Monkey Suits

by Jim Provenzano

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “Braggin’ about it! Like it’s her big break!”

  “Next stop Silverlake.”

  Neil’s voice cut through the two of them. “Are you two working or chatting?” His bleached smile made Lee grin for all the wrong reasons.

  “We can do both at the same time, dear,” Marcos snipped.

  “Fine, just do it faster so we can get out of here before dawn?” Neil moved on like a princess. Marcos hissed at his back. Neil turned back, but addressed Lee. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I forgot all about a break for little Malcolm X here.”

  “What did you say?” Lee set down a milk crate full of dirty plates with a clatter.

  “Once more with filling, dear,” Marcos hissed.

  “I said, you can go on break now.” Neil eyed them warily before swiftly sauntering off.

  “Really.” Marcos dumped the tablecloth on a pile, watching him go. “A trail of dry ice would have been appropriate.”

  Lee sighed, and did what always helped prevent him from hurling a plate.

  He thought of something else, some other time, a pleasant memory. Gay Pride Day, almost a year before, he had met Glenn, a guy in shorts, boots, a Safe Sex T-shirt, and a backpack full of condoms to give away. They’d paired off in what became whirlwind day of meeting people, watching the parade, and stopping in delis every few hours for food and drinks. They’d danced until morning and strolled on the pier, holding hands, kissing. Glenn asked Lee if he wanted a ride home. They had both been too impatient and walked to Tribeca, where they fucked in the back of Glenn’s van. As they calmed down in the cloistered darkness, Lee had said how it felt familiar. Glenn then said, “Maybe we were both locked in a pyramid thousands of years ago, servants and lovers to the last breath.” The idea had charmed Lee for the longest time.

  Standing among the empty tables in the museum hall, he looked at the temple. Reincarnation or not, that didn’t mean he had to stay inside this time around.

  “I’m disappearin’ for a smoke break,” Marcos said. “You comin’?”

  “Naw, I’m gonna eat.”

  In the back hallway, as he approached the three tables strewn with nearly empty leftover trays, Lee’s stomach growled at the faint smell of food. He picked up a plastic plate.

  “Are you having meat?”

  “What?” A pretty young waiter, whose name escaped him, stood opposite the table from Lee, hovering over the leftover trays like a Stepford wife. He wore a clean apron over his shirt and bow tie with a large cooking spoon poised in his hand.

  “Are you having meat?” he repeated.

  “Yes.” Lee said, perplexed. A few stragglers waited impatiently behind him. They too had worked ten hours without a break and were starving.

  “Well, you can’t have salad if you’re having meat.”

  “What?”

  “There isn’t enough food left,” he explained in stewardess-like tones.

  “What?”

  “There isn’t enough food. You’re too late.”

  In an almost involuntary spasm of anger, Lee’s hands came together, crushing the plastic plate. White splinters flew into the air, littering the greasy tray of endive and arugula. The aproned waiter jumped back as if hit by a spray of bullets.

  “This fucking company can’t afford to give me salad with my shriveled up slice of dead baby cow?!!”

  The rows of huddled waiters trailing up the back stairs fell silent. All heads turned. All eyes looked up. The prim waiter shriveled back, holding the spoon defensively.

  Lee continued to scream. “That’s it! That is the fucking end!” He stormed out of the hallway to the back recesses of the museum. From the ranks of the waiters, a smattering of applause trailed behind him like an appreciative croquet audience.

  In the near-silent Hall of Arms and Armor, a few crew workers stacked trays. Lee grabbed his garment bag from the coat rack and stalked back past the sculpture garden, back to face his bosses for the last time.

  At their elegant table in the back hall, Lenny Zehuti sat with Ron Bellows, Andrew Spears and Neil Pynchon. Lenny’s hammy arms curved protectively around his plate and his bottle of Diet Pepsi. Ron quietly puffed on a cigarette. Lenny turned and stared at him. Andrew barely glanced up from his plate.

  “Where are you going?” Lenny asked.

  Lee stood at their table, ready to knock it over if necessary. “I want a guard to escort me out of here.” He stood, seething.

  “Did you get permission to leave?” Lenny glanced over to Ron, who folded his arms and raised his eyebrows in silence.

  “Yeah, I gave myself permission,” he practically snarled, as he nervously adjusted his glasses, his heart racing.

  “Oh, you did?”

  “Yes, I did. I’ve got a lot better things to do before I’m dead.”

  “And what is your problem?”

  “If this fucking company can spend a hundred thousand on a bunch of mummified drunks, and rack up millions a year slinging food to uptown trash, it can afford to feed its staff and treat them like human beings. If you expect–”

  “Alright! Alright!” Lenny cut him off and turned to Franklin, the gaunt black guard. “Get him out of here.”

  “Okay,” Franklin nodded as he headed to a side exit. Lee walked with him, sweat coating his neck and face. He turned back. “And I expect to be paid until the hour I stopped working, too.” Lenny nodded and waved him off. Ron stared at him, infuriated. Neil looked between Ron and Lenny, unsure how to react.

  Most of the waiters had already resumed eating. They were for the most part amused. At least there was something to talk about. One more vacancy cleared for each of them, if in a less than Fabulous way. Marcos watched Lee disappear down the hallway. He would call him later, but he wasn’t about to risk talking to him after that scene.

  As they clomped rhythmically down the quiet halls of the museum, Lee with his shoulder bag making squeaking sounds against his suit, Franklin jangling his keys, he felt a sweeping feeling of composure. Each step through the underbelly of the museum was his last. It calmed him. His cork had finally popped.

  “You had that ready for a while, dincha?” Franklin smirked knowingly. They headed down a gray hallway to the loading dock.

  “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “You got another thing goin’?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, I got lots of other companies to work for,” Lee shrugged, although he couldn’t think of one that wouldn’t hear about his outburst before the end of the week. It didn’t matter. Finally, he wasn’t afraid to jump.

  “That’s good. That come outta you real slick.” Franklin opened yet another subterranean gray door.

  “Well, it’s been inside of me a long time.”

  “Yeah. Know whatcha mean.” They reached the glassed-in desk of the security guard, who padded his hands through Lee’s bag, feeling for a Rembrandt or Chagall.

  Bidding the guards a final goodnight, Lee paced slowly up the dark driveway and to the curb. Cabs rolled by the grand front stairs of the museum, but Lee crossed the street, waving off a few that stopped. On his way to the Lexington train, he stopped by a Korean deli, bought a cup of strawberry yogurt and a quart of banana-orange juice. He set the food atop a New York Times rack as a dinner table. A faded sticker read: Gina Kolata is the Worst AIDS Reporter in America.

  The yogurt slid down his throat easily. Passersby briefly stared at him. He took off his black shoes. Crusted bits of food had worked their way into every crack in the patent leather. He pulled his sneakers out and slipped them on.

  Finished with his meal, he threw the cartons in a trashcan, then ripped off his bow tie, dumping it and the shoes in as well. They fell with a weighty sound. He liked the sound, and dropped his overnight bag, fished around for his jeans, shucked off his sneakers, peeled off his tux pants and stripped down to his underwear, then pulled his jeans on as few people glared a moment, then walked on, completely unfazed.

 
He strolled with large free steps, shirt collar open, arms free, feeling more comfortable than ever. He turned back a moment to see a homeless man ambling off with his discarded clothes.

  38 Ritchie stepped out into the warm dusk in his tuxedo, locked the downstairs door to the loft, and walked to the train. He gave an affectionate scratch to the Vietnamese dry cleaner’s cat that sat outside the door, smiling slyly with the blessing of its ancestors.

  He passed the bodegas with Hispanic kids hanging out, flirting with each other, calling names and smoking cigarettes. He passed chubby shirtless men working on their cars, salsa music booming from the speakers. Where once these notes irritated him, especially late at night, now in the fading sunlight, he felt the buoyant energy of the music, the insistent hope that refused to be ignored.

  He passed the restaurants and boarded-up storefronts, soon to be resold to become plant stores, croissanteries, or video clubs. The smell of food stirred his appetite. He glanced up at the distant Watchtower. It was nearly five-thirty, but Ritchie wasn’t late.

  His tux shone with a freshly cleaned crispness. Mr. Ng had removed every stain, every trace of the previous years of work. Ritchie’s new white shirt shone brightly against the black tux and his red bow tie. Yes, finally, a red bow tie.

  Sitting down on a subway train seat without a trace of his usual fatigue, people glanced at him admiringly. Perhaps they thought him merely a waiter, or perhaps a musician. Without an instrument case, he might be a pianist. If he were a guest at some fancy event, he would have taken a cab, wouldn’t he? Yes, he must a waiter. A Filipino baby gazed at him from its carriage.

  The R train rumbled to a halt at Fifty-Seventh and Fifth Avenue. Ritchie exited and walked the wrong way intentionally to get a glance at Central Park. At the Southeast corner, he leaned against the stone wall surrounding the oasis of trees and ponds. He breathed the rich spring smells into his lungs. The trees glowed in a hundred varying shades of green. A lone duck swam across the tiny pond, its path leaving a rippling trail in the water.

  In the distance surrounding the park spired the roofs of the rich and famous. He’d given up counting the penthouses in which he’d served cocktails and dinners. Surely, the yellow highlighted map back home would glow as brightly as it did in the gleaming sunset.

  He headed toward Lincoln Center for his dinner engagement. Mai Ling was one of several honored guests. Already she’d touted him as a rising star in the downtown sculpture scene. He’d made a dozen more sales, thanks to her referrals. She’d bought a few of his pieces and given them out as gifts to a few of her private benefactors. Only weeks afterward, he started getting calls. He even had an appointment with Leo Castelli’s assistant.

  This time his name was not to be checked on a photocopied list in the kitchen, but hand-scripted on a card with Mai Ling. No more eating on paper plates in back rooms. This time he would sit. No French service. This time he would dine.

  Tonight the request for more wine would come from him. “Didn’t I see you at the Degas party?” the collector would ask after introductions. “Perhaps Mrs. Petrie’s gala at MOMA,” another would suggest.

  He would smile and agree. Oh yes, he’d been there. He would take a glass of champagne, winking conspiratorially at the waiter.

  Trish Fuller supervised the finishing touches on the renovated sitting room of her South Hampton summer home with precision. The disgrace from the party hadn’t quite blown away. She’d had to rush through a hurried escape to Long Island just to avoid the press, the phone calls, and the endless gossip.

  She pored over the clippings Margaret had collected. The columnists had been supportive. The Times ran a photo of her smiling with the mayor. Fortunately, the brief story omitted the fact that there were protestors inside the museum. The casual mention of a few picketers made it seem as if it never happened. At least she’d been able to keep the theft quiet. Hopefully, Winston would whip up another crack editorial that wasn’t too nasty.

  It was the unfortunate timing of the investigative Village Voice article that bothered her. Three pages detailing how St. Paul employees assaulted gay emergency room victims. What did they expect, dressing like drag queens? Surely, the reports of “neglecting AIDS victims” were untrue. Besides, how was she to know anyway? She’d just wanted to help. In the future, she’d have to be a little more careful about her causes. Those radicals were biting the hand that fed them. Well, from now on they could just starve.

  What truly galled her was the list of her very own party guests, shot down line for line like a gang of traitors. So what if Joseph Flor’s insurance company had a problem with guaranteeing health care benefits? These people were dying, after all. It simply wasn’t true about Ida Pomerantz firing her butler. He’d retired early for health reasons. And why did they dredge up that rubbish about her good friend Justine’s son running around with some downtown trash? So what if he went to some of those odd clubs. Each of these people had donated money, thousands of dollars. Didn’t that count for something?

  She tossed the pile of papers onto a chair. The bumbling workmen crowded past her.

  “No, set the armchair further from the fireplace! Do you want it to burn?” The two workmen who followed her orders looked at her blankly. They were obviously unconcerned about what in this stately over-decorated millionaire’s second house might burst into flames, but could certainly provide a few suggestions.

  “There. Thank you. You can go now.” She waved them off, sighed, and surveyed the room. It was a mixed decor, to be sure. The reupholstered furniture portrayed a warm comfort in a plush floral print that matched the thickly folded drapes. The pop art flower print over the fireplace seemed to mock the frilly pattern. She grinned at her own little design joke. All was in place. The recently regilded French windows allowed pools of sunshine to flood the room. Outside, their carefully groomed lawn gleamed a bright green. Perhaps some would disagree with her witty summer taste, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t planning on entertaining for a few weeks. Perhaps she’d invite her editor friend at House and Garden. A little photo spread would put her back on track.

  In a corner, she spied a small wooden box on the floor. The workmen had gone, but Trish’s maid entered, carrying a small silver tray. On it quivered Trish’s second Campari and soda of the afternoon.

  “Thank you, Francesca,” Trish said as she sipped her drink. “Oh, dear?”

  Francesca turned back. “Jes, Madame?”

  “Would you get a hammer or a screwdriver or something and open that small box there?” She pointed with her cigarette hand.

  “Jes, Madame,” Francesca said, disappearing into the kitchen.

  Trish glanced out the window to the lawn and the occasional rush of cars on the road beyond her far off hedge. It would all die down, she thought. Soon enough, it’ll all be back the way it was. She thought of ways to fill her weekend, what with Winston staying in town on business, then flying to Washington on Monday.

  Winston. He was quite a case, practically choking whenever she brought up the subject. Why hadn’t she read his damned editorials? Because she’d heard enough of his opinions at dinner and at night, that’s why. Who could she talk to? Who could she call that wouldn’t simply pour out with sappy sympathy? Blaine? She would understand. Justine? No. Mother? Possibly.

  She turned and watched as Francesca returned and struggled a bit with the small crate, prying it open with a thick screwdriver.

  “Is like Christmas, no?” She grinned as Trish hovered over her. As the lid came loose, Francesca pulled away the wood shavings and foam, then unwrapped paper from around a heavy object. Trish winced, trying to admire her gift.

  “Take the Remington and put it on the table, then put that on the mantle,” she said pointing to the vase. Francesca shuffled the two clashing sculptures.

  “We’ll put the Remington in Mr. Fuller’s room. This will be just new things.”

  “Jes, Madame. Is bedy nice.” Francesca smiled and stuffed the papers in the box.

>   Trish stepped up to the vase and picked off small bits of dust and packing foam. “Yes. It’s by some new artist. Mai Ling sent it to me, a sort of sympathy gift, I suppose. You remember Mai Ling, that Oriental violinist we had for dinner a few weeks ago?”

  “Oh, jes,” Francesca nodded.

  Trish sipped her drink, then looked back to the vase. Francesca backed silently away and into the kitchen. The Campari had begun to kick in and Trish began talking more to herself than to Francesca. “Yes, it has a certain pop charm.”

  She gazed at it a moment, her eye noticing the way the sun caught an emerald color in a section of the glazed depiction of ancient slaves serving coffee. Below it were the scribbled words: We are Happy to Serve You.

  “It’s a bit tacky,” she surmised. “But at least it matches the Warhol.”

  39 For the wedding of the investment banker and his fiancè, a producer at CBS, Alex booked the staff too early in the day. They had set up quite promptly and were told they had an hour to relax. The hour soon became three.

  Most of the waiters sprawled out on the spacious acreage of the groom’s father, relaxing and lounging like subjects in a Hudson River school landscape, with apparel by the Gap.

  Marcos lit a cigarette, careful to keep it downwind of Ed, who for once spared him a lecture on the evils of tobacco. They reclined on the soft grass under the shade of a large elm.

  “I got a call from Che Guevara.”

  “Who?” Ed asked.

  “Lee. Mister MIA.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “He’s doing some wacky activante fundraiser. ‘The Two-Thousand-Dollar Pink Pyramid.’ It’s a game show of gay trivia. Isn’t that wild? Wants me to DJ. It’s at Crowbar next month.”

  “Are you gonna do it?”

  “Of course. Already got Mona Foot to host it!”

  “He and Cal are working on another video.”

  “Is that paying the rent?”

  “He’s getting some production work.”

  “How thrilling.”