Chapter Three: One

One: all souls are merely cells of the same body. There is no need for anyone to struggle or compete...but ute, ute, ute for the home team!

Sam used to start each morning with a pick-me-up cocktail, but the days of fresh squeezed grapefruit juice and vodka are over. Never, ever again will he allow himself to be controlled by the bottle. Mimi's dowry includes an Acme juicer and some Diamond Brand Kosher Salt. Downright divine; he marries a woman with the good sense to keep kosher salt in her larder. Sam is trying hard to develop a taste for carrot juice and exercise. If he fakes it long enough, perhaps a healthy lifestyle will feel more natural. There's nothing natural about exercise to Sam. It's counterproductive to his slouch time - sacred time to dry-drunk Sam. Walk, or watch lesbian drill sergeants grapple for position on an x-rated screen? Hike, or visit porn sites that would make even Mimi's open mind shut down like a dangerous Ferris wheel? Mimi is fit and loose and can walk and talk at the same time - for miles, for hours - without gasping for air. She gives Sam reason to believe in the process. Mimi is Sam's G-rated rock hard cockamamie doodle all day.

Where will they live? Sam's rented guesthouse is too small. Mimi's studio apartment is even smaller. They visit each others digs, dig each others digs, and Mimi overlooks Sam's dirty dishes, dirty sheets, dirty laundry, dirty dirt. He's a bachelor, Mimi says to herself. When she opens a drawer looking for a pencil and finds dirty Kleenex balls instead, she isn't disturbed. Mimi is a committed auto-aviator; she's earning her black belt in denial, starting at eleventh Kyu white. Not to worry, Sam says, we'll find just the right house. And they do - a tidy brick Craftsman cottage with a yard suited for a picket fence and an English garden. Sam wishes for a drink, but steadies himself by painting the walls pastel, and hanging pastel art on pastel walls. He has an eye for the dead-on center of things.

Mimi's nice little nest egg frees her to seek knowledge rather than a steady paycheck. She devotes many hours to learning Sam's business, to becoming familiar with the order and chaos of the food service industry. Mimi is a natural restaurateur; her dominant right brain bends all drama toward the humorous and abstract. When she is offered a position cooking for a man who is allergic to the world, who hides behind drawn shades, who rarely escapes the confines of his stifling home, and who loves loud music, Mimi accepts. Just another road to wisdom, Mimi thinks. She arrives at his door precisely at 9 a.m. four mornings a week to begin The Inspection.

Each grain of long brown rice must be thoroughly examined through a magnifying glass for signs of mold. Each grain! Zen and the Art of Cooking for the Schizophrenic, Mimi calls it. All greens must be free of bug holes and yellow spots, dirt, and natural pesticide residue. Everything must be rinsed in filtered water - never tap or mineral water - then dried with religious fervor, then soaked for twenty minutes - no longer - in purified holy water with baking soda added, then prayerfully dried, then one more holy anointment, then dried one last time with sanitized towels, each handled with rubber gloves to avoid skin contamination. At High Noon, Janis Joplin - always Janis Joplin - is cranked to the max. Nothing like a high volume Piece of My Heart serenade to get the juices flowing. After a wild banshee dance party, the question and answer session begins. Tim asks, "What are we eating today, Mimi?" Patiently, Mimi replies, "Brown rice, fully inspected, and kale. Also, peeled and sliced organic tomatoes. Sound good?"

"Did you wash and dry them well? It's important, you know. I could die if you miss anything, any little thing might kill me." Tim puts his hand out to deflect pity. "I know you know that, but please take me seriously. My life is in your hands." Tim is a freak.

"But of course, mon ami," Mimi gently answers.

"Did you find the habanaros in the freezer?"

"Yes, and I made a paste for you."

"What's in it?"

Mimi is wicked. "Snail shit and dirt," she answers. Tim is shocked into silence.

"Mimi..."Tim's tiny voice is muffled by the refrigerator's moan. He wonders if she's kidding. Mimi puts her hands on her hips and shakes her leg a little."Tim..."

"That's not funny," Tim says, cracking a smile.

"Then why are you laughing?" Mimi reaches out and hugs Tim, and his small world is colorful for the moment.

"Will you fry me some okra this week? You know it's my favorite," Tim says.

"I know dear, but it takes four fucking hours to fry your okra," Mimi says, sighing. Tim begs, but does not whine. This works in his favor. Plea bargaining is part of the routine.

"But if you cook enough rice and kale today, you'll only have to cook okra and it will be ready at one o'clock. If it's a little late, I can wait. It's the only thing you'll have to do that day because I can eat leftovers from today! Can we have okra on Friday, please? I promise I won't ask again for two weeks." Tim breaks a sweat from the effort, and Mimi rewards him with a win.

"Okay, Weirdo, okra on Friday. Now, go work on your latest conspiracy theory. I'll call you when lunch is ready."

Mimi also learns the fine art of cooking for the masses. She helps Sam cook Sunday brunch at Steele's; omelets are her specialty. Always, Mimi chooses granny smith apples, brie, and bacon or no as one of the two omelets du jour. The other is typically filled with leftovers from Saturday night's pantry. Sam teaches her the value of food cost and the necessity of keeping it low, prepping her for the day when they leave Sam's business partners and venture forth on their own. 

Sam's staff loves Mimi. She is helpful and kind and provides soft contrast to Sam's sharp edges. When Mimi isn't busy in the kitchen, she polishes silverware and makes coffee and backs up the tattooed dishwasher without being asked to do so; she checks the toilet paper supply in the bathrooms and answers the phone, but never takes reservations. That territory belongs to Meg, the front-of-house maven who was Sam's lover before she gave up the booze and left him alone in the haze years ago. Even uptight Meg relaxes when Mimi is around, a mood shift difficult for a die-hard pessimist. After a polite and somewhat formal hello, Meg always asks, "Everything okay with Sam?" Her tone is conspiratorial, serious. Mimi always smiles and says, "So far, so good Meg. Are you worried about him?" This exchange becomes their daily mantra. Meg cautiously smiles back, afraid her face might break if she expresses happiness, or pleasure. "Not as long as you're around."

"He's steady on his course, Meg."

"I can see that. He looks healthy. You're a great influence on him; keep it up."

"Meg, we're good together. Are you alright with that?" Meg and Mimi are non-combative, but totally upfront, mutually respectful of the tightrope they hold for one another. Meg tries hard to smile. "See this ring on my left hand? What do you think?"

Mimi grins and says, "I think that man is lucky to have found you."

"Well, I like my cats better, but he doesn't know that yet." 

Silver spoons dance with forks and napkins fold themselves into a spiral pattern as laughter fills the panty. Outside, the bluebird of happiness chokes on a berry, providing easy breakfast for a trolling feral cat.

Sam and Mimi have a plan. Every Sunday afternoon they pack a bag and hit the road, looking for that rough, affordable gem of a restaurant to purchase and polish. It's an extended honeymoon, Mimi says. With a picnic basket full of apple cider, caviar, and four-star leftovers, they cruise the highways and byways across Virginia, logging three thousand miles in Sam's 1971 Bathtub Porsche in two months. They stay in extended honeymoon motels, make extended honeymoon love, and eat extended honeymoon breakfast in bed.

Mimi's scrapbook is filled with Polaroids featuring southern landscaping techniques. Her exhuberance keeps Sam balanced on a thin thread; he's becoming a master at shape-shifting. "Sam, look, it's another wooden granny butt," Mimi yells over the road noise.

"For the love of God, don't waste anymore film," Sam growls back.

"Dammit, slow down! She's watering the gnomes."

"We already have pictures of gnomes."

"I know, but we don't have a picture of a wooden granny butt watering gnomes." Mimi focuses as Sam slows down. "Geezus, Mimi. What's with you and all this fucked up southern shit? There are only so many ways to plant a rubber tire in front of a mobile home."

Mimi drops the camera into her lap, silently waiting for her brain to catch up with her instinct.  The acronym  appears in her mind. "Sam, that's it! That's the name of our restaurant!"

"Bad luck, sister. Can't name it before we own one." Mimi rolls her green eyes at Sam. "Oh, give me a break," she says, turning back to her subject.

"What is it then? Granny's Big Butt Stop?"

"No Fuss Bistro. Fuss. Get it?" Sam lets out a gut roar and pulls the car off the road. He laughs until his eyes squeak. "Pard, that's a keeper. Do we spell it out for our customers?" He wipes his wet face and pats Mimi's head.

"Not a chance."

"Is our logo a granny's butt?" Sam is in the moment.

"Not even a smidgeon of a chance," Mimi says as she snaps the picture.

...

Julie is a workaholic. She works in her sleep and dreams about work in between chronic bouts of insomnia. She awakens at five a.m., fifteen minutes before the alarm signals, every morning like clockwork. Julie isn't fearful of waking Jake. She hugs the right side of the king-sized bed, leaving a yard of cool, unwrinkled 1200 count Egyptian cotton sheet between them. Surrounded by king-sized pillows as if sequestered in her own private turreted fort, Julie always sleeps in her underwear in case of fire. Julie's feet hit the floor with purpose; she has exactly two hours fifteen minutes to prepare for work, and is extremely methodical in her approach. Simple basic needs are taken care of first, including plugging in the hot rollers, before the real show begins at precisely 5:20 a.m.

She takes a twenty-minute shower, then pat dries every square inch of her body before applying Yves Saint Laurent Paris oil, then powder - but powder only to the places that don't show. Never deodorant. Julie is one cool customer. She smokes a cigarette and reads Vanity while allowing the oil to soak into her evenly tanned skin, giving the oil time to seep beneath the surface before putting on her mid-knee length Chanel suit. Julie is not an Armani girl. Too hip. She prefers the classic look of Coco. Today's suit is Power Red with black trim and gold buttons, accompanied by a complete set of gold and onyx jewelry, sheer natural hose, and black three-inch patent leather heels, increasing her diminutive height to a more noticeable five feet five inches. Julie unwraps the turban from her shoulder-length dyed blonde hair and methodically brushes her mane fifty times. Adept from years of managing the same classic hairstyle, it takes her less than three minutes to place eighteen hot rollers in their designated spots. Her hair has been trained to fall into place without resistance, to suck it up and take the heat, much like little Christian soldiers marching off to war.

Julie uses a steel gray Haliburton briefcase with custom inserts as her makeup kit. Although a natural beauty, Julie prefers a heavy mask. She frowns at her reflection in the mirror while paying special attention to the raccoon-like dark circles under her eyes. Concealer first, Julie thinks, lots of concealer. With a dancer's concentration and rhythm, Julie pat pat pats until she looks ghostly, but only until she pulls the natural tan liquid base from its compartment - without looking down. The base coat begins at the top of her throat and is applied with easy strokes of the sponge over her chin and upward, ever upward, with the smooth, steady confidence of a veteran Ringling Brothers clown. Now, a dusting of powder to remove shine and set the base - a very rapid, yet gentle procedure, much like powdering a baby's behind. Now, blush. Julie moves with the precision of a surgeon, but without an assistant to hand her the proper tools. She prefers working alone. Two tones here, one to enhance her cheekbones, the other to provide the illusion of shadow in the hollows underneath. She pauses. My eyes, she ponders...must not draw attention to my eyes; they look as tired as they feel. She chooses charcoal and paints a very thin line from the outside in, stopping just short of her eye's iris on both top and bottom. Her palette of shadows gives her pause as well. She chooses light beige for the inside corners, barely gray for her lids, and Confederate gray above. Julie pauses once again, then plucks two stray eyebrows invisible to the normal naked eye, but Julie is a scrutinizer. Has been since birth.

Mascara mascara mascara mascara and careful and rhythmic and stroking and four coats. Now, the coup de grace: Long Lasting Lip Liner by Lancome, blood red, followed by blood red long lasting lipstick applied with a brush. Blot, reapply. Blot, reapply. Blot, done. 

Of course, blood red fingernails.

Julie opens the bathroom window, removes the cold rollers, flips her hair upside down, and sprays with the power of a fire hose. She stands up, puts the revolutionary strands in their proper place, closes the window and leaves the bathroom at exactly 7:10 a.m. without a second glance. As she walks into the kitchen, Jake looks up from the newspaper and greets his beautiful, stiff wife. "Good morning, Love. Sleep well?"

"No Jake, I never sleep well." Julie opens the pantry door, grabs an energy bar, and slams it shut.

"What about the Ambien? Isn't it helping?"

"Ambien, schmambien. It gives me bad dreams. I'd rather stay awake." She stacks the scattered newspaper into a neat pile, and tucks in her blouse. Jake reaches for a mug. "Coffee? It's half caf, the way you like it." Julie wrinkles her nose. "No thanks. I'll get some at work."

Jake makes easy morning conversation. "Did you see the Business Report?" Julie abruptly returns his simple question with a snarl. "Jake, where have I been?"

"Putting on your game face," he answers, remaining calm.

"Cute." Julie smirks.

"Yes you are," Jake says as he looks above his reading glasses at Julie, who is looking at herself in the kitchen mirror, checking for flaws and finding only perfection. "Tell me about it in thirty seconds or less," she demands.

"Somebody bought the club." Now he has her attention. She turns from her reflection. "Who?"

"Sam and Mimi Killian. They're from here, it says. Newlyweds." Jake ponders the change of ownership for a moment, tilting his head in thought.

"Save the article for me. I'll read it tonight when I get home." Julie flips her hair one more time, then purposefully feels for AWOL members escaping the helmet. Not finding a hair out of place, she picks up her black patent and gold-trimmed purse and strides her exit, heels typing sixteen quick, short goodbyes across the parquet floor.

"I hope they like jazz," Jake wishes out loud. Hand on the door, Julie stops, turns to Jake, and answers, "I hope they turn it into a beach music shag club and get some decent bartenders in there. Jazz is dead, Jake. I need some sand under my feet."

"Bite your tongue, woman!" Jake jumps off the bar stood and catches Julie as she opens the door. "A kiss, perhaps, before leaving?"

"Just don't mess up my lipstick." He brushes her made-up cheekbone as she turns her face from him.

"How about meeting me for lunch? I'll order from Thorn Thai and bring it to your office," Jake says.

"I don't know. I'll have to call you."

"Oh, come on, Jules."

"I have meetings all day, Jake. I'll call you," Julie says, and closes the front door without a sound.

She never does.

Jake slides his orange plastic tray down the steel cafeteria line, smiling and joking with the service staff. He calls each woman by name, and they beam brilliant smiles directly into his eyes, so bright they blind his vision. All, regardless of age, are in love with Jake, but not because he's the best looking man walking through their territory. They love him because he looks inside. He feels their sweat and frustration, their toothaches, their family difficulties, yet never probes for details or gossip. These women are mothers who offer Jake a big collective bosom full of warmth and adoration. Jake's vegetable plate is filled to overflowing. Mashed potatoes with gravy slop into his turnip greens which slop into his pintos. The extra-large corner piece of crusty cornbread from the fresh batch goes to Jake, along with a secret stash of homemade chow-chow. Pity the next man in line who receives only half as much food for the same price. He can't give these women as much as Jake does even if he writes them each a personal check for one hundred dollars and lawd, don't let him ask for any of that chow-chow. Jake's women watch him walk the line. "I swear that Dr. Reston, he's one fine man. Umm-hmmm, I could sop him up with a biscuit."

"Forget your biscuit. Your ass is a biscuit."

"He likes molasses, I can tell."

"Yeah he does, but not like you think. That Dr. Reston, he's a child of God."

"Well, I'll sing in his holy choir anytime he asks me to. Here, take him some of this cobbler."

Jake eats another nutritious and delicious hospital meal alone, at least to the naked eye. But be very still. If you're quiet enough, you might tune out the cacophony of loud voices magnified by bad acoustics and hear the heavenly music that surrounds him. Jake is never alone. He is cradled by a holy choir of invisible angels.