Chapter Ten: Mercy

Mercy: forgive all error in yourselves and others; with forgiveness, there can be no error in the world…forgive someone now, right now.

Sam and Mimi don’t agree on much these days, but they resolve to always back up their wait staff and reward them for the difficult job of pleasing a fickle public that includes people who have never worked in a restaurant. On ugly days, they believe people who haven’t worked in the business shouldn’t be allowed to eat out, or should be required to take a course in restaurant etiquette taught, of course, by restaurant employees.
Bob and Mandy are regular customers from the old days, from the days when nobody cared. They enjoy sitting at the kitchen bar and watching Sam work his magic. At first, Sam and Mimi are smitten because Bob is polite and complimentary. It doesn’t take long to figure out Bob has no restaurant experience listed on his resume.
After finishing their usual split entrée, Bob and Mandy ask to see the dessert tray. They choose the homemade chocolate pecan pie, warmed please, an extra big piece. Regular customers get preferential treatment at The Firefly, so Mimi cuts the Mac-daddy slice, loads it with whipped cream, and serves the pie herself. Bob and Mandy lick the plate clean; not a crumb of evidence is left. Their waitron, Carly, knows Mimi personally delivered the pie, but when she asks how they liked their dessert, Bob says, “We didn’t have any.” He pats his tummy for effect. “We have no room,” he says. Carly confers with Mimi, who chooses to let it slide. But, that’s not all. Bob and Mandy steal candy from the non-profit honesty box in the lobby; Bob comes in for dinner with last night’s leftovers in tow and asks the kitchen staff to reheat them; worse still, he consistently leaves nine percent tips. Nobody wants to wait on the couple, and Mimi understands why. She charges Bob a pain in the ass tax, and states it directly on the bill as such. Bob and Mandy are quickly archived along with other dusty memories.

It’s cold as Mimi’s feet at bedtime and sleeting outside, and The Firefly is slammed! Fifteen people stand patiently at the front door, waiting to be listed for a one hour minimum table delay; the phone rings off the knob, the Moore party of four and three others head upstairs from The Phoenix to be seated, and there’s total gridlock by the credit card machine. Jose is standing, but his body is curled in the fetal position, mouth wide open and eyeglasses covered with fog. Mimi’s not in the weeds – she’s in the woods and it’s dark in there and she feels the hot breath of a wolf on her neck; she’s one step away from total chaos and panic, and loving it. A well-dressed man used to getting his way barges past the waiting crowd, and plants himself in the skinny front dining room aisle. He grows roots, crosses his arms, and stares at Mimi with pure hatred. Mimi makes eye contact; “Sir, come to me, please. Please, sir, come to me,” Mimi beckons. He stands stock still, muscles tense, and waits for Mimi to have a nervous breakdown or a bout of hysteria, neither of which is gonna happen. Strike one. "Excuse us," Mimi politely says, as she squeezes customers past him for a solid three minutes. He doesn’t move. The diners sense a rumble. Mimi returns to the front lobby and grabs the incessantly ringing telephone. She tries, once more, for a peaceful resolution. “Please sir, please.” Mimi kindly says. “Please, sir, come to me,” Mimi gently urges. He thinks he can best Mimi, but he might as well try to kill a buffalo with a Gene Autry cap gun. “Lady,” he spews,” you have a real control issue going on.” Strike two. Mimi’s eyes are steel beams as she channels Sam. “Mister, I’m freakin' busy up here. Tell me what you want right now, or get the hell out of my way. Now, what’s it gonna be?” Fast pitch, foul ball.
The man submits, pinches out a tearful apology, puts his name on Mimi’s waitlist, and heads downstairs, where he sheepishly waits for dinner, spends sixty-two bucks and leaves a whopping tip for the bartenders. An hour later, he spends ninety more, tips thirty percent, and becomes a regular customer who occasionally brings Sam fine cigars and Mimi beautiful writing tablets. Detente: the game everybody wins.

Mimi learns many things from Sam, including the importance of a strong and well-maintained safety net. She never, ever makes light of a situation that might compromise her staff’s integrity or character. If there’s a shadow of a doubt, Sam and Mimi always stand firmly behind their employees - never dressing down the staff - at least until the customer has moved on. Then, and only then, will they fire an incompetent server on the spot if the situation warrants it. “The bottom line,” Sam says, “is building trust and loyalty. Back your staff!”
Sam and Mimi offer the customer great value for the dollar. However, The Firefly is not your typical modern day restaurant with the latest gadgets; in fact, it’s fairly primitive in the area of high-tech expertise. Sam and Mimi don’t see the sense in spending thousands of dollars on computerized registers when their system works just fine if you hold your mouth right. Passing savings onto the customers and generating profit is the name of their game. Rather than hiring a cashier, the servers carry their own banks, balance nightly checkout sheets, and are held accountable for any discrepancies. Sam and Mimi also protect their ace staff by guaranteeing tips on busy nights. The customer knows this up front; it’s not a secret. For parties of six or more, twenty percent is automatically added to the check. If a check must be divided on a busy night, the staff has the option of adding twenty percent to each bill. In a perfect world, Sam would only accept cash like that burrito joint in Texas with lines long enough to circle the Astrodome.
The Firefly’s policies are akin to a game of crazy eights, the version with the additional rules of lose a turn on the two, skip a card on the four, and switch directions on the seven. Sam and Mimi learn the hard way; they try to please everyone, and miserably fail in the attempt. Their one check policy draws fire, but customers get antsy when the server divides checks; a customer may have a credit card that’s declined, and then the meltdown begins. "Try it again," instructs the agitated customer. The wait person calls a toll-free number, speaks with someone who talks very softly with a strong accent, and suffers through a ten minute hold, or worse yet, gets transferred to the black hole. Meanwhile, the customer waits so long for the hopefully completed transaction that he forgets what he had for dinner, or that his service was exceptional; he gets angry and complains about the twenty percent add-on tip; other customers get angry, too, and leave crummy tips because their server is tied up with the frustrating six-way check split for the now obnoxious table in the corner.
Mimi clearly explains The Firefly’s house rules to all customers. She spells them out on the menu, and explains them over the phone. When a customer agrees to the rules up front, then ignores the agreement, all hell can, and usually does, break loose. When a customer ignores Mimi’s best-laid plans, it’s downright insulting.

It’s the Christmas season, and a local company calls to request a dinner reservation, fourteen people, Saturday night at 7:30 sharp. Cassandra, the company contact, happily agrees to The Firefly’s policy of one check, twenty percent gratuity added. Mimi is a traffic control queen on nicotine high. She triple books the table; the first reservation is at 5:45; Cassandra’s group, 7:30; the last turn is 9:30. No sweat! The staff loves this kind of action. Service flows, the designated waitron makes good money, and the customers aren’t rushed.
Uh-oh. Cassandra plays a seven. Only eight of the fourteen show at 7:30pm. The other six straggle in thirty minutes late. The plan changes direction, but Greg gathers coats and takes drink orders immediately. Greg is in pre-sweat mode; he knows if he gets all entrée tickets into the kitchen by 8:00p.m., the window of opportunity remains open. He knows Mimi’s plan allows flexibility for a strategic turn.
Uh-oh. After forty-five minutes, three people in the party must leave and request separate checks; minor challenge, no big deal. They leave cash on the table for their drinks and appetizers. An hour in, two more people must leave and, well, they need separate checks. One by one the customers run and they all ask for separate checks. At 9:15, four of fourteen people camp at the table, studying the $144 tab. They want to split it four ways. Greg smells a rat. “Mimi, I need you. I’m in the middle of a nightmare."
“What’s the deal, Greg? Hurry.” Mimi has three fires burning at the moment and her fuse is short. But, she’s all ears as Greg turns her toward Cassandra’s table. “Check this out. See what they’re doing? They want separate checks.” Mimi studies the scene for a moment. “Thanks, Greg. I’ll handle this.” Mimi is all smiles as engages Cassandra, a professionally dressed, thin woman wearing a bit much too blue eye shadow and a low-cut, see-through white blouse over a black bra. “How how was your dinner?” Mimi politely asks. “It was wonderful, thanks.” Cassandra’s teeth are exceedingly white, except for the multitude of chocolate cake stuck between the spaces. Mimi tries not to laugh. “And your service?” Cassandra grins widely, and Mimi’s stomach growls. “Greg is great, we love him!”
“Then, I’m confused,” Mimi says quizzically. “Why did you agree to our one check policy if you have no intention of following through with our agreement?” Cassandra cocks her thin neck, putting Mimi in mind of an ostrich in an Easter parade. “I’ll tell you why! I have eaten all over the world and have never heard of such a thing as one check. This treatment, really!” Cassandra huffs, and gathers steam from her nodding, grumbling cohorts. “And oh, by the way,” she continues, “your food isn’t all that good. I’ve had much better down the street.” Mimi isn’t smiling anymore.
“Okay, Cassandra, here’s the deal: I expect to see $114 cash on this table, or one credit card, when I come back in two minutes. Then, I expect you to leave. Your gig is up.” Mimi, hopping mad, sends Greg in to bat cleanup. “Who is that woman?” Cassandra asks. “She’s a bitch!" Greg smiles. “You bet she is,” he says, and walks away with the ticket and cash. Unfortunately, he leaves all the money from the previous payouts on the table rather than risk offending the party even more by not trusting them. Greg is left holding a mighty light bag.
After making a scene at their table, the four head downstairs to The Phoenix. Mimi follows them and sees the whole party – all fourteen of them – standing behind the back bar drinking, laughing about the scam, laughing about stealing money from Greg. Mo reads Mimi’s face and body language; the cheap group missed an opportunity to git while the gittin’s good, he thinks. He doesn’t know exactly what just went down, but it’s his turn to shine. A goofy smile plus big feet plus eight regular customers who are off-duty cops equals highly effective intimidation, a combination Mimi welcomes to The Phoenix on any given night. Mo deals. Customer draws a deuce. Mo plays the last card. Game over. Mimi and Sam cover Greg’s light bank, but the same lesson appears in different form the very next weekend; same sidewalk, same street, different hole.

Mimi takes a reservation for a party of ten, Saturday night, 8p.m. sharp. She explains the one check, twenty percent policy over the phone to not one person in the party, but two. The rules are reluctantly accepted (warning!). A third call comes in. “I’d like to bring a dessert for the table, as three people in our party are celebrating birthdays this week.” Mimi closes her eyes and prays for understanding. “Sure,” she says. “We’ll allow you to bring your own cake, but there will be a two-dollar per person service charge.” The caller pauses. “You must be joking. Why would you charge a fee for that? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Well," Mimi explains, "it’s like this: somebody has to cut and serve the cake, someone has to clear the table and wash the dishes, and we lose the opportunity to sell our wonderful desserts to your table. But, the three birthday celebrants will receive dessert on the house anyway.” Receiving no response, Mimi optimistically continues. “That’s what we do at The Firefly. So, sure, you can bring your own, but the service charge remains. Does that make sense?”
“Well, I’ve never heard of such a thing. We just won’t bring it. And, why must we pay with one credit card? Why can’t you separate our check five ways?”
Warning, warning! Mimi slowly and politely explains the policy for the third time; she’s happy to share this information with as many people as possible to decrease miscommunication. However, her caution flags are flying at full mast. Mimi hopes the group cancels their reservation; the vibe isn’t there. She even offers to call a neighboring restaurant for them, but they insist on dining at The Firefly.
The group arrives at 7:45 on Saturday night - fifteen minutes early for the eight o’clock reservation – and is miffed because their table isn’t ready. Mimi sends them downstairs to The Phoenix for a quick drink and calls them up at precisely the stroke of eight. Mimi’s most experienced and crowd-pleasing server, Carly AKA Potty Mouth, is sent into active duty. “Mimi, these people have already fucking asked me twice about fucking separating this check five fucking ways. I’m not sure what to do, so I’m pretending not to fucking hear them.”
“Good,” Mimi says. She’s in total agreement with Carly’s feigned deafness. “Just ignore them for the time being.” Fifteen minutes later, Carly reports in. “It’s all under control, Mimi. The fucking leader of the pack says that one check is the deal and she’s sticking to it. These people are fucking great! They’re getting in the groove and having a fucking good time. I’m glad I’m fucking waiting on them.” Two hours later, Carly’s song changes. “Mimi, come outside for a minute. I have a fucking problem. The party’s inspecting the fucking bill with a fine-tooth comb. One man thinks I charged him for an extra glass of Stonestreet chardonnay. I politely disagreed with him, and now he’s yelling at me for calling him a fucking liar.”
“Well, did you?”
“No fucking way!”
Mimi takes a slow breath and pulls on her lower lip. “Here’s what you do. Ease the tension, babe. Give him ten dollars cash, tell him you’re sorry, and forget about it. We’ll eat it, no sweat. Not on you. Just make a note in your paperwork.” As Mimi and Carly reenter the front door, they find a slobbering maniac pitching a class-five hurricane-force fit in the front dining room, where customers put down forks and turn their attention to the drama. Carly detours wide as the man points at her. “She called me a liar! She called me a liar in front of my friends!” Mimi approaches the rabid beast without a stun gun. “Sir, please calm down. Sir, please. She didn’t really call you names, now, did she?”
“I don’t care! She made me feel like a liar, and now you are calling me a liar! What kind of shit hole is this?” Mimi sees Sam from the corner of her eye, and motions him away. “Sir! Your behavior is unacceptable. You are disturbing my customers. You will either calm down, or get your coat and leave immediately, and I mean right now!” Mimi conjures the eye of the storm. The apoplectic, red-faced man glares and snarls and skulks back to his table where his group anxiously awaits the latest news. They don’t see him blow a gasket, but the customers in the front of the house do, and erupt into mad applause. Bolstered by an unfortunate shot of adrenaline, Mimi approaches the angry table. “I’m really sorry this celebration turned into a bad time for you all,” she calmly says. “So am I,” says Mrs. Hurricane. “You wouldn’t let us separate this check five ways, nor bring our own dessert, and now we are being asked to leave. We’ve never been treated like this before, and we certainly won’t be back.”
Mimi tries to take a deep breath, to no avail; she’s almost to the point of hyperventilating. “I’m sure you are all lovely people individually, but tonight, as a group, you are a nightmare. I’m asking you to leave before we all say something we’ll regret tomorrow.” Mrs. Hurricane stands up, her bulk outweighing Mimi by a good one hundred pounds. “I need to see the owner immediately,” she commands loudly. Mimi looks at her. "Did you hear me? Get the owner, now!" she commands again. “You’re looking at her,” Mimi says calmly. Mrs. Hurricane slams Mimi with the full weight of her ego. “Well, you don’t know what you’re doing or who you’re talking to! You’re kicking some very important people out of your restaurant! We are business people, and well-respected in this town. As a matter of fact, one of us has owned a restaurant before and feels your policies are totally unreasonable.”
Mimi doesn’t hear Sam come up behind her. She feels his hand on her shoulder as he gently moves her behind him. “I don’t give a damn who you are, lady, there’s the door. Get out!”
“Rest assured, we won’t be back, and neither will any of our friends,” she shouts as she hurls a fur around her wide body, looking very much like a groundhog. “Good!” Sam shouts back. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out!”
Mrs. Hurricane looks at Sam’s dirty apron and makes a scathing, but wrong appraisal. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”
“The other owner, lady. Now, get out before I call the cops!”
Mimi’s bones are shaking. “I should have stayed away from the table,” she says. “I should have never taken the reservation.” Shudda, wudda, cudda…the incident haunts Mimi and Sam for months, as the Hurricane's vendetta to level The Firefly is strong. The hate mail flows, but Sam and Mimi weather the storm. Business is better than ever. Customers hear that each meal is served with a couple of acts of grand theatre thrown in at no extra charge, and they come in droves. Carly moves on after this incident, but as a show of deep affection, Mimi and Sam hang her picture in the upstairs men’s bathroom. Potty Mouth oversees her domain through the glass of an eight by ten black and white glossy that hangs on the wall over the toilet.

It’s three o’clock on Friday afternoon. Mimi is scrubbing one of the four bathrooms when the phone rings. It’s one of her ace servers, Kyle. “Mimi, I’m going to be late today, and I’m...well, this is really gonna push your buttons. It’s really bad.” He pauses, not sure if he should tell the truth.
“Oh, God, Kyle. Are you okay? Did your dog get run over? Have you been in a wreck? Tell me! Just spit it out!”
“I’m drunk. But I’ll be in, I promise.”
“Geez, Kyle. Go to sleep for awhile. Call me back around five and let me know if you can make it in. Take some aspirin, okay? We’re slammed tonight.”
The phone rings at 3:45pm. “Mimi, it’s Cat. I’m really sick and I can’t even walk. I feel like I’m talking underwater and my ears ache. I’ve been attacked by the crud.”
Mimi sighs. “No sweat, little darling. Just take of yourself. Call me tomorrow and let me know how you’re feeling, okay?” Great. Mimi and Sam are heading into a busy Friday night understaffed. Kyle never calls, but shows up at 5:30. He’s remorseful, still somewhat buzzed, and looks like a stray cat with mange – putrid gray skin and blood orange eyes. Mimi sends him home without a word of derision. Kyle will beat himself to a mental pulp without any help from me, she thinks. God bless the child…
The Firefly staff includes alcoholics and drug addicts in various stages of recovery. Mimi and Sam don’t battle this dilemma alone. The industry is flush with addiction. This business drags its victims through a dark and slimy grease pit, them burps them up covered in toxic waste. Mimi and Sam wait at the top end, bathe their battered soldiers in tender warmth, wipe their snotty noses and send them back to the front line of the war zone. It’s a tough and selfish business.
Statistically, an incredibly high number of chefs suffer from alcohol abuse, compared to other professions. An intense stress level and the proximity to a fully stocked bar signal the death knell for many alcoholics who try and fail to maintain sobriety while working in this environment. But, an active alcoholic can be successful in any business. Just ask Sam. You may wonder how Mimi could not recognize this behavior in her husband. You may think that Mimi knows, but chooses to ignore it. You may think that you, with your brilliant expertise and worldly experience, would pick up on the signs immediately. Bully for you. Bully for you!

Mimi never sees Sam inebriated. As the days get longer and the business gets steadier and the workload gets heavier at The Firefly and The Phoenix, Sam and Mimi spell one another; they break up the hours to provide much-needed relief from the never-ending stress. Some nights Sam closes and sends Mimi home early. Some nights Mimi closes without Sam. They spend less and less time together. And, vodka doesn’t smell. Everyone suspects that Sam is drinking again. Everyone, that is, but Mimi.
One might ask in a voice overflowing with concern, “Mimi, is Sam drinking again?” Mimi answers, “No, of course not. He’s just tired. And when Sam gets tired,” she says, “he slurs his words a little and he staggers a little and he’s a little grouchy.” She shakes her head. “No, he’s not drinking. He goes to AA meetings at least twice a week. He’s just stressed out. But thanks for caring,” she says, smiling.

Jake and Julie also live a fractured fairy tale life. Both continue to withdraw, but neither is brave enough to flee or free, to release the bird from the cage. But, who’s the bird? Jake doesn’t leave because his soundproof studio is downstairs. Julie doesn’t leave because she has an investment in the décor. At least, that’s what one surmises as one stands on the outside looking in on their discontent. Jake and Julie build a comfort zone that is filled with insomnia and night monsters and stomach ulcers and Valium and Xanax and beautiful flowers and designer pillows. And a good dog.
Julie and Jake play the game well. The neighbors entertain, and, arriving arm in arm, they fake cohesiveness, they laugh at each other’s jokes. They spend a week at the beach with family and play the traditional partner’s charade. Julie takes long walks by herself and Jake swims so far out in the ocean that you can’t see him except with binoculars, but this is Julie and this is Jake. This is what they do, year after year after year. Julie sleeps in her underwear, even at the beach. Jake reaches across the three feet of cool, unwrinkled sheet and touches a pillow barrier, even at the beach. He removes the fort that Julie builds around herself, caresses her cheek, smooths her hair from her face. Julie turns to Jake, pulls him to her, and spends the next ten minutes fantasizing about Doctor Tucker Bush while Jake fills his mind with images from Playboy. Ten minutes after Julie fakes her last orgasm, she springs from the bed and takes a long, hot shower. She twists her hair into a towel, pulls on a pair of white shorts and a navy blue tank top, and walks back into the bedroom. Jake, lying on top of the sheets in his bathing suit, reads last month’s Musician magazine. “Jake, I think we need to see a marriage counselor.” Jake lowers his magazine, removes his reading glasses, and stares at Julie in disbelief. “We did, Julie, last year, remember? We went to three sessions and you decided not to go back because it was boring.”
Julie rolls her eyes. “I know, Jake. You don’t have to remind me. We’ve talked about that until I’m blue in the face. That woman – I still think she’s a fake – droned on and on and said absolutely nothing of value.”
Jake drops the magazine and sits up straight. “What about that book she recommended? You know, what’s the name of it…”
“The Five Love Languages. Interesting book, but it didn’t work for us.” Julie dismisses the memory with a shake of her tanned arm. “Yeah, I remember a little about it,” Jake says. “Wasn’t there something about service and gifts and stuff?”
“Well, that’s why it didn’t work, right there. You couldn’t remember to fill up my tank with gas or love or whatever. You let me run on empty, so I let you run on empty, too.” Jake snorts. “That’s the way to build trust and repair a marriage, now, isn’t it darling?”
“Shut up, Jake.” They look at each other, each imploring the other to understand, each willing the other to find solid ground and pull the other to safety. Jake reaches for Julie, but misses as she moves to a corner chair. He says, “I think two people have to love each other for any counseling to work.” Jake is tender in his speech, hopeful, and Julie recognizes his need - as well as her own - for honest discourse; no fighting, no pettiness. Julie rises from the chair and takes a seat on the bed beside Jake. “That book works for a lot of people, Jake. You didn’t give it a chance.” Jake grins at his wife and says, “Yeah, well, it read too much like a Christian Cosmopolitan.” He picks up Julie’s hand, kisses it, and places it back in her lap. “So,” he asks, “have you picked out the perfect marriage counselor?”
“I think so. Betsy recommends Dr. Catherine Rousseaux.”
“You talked to Betsy about our marriage? God, Julie, she has the biggest mouth in the neighborhood. That was a huge fucking mistake.”
“Betsy’s my best friend, Jake. She likes you, a lot! Why are so defensive?”
“Because, Julie, our business is our business. If you’d talk to me instead of to your girlfriends, maybe we could work on our problems without interference. And forget Doctor whoever you just said. I’m not going to her. If we’re going, let’s go to somebody who doesn’t know who we are.”
“Dr. Rousseaux doesn’t know us from Adam’s house cat, dummy.”
“Yeah, but she knows Betsy, and that’s too close.” Julie stands up and stretches. Her interest is waning, on the verge of disappearing forever, and Jake senses it in her next words. “Look, forget I mentioned it,” she says, and looks hard at Jake. “But, it’s either this or a divorce.”
“Or an affair with Tucker Bush, right?”
Julie shrugs. “It’s possible, if I make myself available. But, it won’t be an affair. It will be a relationship. He’s made his feelings known.”
Jake walks to the closet and starts packing. “I think you’ve done a pretty good job of that, Julie.”
“Done a pretty good job of what?” Julie unwraps the towel from her head, brushes her hair, and pulls it into a pony tail. She knows the end is near.
“Making yourself available.” Jake moves to the chest and empties socks and underwear into his suitcase.
“No, not really. He’s going out with an exercise physiologist, just out of college, I think. Probably the same age as his daughter.” Julie looks in the mirror, adjusts her tank top, and shakes her pony tail. I’m much better looking than she is, Julie thinks.
“And how does hanging out with a man in the middle of a mid-life crisis make you feel, Julie?”
“Save it for the marriage counselor, Jake.” Julie doesn’t have to pack her suitcase; she’s been packed for three days. She turns to her husband. “Jake, I’ll tell you the truth. I thought I would never find anyone in the world who would love me as much as you do. That’s worth a lot. And, I loved you when we got married, I really did. I just wasn’t in love with you. Don’t take this the wrong way, Jake. I thought it would be okay, that we’d grow into each other. But, it didn’t work out that way.”
“Why do you want to go to a marriage counselor, then?”
“I really don’t know. I guess so somebody can tell you that this marriage can’t be saved. That it’s over.” She looks at Jake, expecting anger and hurt. But she sees a calm man, a man who breathes easily when he asks the final question. “Is that what you want?”
“I want out, Jake.”
He buckles his ancient leather suitcase and walks toward the door. “Then we need an attorney, not a marriage counselor.”
“What do I tell my family?”
“Tell them anything you want, Julie.” He puts the suitcase on the floor, walks back to his wife, and hugs her for the last time. He’s surprised when she hugs him back.

Jake finds a house in the country with a big front porch and good acoustics; he snaps his fingers and there’s no slap-back. The large living room is dead rather than live, although the floors are made of heart pine. I can practice a band here, Jake thinks. Now after a sad day at the hospital, he is greeted by a beautiful four-legged red-head who showers him with kisses, who, when he cries, licks the tears from his dimples, who wraps her body around his and touches him with more compassion that Julie could muster in the life of their fourteen-year marriage. Molly is happiest when Jake is happy, and Jake is happiest when his house is filled with music, when his bass player steps up and slaps it, and jazz turns to funk and fusion stew cooks in the kitchen and coyotes dance in his front yard at two a.m. under a waxing gibbous moon.
Jake’s co-workers do their level best to help the brother climb out of his perceived blue hole, but he’s getting in the groove of flying solo. “Doctor R., come out with us tonight. It’s Sandra’s birthday and we’re all going out for drinks after work.”
“Thanks, but I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Oh, come on. You got something to do?”
“I promised myself I’d run today after work. I need to stick to my plan.”
“Listen, Jake. It’s been two months since you left Julie. It’s time to get your groove on, man. Use it or lose it.”
“I didn’t leave Julie. She left me.”
“Whatever. Look. See that cute nurse with the bunny covers on? Her name’s Nan. She’s interested in you, we can tell, and she’s coming out tonight. Jake, are you listening? Look at her. She’s a hotty. Use it or lose it, man.”
Jake laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, another time maybe. I have to get home. Molly needs to be fed. But ask me again, just give me a little notice next time.”
“What do I tell the bunny chick?”
“Nothing. She’s a baby doll, though. You ask her out.”
“No, you should ask her out. I know she likes jazz.”
“Probably Kenny G.”
“Hey, you’re right! See man, right up your alley.”
Jake turns toward his office and ends the conversation. “Thanks anyway,” he says with a wry smile. “Have fun tonight. Gotta run.”

Doctor Tucker Bush sleeps on Jake’s side of the king-sized bed two nights a week, spends two nights at his apartment with his young squeeze - no sign of Julie there, not even a toothbrush - and spends weekends with his wife at their mountain home. Julie knows about the wife. “We don’t sleep together, Julie,” he says. “It’s just an agreement between the two of us. She doesn’t know about you and I prefer to keep it that way, at least for now.” The squeeze is never mentioned.
Julie is falling madly in love with Tucker Bush and feels in her heart that he will finalize his divorce and marry her; Julie is used to having her own way. Tucker and his wife have been separated for six years and intend on staying separated, a choice which provides freedom without the complication of a large settlement. Tucker isn’t interested in marrying Julie or any of the other women he sleeps with. But, he doesn’t tell Julie that. He doesn’t tell Julie anything; he lets her believe what she needs to believe.
“Tucker, my diaphragm slipped. I can feel it; hang on, I’ll be right back.”
“No, lie still. I’ll fix it. Put your legs on my shoulders. Ummm…there, that should do it. How’s it feel now?”
“Perfect, Doctor.”
“Okay, then. Where were we? Oh yeah, you just leave those legs right there, baby. Plumber, m’am. Here to fix your faucet, m’am. Mind if I come inside?”
“Don’t make me laugh, Tucker. It’ll slip again.” Julie laughs; the plumber does a backward gainer and soars, soars, soars.
A few weeks later, Julie’s not laughing anymore, but glowing nevertheless. She rarely enters Tucker’s office during the day, but this day is special. Julie tiptoes behind him, softly throws her arms over his shoulders and rubs her tender breasts in his hair. Julie whispers in his right ear. “Tucker, I’m pregnant.” The kind doctor’s reaction, one might imagine, is rather cold. He stiffens against her body. “Is it mine?”
Julie nuzzles his neck. “Of course it’s yours, silly. It’s ours. We made a baby.” Tucker turns to face a smiling Madonna dreaming of a nest. His face and coat are similar shades of pale. “How many weeks?”
Julie smiles. “Probably eight. Maybe nine.”
“Have you made an appointment?”
“Ah, sweetie, not yet.”
“Let me call my buddy Tom over at Evergreen. He’ll get you in right away.”
“A little Tucker, can you imagine?” Julie is on the verge of breaking out the blue color palate. Doctor Bush feels a migraine coming on. “No, Julie, I can’t imagine. We’ll get this taken care of within the next couple of days. Damn, where are my glasses?” he barks as he picks up the phone.
Julie balks. “Taken care of? What are you saying? Are you suggesting I get an abortion, Tucker?”
“No, I’m telling you that you will have an abortion. No suggestion about it. Hush now. Tom? Hi, it’s Tucker. Listen, I have a little problem.” He pauses. “Exactly,” he mutters. “No.” He picks up a pen and begins writing. “Friday at nine a.m.?” He looks at Julie’s crushed face and feels nothing. “Julie Reston. That’s right. She’ll be there. Thanks, buddy. Yep. See you on the golf course.”
A devastated Julie stands in front of Tucker with her hand on her abdomen. “I want to have this baby, Tucker.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? My wife will hang me from the highest tree if she ever finds out about this. I’ve already raised my children, Julie; forget it.”
Julie is dedicated to her personal agenda. “But, Tucker, you’re separated. You’re practically living with me!” She shakes her head, trying to ward off an outcome that has no possible happy ending. “Didn’t you tell me you love me? Didn’t you?” Julie is dumbstruck. “I swear I thought you did. Was I hearing things? Did I make this up?” Tucker grabs Julie’s shoulders and gives her a firm shake. The contact focuses her teary eyes on his serious and hardened face. “This isn’t about love, Julie.” He softens his gaze as he hands her a tissue. “I’m not about to have a child with you, or anyone else.” This pronouncement causes Julie to moan. “That didn’t come out right,” Tucker grumbles. “Look, take the rest of the week off. I have to go out of town on business tonight anyway. Do you know where Evergreen is? You won’t be presented with a bill, and they’re very discreet. Be there a little before nine on Friday.” Tucker shuffles papers, averting his attention from Julie. “Don’t worry about a thing. Tom’s a professional, and he’ll take very good care of you.” Tucker looks at his wristwatch in an effort to seem busy. “Listen, I’m late for my lunch meeting. I have to run.” On his way out the office door, he looks back at Julie and, in his best doctor to patient voice, says, “Take some time to compose yourself. We’ll talk next week. Just take it easy this weekend and you’ll be fine. See Ann if you need anything. And don’t worry, she can keep a secret.” She has before, he says to himself.
“You son-of-a-bitch. You cold-hearted bastard.” Julie hisses her words – vapor rises off her tongue. She’s a tea kettle screaming on a high-heat burner, and Tucker swears he feels a scalding blister forming on his forehead as she steams past him without looking back. Julie wears the mask of a Zulu warrior, but her movement is robotic. She pulls open the drawer to her alphabetized filing system, the one housing her genetic disorder research – she’s up to Nystagmus – and in a fit of rage, she erratically rips each sheet of paper from its file; she mixes and creates new chromosomal mishmashes which are born of humiliation, of regret, of bitterness. Nature has a new recipe book for gene-encoding anomalies.

If you are a carry-on bag belonging to one Doctor Tucker Bush, you snuggle alongside the exercise physiologist’s designer duffle, zipper to zipper in the overhead of a wide body jet on its way to Las Vegas, bound for a three-day seminar featuring the latest technology in the field of genetic research. In your compartment are only three pair of underwear, two ball-gripping bathing suits, a shaving kit, and one dozen Trojan latex condoms - the gold standard for a man who loves eggs.