Monkey Suits (12 page)

In the mid-eighties, the lobby area, once the carriage garage of the house, endured another modernization. The walls were painted flat white and a black grid staircase replaced the rickety wooden original. A sleek desk guarded the fort, with a stern and shockingly attractive receptionist attending.

She took a call.

“Fabulous Food.”

“Is Alex in?”

“Alex who?”

“Alex ... Alex the booker.” Brian flustered. Alex booked him for all the parties he worked. In the two years he’d been with the company, he’d never learned his last name.

“Alex Tilson?”

“Yeah.”

“Please hold.” A click, silence.

“Alex here.”

“Alex. This is Brian Burns.”

“Ed Seabrook’s Brian?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you canceling for a party?”

“No, I just–”

“Good. What do you want?”

“Do you know Chet Sinclair?”

“Does he work for us?”

“Yeah.”

“Just a second.” Alex typed into his keyboard. A one page dossier popped up, displaying a small scan of Chet (Charles) Sinclair’s head shot, and a listing with his full name, address, social security number, height, weight, skin, hair and eye color, a run down of his history with the company followed by remarks and complaints. He had a few of what were noted as “ducking out” marks, meaning he had disappeared during the post-party clean-up hours.

“Alex?” Brian called.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I was just wondering, he’s a good friend of mine and I was hoping you could book him for a few more jobs than you have been.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do. He’s pretty low on the list.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t normally do this,” Alex said.

“I know. I owe ya, okay?”

“Hmm. And what does he owe you?”

“Hehe.”

“I’ll call you on it.”

“Sub any time. Last minute.”

“Alright. Are you doing the Library party tonight?”

“Yup.”

“Get there early.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“See you.”

Brian hung up the phone and rolled over in Chet’s bed. He ran his fingers through the young guy’s thick closely-cropped hair, which Brian figured was what made him look older than he actually was. “See, that wasn’t difficult,” Brian beamed.

“What did he say?” Chet grazed his fingers over Brian’s stomach.

“No problem.”

“Gee, thanks.” Chet kissed him, slow and deep. Their lips parted. “It’s real nice that you and your boyfriend have an open relationship.”

“Well, let’s just say the back door is left swinging every now and then.”

“Marcos said you were the devil of the two of you. Guess I got the right one.”

Brian rolled over on top of Chet’s lightly freckled chest. “I guess so.”

“Thanks again, Bri,” Chet said.

“No big deal.” Brian hovered over him. “I got the inside track on these guys. Got you right up the list.”

“Am I an A waiter now?”

“Well, let’s say B plus.” He dipped his tongue down into Chet’s mouth.

The list.

Among the many dictums at Fabulous, the mostly highly discussed and debated among employees was the unspoken list of A’s, B’s and C’s. An A waiter with considerable experience, good looks and conniving persistence - or at least two of the three - was usually a captain at large affairs, frequently one of two or three chosen for any of the small private fetes thrown by celebrities and the well to do in their homes. Virtually all A waiters were tall, in their mid-twenties, and blond.

B waiters ranged from the aspiring A to those just lounging up from C rank. They worked at least once a week in slow seasons, and felt lucky and loved to be paid double time to serve Thanksgiving turkey at Mary Tyler Moore’s apartment rather than attend the meal at their parents’ house in Passaic. The B’s that never lucked out on celebrity parties usually worked a lot during the holidays, thanks to a few flirting glances made at superiors, and their general good behavior and looks. Physically, it was difficult to spot a dud amongst B’s. Only upon closer inspection and a few minutes of conversation did the striking character flaws reveal themselves, as Lee discovered.

The fundraising dinner at the Public Library annually attracted the city’s most notorious literary benefactors. By funding the latest and most over-published of author darlings, the high society mavens were guaranteed a retinue of chatty quotable dinner guests who were also featured in the
New York Time Book Review.

Instead of the Lion’s Club party, where small reading rooms were divided into dining rooms, this time the thirty tables were set up in the grand ballroom of the Main Branch on 42nd Street. A grand high-ceilinged room with a thick-glassed atrium, the arena-like room resembled a carpeted train station.

Between quick remarks with Brian and Ritchie, Lee had stolen glances at Jackie, Calvin and The Donald. He’d briefly complimented August Wilson (an honored guest that evening), nearly spilled a cocktail on Saul Steinberg, and served a table that included Bruno de la Selle, who had crept into the dining room during the reception to change the seating arrangement.

“Did you see that?” Lee asked Carissa Morgan, his A waiter for the evening. She was a struggling performance artist who’d stopped by to say hello before returning to hors d’oeuvres duty. Her auburn hair was rather boyishly cropped.

“The shuffle?” she smirked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, he does that all the time. Wants to sit next to the women who haven’t bought one of his dresses.”

“That’s wild.”

“They’re all hucksters, like us. Just move the decimal point.”

After dessert was served, several waiters were given extended breaks. Lee departed after getting the recipe for raspberry cream sorbet tartlettes. One of the women at his table thought it was “simply divine” and “simply must have the recipe for my bridge party.” Lee simply obliged.

The after-dinner speeches grew to extraordinary lengths. Lee stepped out to the loading dock, knowing that he would catch up with a quite handsome waiter who stood outside. Lee had admired his body in the crowded changing room. They had exchanged bits of polite humor throughout the evening as they passed each other through the maze of tables, chairs, and food lines. After another date with Rick the horny Italian, where he survived a rather uncomfortable fuck, Lee figured it was time to move on to new prospects, and, as Rick so bluntly put it, to “Loosen up, bitch!”

He had a brief chat with the handsome fellow in the cool night air, where the loading dock of the Library revealed a chunk of deep blue night and a few stars between the blocks of buildings. The cool breeze drew Lee’s cigarette smoke upward. In a few minutes of talk, Lee narrowed the muscled blue-eyed clean-cut man in a tux down to his bare essentials.

Originally from Virginia, Michael had come to New York two years before to act or write or produce something. He’d come to find love and sexual thrills within the limits of viral transmission, but had discovered most of the playgrounds of gay life he’d read about in college were either closed or had become video stores. Along with an interest in dance clubs, he’d developed a taste for the drug ecstasy, preferred reading biographies to fiction “because real people are always so much more interesting,” and had painted his apartment walls Prussian Blue, despite his landlord’s protests.

Lee was a bit overwhelmed by the sudden outpouring of biographical details. Michael gazed up to the night sky and lent his Gary Cooper profile for Lee’s appreciation. It was a nice face, to be admired for its angles, like the Chrysler building. For a moment longer, Lee considered the possibility of a date, but in a brief flash, he simultaneously realized that:

1) Few of the elements of Michael’s life interested him, except his body and his accent,

2) Handsome as he was, the guy hadn’t listened to a word Lee said,

3) Having never taken X, Lee assumed it was addictive, and should he take any, he might wake up one morning a rape victim of this pensive stud, or find himself jumping out of a plate glass window from an inappropriate height for a proper suicide. But worst of all,

4) The guy was wearing skin bronzer.

Lee realized an exchange of phone numbers was not in order. Michael, like many of the other gay men who worked at their good looks, was a late blooming swan, still fighting the queer young ugly duckling insecurity of youth. Lee, however, felt more like a mildly attractive mallard, and somehow outside the flock. He flicked his cigarette butt. The tiny red coal sailed into the darkness of the inside courtyard, minutely exploding onto the black asphalt.

“Well, back to the chain gang,” Lee headed in.

“Right.” Michael followed.

They passed a quartet of Latino workers from the rental company who sat waiting for the party’s end. Their tired eyes watched the two blankly, defying a greeting. Lee was about to attempt a casual “How’s it going?” when he heard the familiar lilting insult, “Maricones,” uttered by one of the workers. Lee turned slowly, bowed gracefully, smiled, and spat on the floor at their feet. It seemed a respectable response in his neighborhood. Perhaps they didn’t mean to insult him at all, he thought as he turned, awaiting a response. There was none. How was one to respond to “maricón,” a curse so ornate and pretty it sounded like a flavor of sherbet?

“Why did you do that?” Michael murmured to Lee.

“Because they called us a couple of fags.” Michael stopped and turned to look at the workers. Lee walked on toward the lounging cluster of waiters nearer the makeshift kitchen. He’d had his say.

In the pale fluorescent-lit hall, crowded with metal racks, trays, pots and pans, several waiters sat on tables, chatting and nibbling on bits of food and sipping soda, careful of their tuxes. Lee leaned against a table crowded with leftover dessert trays. A somewhat attractive blond turned toward him. In a Texan drawl he politely asked, “Have I slept with you?”

“You would have remembered.” Lee reached behind the blond and plucked a nuclear-sized chocolate-covered strawberry from a messy tray, chomping it in one guilty bite. Michael passed him, nodding silently. Lee looked down the hall at the Latino rental party workers. He wondered if, in the monstrous hierarchy of the industry, they were D waiters.

Carissa walked up to Lee. “Hey, pardner, how ya doin’?” she asked.

“I’m tired,” he said.

“Me too.” She leaned next to him. He offered her a strawberry, but she declined.

“Don’t like the rich food?” he asked.

“Or the rich people.”

They turned their heads briefly, and all conversation hushed as Philipe walked by with his business partner, the diminutive and impeccably dressed Fenton Gill, whose round white-haired face beamed with the benevolent pride of a horse breeder inspecting his stable. A single red rose nestled in his black lapel caught Lee’s eye. The two walked on and the workers’ chatter continued.

Lee returned his attention to Carissa. “Do you like this kind of work?”

She thought a moment. “I like the money. I like having my days free, making my own schedule.”