief moment, unseen by the guests standing within a few feet, he stood again, grabbed a stir stick, swizzled the drink, and wiped his lips.

  “You didn’t.” Brian’s eyes bugged.

  “I did.”

  Brian peered into the glass for telltale signs of saliva.

  “Take this, brother. May it serve you well.” Billy set the glass on Brian’s tray.

  “But I can’t ...”

  “Listen, babe, that corrupt sleaze bucket cornered me in a men’s room at a party a year ago. Offered me a hundred-dollar bill if I let him blow me. When I told him to fuck off, he said he’d have me fired, but I’m still working. So let me make my own personal form of payback.”

  Brian backed away slowly, murmuring to Billy, “I hope you have a nasty cold.”

  Billy saluted him. As he turned to approach, Fuller’s beady eyes spotted his tray, then him, and a thick, liver-spotted hand swiftly clutched the drink.

  Something felt familiar.

  “Thank you,” said Fuller, before turning back to discuss some topic of fascination to his small cluster of listening guests.

  Brian tucked his empty tray under his arm and moved on behind Fuller. He silently took in a deep breath. Something smelled familiar.

  32 The pressure in a corked champagne bottle is about ninety pounds, three times that of an automobile tire. On the day of Trish Fuller’s party, the number of bottles aging in the cellars of Champagne, France was over seven hundred million.

  In the back room of the Met, a mere one hundred bottles of Moet sat in fifteen white plastic tubs surrounded by three hundred pounds of ice. Fifteen waiters crouched over the bottles, unwrapping them in preparation for pouring with dessert.

  “Are you okay?” Ed asked Brian, whose eyes seemed to be glazed over, at least more than usual.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. I just met somebody that ... nothing.”

  “What is it?” Ed unwrapped the foil from another bottle.

  “We’ll talk at home, okay?” Brian grinned, patting Ed’s face. “Did you hear? There’s some protestors outside.”

  “Protesting what?”

  “The mayor, I think. Maybe they don’t like our host for the night.” He stood and walked away.

  “Really?” Ed said. “I wonder why Kevin and Carissa aren’t outside with them.”

  Trish decided on another glass of wine. What the hell, enjoy it, she thought. It would all be over in a few hours, anyway. She’d be society carrion. Might as well move to the Hamptons permanently.

  Her assistant hadn’t returned from finding out whether those annoying people had left their picket out front. She’d warned Winston, but would he ever listen to her when it came to his precious magazine? Perhaps it was just about the Mayor. That sort of people seemed to follow him like flies. She realized she never should have invited him. What small ounce of official cachet his presence brought was quickly diminished by the perpetual cloud of protestors that followed him through the city.

  Ritchie, her waiter, poured more wine into her glass.

  “Well, of course, if we have to expand the City Council, we expand the City Council, provided we get the right people on it!” The Mayor’s whining voice boomed over the head table. His imposing frame swayed in his seat. Several other guests muttered laughter.

  Winston Fuller turned away in mild distaste. He scanned the crowd to catch a waiter’s eye, hoping to get another scotch. He avoided Trish’s glance.

  “So, what do you want to do in your third term?” prodded Monica Goldman, a dour woman in a Bill Blass that made her look much younger than her years.

  “If I get re-elected,” the Mayor blared.

  “Yes, if,” she repeated.

  “What the papers and the critics don’t see is that we have to nurture new businesses and keep the ones we have going.”

  “Hear, hear,” toasted Joseph Flor, chairman of the city’s major insurance corporation, who had made more than his share of deals with the Mayor.

  “What about the demonstrators we have outside?” asked another guest.

  The Mayor grinned. “They follow me everywhere. They’re my fan club.” The table erupted in light smatterings of laughter.

  Neil Pynchon, Richie’s captain, silently strode to the head table and whispered into Trish’s ear.

  “It’s time for your speech, dear,” she gestured to the Mayor as she stood. “I’ll come up with you.”

  “Okay. Wish me luck, all.”

  “Let me just go retrieve Ida.” Trish scanned the crowd.

  “Break a leg, “ Joseph Flor mused.

  “Merde,” Winston muttered.

  Lee sensed something was off. Did the staff know what they were planning? Were they waiting to catch them, arrest them? He felt in his pockets for his wallet and keys. It seemed strange not to have a bag full of street clothes nestled away in a back room. He felt truly alone, waiting to be told when to bungee jump.

  The usually swift clearing of tables was marred by the mysterious absence of Philipe, who had ducked out for a moment, saying it was merely a dizzy spell. Lee overheard Neil Pynchon talking with Lenny.

  “He’s alright. Just go ahead and clear. He’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Should we call someone?” Neil’s eyes seemed to bulge with the prospect of monitoring such a maneuver.

  “Just get out there and do it!” Lenny blasted.

  Neil had no idea the Mayor was about to step up to the microphone and begin speaking. He had just signaled the waiters to clear the tables.

  Brian dropped silver, twice. He miscounted his plates and ended up walking back to his table again. One of his guests asked for seconds. Seconds? Now? He wanted to growl.

  He’d gone back and found a tray, taking it back to the table. Hadn’t Full
er recognized him? He felt suddenly exposed and disoriented. He walked toward the floor entrance, which led to the side stairs.

  The Mayor and Trish Fuller had stepped up to the podium, only a few feet away.

  Trish chatted a few feet behind the Mayor with Ida Pomerantz, whom she’d asked to speak on behalf of St. Paul’s Hospital.

  “Well, Claudia was going to be here tonight, but she has this respiratory problem.” Ida feigned a cough.

  “Oh. The cigarette. I’d forgotten I even had it. Sorry. ”

  Trish waved her hand back quickly.

  Her burning cigarette landed squarely in the middle of Brian’s face. He jumped back, but Lee, who ended up directly behind him, since he had jumped the gun on that order, smashed directly behind Brian, causing him to fall forward. Brian’s tray of beouf au jus with gravy and vegetables flew off his tray and hit the floor in a runny stream.

  Ida grabbed Trish Fuller for support, in the back of the neck. Trish, too, fell, losing her emerald necklace, which plopped with a clank onto Brian’s silver tray. He impulsively grabbed it.

  Then a busty woman in a canary yellow Diane von Furstenburg wrap-around fell on Brian.

  Around the tables, the chanting had begun.

  “Eight years and you’ve done nothing! No more business as usual! No more business as usual!”

  The noise of the crash behind the Mayor had made one of the Davids jump the gun. He and the other five protestors had originally decided to wait until the Mayor spoke the word AIDS before launching their infiltrating verbal assault. However, David had started too soon.

  Kevin looked nervously across the dining room to Carissa. The two joined the Davids in their chanting while their three other conspirators began handing out flyers to each table of horrified guests. They chanted along, accompanying them as they drew closer to the Mayor, whose face turned a beet red. Most of the guests refused to take the flyers, so the protestors quickly raced from table to table, the flyers strewn across plates and glasses.

  Ritchie stood nervously as he watched what he thought were his co-workers descend on the Mayor. He felt a rise of anger. “What the hell?” Were all of them going to start screaming, leaving him standing alone, silent and abandoned in the center of it all?

  Lee stared, his mouth dropped open, watching Kevin, Carissa and the others swiftly evolve into charged, pointing, yelling demonstrators. For a moment, he felt confused, afraid to join in. He’d planned it with them, gone along with the meeting decisions, and now he choked. His stack of flyers lay sprawled out on the floor where Brian, Trish Fuller and Ida Pomerantz were struggling to get up. He expected a bullet to penetrate his spine at any moment. Then he thought, What’s stopping me? He felt the surge again. All he had to do was drop his tray and join them.

  He took a step toward the Mayor, when Neil Pynchon appeared behind him. “Help them up, goddammit!” he growled and moved on, swiftly commanding the other waiters to follow instructions until order was retained. Lee was silent as the flustered Trish Fuller grabbed at his sleeve.

  “Oh, god. They’ve done it,” she sighed.

  “You people!” The Mayor’s voice boomed into the microphone, echoing through the mumbled outcries. The Mayor loomed over the podium. He shook a finger at Kevin, who began shouting, “Shame! Shame! Shame!” as Carissa struggled with a guest trying to pry the last few flyers from her hands.

  “You people don’t know who your friends are!” the Mayor shouted..

  “You don’t remember who reelected you!” A tall thin man, a guest this time, stood and shouted, the people at his table lurching back in shock. The usual low din of chat rose to a sea of shouts and screech of shifting chair legs against the marble floor.

  Ed watched as some commotion went on behind the Mayor, who stood a moment glaring at Kevin, Carissa, and the others as they chanted. People rose and shouted back in Kevin’s face. One man threw a drink at him, yet he continued. Ed rushed to the man who gripped Kevin’s arm.

  “Sir, sir, please, please be seated.”

  The man glared at Ed, ready to punch him, his eyes bloodshot. Ed retreated a bit and pleaded to Kevin, “C’mon, that’s enough. Stop! Give it up! This isn’t the right way!”

  Kevin turned aside for a sliver of time, blurted to Ed, “Not for you, maybe,” and stepped closer to the podium, shouting at Hizzoner.

  “You fucking idiot!” Brian seethed at Lee, who stood defenseless and confused.

  After dashing into the kitchen to get a wet towel, Brian flashed forward to the ensuing embarrassment. The entire incident would be blamed on him. He glanced back to the dining room. What in the hell was Kevin Rook doing? Why hadn’t Lee told him what was going to happen?

  He looked around the kitchen while the chefs raced past him to peek out and see what the commotion was about.

  “Stay back!” Philipe snarled as he faced Brian. “How could you do ziss?”

  “I think she burned my nose,” Brian replied, wiping what he realized was blood mixed with gravy.

  “Get a towel!”

  “I’m doin’ that, dammit! Goddam bitch.”

  “What did you say?” Philipe’s normally emotionless face flushed with anger.

  “It was her fault! She stuck her cigarette right in my face!”

  “I dun believe you. Your suit iz a mess. You kennot go beck out there.”

  “Fine.” Brian wiped his coat.

  A large man in a suit and a small wire in one ear pulled Philipe aside.

  “The mayor is leaving, considering the situation. We’ve called in some police. You better go on with your dinner, sir.”

  As Philipe stood by, and Brian leaned over to wipe his shoes.

  “Do you see what you have done?” Philipe screamed after the entourage passed. Brian stood watching them go. “Tell Lenny to get a mop. No, stay here. Do not go beck out there. Just leave.”

  “Fine by me.” Brian’s heart thudded madly. But instead of fulfilling his own destruction, as he had been for years it seemed, in small increments, he diverted it for a moment, saving his pretty little ass by waiting for the right moment until he knew exactly what to do with the extra jewel in his pants.

  Kevin, Carissa and the other demonstrators were led outside, handcuffed by policemen, and down the Museum stairs. Dozens of demonstrators had been marching in a circle in a tiny rectangle made of blue police barricades, carrying signs depicting the Mayor and Winston Fuller in blow-up black and white photos. They cheered as Kevin, Carissa, Bob and the Davids emerged like political prisoners released from the Bastille.

  Inside, an attempt at order had been quickly restored. Several dozen guests had fled the party in fear and outrage. Lee was being watched carefully by Neil Pynchon, seething quietly as he served scoops of pastel sorbet.

  “What the hell was that all about?” a table guest blurted. “Did they think they were communicating anything?” The man glared up at Lee, searching for an answer. He didn’t find it in the averted eyes of his waiter.

  Lee’s movements were on automatic, lost in the shadows of the more experienced activists. It would take all his resolve to simply get through the evening. His insides felt as if they had completely caved in. His moment of glory, thwarted by his base fear of poverty, lay knotted in his gut.

  Trish Fuller and Ida Pomerantz were escorted to the ladies room by a trio of female waiters who helped them clean their gowns.

  “Club soda! Get more club soda!” Trish demanded. One of the women rushed out.

  Trish examined the large stain that spread down the front of her dress. A large puddle of squishy brown goo had soaked through her Bruno de la Selle. She picked carefully at a few broken glass shards, and at a darker blotch amidst the juice.

  “What is this?” she cried as Ida glanced back from the mirror.

  “What, dear?”

  “This! My god, it’s blood! They did it! They threw blood on me! No, I’m bleeding!”

  Of course, the blood was sauce, but she didn’t know that at first. She quick
ly made a move to unzip her dress and inspect herself in the mirror. In all the confusion, it wasn’t until that moment that she realized she looked a bit ... exposed.

  “My necklace! Where the hell is my necklace?”

  “Did you lose it, dear?” Ida queried. Despite the fact that her dress was completely ruined, she remained calm while Trish became unhinged. She glanced at the floor and then suspiciously at the two women waiters, who stood back in shock, unsure how to help.

  “Call the police! Get security! Oh, christalmighty, how could this happen! Those stupid goddam faggots and that faggot mayor.” She glared at the waiters, then suddenly became calm. “Girls, would you please get Philipe to send a policeman around?”

  The women scooted out.

  “Karen,” one said as they rushed down the hallway past glass cases filled with two thousand-year-old pottery.

  “Yes, Theresa?” Her co-worker said.

  “Remind me never to marry a power dyke.”

  33 Detective Martin Riceman did not prefer the company of homosexuals. Although somewhat liberal, he had spent too many years in the less glamorous levels of the NYPD to particularly care for the antics of the wealthy that lay siege to the museum on a more frequent scale.

  So when he was alerted that a group of waiters, for chrissakes, started screaming and yelling at the mayor, plus the hostess, probably half-crocked, drops her pearls and yells Thief, he knew he was in for a late night.

  When he realized that the group of possible culprits consisted of a crew of effete waiters prancing around museums, added to the fact that they also had a bunch of radical queers with AIDS, or at least screaming about AIDS, he heaved a heavy sigh. Another round with the gaybos, he thought. Compounded by Mrs. Fuller’s irate behavior, he longed to get his business over with, get the right fag locked up and the rich bitch forgotten.

  Why was she so upset? He wondered as he listened to her account a second time. She probably had more rocks hidden away at home than most people have Christmas ornaments. Couldn’t these people get enough? The damned necklace was probably worth a year of his pay, pay given to protect rich folk like these from the rest of the world, and to keep the sniveling poor ones from eating each other alive.