Monkey Suits (10 page)

Craig took another gulp of Sprite. It was tepid. He wanted to yell at the waiters again, but he knew the doors, perilously close to the dining room, disguised no kitchen noises. Lenny had twice warned him to keep them quiet.

The line of waiters stood whispering among themselves.

“Of course he’s going to win.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You have to accept the inevitable.”

“The inevitable holocaust.”

“The Republican Party isn’t out to get every gay person in the country ...” John Kent paused a moment to consider his thoughts. A quite tall blond with somewhat gaunt English features, he was quietly arguing with Kevin Rook, whose patience was wearing thin as they stood in line.

“Really?” Kevin countered. “Which ones? Just the bad ones? The drag queens? Straight-acting only need apply?”

“Quiet down,” Lenny hissed.

“Now, John, don’t get Kevin’s blood up.” Billy Heath, a short veteran waiter known for his impeccable Katherine Hepburn imitations, stepped between them. “He might inspire us all to riot if we’re not careful.” Billy patted Kevin’s shoulder as the flushed color faded from his cheeks. Kevin glared at John in a silent truce and focused on his balancing act with the soup. He turned back for a last stab.

“You creatures make me sick, so desperate to please the people that would rather see you dead. Do you think they give a fuck whether you die? You’re like a pig eating bacon.”

“Well, I don’t think America needs to see us screaming and yelling and throwing blood all over buildings to get what we want.”

“And what is it you want? Real estate?”

Billy cut in again. “C’mon boys. Let’s keep our heads.” Kevin turned his back, seething. Lee, who stood near him, caught his eye and offered a silent shrug of support. “I thought you looked great on CNN,” he added.

Each waiter held a tray with a carved open pumpkin the size of a basketball. The holiday theme was further accented by garni of autumn leaves, which also matched the centerpieces. They were supposed to be simply plucked from nearby Central Park trees.

However, the warm autumn weather had yet to bleed the green from the foliage, and a bag of artificial autumnal leaves had been bought from a prop store on the West Side for three hundred dollars.

As they approached the huge steaming tureen, a second chef poured the smooth ochre soup into the row of severed pumpkin heads. A third chef wiped away any drips.

“Do we get to make jack o’lanterns after dinner?” quizzed Billy Heath. Having worked for Fabulous for six years, he got away with such remarks.

“Of course,” answered Craig quietly. “And we’ll use your head as a model.” Shushing commands immediately followed low laughter.

What could have been an audacious and tacky appetizer was swiftly elevated to the stature of genius through Philipe’s careful and strict rule: Presentation is everything. The waiters swirled out in a careful trail, going from the center host table and spiraling outward to the lesser important tables. The guests applauded in patters of appreciation.

Lee arrived at his table to find two seats empty, and a man who could only politely be called portly puffing on a rather odorous cigar. The other guests were obviously annoyed by the smoke. Judging from the table arrangement, he surmised that the obnoxious smoker was the host of the table, and above criticism. He wondered if the fat man would continue to smoke throughout the meal. He was about to request that the gentleman extinguish his cigar, as the room was a non-smoking area. He did remember that this was untrue for the evening at least, and that there were five clear glass ashtrays on the table, but he didn’t want to let that stop him.

What did stop him was the figure of Philipe standing three yards away, silently regarding Lee’s serving technique. He felt simultaneously honored and horrified. As he ladled the soup into the white china bowls, the guests pulled back with a combination of caution and admiration.

“That looks rather fattening,” commented an elderly woman in a black fur-lined gown. The tint of her hair almost matched the pumpkin.

“Oh, it’s quite good,” Lee assured.

“How do you know? Did you stick your finger in it?” She glared at Lee.

A surge of hate flushed up through him.

“I remember when they wore gloves,” she said to no one in particular. Sweat rose on Lee’s brow. The tray alone weighed about ten pounds, the soup-filled pumpkin another twenty. His tendonitis, made worse from his latest attempt at the gym, almost made him drop the entire pumpkin, which was already lolling about precariously on the tray.

“I don’t know if I want any. Ed-gah, how is that stuff?” The woman whined across the table to her husband, who was deeply engaged in a chat with a woman seated near him. Lee glanced at Philipe, who was leaning his ear close to Neil Pynchon. One wrong move and he’d be out of work for a week.

“Ed-gah!” The spindly woman fluttered her hand. Her fingernails were like claws. A drop of sweat fell from Lee’s forehead onto the tablecloth and sank into the fabric.

“Ma’am, why don’t you just try some for yourself?” he soothed, retaining a twinge of distaste for the lady unable to make so much as a cuisine decision without the assistance of her husband. The ladle hung over the pumpkin, precariously close to the woman’s head.

“Does it have cream in it?” She queried. Lee’s shoulder muscles began to spasm.

“It’s a cream soup, ma’am,” he replied.

“Oh well, I don’t want any.” She waved him off. He stood, sighing relief. The pumpkin rolled again. A dollop of soup roiled up the side of the gourd and onto the faux-leaf garnish. Lee did what he always did in such situations. He merely went on to the next guest and gestured to his A waiter, who swiftly preceded him with a toast tray. He then imagined the matron naked, constipated and sitting on the john with no toilet paper in sight. The rest of the evening was a breeze until Philipe took him aside, murmuring, “I would like to see you a moment, after you finish wiss dessert.”

After the waiters had successfully served coffee and dessert, balls of frozen fruit sorbet and fresh raspberries, Philipe sat at his now-quiet private table in a darker corner of the museum. Lenny had eaten, his plate still at the table, a plastic jug of Diet Pepsi beside it, as well as an expensive oversized book on Edward Hopper which he’d bought in the museum shop. Despite his irritating demeanor, Lenny had a taste for art.

Philipe sat down to his freshly poured club soda and orange juice with a splash of vodka. He always ate and had a nice sit, going over the papers before leaving. He didn’t need to stay for breakdown anymore. The boys were quite well trained. Besides, it was a Tuesday and not a big affair. He would have to remember to call the co-chair and ensure that his next day’s thank you bouquet had a little teddy bear in a leather harness attached. Ten years before, he’d met the co-chair of the museum board of trustees at the Ramrod, on his back in a sling. He took comfort in long-term contacts. They were always so dependable.

Philipe sipped his drink and scanned the list of the night’s waiters, making tiny check marks next to the names of those who had been caught munching or had arrived late.

Fearing what he thought would be some sort of quiet dismissal, Lee felt nervous as he stood a few yards from Philipe’s table. Would he be fired tonight? Stripped of his bow tie? Detuxed? What humiliation awaited him? The back hall was relatively quiet, and for a moment, Lee stood waiting for an ounce of bravery. He watched Philipe take a small silver case, half the size of a cigarette box, from his inside breast pocket. He dutifully withdrew and swallowed three pills.

To Lee they merely looked like vitamins, but as he approached, he realized they must have been AIDS drugs. Lee made a motion, Philipe turned, startled, quickly put the pill box away and invited Lee to sit.

“Now, Mistah Wyndam, let us see.” Philipe became immediately officious and scanned his checklist.

“You have been late several times, and I have noticed a few discrepancies in your work.”

“I’m sorry about that, I mean to ...”

“Tut, tut.” A single finger gesture silenced him. “You don’t like ziss work, do you?”

“Well, it is a bit difficult sometimes.”

“Yes, but just remember that it is only work, yes? It is difficult. Ze people can be so fussy. You don’ know how fussy. I have advize for you if you want to keep working for us. Set your call a half hour earlier than ze call we give you. Yes? It makes you show up on time.”

“It’s the trains, sir–”

“Also, ze people. Zey seem to frighten you.”

“Well, I’m just so worried about doing something wrong.”

“Just pretend you’re serving your grandparents. Over and over again, your grandparents. Yes? You try it.”

“Okay.”

“Now be gone,” he said, the single wave of his hand jolting Lee up to standing.

“Thank you, sir.”

As he walked away, greatly relieved and surprised, Lee reached for his service napkin. Although his fear now seemed silly, he’d broken out in a light sweat.

As the last guests departed, the swift deconstruction of the elegant tables began. Plastic tubs and ice tins were hauled from table to table, becoming blood-colored like a Guyana Koolaid mix. Candles were snuffed out and silverware tossed into trays with a tinny clatter. Glasses were dropped into plastic racks and stacked to the side like small skyscrapers. Tablecloths were ripped away and stuffed into garbage bags for laundering the next day by unseen crews of Chinese women whose efforts reaped less than four dollars an hour. In the rest rooms, a few waiters took silent pleasure in pissing on the piles of unused ice cubes that were poured into the men’s room toilets.

While Lenny barked orders to the waiters taking down the three dozen round wooden tables, others crawled or crouched on the carpet, picking up tiny bits of crud where his roaring vacuum cleaner failed. His cigarette smoke trailed around the dining room, now bare and ugly in the fluorescent light.

The majority of waiters were herded to the back stairwell where they lined up in a sort of bucket brigade, passing the wooden rental chairs down hand over hand while half a dozen others raced to pull worn plastic and nylon coverings over the seats. Neil Pynchon and two other captains (who made ten dollars more per hour than the waiters) gave orders with a polite primness. They did not assist.

Out on the street at the freight entrance, the chairs were passed up to the Latino workers (who made half as much as the waiters). They stacked them jigsaw-like in the darkness of their truck. A security guard in a sagging blue uniform, (who made ten more dollars per hour than the waiters), smoked a cigarette while his walkie-talkie crackled. Painted on the side of the truck and grinning down joyfully at the exhausted workers was the rental company’s logo, a huge cartoon pink elephant.

Colored animals of another sort, wallpaper of Warhol cows adorned the walls of the MOMA cafeteria, the dark cool space where four overstuffed coat racks sagged from the weight of gym bags, overnight bags, and coats. Men stripped off white shirts and black pants. Others sat in chairs, waiting for friends to finish dressing while they stuffed bits of pilfered food, bottles of wine and flower arrangements into their bags.

“Heading home?” Kevin asked Lee.

“Yup. You?”

“Yeah. I’m a tired puppy.”

“You don’t look tired.” Lee surveyed Kevin’s chest before a sweatshirt covered it.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“In your pants?”

“Now, now. I only sleep with politically-informed bodies.”

Lee had yet to attend one of the meetings Kevin had mentioned. What Kevin didn’t tell him was that he only slept with men who, like him, were HIV positive.

“I can’t even find the time to get my clothes washed,” Lee sighed.