In the City of Shy Hunters (14 page)

Fiona put the cigarette out in some mashed potatoes in the garbage can, and walked big steps—lots of shoulders and hips—out the swinging red doors.

Walking Spanish, Harry said. I love it when she walks Spanish.

MRS. LUPINO OPENED
her door as I was unlocking my door. A black cat with yellow eyes ran into the hallway.

My red answering machine was blinking.

Ruby.

Ruby sounded like when you dream and you need to say something in your dream and you can't say it because the words are so far away from your mouth.

Ruby Prestigiacomo, what am I going to do with you?

No message from Janet at Columbia University.

Across the courtyard, newspaper spread out in front of him, the E.T.-phone-home guy was phoning home. Again.

There were five of them: mannequins. Standing up in a green Dumpster on the east side of Cooper Square. Two females and three males. All of them, arms and legs and heads intact. No nipples. The males had lumps for dicks and one guy had a beard—not hair, just molded beard. No hair on the others. Took me a couple of trips, but I got them all and scrubbed them up good.

The bearded guy I put in my Jimmy Stewart outfit, another guy in the sharkskin suit, the third my Osh Kosh overalls. The one woman in my big white shirt and my baseball cap backwards. The other in my Japanese kimono and red paisley silk scarf.

Stood them around between my bed and the front windows. They looked like a cocktail party.

Their names changed as often as their outfits.

Make it aware. Make art out of it, Fiona had said.

My Art Family. I called them my Art Family.

CHEF'S BACK, FIONA
said. Keep your ass low.

Downstairs in the locker room, I hung up my waiter uniform, sat down on the wooden bench, took my high-top tennis shoes off, took my Levi's
off. I pulled my T-shirt off and when my T-shirt was off, I was standing there just in my Fruit of the Looms and white socks. All at once, Kung Fu salad guy walked in the locker room with another Asian man: a short guy, stocky, wearing a chef's hat.

Chef Som Chai.

You're going this way and then shit happens and then you're going that way.

Kung Fu salad guy made like he was throwing a knife, then made a scared face, pointed at me. Chef Som Chai laughed, they both laughed, and I stood there in my underwear.

Show me the dick! the chef yelled.

The chef's voice, Pavarotti in the low-ceiling room.

Hell of a fix.

The dick? I said.

Up Shit Creek.

Show me the dick! the chef yelled, and just like that the chef was standing right there on the other side of the wooden bench.

The dick! The dick! the chef yelled. Show me the dick!

In a world of hurt.

My hand pulled down the front of my shorts and put the elastic under my balls. I didn't look down, I looked up, at the ceiling, just my eyes, at the fluorescence.

Like a horse, Chef Som Chai said to the Kung Fu salad guy. He hung like horse.

Chef Som Chai walked around the wood bench to me, put his index fingers under the elastic of my shorts at my hips, pulled the elastic so it pulled my cock up, then pulled the elastic out in the back, looked in on my ass, then let the elastic snap back. The chef smiled. Kung Fu salad guy smiled. Then the chef poked his finger onto each of my nipples.

Big nipples, the chef said.

The chef made a smile like mine, then said something in his language to Kung Fu salad guy, and they laughed.

Like horse, the chef said.

I took it to mean he liked me.

Ignorance. The necessary condition for all learning.

About an hour later, I was standing next to Fiona in the kitchen, picking up a salade
niçoise
. Chef Som Chai yelled across the kitchen, Muffy! Get Horse Dick out of kitchen!

Fiona looked at me and I looked at Fiona.

Chef? Fiona said.

You heard me! the chef said. I hate him! Mother Teresa always smiling! Get him out of fucking kitchen!

In no time, Fiona and I were outside the swinging red doors, standing next to Harry.

You're smiling, Fiona said.

I see you've met the chef, Harry said.

Horse Dick? Fiona said. It was a question.

Harry was waiting.

A New York minute.

Really, I said, It just looks big.

A shower not a grower, huh? Harry said.

I guess, I said.

Helmet Head? Harry said, Or Anteater?

What? I said.

Circumcised? Harry said.

Me? I said.

You, Harry said.

Yes, I said.

Helmet Head, Harry said.

Cool, Fiona said.

The whole rest of the night, I was my mother's nerves, following Fiona around. I kept asking her, asking Harry, what I was going to do, how was I going to work in a restaurant if I couldn't go into the kitchen?

Maybe I should just confront, I said, The chef, I said, Maybe I should talk to Daniel.

Relax, Fiona said. Don't take it personal. Get a glass of water for table one. See if table three wants another martini.

He'll make you kneel, Harry said. Make you bark like a dog.

This too shall pass, Fiona said. Ask your Higher Knowing.

I don't know, I said, My Higher Knowing.

Start kneeling now, Harry said. Don't growl when you bark. Treat it like a performance piece.

DANIEL WAS SITTING
at the table he always had his dinner at by the bar. It was just after his fourth trip downstairs to the bathroom with the cocaine. I served Daniel his soft-shell crabs, ground pepper on them. Fiona freshened up his spritzer.

My breath in. My breath out. I was out of breath.

Chef Som Chai, I said, Hates me.

It is really that big? Daniel said.

What? I said.

Your horse dick, Daniel said.

Hell of a fix.

Can you talk to him? I said.

Daniel's restaurant smile. I've talked to a couple horse dicks in my time, Daniel said.

I mean, I said, The Chef.

Daniel put two fingers to his lips, made a sucking sound.

Roll me one of those, Daniel said.

There was a cigarette already rolled in my shirt pocket. I handed the cigarette to Daniel.

Daniel's face was moldy bread.

No, Daniel said. Roll it.

So I rolled Daniel a cigarette.

The match under Daniel's face. Green-gray under his eyes.

What you doing after work tonight? Daniel said.

I'm, I said, Busy.

How busy's that? Daniel said.

Then—abracadabra!—just like that, Fiona was pouring Daniel more water.

Tickets for P.S. 122, Fiona said. John Kelly. Sold-out late show.

Daniel blew out smoke.

Muffy Macllvane, Daniel said, Who is talking to you?

Susan, Fiona said. Susan Strong.

Can't you talk to the chef? I said.

Sorry, pal, Daniel said. No schmoozee, no talkee.

Harry was waiting for me at the waiters' station by the swinging red doors.

No schmoozee no talkee? Harry said.

No schmoozee no talkee, I said.

Then bark like a dog, Harry said.

THE CLOCK ABOVE
the swinging red doors said eleven-thirty. Aftertheater rush: the restaurant was full, loud, café society. I hadn't been back to the kitchen. John the Bartender gave me the Beefeater martini up mistake he put an olive in instead of a twist and I one-gulped the martini. Then a Salty Dog mistake: one-gulped that one too.

A woman in a deep blue velvet dress dropped her fork; her long blond hair hung down as she bent and picked it up. You could see down her dress, breasts rife with pink right there next to me.

Surrounded all around, famous people eating
pâté campagne
, steak
frites, mousse au chocolate
—white linen napkins stretched across laps, foodstained, red-wine-splashed, lipstick-smeared. Heavy white plates scrape against white plates, hands touching hands, thighs to thighs, men, women, after-theater fashion-beautiful, cool tall wineglasses to lips, cigarettes to lips, cocktails, all around talking, talking the beautiful, the lovely, the important conversation.

Then, out of the blue, taking off his long coat at the door was Charlie 2Moons. Long wavy raven hair. His deep-set eyes, the gap between his teeth, the scar. All around me, the beautiful conversation was dogs barking. A ringing in my right ear. The pain in my forearms up to my shoulders. Splash down through my heart, cattle prod to cock. My feet, sensible black shoes striding under me. Toward Charlie, beloved Charlie. When he turned and his sad eyes looked into mine, I saw his great love for me.

But it's not the truth.

The guy wasn't Charlie.

Eleven-fifty. Two more martini-up-with-olive mistakes. Even I was beautiful, funny. New Yorkers were looking at me, at my large body moving through the dining room the way I move when I'm alone with the blinds drawn. I was carrying a drink tray with three Stoli Gibsons up to table ten; I was serving the drinks from the right like Fiona trained me. I still hadn't gone through the swinging red doors, back into the kitchen, not once.

You're going this way and then shit happens and then you're going that way.

Oh
. . .
my
. . .
God
! Fiona said.

Then, from behind me at the bar: Oh, my God! Harry said.

The little scream that gives it all away.

I looked at where Fiona was staring, then looked up at the ceiling. Sistine Chapel God, his finger.

What's wrong? I said.

Argwings Khodek! Harry said.

Fiona ran toward me and Harry.

Oh . . . my . . . God!
Fiona said again.

That's the moment, in all the world, right there on that spot in Café Cauchemar, on the white tiled floor with the black grout, at the waiters'
station by the bar, under the Sistine Chapel God, the hand of man reaching, almost midnight, everybody beautiful, and there he was.

Rose.

All six and half feet of him, all two hundred and sixty pounds, his black black skin in the bright Café Cauchemar light darker than his skin really was, Rose's black skin so much darker than the pink-white of the skins of the rest of the after-theater fashion-beautiful crowd.

Rose's head was shaved, his beard partially gray. The earrings were rhinestones and holograms and big gold loops. Bracelets up both arms, gold, copper, brass, Bakelite, costume jewels. Capris, I guess you'd call the pants. Avocado Capris, mid-calf, tight, big basket, big butt. The largest red Converse tennis shoes I'd ever seen. A leather bag from the shoulder. A T-shirt with something written on the T-shirt, the neck scooped out, cut to expose Buddha belly and two ropes of muscles up his back. Two strands of pearls, matinee length.

That's Argwings Khodek? I said.

In the flesh, Fiona said.

But it's not the truth.

It was Rose. I just didn't know it yet.

Daniel, the boss's brother, the maître d'hôtel, was guiding Rose through the crowd toward Fiona's section, toward me, on Daniel's face the smile that was the restaurant smile but, with Rose that night, something underneath.

At table thirty-six, a Wall Street—type in a business suit, and just as Daniel passed by the table with Rose, the suit leaned over and whispered to a woman in a suit just like his. The suits laughed.

Rose stopped walking, took a deep breath, tucked his chin, raised his shoulders, and turned toward the table, bracelets clack-clack.

Colorful nigger, ain't he? Rose said to the suits, loud enough for the whole town.

Quiet that only New York can get that fast.

You don't think it's too much, do you? Rose said to the suits.

Rose's hand moved dramatically up and down his body.

No, the suit said. His smile something underneath too.

The suits acted as if they were already dead and wished Rose were dead too.

Then: Why were you staring at me? Rose said.

Nothing from either suit, only the smile.

Excuse me! Rose said. I'm asking you a question. Just
what
do you and your friend find so funny? I'd like to know.

Nothing.

Your table is right this way, sir, Daniel said.

Daniel's arm sweeping to the empty table, the table right next to me.

Ex-
cuse
me? Rose said, eyes narrowed at Daniel. Head thrown back, chin tucked even more, shoulders higher and higher, bracelets clack-clack. I am talking to this rude man here, Rose said, And when I am finished, and when I am ready, and only then, will I sit down at your lovely table.

My AUI! Fiona said.

Her Absolute Ultimate Idol! Harry said.

Rose stared at Daniel for several dramatic moments, then turned back to the suits.

I would suggest, Rose said to the suits, That from now on, if you have something to say about me or my outfit, that you say it to my face, rather than snigger it to your little friend here. Of course, Rose said, If you
were
to have the balls to address me directly, I'm sure I'd respond that if I were interested in your tiny opinion I would ask for it.

Rose lifted his arms, bracelets down his arms, clack-clack.

Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, Rose said. Good evening. Enjoy your lovely profiteroles.

Daniel seated Rose at the deuce, table ten, the table I was standing next to.

Just like that, in the dining room, it was dogs barking and people talking again.

That's when Fiona said to me, It's the perfect time for your first New York customer.

What? I said.

I couldn't possibly wait on him, Fiona said. I'm going shit-spray! Fiona handed me the dinner check.

Shit-spray?

Susan Strong always goes shit-spray when she's around genius, Harry said. And this is genius, Harry said. This is AUI Argwings Khodek!

Then you, I said to Harry, Wait on him.

Can't, Harry said.

Can't?

Vomit-spray, Harry said. Susan Strong goes shit and I go vomit-spray.

But, I said, The kitchen! I can't go in the kitchen!