Monkey Suits

by Jim Provenzano

  Riceman surveyed the massive museum hall, ignoring the many glances he received. Despite the chaos, the shouting waiters had been escorted out, the mess cleaned up, and the party resumed. Delicate servings of raspberry mousse with imported berries in a light sauce were eaten while every guest remarked on the fiasco. The waiters not involved in the demonstration quickly tried to fill the gaps by pouring coffee to abandoned tables. Dozens of them answered terse questions, each denying and damning “those people” as if they were traitors.

  “I think it’s awful what they did.”

  “They don’t understand at all.”

  “It’s the way they do these things. You’re right. It just hurts the cause.”

  Behind a chintz-covered partition, Trish Fuller shrilly harped at the detectives, dreading the moment when she’d have to return to her guests. The Mayor had already left in a huff. Her party was a shambles. She’d have to get to the columnists quickly, beg them to downplay the incident before they hightailed it to their editors.

  Winston scolded his wife. “Love, you remember I suggested you wear the costume jewels. You know, when the help is a bunch of strangers–”

  “To my own benefit? Oh, please, Win. Don’t start!” She glared at her portly semi-soused husband.

  Detective Riceman surmised that he’d just discovered who really wore the pants in the Fuller house. “We’ll get back to you after the party, Mrs. Fuller. Now if we may have a word with Mister, uh Bare-gay?”

  “Ber-szhay,” Philipe stepped forward, correcting him. “Madame Fuller, please, go back to your guests. I am most sorry for ze problem.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow, Philipe.” Trish’s eyes practically bulged from the dark rings of her mascara.

  “Yes, I must apologize. We had no idea zeez employees would stoop to such a stunt.” He waved his hands softly, attempting to calm her.

  “Come, dear.” Winston took her arm. Closing her mouth tightly, she left the men and stormed off.

  Detective Riceman glanced off to the dining area, eyeing the flock of standing waiters. Any of them could have done it. He’d have to go through the company’s files to be sure, and check up on those demonstrators.

  “Now, Mr. Ber–Bershay. What was the name of that waiter that ran into Mrs. Fuller?”

  34 Knowing full well that he’d be followed, perhaps arrested, Brian sped home in a cab. The view across the Manhattan Bridge, usually magical at night, and worth the fifteen-dollar fare, now seemed to loom over his shoulder. He had to get home.

  Brian tensed. Pacing around the loft, he realized his predicament, the little gravy-covered necklace still in his breast pocket. He scanned Ritchie’s rows of unbaked vases in on a plywood shelf. A stout half-finished vase sat in the center, one of his coffee cup/vase series.

  Brian grazed his fingers over the pottery, and then, in a moment of panic, dug his hands into Ritchie’s tub of clay. He clutched the cool muddy slab, digging his fingers into it, pulling, and squeezing it. The carefully manicured hands that served so many meals and deftly attended to the whims of those monsters were finally as dirty and mud-brown as a farmhand. It felt good.

  He suddenly knew what to do. He grabbed a clot of the clay and carefully pressed the necklace into it, then smoothed the mound of clay along the inside wall of one of the unbaked vases, kneading it to smoothness so that Ritchie wouldn’t notice.

  The door buzzer cranked insistently.

  “Quicker than I thought,” he said aloud. After rushing back to the kitchen and buzzing the door, Brian quickly scrubbed his hands in the sink. No sooner had he dried his palms on a dishtowel than Detective Riceman strolled into the loft, a bit out of breath from the two flights of stairs.

  “Anybody home?” Riceman called out.

  “Right here,” Brian wound around the hallway. Finally, he had what would be his toughest acting assignment. But instead of being nervous, he felt very cool inside.

  “Sorry to bother you at home, sir.” The salutation seemed patronizing. Brian was at least half his age. “Detective Riceman, Nineteenth Precinct.” He flashed a badge, then shook hands with Brian. He glanced at the larger man in an overcoat who stood behind Riceman and looked over into the loft.

  Brian forced a smile and shook hands with the other man, who wore an equally rumpled suit, but was not introduced.

  “You are Brian Burns?” Riceman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you just arrive home from the Metropolitan Museum?”

  “Obviously,” Brian gestured down to his gravy-smeared tux shirt, suspenders and black pants. He attempted to nonchalantly wipe his shirt with the dishrag.

  “Club soda would help that,” Riceman suggested.

  Brian glared at him. “Thank you.”

  “You work for the catering company Fabulous Food?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you work the party tonight?”

  “Yes. That’s where I got my souvenir stain.”

  “Were you at all involved in the demonstration?”

  “What, those AIDS people yelling at the mayor?” He walked over to the refrigerator.

  “Yes.”

  “No. I know some of them, but I had nothing to do with that.”

  “You didn’t plan to fall into Mrs. Fuller?”

  “Plan it?” he smirked. “I don’t know how I could have planned a six-car pileup like that. Besides, it was her fault.” Brian scanned the shelves in the fridge. Juice, milk, three half empty bottles of tonic water stolen from parties. Would tonic water work?

  Riceman continued. “Your supervisor, Philip Bare-gay ...”

  “Ber-zhay,” Brian corrected him. The plastic bottle opened with a fizz. Brian poured a dollop onto the towel.

  “Yes,” Riceman continued. “Well, anyway, he said you were involved in the accident and decided to let you go.”

  “Well, yeah, I got a cigarette in my face, fell down, then one of the women fell on me, then another waiter –”

  “Yes, well, it seems that during the distraction of the demonstrators, Mrs. Fuller lost a very valuable necklace, sometime immediately after the accident.”

  “You came all the way to Brooklyn looking for a necklace? Boy, I thought New York had a lot more serious crimes than that.” Brian worked his midwestern naivete.

  Riceman leaned closer to Brian. “Yes. We were just wondering if you might have seen anyone who might have ... found it. Or if you had anything you wanted to say, before things get ... messy.”

  “Well, sir, it was all so embarrassing, awful, the whole thing. I’ve never had anything so clumsy happen to me. I’ve been working for Fabulous for over two years now.” Brian heard the other detective snooping around in the loft. He decided to take it a step further, make them uncomfortable. For a moment, he was nervous. Then he looked right through them, as if they were white bears form his acting class.

  He led the detective into his room where he unbuttoned his shirt, watching the man become uncomfortable as he stripped.

  Riceman continued. “Whoever may have ... found it will be offered a reward.”

  “So, you think it was a waiter?” Brian dropped his shirt onto a pile of laundry. Casual and shirtless, he worked the best Tony Dow impersonation he could manage. “Wow. I always thought the guys I worked with were a real honest crew. I hate to think of it, but you know, I have lost a few valuables. Other people have too, occasionally. Maybe it was the clean-up crew. It could have gotten lost in the trash.”

  “Yes, that could have happened.”

  “So,” Brian said. “Do I have to come to your office and do something, make a statement?”

  “No, not yet. But if you think of anything, anything you saw that could help, please give us a call.” Riceman pulled a business card from his worn leather wallet and handed it to Brian.

  “Of course, sir. You’ll be the first to know.” Brian led them out the door and bid them goodnight as they lumbered out the door and down the stairs.

  Brian watched them f
rom the upstairs window of the loft. They slumped into a beat-up Plymouth, colored a dull brown. The car’s taillights disappeared around a corner. Shirtless, his suspenders drooping at his hip of his pants, Brian noticed in the window’s reflection that even with a relocation to Rikers Island looming, at least he still looked good.

  A herd of drunken kids wearing Metallica T-shirts hooted, since nobody said anything when one of them lit a cigarette and two others spilled beers on the floor. The train conductor was nowhere in sight. The late night PATH train was more crowded than usual.

  Lee simply rose and moved to another car, still quietly elated despite the subterranean end to his evening.

  Seeing Kevin, Carissa and the four others pointing and shouting at the Mayor had thrust a giddy sense of chaos into his spirit. Anything could happen now. He felt good, even if he had choked.

  He wasn’t home five minutes when the phone rang.

  “Lee, it’s me,” Cal’s gravelly voice said.

  “I just got in.”

  “I know. Listen, I taped the protest on the seven and eleven o’clock news. You gotta see it. I’ll be over in a few?”

  Lee sighed. Would he have to fight the desire to simply kiss and say goodnight? Was this a date? This isn’t love, Lee he lied to himself as he nervously cleaned up the apartment. This isn’t love at all.

  Once Cal had been buzzed in, Lee handed him a cup of juice. They sat on the carpeted floor, since Lee only had one chair. They watched the tape, laughed, joked about it, then felt an awkward silence.

  “So, is this what it’s down to now, surprise visits?” Lee sat across from him.

  Cal tried to remain calm. “I’ve only had a few relationships that could slightly qualify the term ‘boyfriend.’ Both times, I was the one left out. Both times, I was the one making the unanswered calls. I can’t let that happen again.”

  Lee nodded his head, although he didn’t agree. “So, you’re pushing this into what you want it to be, just so you’ll get yourself off the hook.”

  “What can I say? I’m a bad boy. I roam.”

  Lee dug his finger into the carpet, rubbing it pensively. “I haven’t needed anybody else since we first were together. I was with those other guys from the pool party out of a sense of fun, whatever, but I’d really prefer just you.”

  Cal sighed and turned away. “Look, maybe we don’t need that. What do you want, a contract of exclusivity?”

  “No, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Lee gulped down the last of the juice in his cup, retreating to the kitchen. He stared at the clippings held to his fridge by fruit-shaped magnets. One from the Village Voice read DOOMED TO SUCCEED, the other a worn front page from the Post with a photo of the City Hall demonstration.

  Cal walked into the kitchen, having said something.

  “What?” Lee asked.

  “I always leave myself out emotionally so I won’t get hurt.” Cal was behind him, about to reach out and hug him from behind, but Lee turned. He saw a redness welling up under Cal’s eyes. Seeing him near tears, his throat constricted, words came out mangled.

  “I don’t ... I feel for you ... really strong ... I just don’t say it.”

  Cal reached a cool hand to the warm pulse in Lee’s neck. “I am in you,” he sniffled. “And you are hurting that part of me in there, inside you.”

  A percentage of salt and water was Cal’s, after all. The sharing of tears and sweat and spit, which the newspapers said was not dangerous, had proven addictive to Lee, whose entire body chemistry changed after making love to Cal. He often felt warm and queasy, hooked.

  Cal was very close to him, drawing closer. Lee saw the chest muscles pressing out from his T-shirt, making him hungry again. He looked down. He couldn’t keep his eyes on that warm brown face. Cal spoke softly. “You can’t keep picking me apart waiting for me to be perfect. I’m not gonna marry you.”

  “I’m not waiting for that. I just can’t be patient knowing I’ve only got part of you.”

  “But you have to, doncha see?” He held him, hugging loosely.

  Lee reached around, felt his spine, his ribs under the thin layer of muscle. He wanted to feel all of him at once. Just hold him while you’ve got him, he told himself. Just hold him with two hands at a time.

  Lee dodged Cal’s kisses a moment, nudging his face between his arms, the tangy smell of his sweat drifting into him. Cal tugged on his ear lobe, pulling Lee’s face back to his own. He ran his fingers through Lee’s disheveled hair. “Hey, you’re a mess,” he grunted half a laugh.

  “Snot nose,” Lee countered. He reached up and grabbed a dishrag from the fridge door handle. They wiped and blew their noses. They stood a while, then resolved to figure it out later. Lee made Cal laugh as he told him of the events at the Met, admitting the feeling that he still had unfinished business with that world.

  They scrubbed and licked and sucked each other in their favorite way, standing in the shower. They dried off, lay in bed, fell asleep, woke up, and fell asleep again. Nothing was resolved, little was clarified, but anything was possible.

  “You fuckheaded son of a bitch rat bastard dog!” Ritchie screamed, panting as he slammed the door and threw his helmet against a wall. “Thanks ever so much for abandoning your table! I had to serve two tables of ten with a complete fucking imbecile for a B waiter. I nearly creamed Billy Norwich with the mousse!”

  Brian wasn’t in the mood. He sat at the kitchen table in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He sipped his second beer.

  “Fuck you,” he mumbled halfheartedly. “Better yet, fuck me. Why don’t you come over here and fuck me, if you’re so mad?”

  Ritchie steamed, his face coated in a layer of sweat. “You’d love it, wouldn’t you?”

  He walked his bike into the living room. Brian listened to the quiet ticking of the spokes, Ritchie dropping his bag in his room and his pace back to the kitchen. “Why didn’t you tell me you were gonna do that?”

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “What do you mean? You all planned that!” Ritchie walked to the fridge and poured out a glass of spring water.

  “I wasn’t part of that. Kevin didn’t even tell me about–”

  “Then where’d you go?”

  “Where’s Ed?”

  “He took the train with some other guys. I rode all the way home wondering what the fuck is going on here.”

  “Ya got me.” Brian brooded over his beer. Ritchie slumped to the seat across from him. Still heaving with exhaustion, his face damp with sweat, Ritchie looked more handsome than Brian had ever noticed.

  Ritchie stared at him. “So, what happened?”

  “Didn’t you hear? I ran into the one and only Trish Fuller, then got creamed by Lee, the walking space cadet, and now I’m out of a job and a susp–”

  “Wait a fucking minute. You what?”

  “I’m canned. I’m out.”

  “You got fired?”

  Brian finished his beer, setting the bottle down lightly on the table.

  “Aw, shit, Bri. What are you gonna do?” Ritchie looked genuinely concerned. The look on his sweaty dopey face almost brought Brian to tears. He wanted so bad to tell him, but knew he couldn’t say a word.

  “I guess I’ll take a little break.” He turned his gaze to the window.

  “Do you need money? Do you have anything else you can do?”

  Brian stared out the kitchen window. “I’ll think of something. Don’t worry about me.”

  Ritchie stood, walked around to Brian, and put his arms over his shoulders. “I have to get up early. So, g’night. We’ll talk.”

  “Yeah, we’ll talk.”

  Ed found Brian sitting in bed, scribbling into a notebook.

  After yet another edited explanation, and a patient amount of time listening to Ed’s disagreements and amazement at the events, Brian pushed aside his plots and calculations, wrapped Ed in his arms and made slow love to him with a passionate insistence Ed had not felt from Brian in weeks. Ed did not know
the reason, perhaps the excitement of the protest, but enjoyed it. Brian did not admit that the surge of passion came from a knowing sense that this time would probably be their last.

  Brian jolted awake to a biting metallic roar. Pulling back the blinds, he spotted a construction crew’s jackhammer ripping up asphalt on the street below. Rubbing his eyes, he fell back to bed, but the insistent noise preventing him from dozing again. He got up, glancing at the clock. Eight a.m., on the nose.

  Ed had gone to one of his classes, or yoga. Peeking into the kitchen and Ritchie’s room, Brian realized he was alone. In shorts, he padded barefoot to Ritchie’s corner of the loft, looking through the shelves for the vases. He thought of playing with the clay again, just to make himself feel better, but realized it wouldn’t help.

  His stomach dropped. He noticed a few pieces missing from the shelves. Ritchie must have taken them to the kiln.

  “Shit.” He’d said something about selling a few pieces to a rich friend. Was it too late to run for him? No. Let it go, he told himself. Just let it disappear.

  But he had to do something. The last time he’d withdrawn money from a bank machine, his account was barely over nine hundred dollars.

  He paced around the loft, fighting the treachery of his last option. There was a reason why he took the necklace. He’d been on target by accidentally picking a Fuller, but it was the wrong one.

  There was another way.

  After a quick shower, he looked around the kitchen for something to eat. Instead, he gulped down the tepid remains of Ritchie’s morning batch of coffee, then searched through the Manhattan phone book for the editorial offices of The American Republic. He knew he’d never get past any secretaries, so he dialed a number slightly higher than the main reception line.

  “Glen Faber’s office,” a voice said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I was looking for editorial.”

  “I’ll transfer you.” He lit a cigarette, paced, and after a few deft bluffs, reached a private office line.

  “Is this Winston Fuller?” Brian imagined the man reclining in a black leather executive chair in a dark wood-paneled office. His imagination was not incorrect.