They didn’t, again. Bill wanted to, Beverly wanted to, but she was still conflicted. When she dropped trou, she smiled at Bill, did a full turnaround, shifted and moved so he could see all there was to see. Then she stepped up to him where he sat, stood on the step below him.
“Like what you see?”
“That a real question?”
“I thought it was.”
“You thought you had to ask?”
“Is that a yes, you like what you see?”
“You really want an answer?”
“Yes. Say it.”
“I like what I see.”
“Show me.”
Bill leaned forward and put his arms around her clasping his hands on her buttocks. He knew what to do. He knew how to do it. He’d done it many, many times before, sometimes better, sometimes worse, always happily. He was happy to do it this time too, and this time much as he enjoyed it, he tried that much more to make it so she especially enjoyed it.
When it was done, she didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t have to say anything. They were both married people, just not to each other. He knew he’d pleased her. He knew, as they say, it was mission completed. He knew when it was mission completed too, and he pushed a little further to see if it would be mission completed more than once, which it ended up being. Then it all ended with a nice, friendly kiss.
“That was great,” she said only after she was completely put back together.
“I pass the test?”
“A+.”
“I wouldn’t have anything less.”
“You won’t need protection,” Beverly said.
Bill didn’t say anything. He had stood and was tying his apron around him.
“No comment?” Beverly asked.
“What’s to say?”
“Next time, honey. Any way you like.”
“When our schedules work,” Bill said.
We need a signal,” Beverly said.
“Got one in mind?”
“Easy one,” Beverly said. “I’ll wear two earrings in my left ear. I’ll wear one complete pair and an extra in the left.”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
They were both dressed, straightened up and put wholly back together. They kissed, softly, friendly-like.
“I like you,” Bill said.
“Me too. But we don’t have to live together.”
“Thank God.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Means I’m not married but a short while and I’m sure I shouldn’t be married at all.”
“Me too,” Beverly said. Then, “Listen,” she said, “I’m gonna show you a way to go so you come out by the locker room. I’ll wait about twenty minutes and come out by the employee cafeteria.”
“That’s good. Hope you have a good night.”
“You too. You off tomorrow?”
“Yeah. First day off in a bit and not off again for two more weeks.”
“Christmas season,” Beverly said. “Get’s crazy here.”
“That good?”
“I’ll make a lot of money. That’s good.”
All-but. When he left Beverly Bill was thinking about Arlene. They ended up good friends and that wasn’t all they were. Arlene had tough stuff in her life back then, complicated situations, emotional ones. They were friends, they were intimate friends, they were close emotionally and spiritually. When Bill got married they’d stopped the physical intimacy beyond holding one another. But that had led from one thing to another, and another had led to all-but. All-but was sufficient only for a little while.
All-but. Arlene, Beverly, situations and life stuff.
Up that ramp to The Falstaff Room pantry area and kitchen were Rosie and Edelgarde.
When it rained it poured. And it was pouring. It had been pouring since that night he’d spilled soup on the customer, his first night as a busboy, when the customer had laced it into the waitress with a vulgarity not worthy of any situation. Accidents, and it was an accident, happened.
Defending that waitress, even though it meant losing his job, what would have meant losing his job if he hadn’t known Robert, had started the rain. Rain and more rain.
By Peter Weiss
We could do better heading back to the hippie era. I lived through that, old enough to be part of it. Things were more honest then, more straightforward, less complicated. Issues were clear, not so convoluted.
The issues back then were meaningful ones, hard ones. The anti-war movement, the civil rights movement and the women’s rights movement, burn the bra, were true struggles. The existing injustices were plain to see.
Burn the bra.
Make love, not war.
I’d rather be dead than red.
Free love.
Those were some of the slogans. They represent two basic notions, first free love and equality, and second that America is a good country: better to be free than to live in subjugation.
Not hard. Not unclear. Certainly not easy.
Shoot forward to when the Berlin Wall fell. Ronald Reagan, a Republican, was president. America became the only superpower in the world. She did not attempt to conquer the world. She spent her time and resources helping the rest of the world. Stupidly, she allowed China and Russia to rebuild and regain superpower status. Those two totalitarian powers are now attempting to and succeeding in expanding their attempts at world domination as this pandemic goes on, while America is in the throes of this anarchist turmoil.
The time for silence has passed. If the silent majority stays silent now, America will be lost. Our The Despicable Dems and their lapdog mainstream media, Pravda USA, are hell-bent not just on failing us, but on taking us over. They have spent their last three years attempting to overthrow a legal, regular election. They would rather see us go down as a country than not have political power for themselves.
Our fate is blowing in the wind.
By Peter Weiss
They stayed together the whole hour. They played like high school kids making out on lover’s lane on Friday night. They wanted to, but they didn’t. They didn’t for several reasons, first and most important of which was that Beverly wasn’t ready for anything more than what they did, than what she allowed them to do.
Bill did not press her. He hadn’t been looking for her in the first place. Bill did for her what she wanted him to, and when he was done with what she wanted, he asked for nothing in return. Beverly wasn’t good with that and did what she did.
Then she cried. She spent the last twenty minutes crying some then laughing some. After she’d wiped her eyes and straightened herself completely, she stood before Bill where he sat on the stairs.
“I’m messed up, huh?”
“Conflicted,” Bill said.
“Well that’s a gross understatement.”
“Want the truth?”
“I’m all ears.”
“We shouldn’t do this again and you shouldn’t’ do anything with anyone until you know what you want.”
“You dumping me?”
“I didn’t know we were together.”
“You want to know the truth?”
“For sure.”
“I know what I want to do. I’m just scared.”
“Maybe you’re not completely sure.”
“That too.”
“Why’s it easier for guys?”
“Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t.”
“You’re handsome,” Beverly said. “I heard you before about me being pretty.”
Bill smiled at her. “You ticklish?” he asked.
“Fiercely.”
Bill stood up and grabbed her. He found the spots where she was ticklish and tickled her so she laughed, but he didn’t torture her. When she said she’d had enough, he let her go and they both sat down.
“So we can be friends, you know,” he said.
“You think?”
“Yup.”
“Why would you want that?”
“Cause here we are. Cause we met and we’re getting to know each other. I have plenty of girls, much more than I ever thought possible, much more than I ever wanted. Being married and being in a position in power seem to be like magnets.”
“You are handsome.”
Bill never thought that about himself, not in his whole life, and even as Beverly said it he still didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t say that to her, at least not at this moment, but the thought, his doubt, went through him as it always did when he considered this about himself. He didn’t think himself handsome or attractive, he didn’t think he was terribly smart and he didn’t think much of himself altogether. Maybe this was the result of his life’s events so far.
On another level, he sensed that he cut a good figure in his uniform with that apron tied around him. He was thin now, lanky, his hair was growing back nicely, already long. He surely wasn’t like most of the cooks. He was younger, thinner, a college graduate. But that’s what others saw of him. Personally, he was an ex-con, not really, just an ex-inmate of the Columbus workhouse. He had almost been expelled from the university, and he could go on with more negativity.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment.
“What would we do as friends?” Beverly asked.
“Share feelings. You could talk, we could talk.”
“I’m so messed up you wouldn’t want to hear my feelings.”
“I probably know them already. You think my life is golden? You think I’m not messed up?”
“Are you?”
“Everyone is. Me? I’m a college graduate cook. How you think that feels?
“How does it feel?”
“Wasn’t what I wanted. Wasn’t what I was dreaming about. Like you say, wasn’t what I signed up for.”
“Well at least you’re good at it.”
“Big fucking deal,” Bill said.
“All righty then,” Beverly said. “I think you and I can be friends. I think it might just be good fun.”
“And we can have good fun too,” Bill said.
“Let’s start now,” Beverly said. Facing him as he sat on the stairs, she stood in front of him and dropped her pants.
By Peter Weiss
Today’s latest, a judge made it so blacks don’t have to wear masks outside because of their fear of being profiled.
Let me get this straight. Whites and every other color have to wear masks, blacks no.
Justice?
William Barr is threatened by Jerry Nader with impeachment with the assertion that he is Trump’s lawyer more than an attorney general.
Wait a minute. What about Eric Holder and Loretta Lynch, Obama’s pet lawyers? One refused to prosecute blacks and even sent around a memo through the Justice Department. The other, well you know all she did. Or maybe if you’re one of the hook-line-and-sinker dogma Dems, maybe you don’t.
Truth is the real racism is coming from the Democrats and now all those afraid of them and the power they yield with that “r” word.
Justice?
Illegals get free medical care. Hard-working citizens, tax-payers, sometimes go broke from medical bills. Justice?
Those rioters who were arsonists, assault and batterers, even murderers, who committed crime after crime–where is justice for them? Those innocent store and business owners whose businesses were destroyed wantonly by the looters and anarchist-rioters, where is justice for them?
On and on and on and on. How many of those shootings in Chicago were committed by legal, licensed gun owners? Take away their guns? Justice?
And there it is. Most of our leaders, starting with Nancy and Chuck and Al and Jerry and Adam wouldn’t know justice if it walked up to them and introduced itself in plain English. Worse, they are not even interested in it. Money and power that’s all they are interested in and the hell with us. As we see now from them now, the hell with our country so long as they get theirs.
Man is by nature selfish and greedy. Justice? Not with what’s going on now. Maybe never again if we keep on as we’re going.
By Peter Weiss
“How did you plan to sleep?” Beverly asked?
Bill looked at her. “You’re pretty,” he said.
Beverly smiled at him, kissed him once on the cheek. “Really, how were you planning to sleep?”
“I thought I’d lean up against the wall there, where you’re sitting. I hadn’t really thought about it, but I’ve slept on stairs before.”
“Want me to leave you alone?”
“No. You want to cut out?”
“Not at all.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything. I wasn’t planning to see you. I was planning to hang out a bit and then go on back to the locker room and see who’s there. If I’d have known I was doing a double, I’d have planned to go home in between.”
“We can sleep together here,” Bill said.
“You can put your head in my lap.” Beverly motioned for him to do that, to get himself comfortable.
Bill did not hesitate. He moved so that he was leaning somewhat on her and settled his head in her lap. First thing he did when he was nuzzled in was to smell her much as he could. His head was kind of sideways so he shifted several times attempting to get comfy.
For her part, Beverly spread her legs, moved them with him, asked him if he was comfortable. Together they were able to get somewhat settled, but not for long.
“We’d do better on the floor there,” Beverly said. “By the window.”
“You think? I’d be afraid someone would come along.”
“Believe me,” Beverly said, “no one comes here. And if anyone does, we’ll hear them before they come upon us.”
“What the hell,” Bill said.
Bill took off his apron and laid it on the floor. Beverly settled her tux jacket on it. They sat down next to each other, leaned against the wall where there was a radiator and a full window above it. Wasn’t long before Bill once again put his head in Beverly’s lap. This time he got comfortable. Beverly sat stroking his hair.
“This feels good,” she said.
“Yeah, it does.”
“Sleep if you want to.”
Bill closed his eyes. No way he was going to sleep but he did rest, he did keep his eyes closed and he did enjoy Beverly stroking his hair.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he said.
“Nothing much,” Beverly said. “I kind of wish we had a place to go. I kind of wish we had a nice bed to lay down in and do whatever we did.”
“Having a place to rest comfortably would be nice.”
Beverly leaned down to kiss Bill. Bill sat up some to make it easier for her and then they shifted so they were side by side again. “If we’re gonna make out, we should go back to the stairs.”
“You want to make out?”
“You?”
“Let’s go to the stairs.”
They spent a long time kissing. They sat next to each other and didn’t really touch each other. Their lips met gently, softly, playfully. They spent a good moment closed-mouth, feeling each other’s lips. Then Bill opened his mouth and sucked her lip softly, pulling at it.
They sat. They kissed. They finally let their tongues meet. It was nice because their tongues had met before and now they explored freely, played, had fun.
Only when Bill felt Beverly’s breathing change, only when he heard her let a soft sigh escape did he reach his hands to her. He pulled at her shirt and opened two more buttons so he could slip his hand inside.
The moment he touched bare skin inside her bra, the kissing changed. Beverly became aggressive, almost ravenous. Bill met her attitude with his own.
By Peter Weiss
That Saturday, the main kitchen had an early luncheon banquet for six hundred. Bill, Victor and Jimmy Banquet Chef had done all the prep on Friday, one of the reasons Bill was so tired Friday night. Standard fare it was, inexpensive, boneless chicken breast with pommes duchesse and green beans with almonds. This one was a Democratic party incumbent meeting and greeting campaign donors for a re-election bid. No big deal, just a lot of work.
Beverly was looking good. She had tight-tailored pants and her standard tux. She’d made herself up with black lipstick and fingernails. Bill checked it out when he saw her. That first look at her was just a quick one when the wait staff met. This was while the cooks were still working on finishing up the browning of the breasts on the stoves. Still it was enough to turn him on in the mood he was in.
The meal went off at 1:00. Dish-up was started at 12:20. By 12:50 everything was set in the warmer trucks which were plugged in and keeping the food hot. Then the guests sat down and salad that was already on the table was consumed such that the main courses could be sent out.
So they were all done by 2:00, the wait staff too. The cooks and stewards had cleaned the main kitchen and Jimmy Banquet Chef was taking a break before he and his crew, without Bill who would be working in The Falstaff Room, started on the next banquets, two for the evening.
Bill and Jimmy G took an hour break. Jimmy G went down to the locker room where he could take a good nap. Bill was undecided in what he would do. He could go to see Millie, not a choice he really wanted to exercise. So he thought he’d take a trip through the back of the house to go to see where he and Beverly had been that time. He didn’t expect to find Beverly there, wasn’t even looking for her, maybe subconsciously. After some meandering, some wandering, he got close enough to her spot for her to hear him and then find him.
“Looking for me?” she asked.
“Not really. Thought I’d see if I could find this place,” Bill said.
“You were close.”
“Close only counts in horseshoes.”
“Maybe,” Beverly said. She smiled at him, led him to where they’d been that time.
Beverly had taken off her tie, a clip-on, opened her shirt collar, three buttons. Her tie was atop her tux jacket on the stairs along with her cumber bun. She sat down exactly where she’d sat the other time, motioned for Bill to join her.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Bill said.
“I got the night too. Wasn’t supposed to but one of the guys got sick and so I’m doing the double.”
“I have The Falstaff Room.”
“I know. How much of a break you have?”
“An hour. I was gonna take a nap.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“Did you eat?”
“I had some vegetables and salad. I didn’t want the chicken.”
“If you’re hungry later, come by. I can fix you something.”
“I’ll eat tonight. They’re having roast beef and that’s better than the chicken.”
“Good. How’s things with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what you mean?”
“I mean at home.”
“Same. No change. He’s got a girlfriend and he’s seeing her regularly. That’s the whole of it.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna get even. And then I’m gonna divorce him.”
“Sounds like you’ve got your mind made up.”
“I do.”
“Good for you, I guess.”
“Nope. Wasn’t what I was looking for. Wasn’t what I signed up for.”
“Sometimes life sucks,” Bill said.
“Could be worse,” Beverly said.
By Peter Weiss
When the FBI came in plain clothes and started beating up the demonstrator and the police were waiting around the corner with full riot-type gear, I started to believe in the notion that certain people and agencies and parts of the government had their own agendas.
The lefties like to work the all-or-nothing game. So they invoke the conspiracy theory notion, and say to dismiss any criticism that anyone who disagrees with them and looks into how things occurred are wacko conspiracy theory people.
Not.
Of course there are some.
The person in the paddy wagon who led the conversation that showed up verbatim at my trial was an undercover cop. He was let out of the holding cell within about a half hour and was on his way to finish out his shift. I saw him some weeks later selling weed in the street trying to get more arrests. He didn’t recognize me, but I recognized him.
Excuse me, but I don’t really trust many institutions. I don’t trust many people. I certainly don’t trust the media, the government, ours or any other, and I don’t trust a world that is now run buy a select group of multi-billionaires whose interests are so convoluted that they would end up helping China with its internet-theft capabilities (of course not under that guise) yet not open the cell phone of a terrorist, domestic or otherwise, here in the U.S.
We’ve seen our politicians lie over and over. We have them on videotape and can definitively show they are lying. Trust them? I don’t.
And so we come back to the same thing over and over. Check out everything for yourself. Don’t believe the Despicable Dems. Don’t believe Trump. Don’t believe me. Check it out for yourself.
Really think Medicare for all will work? Check out the reality of such a thing.
Really believe the Democrats are for you? Check out their records and their history.
Really believe our government has your best interests at heart?
Really believe Bill Clinton didn’t do anything untoward on his 26 trips on Epstein’s Lolita Express?
Give us a break.
I don’t trust anyone whose way to win an election is by offering free stuff and dividing us by saying some of us deserve free stuff while others of us deserve to pay for the free stuff.
The saying goes: believe none of what you hear and half of what you see. Take it as you will.
The real deal is that this election is a choice between manure on one side and manure on the other. That’s because man is by nature selfish and greedy.
It’s already clear that several of those big billionaires (Trump is a pauper comparatively, by the way) have already begun censoring what can be seen on their social media outlets. This means we won’t even get a fair representation of what’s really going on.
Who do you trust? I certainly don’t trust a party that starts with 50 million voters who are on the government take (pay no taxes and collect government benefits) and then offers them more free stuff, a party willing to wreck our economy and our way of life for policies we already know are untenable.
By Peter Weiss
Bill and his wife were happy with that first paycheck. It was enough to pay the rent and have money left over for groceries and more. It seemed to Bill that they were going to be okay.
Friday and Saturday nights were bitches. The only ones happy were the waitresses. They were happy because they made a ton of money. Bill knew this because he and Rosie ended up taking a break together in the ramp. Bill had come to smoke a cigarette. Rosie was already there. She was sipping a soda. When Bill leaned against the wall next to her, she handed him her cigarette without saying a word. Bill took a deep draw on it and leaned heavily into the wall. He’d brought a coffee with him, sipped it, took another draw on the cigarette and handed it back to her.
“What a night, huh?” Rosie said.
“Jimmy didn’t get a chance to run off.”
“Yeah. Right? He worked the whole night.”
“You make money?”
“A fortune.”
“Good for you.”
“Me and Eddie are gonna take you out. We already decided.”
“I can’t wait,” Bill said.
“Sarcasm will get you everywhere,” Rosie said.
“Everywhere?”
“Anywhere.”
“Was I being sarcastic?”
“Naw,” Rosie said. “You wouldn’t do that.”
They both had a good laugh.
“Boy am I tired,” Rosie said.
“Me too,” Bill said. “I’ve been here since ten.”
“See your girlfriend?”
“I thought you were my girlfriend.”
“I am,” Rosie said.
They laughed again.
“We do a new record?”
“I’m willing to bet we did. I’m willing to bet we’ve set a record for the week so far too, and I’d bet we set a new weekly record after tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s a good thing,” Bill said.
“It’s the way the kitchen is running.” Rosie looked at Bill. “The more the kitchen performs well, the more word goes around that the food is really good.”
“I know. It’s a cycle,” Bill said. “So more people keep coming.”
“Bet the chef is happy.”
“What about your boy?” Bill asked.
“Caesar can go, well, he can you-know-what himself.”
“Yeah,” Bill said. “I know what.” He smiled at Rosie, gave her a good looking over. “I have to get back,” he said.
Back in the kitchen an espresso was waiting for him. Jimmy was reading his Greek newspaper. Caesar was nowhere to be found. It was all good.
Bill and Jimmy took their time. They waited as long as they could before cleaning up. Kalista brought them her home-made Greek pastry and a fresh double espresso. Jimmy sat in his usual seat and smoked a cigarette. He kept it low down so no one from the dining room could see it. In turn, Jo Ann came to say good night, Caesar came for his dinner, Rosie and Edelgarde finished with their last customers and closed out all the work.
Then Jimmy G and Bill mustered up the energy and started into their closing routine. They were a good team now, efficient, swift. One could read what the other was doing and work around it. In just about no time they had the truck loaded and were ready to head over to the main kitchen. They said good night to Rosie and Edelgarde, packed up Kalista’s main kitchen items on their truck and headed off.
By Peter Weiss
Our government is failing us. Our government was meant to be run by representatives who left their personal lives for a term in office and then went back to their personal lives having served their country. It wasn’t meant to be run by career politicians hell-bent on staying in power and enriching themselves. So long as we fail to institute term limits and get rid of the rubbish we have – that American Politburo – we are destined to be subjugated and ruled rather than represented.
I wrote this last week. Seems to me it is still true today.
The Democrats have spent the last three plus years blaming President Trump for everything, everything, no matter what. The fact is that he has only been in government service for three years. How much blame can he actually get?
Pelosi: 31 years
Biden: 36 years as a senator, 8 years as VP
Schumer: House of Representatives from 81-99, Senate from 99 to now and ongoing.
So, how does this add up?
It’s the Democrat cities that are deep in financial debt and being burned up by the anarchists. They are not protesters.
23 trillion dollars has been spent on the war on poverty. We haven’t changed the demographics of poverty much or lessened the poverty rate significantly.
I could go on, and on, and on.
Isn’t it enough already? Aren’t you tired of the false narratives being pushed down our throats?
By Peter Weiss
The holiday season would come up quickly. Banquet sales kept the chef well-informed about the bookings and the chef told Jimmy Banquet Chef who passed it along to the banquet crew. No rest for the wicked.
By the end of week three things were more or less routine for Bill. The Falstaff Room was busy and stayed busy. Mondays were a touch slower than the other days and the weekends were gangbusters. It was sufficiently busy such that Caesar adjusted the schedule so Jo Ann came in a half hour later and worked until Rosie and Edelgarde were assured they could cover the closing. The change only affected about an hour’s time and it was in Jo Ann’s favor, more or less. Even if she minded, which she did some, she didn’t mind. The real rub was that she had no choice in the matter. Caesar was not one to not continually remind the girls that they could easily be replaced and there were lots of girls ready to step in immediately.
Having Jo Ann there more was good for Bill. Although there was nothing ever said, at least that he was privy to, just due to the circumstances of her being there, Rosie and Edelgarde were somewhat more reserved. That did not stop them from meeting up with him from time to time when no one else was around. Then, they might cop a feel of him, say something to him, make a suggestive suggestion. He might be standing in the ramp leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. One of them might sidle up next to him with her own drink, a coffee or a soda, bump him gently with her hip, whisper something in his ear.
Bill appreciated regularity. Bill appreciated routine. Bill liked sameness. He did not like to look for things. He did not like to have to see where things were. He liked to be able to reach for something without looking and for it to be there, one time, every time, all the time.
Bill liked regularity and routine in his life. He liked knowing what he had to do ahead of time and then being able to do it without interruption. If anything was getting altered, he liked to be the one to do the altering.
Bill liked having a job. He liked having somewhere to go every day and he liked getting a paycheck every two weeks. His first paycheck was a good one, but it was a smaller one. They held two weeks, so he did not get it until he’d been there a month. He and his wife had to tell the landlady they’d be a little late with the rent, but this time, they expected, would be the only time.
And it would be.
The second paycheck was considerably larger. This one reflected one week at his new rate and it also reflected his new schedule of working all the time on banquets before heading off to The Falstaff Room. This second one, give or take, would represent his usual, and as he and his wife considered things, they understood they could begin to budget finances. For Bill, and for his wife too, which was a good thing, past monthly overhead the first budget item was savings. They had some now, but the goal was to continually add to it.
The week of the day that Bill got his first paycheck was a week that Bill had a day off. He and his wife made a date. In fact they made a full-day date. It was very simple. First they would sleep in. Then they would spend some home time together. Then they would go out for breakfast, even if it was lunch time. Then they would go to visit his wife’s parents. And finally they would spend the evening together doing whatever that might lead to.
