Closing Time, page 3
He was swearing too much. He made a mental note to watch it. He’d only slept with John once and dated him twice before that. But it was enough to know that John Walters hardly ever swore. And probably didn’t care for it much. John was a little old-fashioned. He liked that.
You’re already half-hooked on the guy, he thought. Watch your mouth.
John nodded, adjusted his Calvin Klein glasses and sipped his Heineken. “Yes, but your mom was out in New Jersey. You think the places you saw were bad, you should see some of the ones in the City. Anyway a bunch of us were talking one night. Back then it didn’t look like any of us were ever going to make any real money to speak of—this was way before the boom in healthcare—so what we decided was, when retirement-time came around, we’d pool whatever cash we did have and buy this big old house somewhere out in the boonies and by then the various healthcare people would have made all these connections so we’d staff the place ourselves. Take care of ourselves. A communal thing. We’d call it Queen’s End.”
The waiter was a sandy-haired kid with bright blue eyes and beautiful skin who didn’t look old enough to be serving drinks. He saw them laughing and smiled.
“Can I get you folks another round?” he said.
“Sure,” said John. “Same thing?”
“Same thing. Dewars rocks for me and a Heineken. Thanks.”
The waiter moved away.
“Queen’s End. That’s a hoot. You still going to do it?”
John sighed. “So many people have moved away, you know? We’ve lost touch. It’s kind of sad, really. We were a pretty neat bunch I think. Smart, talented. Who knows? We might have even made it happen.”
They laughed again. One of the things Danny Martino liked about John was his laugh. It had an honest sound. The way his father used to laugh before the cancer. Before his mother’s bones became brittle as glass.
Beyond him the woman put her hands up over her eyes. Her shoulders were shaking.
“God, I hate to see that.”
“See what?”
“The woman behind you. I think her boyfriend or her husband or something just dumped her. I noticed her a while ago. She’s crying.”
“What’s he doing? The boyfriend.”
“Just sitting there. Unless I read the body language all wrong he really couldn’t give a shit.”
There he was, swearing again. He shook his head.
“Men, huh?”
“Yeah. Men.”
“You should do it.”
“Do what?”
“Queen’s End.”
John smiled.
They could never know what it was like.
And Theo wasn’t about to tell them.
At home on his island of Thera he’d waited tables himself. If they thought the work was hard here they should try it at an outdoor taverna on the slope of a mountain. In summer the tourists were like a biblical plague of locusts, a blight on the land—the Americans impatient, the Germans imperious, the Australians drunk and sloppy. Tips were poor, the British in particular were cheap bastards. You bussed your own tables. You were overworked and understaffed and the hours stretched on forever.
He was grateful to his cousin Tasos for bringing him to this country and giving him first a waiter’s job and now this one—he had two sisters and an aging mother he would like to bring over himself one day. He was saving for that. No drinking, no carousing. His bank account grew steadily. But the work came at some personal price too. In his painstakingly written letters to his cousin he’d lied about the extent of his command of the English language. That was one thing.
By island standards it was good. Here it was just passable. He’d become aware of that right away. So had his cousin.
To his credit Tasos refrained from shipping him back on the next available flight. Theo promised to study and he did study and his ears were always open for some new word or phrase. His problem, of course, was with the American vernacular. Words were often absent from his Greek-English dictionary when he went to look for them and he was not about to reveal to anyone for whom English was their first language that he did not know the meaning of shitcanned or wasted or don’t get your balls in an uproar.
Tasos and he agreed that dignity was important. Santorini was a dignified restaurant and would stay that way. As would its management. So he suffered his deficiencies in silence and continued to read and study.
He knew that in general he wasn’t liked here. There was something stiff in his manner. Part of it was his language problem, he knew. In some infuriating way he felt inferior to his staff, to these Americans in their twenties, just children really—he, Theodoro Vassiliades, a grown man of thirty-two. It was humiliating.
He knew he was often short with them. He knew he had a temper. Like tonight. The subway had been late again and usually he reckoned that possibility into his travel-time, but this time he’d neglected to do so. So yes, he was short with them though he knew he shouldn’t be, that this was counterproductive. But they were born with all the advantages of knowing nearly from birth the most powerful language in the world. He doubted that one of them knew a word of Greek that was not on the menu and even those they managed to mispronounce frequently. Theo was quick to correct them.
But another part of it was simply his own nature. He had always been reserved, even on Thira, even as a boy. In that he was like his father. He had not had a woman, for instance, until he was twenty-five. And then the experience was so disheartening he did not even try to have another until over a year later.
His reserve had always made him lonely.
Here there was no one. He’d tried with American women, god knows. But something about him always seemed to put them off. After one date, maybe two, they’d lose interest. Perhaps when he did talk he talked too much about his homeland, his island, about growing up there and the sunny days and the nights full of stars. Perhaps they thought him hopelessly unsophisticated, hopelessly sentimental. Thus, in the American vernacular, a loser. He’d noted that men here had an insouciance and an edge to them, some fundamental ease and toughness of manner both of which angered him because they were postures he could not begin to muster. So did many of the women. Not all but some.
This one, now. Lindsey.
He’d yelled at her earlier over the sugar packets. He shouldn’t have.
Scolding was not the way to charm an American woman, even one as young as Lindsey. She’d been glowering at him ever since.
Her pale brow would knot, the pretty blue eyes would flash.
It made him both sad and angry.
He watched her hand out menus to a table of three he’d just seated, two young men and a woman. They were smiling. She was smiling. Then she said something which made them laugh. She laughed too.
He had not made anyone laugh for a long time now.
The door opened and a couple stepped in. He guessed them to be in their forties. Well dressed, attractive. The man had all the poise and grace of a successful American male and Theo simply couldn’t help it—he resented the man on sight.
“Good evening, sir. Good evening, madam.”
“Could we have one over by the window?”
“Certainly, sir. Right this way.”
He led them to station two and smiling, pulled out the chair for the lady.
The sandy-haired young waiter’s smile did silent battle with his frown as he handed them the menus. Guess he’s having a rough night, she thought.
Evelyn Wolper opened hers and glanced it over. Dolmades. Spanakopita. Taramasalata. Moussaka. Calamares. The waiter asked them about drinks and Kenneth asked for their best red Greek wine. Right away, sir, said the waiter and moved away.
Kenneth picked up his own menu.
“Okay,” he said. “Previews of coming attractions. Where do we start?”
She smiled. “God, I am so glad we’re doing this. You won’t be sorry. You’re going to love it there.”
“I believe you. But what do we order?”
“I’ll go easy on you. Start with the mixed warm meses. We’ll split them. You’re going to love the kefthedes, I think. Then if I were you I’d go for the chicken lemono or the souvlakia.”
“Souvlaki I’ve had.”
“Then try the chicken. It’s roasted on a horizontal grill and basted with lemon, oil and herbs. Mostly mint and oregano. It’s delicious.”
“What about you?”
“I haven’t had moussaka in ages. It’s good here. I’ll give you a taste. That and a small Greek salad, I guess.”
“Feta?”
“Feta. I can’t believe I’ve finally gotten you to try Greek food.”
He shrugged. “Meat and potatoes man.”
“The chicken comes with potatoes.”
“I noticed that.”
They put down their menus and she reached over for his hand. He gave hers a squeeze and smiled.
“Two and a half weeks. In my favorite place in the world. I can’t believe it. No phones, no clients. Thank you, Kenneth.”
“You’re quite welcome, Mrs. Wolper.”
“It is a second honeymoon, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is. And you know what? Now that I’ve gotten used to the idea, I might just be as happy about this trip as you are.” He shook his head. “How about that?”
“How about that.”
The waiter arrived and poured the wine. Kenneth swirled, tasted and pronounced it fine. He filled their glasses. They didn’t even bother letting go of each other’s hands while he was pouring. It felt almost as though they were kids again. She remembered that the waiter had been frowning and smiling, both, when he greeted them. She glanced up and read no expression on his face at all now.
He simply poured the wine.
A young couple got up next to them and moved away. She saw the waiter glance at the table, at the tip on the table, and watched the frown reappear again.
They placed their order. The waiter said thank you, scooped up his tip and turned toward the kitchen.
“Athens is a bore,” she said. “One night in the Plaka and then we’re out of there. Mykonos first, and then either Thira or Criti.”
“Criti?”
“Crete.”
“I’ve got to read up on this.”
“Yes, you do. Be a change from all those briefs, won’t it.”
He sipped the wine. “Yes it will. Damn,” he said. “This really is a decent wine.”
She smiled again, a secret smile. This was right. This was going to be the perfect spark to a slightly tired but still affectionate marriage. She’d known it.
Back home in Athens, Tennessee, Philip Auton had not been one known for anger. Quite the opposite. The good-looking, intelligent son of a successful pharmacist and a respected registered nurse he’d always had it easy—so it was easy to be easygoing. With family, with friends and especially with women. In high school plays he always got the lead and more often than not the leading lady. Same thing in State College.
His more private private life was his own business and thus far still that way.
New York was a whole other thing.
New York was a series of brick walls.
He got good parts in bad showcases that nobody came to see unless you counted the asshole families of playwright, director, cast and crew. More a circle-jerk than professional theatre. He got callbacks for commercials. One for a soap.
He got a job as a waiter. A fucking waiter.
Oh, you’re an actor? So what restaurant you work at?
The old joke wasn’t funny. Not one bit.
He got lucky on a sublet from an acting buddy down on the Lower East Side. But even that was going down the tubes by the end of summer. His buddy was returning from stock in Massachusetts. So Phil was already searching around in every spare moment for something he could somehow possibly afford. What he’d seen was sure not encouraging. Probably he’d wind up in some hole down on Avenue A, the ass-end of nowhere, at the rate he was going. Or worse, he’d have to go back to his smug little town with his tail between his legs and get a job with his father.
He’d thought maybe Lindsey would help, that maybe they could move in together. Her place was just a few blocks north of the restaurant. He could walk to work. Would have made at least that part of his life nice and cozy. He’d broached the subject just the night before over beers at the World Cafe.
No way, she said. Fucking’s one thing. But living together? I’ve seen your apartment, Phil. No offense but you’re a slob. Unh-unh. Not in a billion years.
He didn’t know what the hell to say to that shit so he paid the tab and walked on her.
Then all day today she’d frosted him.
Like he’d offended her by even asking.
Bitch.
Between her frosting him and Theo mouthing off to him earlier—fucking him up especially royally since he’d been working up to asking Diane, who’d moved just a couple days ago, if maybe she could use a roommate—he was already major pissed off by the time he spilled the olive oil on the blonde bitch’s pink leather jacket. Even more pissed off dropping the moussaka. Seeing it there splattered all over the floor in front of him his brain started buzzing like a tuning fork, he had to will his heart to stop racing.
It looked like something he’d seen as a kid in the woods in good old fucking Athens, Tennessee.
All in all he was having one hell of a night. Theo kept watching him like he was afraid he’d steal the cutlery. It was weird because he was an actor and should have been used to people watching him but this was different.
It was like Theo was willing him to screw up again.
Well dammit, he wasn’t going to. He didn’t want this cracker-ass job but god knows he needed it. He hated needing it but he did and that was that.
Lindsay and Theo, they could both go fuck themselves.
The greasy little Greek prick wasn’t even an American.
Smile, he thought. Work the room. You know how.
You always do.
He was thinking all this and washing his hands in the men’s room after taking his leak and zipping his fly, gazing at himself in the mirror and smiling and judging he looked fine, just fine, that nobody would know how pissed he was, nobody would guess a thing. The tips were going to fly. When he walked out into the restaurant again the old bag lady was just coming in off the sidewalk, headed toward his station.
From the bar Diane saw her sit at table five just beyond the pair of men who were far too good-looking to be anything but gay and adjust the pair of overstuffed dirty shopping bags at her feet. Theo was seating a party of six at station four, pulling together a pair of tables so that his back was to the woman. Theo hadn’t noticed.
Lindsay had and she was wondering if Phil might be needing some backup. She was breaking up with him, sure, any day now, there was something too childish and self-centered about the guy, even more than you’d expect from an actor but they worked together and that was no reason to leave him high and dry with the problem of the old lady. She hesitated, watching the two men and an oriental couple two tables away register first the stink of her and then the actual presence behind them. The middle-aged couple directly beside her put down their glasses of red wine and were trying not to stare. Lindsay worked her way through the tables and got to Phil’s side just as he was asking her, red-faced but politely, if she had any money to pay for whatever it was she’d ordered. With that the woman stood up and began to scream. She instinctively backed away.
“You think I got no money? Fucking sonovabitch! You ask them if they got any money? You ask them?” She swept the room with her arm.
“Fucking cocksucker per-jidice shit-eatin’ motherfuck whore-fucker! You ask them?”
By then Theo was moving fast across the room and other than Phil murmuring something, trying to calm her, and the woman’s hoarse screaming you could’ve heard a pin drop, every eye in the place was on them as Theo stepped up behind him and Phil reached out to take her by the arm and that was when she shoved him. He wasn’t expecting that and neither was Theo and they both fell back into table six, hit it hard and slid to the floor. The bottle of red wine the couple was drinking flew off the table and exploded like a bomb at the two gay men’s feet. The woman’s half-full glass jumped into her lap. The man’s glass was in his hand and he must have involuntarily grasped it harder because the stem snapped and suddenly the man was bleeding.
Diane grabbed a clean linen napkin, ducked under the counter and hurried over.
By then Theo’d recovered. He was up on his feet and hustling the woman, still screaming cocksucker motherfucker but offering little resistance now, out the door. Phil got up and stood there looking stunned. Lindsay was attending to the woman, dabbling at the wine stain on her skirt, unaware that the man was bleeding. In fact Diane got to him just as the wife noticed.
“Oh my god,” she said.
“Here, let me wrap this around it. Let’s get you into the men’s room.” The wound was between thumb and forefinger and looked deep. She wrapped the linen tight and got him to his feet. The man was turning white. His wife got up and followed them. Diane turned to Lindsay.
“There’s a first-aid kit in the desk upstairs in the office. Get it.”
Lindsay nodded.
One of the two gay men was using a water-soaked napkin on the cuff of his once cream-colored pants leg when Theo returned for the bag lady’s filthy shopping bags. The man was smiling in a good-natured way and shaking his head as though to say, hey, it’s New York City, right? Theo saw Phil doing nothing, just standing there. He hefted the foul-smelling bags and shot him a look.
“Goddammit, Phil. Help the man. Get him some seltzer. Get a mop for godsakes or call a busboy or something. For god’s sake do something!”
What Phil did actually do surprised everybody.
There were two glass coffeepots, regular and decaf, both almost full, on burners at the waiter’s station.
Phil’s ears were ringing. He could feel the blood pounding in his head. Somebody had knocked him down. Somebody had shouted at him. Somebody had frosted him. Somebody was bleeding.
