Soon enough wasn’t so soon.
When they finished the fish, had them all lined up, butter-coated and topped with paprika, when the fish was in the oven, time frame was forty-five minutes to dish-up.
Christmas Eve day. No one wanted to fool around and work later than they had to. Since there were no evening banquets and none on Christmas day, the time off was like a vacation to these service workers.
Four parties, all basically the same menu, they would go off all at the same time, simultaneously, each one from one dish-up station.
Easy peasy?
Not as easy as you might imagine. The most difficult part, almost always, was coordination. The most difficult part of the meal service from the kitchen point of view for any table with more than one person, was bringing it all up together. Even a single table with multiple items in the entrée required coordination of the elements.
Bill had learned this early on, had learned it for keeps when the owner of Suburban, Mr. Bowman, had sat that night in a four-top and ordered the thin steaks rare and the thickest one nearly well-done. Issue: coordination.
Coordination was the same fight he and Lillian, the Suburban expediter, had. She wanted to make sure everything got on the grill so there would be no back up from her end. Bill had to worry about not only that, but the coordination of the tables as well. He also had to worry about not backing up any particular waitress, meaning he didn’t want to put out multiple tables for one waitress all together. It was a ball game and you had play the game as it played out. Being a ball game was what made it fun. Sometimes.
Then too, there were your working partners and their coordinating the items you weren’t personally working on on any table. Sauté cooks and broiler cooks had to be intimate dance partners, each partner knowing what the other one was doing at any given time. If you were doing it all yourself and there were multiple parts to what you were doing, it could be even more complex.
Cooking the food, for the most part, was easy. Today’s fare was simple, just two main courses that had to come out of the oven at just about the same time. Actually, since nothing was being held in warmers, the fish was set to come out about ten minutes past the chicken. This way it would be done and staying warm in the rotary oven (which would be turned off and cooling) while the chicken for each party was dished up. Then there were two different sauces, both with the common element of mushrooms, the same vegetable and potatoes all around.
The stewards and other cooks were already jovial. They’d had some eggnog, rum-laced eggnog. They were happy and peppy and interested in getting things done and getting the hell out of town.
Holiday, who could blame them?
Even the chef was getting out of the hotel. Jimmy Banquet Chef was on for the night to make sure the closing up was okay. But he had some of Christmas day off. Not all. Bill, Jimmy G, Kalista and the room service cooks were the only kitchen crew working. The kitchen and most of the back-of-the-house of the hotel would be like a ghost town.
The Falstaff Room was open for Christmas dinner. Those same people would be working the whole holiday. Sure, they’d make money since it was double-time-and-a-half, but that didn’t make up for not having the holiday. Nevertheless, hotel guests had to be serviced.
They had a moment to smoke a cigarette once the dish-up stations were setup and just before the timer bell on the rotary oven was due to go off. Here was where Jimmy Banquet Chef became traffic cop as well as head of one of the dish-up stations. His first orders were for the stewards to put the potatoes and vegetable out at the stations.
Then the timer bell rang and everything and everyone moved.
By Peter Weiss
They were speaking French. Bill heard it immediately. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but he could recognize words and understood the words he recognized, at least for the most part. He had studied French in junior high and high school, his mother’s choice, one of the few she’d made for him before she’d died.
Hearing the language had caused him to look, not just glance which he had done when Nora was over at the buffet table. He looked long as he could from where he was working and as often as he could while they spoke.
Nora was a petite, middle-aged woman, small, slight but not slim, almost manly in a way, at least in the tuxedo she wore as her uniform. Then she had the page boy – she always wore that page boy. She showed no breasts to speak of and no real shape, at least not in that monkey suit.
Her biggest claims to fame were the page boy and the dark red lips. She always had dark red lips. And she was droll. She never smiled, never seemed happy, never seemed perturbed. She had a deep voice that carried well, a voice Bill, when he thought about it, considered sexy.
Before now Bill had never heard her talk much. Except the general hellos and how-you-doing chatter, there was just about nothing. But now, she stood at that table talking in French to a youngish woman.
The woman was slender, had straight black hair that fell to her shoulders. She was shapely and loose, free in her posture and the way she moved within the space she occupied.
She was simple and plain in her appearance, Bill noted. She did not wear any jewelry except a pair of diamond stud earrings. No rings, no bracelets, no necklaces. She wore a tan dress, not prudish but not exposing anything. It was, Bill judged, not cheap. He judged this not by his personal expertise, but simply by the way it fit her and the way it hung on her form.
As he looked over, Bill saw that she was watching him from time to time while she spoke to Nora. She watched him, he watched her. He wondered what she was thinking and maybe what she was thinking about what she was seeing.
Bill was loose and easy himself. Like her, he was fluid in his motions, kind of lanky and free-flowing.
The chicken done, when they moved on to roll the filet of sole into paupiettes, Bill noted that the woman left off speaking with Nora and went into the chef’s office. Seeing her not hesitate and not even knock – she just walked into the open door – confirmed who he thought she was, Millie’s boss.
Maybe.
She might be the chef’s daughter, Bill thought. The chef was Scandinavian and he spoke French often. It made sense that his daughter would speak French too, and it also made sense that she might enjoy speaking the language when she had a chance to do so.
But as they worked, the banquet chef made a comment to Bill.
“Pretty, huh?” he said.
“Who?” Bill asked.
“Chloe.”
“Who is Chloe?”
“That one you were looking at. The one who was talking to Nora.”
“I didn’t notice,” Bill said. “Who is she?”
“Yeah, you noticed,” Jimmy Banquet Chef said. “You were sure looking. I think she was looking at you too.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Cause I was watching. I have good eyesight and I know what I saw.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw you looking her way. I saw her looking your way. I know your eyes met at least once, but I couldn’t say that for sure.”
“So who is she?”
“My cousin is in love with her. He thinks she’s beautiful.”
“You don’t?”
“Too skinny for me. Too flat-chested too.”
“Yeah, so who is she?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the banquet chef said.
By Peter Weiss
Bill, Jimmy Banquet Chef and Victor worked straight through. They sautéed all the chicken breasts and rolled all the filet of sole. They set the sole on sheet pans lined up like soldiers, buttered the tops with a brush and melted butter, sprinkled them with paprika. At dish-up the rolled sole would be covered in white wine sauce with sautéed mushrooms. Bill had made the sauce.
Jimmy G sat on a wooden folding chair, his chair, in the vegetable room. He was smoking a cigarette and enjoying himself while the stewards did all the work.
In this room was a long row of sinks specially built to be one long sink trough with multiple faucets evenly spaced. At this moment water cascaded over stacked pans of broccoli set under each faucet. The water was defrosting the broccoli, many pans of it.
Jimmy G did not budge from his chair unless he had to, and he didn’t have to because the stewards knew exactly what to do and were doing it. They resented his not working. They resented the fact that he continually got away with it. There was little they could do about it, little anyone could do about it.
Jimmy Banquet Chef had talked to his cousin many times about not working. He implored him to make it look good, that he should be working more and harder than anyone else, than everyone else. Jimmy G gave his usual ”Ya,” and did what he did.
The banquet had talked with his aunt many times about his cousin. They both knew Jimmy G was not happy in America and if he had the chance he’d head back to his farm in Greece. But he had a wife and kids to take care of, and he had parents there who ran the farm with other family members. There were kids to be sent to college too. Everything took money. Nothing was better than American dollars being sent over.
The reality of it, the real reality of it, was that Jimmy Banquet Chef was the one who was stuck. He was a chef by trade, by choice. He had worked his way into this position of prominence here in this hotel. Once his job was secured, once the chef, same chef who had been there like forever (and that in itself was somewhat unusual), liked him like a son and relied upon him completely, he was able to start bringing in his family. First came Victor, then Kalista, then some younger nephews who were kitchen stewards. Finally it was Jimmy G who hadn’t known anything and only learned what he needed to know for this job.
Jimmy Banquet Chef was the one stuck because it all depended upon him and his being there.
Jimmy G’s ineptitude greatly increased Bill’s value. But Jimmy G’s laziness caused the chef agita. He ran through multiple broiler cooks because sooner or later the inequity became a sore point and each time there wasn’t enough money he could offer to counter the bad feelings.
And so it went.
Jimmy G smoked his cigarette and read his magazine. Victor, Jimmy Banquet Chef and Bill worked through with the kitchen stewards to make sure all the parties were ready to go. The buffet table kept being replenished by the room service cooks who weren’t happy about it but were assured they’d only have to do it until the banquets were served. Kalista came in to do the salads. She had Adonia and her own stewards who helped her. Adonia was one of the family going to college.
Staff came in and out of the kitchen and ate from the buffet table. Room service cooks filled up the table regularly and put on some of their own things too, like pancakes. The banquet crew worked all morning. When they were done with the chicken breasts, they took a moment for a coffee and a cigarette and went straight to finishing off the fish.
Then it was all into the rotary, the chicken first and the fish later timed to come out for the dish-up.
By Peter Weiss
They didn’t see each other until Christmas Eve day when the lunches were packed. They were all small parties, four of them going off at the same time, all with the same menu, give or take. All of them were inexpensive-item, business-sponsored lunches, not personal parties by individuals. So it was lots of chicken breast to sauté, rolled filet of sole second choice. Chicken or fish.
Because there were four parties and because the number of covers added up, the banquet crew was full. Bill saw Beverly the moment she stepped into the kitchen, one of a group of waiters who walked in together. Nora was in the group too. Her hair was ever the same in the page boy, and her lips were ever thick-red painted.
“Bonjour,” Nora said as she passed by Bill. “How’s it going?” she asked in English for a change.
“It’s going,” Bill said. “You?”
Nora gave him her most droll expression and said, “What should be different?” Her voice was deep, sexy, swell.
Bill smiled. He was in the midst of sauté standing at the stoves next to Victor. Jimmy Banquet Chef was working the same sauté on the other side of Victor, and Jimmy G was, like always, tending to the vegetables, or reading his magazine while the stewards did the work.
Everyone passed by and said hello. Bill knew the waiters now too, most of them by name and most of them by the way they worked as well. Some were better than others, the older professionals much more serious and efficient. The younger ones, a couple of them, did not look upon this as their career and were less serious about the work. Bill paid them no mind for the most part and made sure not to ask them for anything.
When Beverly came by, Bill noticed she had a second earring in on the left side. He smiled at her and said hello, made sure she saw that he saw. She looked ever herself, pretty and made up as her usual, not much, not fancy, just to accentuate her natural look.
The chef had prepared a table for the waiters set at the glass window of his office. The setup wasn’t just for the waiters, it was for the laundry people and some of the others who worked this day, maids and maintenance people who would ordinarily eat in the employee cafeteria.
The chef had set a long, long buffet table on which was a whole host of different foods ranging from cheese platters and fruits to eggs with bacon, sausage and ham, all buffet style. Then there were breads, rolls, croissants, brioche and pastries.
This was all set away from the work areas so the employees could get their plates and eat without disturbing the banquet crew. Since almost everyone knew everyone on some level or other, those who came in to eat made sure to find a way to say hello to the banquet crew who had prepared the buffet and were busy at work on the lunches.
The buffet table had been set up and arranged to start at about nine in the morning and it remained there and was replenished till noon. For the afternoon, after the banquets were done, the chef had planned a cold meat buffet and desserts. Those people who had eaten breakfast could come back for lunch too, or just for snacks. There were no limitations, and the same deal was set to be there for Christmas day as well. No banquets were scheduled for Christmas, not because they didn’t work on Christmas but simply because it worked out that way this year.
“Hey,” Beverly said to Bill.
“Hey,” he said as he continued the sauté work. “How’s it going?”
“Same old same old,” Beverly said. “Maybe I’ll see you over at the buffet table.”
“We’re working through,” Bill said. “We’ll see how it works out.”
“Well, see you at dish up if not before then.”
Bill was starting to flip the chicken in his pan. “Okay,” he said.
By Peter Weiss
Bill kissed back in kind but he did not advance or initiate anything. When Beverly took his hand and started to place it on her, he withdrew.
“Don’t be a bully,” he said.
“What? Why a bully?” Beverly was taken aback by the choice of words.
“You know we shouldn’t do anything until you’re settled into what you’re doing.”
“I am settled.”
“You aren’t, not until you take an action.”
“Please,” Beverly said. She was still holding his hand, put it inside her blouse on her bra. Bill immediately took it back to himself and sat with his hands clasped.
“Bill,” she said.
“Listen, I’m going back to the kitchen. I don’t want to influence what you do or how you do it. You’ve got to deal with this, or not.”
“I can get someone else, you know. I can bring them right here.”
“It’s your life, your reputation, your job. You have to work here all the time. Want me to tell you what happens the moment you go with one of the waiters?”
“I already know,” Beverly said. “I’ve seen it just not with me.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bill said. “You think you do, but you don’t have a clue.”
“And you do?”
“We’ve had this discussion. I know what it is to go home and have to look my wife in the eyes. I know what it is to have to lie. I know what it is to feel like a, well you know what, and to have to run to take a shower before I can touch her. What do you know? And then on top of everything, do a waiter and you’re done here. I think you think this is a good job.”
There it was. She started to cry again. It was a quiet, head-in-her-hands cry.
Bill melted seeing it. He melted so much he took her in his arms next to him and held her tight.
“I’m so lost,” she said.
“Sometimes you have to get lost to find your way,” Bill said. “But it only feels like you’re lost. You’re not so lost.”
“That what happened to you?”
“What?”
“You got lost?”
“Me? No. I needed a job. I needed a job so bad I would have shoveled shit in a pig pen if I could have found the work. The kitchen is what it was and it led to all this stuff I wasn’t looking for.”
“What harm would there be if…”
“You still gotta go home. You still gotta look him in the eyes. I know we’ve already done things, but it wasn’t with what we both know now.”
“I want it to be you. I like you. I like you and I want you. And why did you say not to be a bully?”
“Because if you go on and force me, that’s the same as bullying me. You know if you force it, I’ll do what you want. I’ll do what you want because it’s a better option than you going elsewhere, unless you know someone outside of here.”
“I don’t know anyone. I don’t know anyone here either. I just know more than half those waiters salivate looking at me. Me, I like you.”
“I was lost,” Bill said. “Almost immediately after my mother died. So I picked up alcohol and then drugs. That put me in places I should never have been, led to things I should never have gone to. Then it all culminated with me getting arrested and not being able to get a job.
“It gets better too. That’s just the stuff, you know, the circumstances. Then we can talk about me, about my lack of confidence, about my guilt and shame and feeling unworthy. And more. We can talk about self-destructiveness too. That what you want for yourself?”
Beverly, still weeping, looked at Bill. “I just want to get laid,” she said.
By Peter Weiss
So they sat next to each other without touching at all.
Beverly was curious and wanted to know more about Bill. Bill told her there wasn’t much more to tell. He told her she pretty much knew everything about him, or at least everything that was worth telling. When he said that, she told him it was pretty much the same for her.
“I haven’t had sex in weeks,” Beverly finally blurted out. She looked at Bill and smiled. “I’m young and vibrant. It’s not that I can’t go without it, but Jesus Christ, I don’t want him anymore. How could he do this to me?”
It was a fair question. It was a question Bill had no answer for. All he could think was he hoped his wife didn’t know. He hoped she had no clue, no idea, not even the slightest inkling.
As he thought back upon it, all he could think was that shit happens. He didn’t go to meet that professor to go to the demonstration. He didn’t help that kid who was getting beat up to get arrested. He helped him to do the right thing. He didn’t plan to get convicted of anything, to go to jail, to not be able to get a job using his college degree. He didn’t plan to become a college graduate bus boy, then a broiler cook. He didn’t plan to spill soup on that customer and then have to defend the waitress because that customer was being a major asshole. He didn’t plan for her to thank him the way she did or for that to start something.
It did start something. But that something would have started anyway because Alfreda wanted a piece of him, Bea was licking her chops and Marie wanted some white meat. Then there was Norma. Drenovis sicced her on Bill except it didn’t go the way Drenovis expected. Norma and Bill had a grand time.
And then there was Mother Mary. Drugs. Alcohol. Fatigue. Dissatisfaction with the way life had gone…
Mother Mary was just one of those what-the-hell existential decisions. He was high. He was drunk. He came upon her as she was bent over with her hands busy and her head just about inside that oven.
It wouldn’t be the only time he reached up a girl’s skirt. It wouldn’t be the only time he’d felt someone up uninvited and just because. It wouldn’t be the only time it turned out not unwanted, not discouraged. It wouldn’t be the only time it was the beginning of an invitation.
But he loved Mother Mary. He cared for Arlene and he cared for Lorraine but he loved Mother Mary. It wasn’t just that she rocked his world, which she positively did. She touched his soul and she grabbed his heart.
“You know I’m a grown up girl,” Beverly said.
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, really. And I am starting to know what I want.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“I want to be free of him.”
“You can do that. All you have to do is do it.”
“I’m gonna confront him. I’m gonna let him know I know and let him know it’s over.”
Bill didn’t say anything. In part it was because he was still stuck on her question of how he could do that to her.
This wasn’t an unfamiliar question for Bill. It wasn’t a question he hadn’t grappled with.
He wanted to tell her that he had discovered something that might temper her seeming decision. He wanted to tell her that you could love more than one woman at the same time. He wanted to tell her that it had happened to him, that without looking for it or wanting it or even understanding it, loving two women at the same time had surely happened to him.
He might have said something or started to, but Beverly turned and kissed him. She kissed him passionately.
“See,” she said. “I am a grown up girl.”
By Peter Weiss
It wasn’t going well, or it was going better than she thought. That was the gist of what Beverly told him in the little time they’d had in the morning. She hadn’t confronted her husband and he hadn’t said anything to her. But he hadn’t approached her sexually and she told Bill that her sense was the intimacy they’d once had was gone.
That’s how far they’d gotten. That’s what she’d said and that was all she’d said. Bill sensed she could have said more and he knew he would push her to do so.
For the lunches, although she was in the kitchen with the other waiters and waitresses, actually Nora, the sultry Frenchwoman, was the only other waitress, Beverly was not near to Bill. She worked with her Captain on the banquet she was assigned to while Bill and the other cooks did the work for all the banquets. They, all the waiters and the two waitresses, had their meeting and then went out to their respective party rooms to complete the set up.
Kalista was in the kitchen. She came in to make sure the salads were done and set up on time. Her great-niece Adonia was there too and they were working hard. It wasn’t just the lunches they had to set up. They were setting up the dinner parties too even though Kalista, Bill and Jimmy G would not be there to do the dish-up.
Then it was dish-up and things in the kitchen went into hyper-gear. Jimmy Banquet Chef controlled it all, worked like a seasoned traffic cop. But his crew all knew what they were doing and he had his key people in the key places.
Bill’s station, like the three other stations, did the dish-up and settled all the dinners, actually luncheons, into the warmer trucks. Then, at the service they did the saucing and the plates went out.
Done deal, like every other set of banquets. These two went off just about simultaneously and then they were done and the stewards took away the warmer trucks to clean them while the kitchen crew and their stewards cleaned up the kitchen and began the set up for the night banquets.
Like always, Bill did all he had to do and more. Then he sat with Jimmy G., Victor, Kalista, Adonia and Jimmy Banquet Chef. They drank espresso and rested and talked about the night upcoming. The Greeks talked in Greek. Bill and Adonia talked a bit about how she was doing in college before she joined the rest of her family in the Greek discussion.
Beverly was waiting. Bill found her on the same stair she was on before and he sat right next to her.
“Did you eat?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Beverly said. “I had a piece of fish and some vegetables.”
“Fish was good, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I made it. Victor and I set them up. But I made the sauce.”
“Well you did a good job.”
“I’m a quick study. Jimmy’s been teaching me a lot.”
“What did you eat?”
“I didn’t,” Bill said. “I ate this morning and I’ll eat dinner with everyone out there by Falstaff about four-thirty. You done for the day?”
“Yeah. Just waiting on my sister. She’s done at four. We don’t usually travel together, but the way it worked today, we did. I’m spending a bit more time with her these days.”
“Talking about your situation?”
“She’s my best friend. My only friend really. Except maybe you.”
“You told her about me?”
“Course. And I told her I’m gonna do you.”
“Oh you did huh? And when was this?”
“This morning.”
“What did she say?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“She said she didn’t blame me.”
“You tell her I wasn’t so cooperative? Cause you know I’m not.”
“I told her everything we’ve done, how we kind of stopped doing anything, and everything we’ve talked about.”
“And?”
“And nothing. She just listened. She’s on my side.”
“I would hope so,” Bill said.
By Peter Weiss
December sped by. Bill worked almost all the time. He was used to working all the time since at Suburban he was on a split shift. Working banquets and then The Falstaff Room was like being on split shift especially when there were early banquets. Then it was a fifteen hour day, sometimes even more, and lots of overtime. He had an hour break between banquets and Falstaff set up unless something was really crazy. Usually things were not crazy, just hectic.
In effect, as it worked out, Thanksgiving weekend was the only break they got even though it was busy in its own right. The Falstaff Room worked, was full most of the time. They did not do overall records, but they did Thanksgiving records. The room ran at near capacity from opening to just-about closing. Jo Ann worked late as was her new routine and she cut out only when she could without disrupting any service.
Beverly did not wear that second earring in her left ear until one day late in the second week of the month. They had a breakfast banquet she was working, a full set of luncheons and two large dinner banquets too. It was one of those banner days where everyone was working all day. The Falstaff Room was completely booked with reservations, but this was nothing new now since they were booked well in advance and it was near impossible to get a reservation.
The breakfast went off without any hitches. It was a simple one, scrambled eggs, choice of sausage or bacon and home fries for six hundred. The hardest part of this one was the size, not the prep or anything like that, but the dish-up. That was fast and furious from four dishing-up stations. Even Jimmy G worked hard at it.
Bill now had his own banquet crew. Or, what that meant was that for dish-up he had his own crew of stewards who worked with him every time. This made it so they all knew each other, knew each other’s ways, knew what each other was doing and what they needed to do. It also meant that they worked with Bill’s being left handed. His being a lefty meant things had to be set up differently in order to be most fast and efficient.
Bill ate bacon and sausage. He loved bacon and sausage. He did not eat while he worked the dish-up, but he ate during the prep when things were done and getting put into serving pans.
One of the nicer things of this banquet was that the rolls and breads were superior, including specialty items like hot, fresh croissants. Nothing better than a fresh, hot croissant with espresso.
He was able to pass Beverly a croissant. Passing food was a little tricky sometimes and he did not do it as a matter of policy, but for this banquet, due to size, the waiters were not stopped from such things. In fact, he and Beverly had a moment while she ate her croissant and he worked. They talked. This was nothing unusual since all the cooks knew the waiters and did the same with their friends. They didn’t talk about anything other than the weather, the day, the holidays.
They found each other in the staircase about ten. Bill told her straight up that he didn’t have much time, that he was on a short break before they started for the lunches. She grabbed him and kissed him profusely, hard, deep, wild. She also took his hands and put them all over her.
“I am so horny,” she said.
Bill withdrew from her, but not immediately. He indulged her a moment, kissed back, allowed himself to feel her over her clothes, then pulled back.
“I can come around two,” he said.
“Me too.”
“How’s it going?” he asked.
By Peter Weiss
Beverly melted under his touch, relaxed under his hands. She didn’t say anything. Bill didn’t say anything. He rubbed her shoulders, massaged her back and down her sides.
After spending a good amount of time working on her, he finished with her neck. He bid her put her head forward and lean forward so he could get a good hold of her and make his way up and down. She was verily pleased.
The last thing he did was plant one quick kiss right in the middle of her neck. Almost instantaneously he could see it gave her goosebumps.
“That was wonderful,” she said. She leaned back against him. Bill spread his legs so she could settle in. “I owe you,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Bill said. “You needed it. And I was happy to do it.”
“I guess I have my work cut out for me.”
“You’ll do what you do,” he said.
“I guess I will.”
“Just remember, no action is an action.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Beverly said. “Wanna kiss me?”
“No,” Bill said. “Well, yes I do, but no I won’t.”
“Too bad for you.”
“Yeah, but it’s right I can’t say I always do what’s right so maybe God will put up one on my plus side.”
“You’re funny,” Beverly said. She stood up, turned so she faced Bill and kissed him. “I’ll let you know with our signal for meeting again.”
“Okay. But all you’re gonna get is talk.”
“I’m okay with a friend.”
“Me too.” Bill stepped past her. “Weekend doesn’t seem too busy cause of the holiday. Don’t know about The Falstaff Room, but I’m guessing it will do okay.”
“See you when I see,” Beverly said, mostly toward Bill’s back as he started to walk off.
The Falstaff Room that weekend was moderately busy. Rosie and Edelgarde were ever themselves. Kalista still did not fill Bill in on the details of that one waitress and Caesar. Jimmy G spent most of his time out of the kitchen whenever he could and he was happy. Jimmy Banquet Chef came out by them to eat dinner both weekend nights and they all had a jovial time and ate well. He went home early both nights because this was “it” until after New Year’s. Between this weekend and the end of the year banquets were packed and reservations at The Falstaff Room were plentiful.
Toward the end of that night Rosie came by Bill when he was alone in the kitchen. It wasn’t a flirty visit and it wasn’t to ask Bill if he wanted anything. It was to warn him regarding something she’d inadvertently heard. Apparently Caesar had not given up on attempting to get Bill into some sort of trouble.
Caesar’s plan was simple. It didn’t involve the girls or Millie and it wasn’t even about the food’s not being cooked properly. Rosie told Bill she heard Caesar talking to someone on the phone and from what she could glean they were plotting to have whoever it was say that he or she’d seen Bill spit in the food.
When Rosie came out with it, with that being it, Bill laughed. His initial reaction was to say “Is that all he’s got?”
“Seems to be,” Rosie responded.
Bill didn’t say anything. He was already thinking. He was thinking, and he couldn’t exactly say why, about Mr. Jim. He was thinking about all that Mr. Jim must have gone through when he was starting out in his career, even, maybe, all the gruff he’d had to take working on the dining cars. He was thinking how Mr. Jim would probably tell him to simply make all the food great and not to worry about anything else. Everything else would take care of itself — that’s what Mr. Jim would say.
Bill wasn’t so sure but he was sure that everyone around him would take care of him. If Caesar was so stupid as to try something like that it would surely backfire.
By Peter Weiss
“So let me tell you a few things,” Bill said. “You’re not looking at it clearly. In the times we’ve been here together, we’ve done what we’ve done and that’s simply what it is. We can’t take it back. But I can tell you about guilt. I can tell you about feeling like a dog, you know, like a dirty dog. I can tell you about having to run into the shower so your wife don’t know you been with someone else.
“You want to know about those things?”
Beverly looked at Bill. She didn’t move away from him. She didn’t say anything.
“I can tell you about being with someone else and then coming home and your wife wants to be with you. I can tell you what if feels like inside your mind, inside your soul. And I can tell you about having to lie, having to say your spouse is the only one… about looking down to your feet because you don’t want to look them in the eye.
“I can tell you about all that shit,” Bill said, “about what it’s really like. But then of course I can only tell you what it is for me. I don’t know how other guys feel or what they feel. I don’t how some people are who they are and do what they do.”
Beverly reached out and took Bill’s hand. “What would you do if you were me?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Bill said. “Absolutely nothing. I wouldn’t do anything with anyone until I was a hundred percent sure what I was gonna do in my marriage. Gonna tell him you know and give him a second chance? Gonna kick him out the door? Gonna go for revenge-sex and make him pay with spite, venom and your nastiness? Gonna do nothing? Not say anything, do anything and hope it blows over?”
Beverly squeezed Bill’s hand. “Those all my options?” she asked. She leaned in toward Bill like to kiss him, but he leaned away.
“I could probably think of a few others,” Bill said. “Give me some time.”
“What would you do?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy, baby. I’m no better than your husband if you want to look at it honestly. And I know you want to look at it honestly. So a real answer is like what I already said. If I were you, I’d do absolutely nothing but some real soul searching. I’d take a good look at my life and what it is and then see what I want it to be. Then, only when I had a sense of that would I start to think about taking any actions.”
“You might never get to have me.”
“And that would be right if that’s what you decide you want.”
“You’d be good with that?”
“How is that a real question here?” Bill asked. “I mean how does what I’m good with affect what you need to consider for you?”
“Why can’t I just have a little time off?” Beverly asked. “Why can’t we just have some fun and call it just that?”
“Don’t work like that, baby. And you can have it if it’s what you want. Get one of them waiters who wants to get in your pants and go have some fun. Go have all the fun you want. But don’t come crying when it doesn’t turn out to be the fun you thought it would be.”
“I’d want it to be you. I’m already getting to know you and care about you. And you kiss good too.”
Bill smiled at Beverly. “Come here,” he said. He led her to the stair one down from where they were and settled her in front of him. “I’ll rub your shoulders,” he said.
