Attempting to avoid his vigilante secretary, Jim Morris sneaks through a side door and creeps into his plush penthouse-view law office; he pulls a forbidden well-dressed cheeseburger and fries from a greasy brown bag, and rifling through the bottom left drawer of his Cadillac-sized mahogany desk, finds the new Carl Hiaasen novel given to him by his wife on his fortieth birthday. He swivels his Levenger Huntington executive desk chair into position, props his Fratelli Rossetti leather wingtips on a stack of unopened mail, and turns to page one. Jim queues up a huge bite of his dripping lunch as the phone softly rings. He reaches for the intercom button, mouth full, and impatiently addresses his ancient, pinched secretary as a glop of mustard, chili, slaw, and onions parks in the middle of his pink Aspinal silk tie. “What is it, Sybil?”
“You know better than to eat that cheeseburger, Jim.”
“Slaw is in the salad category, Sybil,” he says, lifting the tie to his mouth and sucking at the spreading yellow stain.
“Well, it’s your blood pressure, do what you want. But don’t expect me to cover for you when your wife asks if you’re following doctor’s orders.”
“Well, don’t expect me to give you a Christmas bonus this year, either.” Jim grabs a handful of salty French fries and shoves them in his mouth. “Why are you bothering me?”
“I’m putting a client through who comes to you compliments of your father, so you better take this one; she’s called three times already. Hang on.” Mimi introduces herself before Jim can object to the unwelcome interruption. “Mr. Morris, this is Mimi Killian. George at your father’s office referred me to you. He says you’ll be able to draft a contract protecting me from a business liability.”
Jim reluctantly puts down his cheeseburger, splays his book spine-up on his messy desk, and, after wiping his slick hands with a crumpled napkin, picks up a Lanier handcrafted pen. “What business, Mrs. Killian?”
“The Firefly and the Phoenix; you’ve been there, right?”
Jim perks up. “Best shrimp and grits this side of the Mississippi, and the homemade cheesecake’s not bad, either. Call me Jim. What can I do for you?”
“I need a contract releasing me from all liability in exchange for giving my partner all the assets of the business. I have a hand-scribbled contract from Sam’s attorney, but it looks pretty scary. I’m not about to sign this thing.”
“Who’s Sam?” Jim takes another bite of his drooling cheeseburger; richly-colored condiments splatter on the canvas of his starched white Burberry shirt.
“Sam’s my business partner and soon-to-be ex-husband.”
“Why don’t you sell your shares to him?”
Mimi sighs. “Jim, that would be ideal, but Sam refuses to pay me anything, based on the fact that we haven’t shown a profit in five years.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not profitable, Mimi. Complete transparency isn’t always a plus, believe me; I understand how the restaurant business works.” Jim reaches across his wide girth, grunts, and flicks chili from his wingtips. “How much is the business worth?”
“According to an advisor, my half should be worth a minimum of two-hundred-sixty thousand dollars. I’d love to get at least sixty out of it, based on good will alone.”
“What do you mean by good will?”
“It’s the steady customer base and the reputation,” Mimi explains. “It’s the draw. Even potentially great restaurants with world-class chefs won’t last long if there’s no draw. A built-in customer base, like we have, is worth more than gold.” Mimi pauses. “But Sam says that’s because of him, not me. I disagree.”
“Then, why does Sam figure the business is worth nothing if good will is so important?” Jim swallows the dregs of his stale Pepsi, covers the receiver, and burps loudly; Mimi pretends not to hear.
“Because he knows how hard it is to prove, Jim. He believes in good will as much as I do, but maybe Sam’s right. Nobody’s gonna pay me sixty thousand dollars for the honor of being Sam’s business partner.”
Jim bores easily, and wishes this rambling conversation were over. “Sounds like a domestic issue to me,” he says, picking up his book. If page one were a crime scene, Jim would be the primary suspect based on fingerprints alone.
“I went to a domestic attorney first, who suggested I contact your father, then your father suggested I speak with George, and George suggest I hire you. Am I on the wrong track here?”
Jim cuts to the chase. “How’s your cash flow? The business, I mean.”
“It’s a cash cow. Most of the restaurant revenue is generated by credit cards which covers our business expenses. The bar provides most of the cash – an easy two grand a week, after expenses, walking.”
“And you’re willing to give that up to protect yourself for a perceived liability? You may want to reconsider, Mrs. Killian.” Jim flips to page two.
Mimi’s patience wears thin. “I don’t want to be Sam’s business partner anymore, Jim, okay? Do you understand that? We’re legally separated, but that doesn’t protect me from his bad business decisions. He’s a sloppy, delusional alcoholic with a very bad temper.” Mimi plays her last card. “He, well, he’s offered people money to make me go away.”
Now Mimi has Jim’s attention. He marks page two with a mustard-stained napkin and places the book on his desk. “What do you mean, take you away?”
“Well, what does it sound like to you?”
“It sounds like a criminal charge waiting to happen.” This case may have legs after all, Jim thinks. “Okay, I need a list of everything you want from the restaurant in exchange for releasing all assets, if you’re sure that’s the route you want to take. What tangible items do you want?”
“Not much, just some artwork that belongs to me, and my old computer. Oh, and some of the wine. We have a few cases that’ll never move unless I’m there to sell them.” Mimi quickly runs through the inventory in her mind. “Two thousand dollars is a pretty good guesstimate on the value, and the longer it sits, the more valuable it becomes.”
Jim whistles. “That’s a lot of wine.”
“Not really. Maybe three cases wholesale, but it’s the hard-to-get really good stuff, and Sam will probably cook with it.” Mimi shudders at the thought, and summarizes for the seemingly dense attorney. “Listen, Jim, Sam’s been shuffling money from our business account for a long time. I’ve seen the books and deposit slips – the real ones. And yeah, I can take him down the river, baptize him in the holy water of your religion, tear his little world apart, and give you all my money in an effort to feel good about myself. But that’s not my deal. Please, all I’m asking is for you to draw up a contract stating, very simply, that Sam Killian gets the business assets in return for releasing Mimi Killian from any and all liability.”
“I can do that,” Jim replies. “But, it’s gonna cost you a little.”
Mimi laughs at the little part. “How much is a little?”
“Two hundred-fifty dollars an hour to start, including this phone call; and the contract work will take five hours, minimum.” God, small potatoes after all, Jim thinks; this better be a quick fix.
“Let’s do five maximum, Jim. Please, don’t stretch this out.” Jim makes no promises, but agrees to address the potential criminal offense as a separate issue in exchange for two bottles of vintage wine. “A short, well-worded letter should be all that’s needed,” he says. Jim schedules an appointment with Mimi for later in the week – an appointment that will take fifteen minutes, but he’ll charge a full hour. He hangs up the phone and shakes his head. Lady, you’ve lost your mind, he thinks. But if you can pay, I’ll play. Now, where was I? He plops a well-shod foot on his shiny desk, picks up his novel, and resumes his hard work.
Two days later Mimi organizes her attaché, dresses in her best left-over corporate attire and enters the world of high overhead. Damn, she thinks, studying an opulent flower arrangement that could attract a swarm of killer bees; that ugly thing must have set him back a cool two-fifty, hold the aesthetics. “Nice office, Jim, great view of the city from way up here. Who’s your florist?” Jim smiles, but doesn’t waste time explaining Sybil’s penchant for funeral arrangements. “Did you bring the list?”
Mimi reaches for her attaché. “Yes, and the contract from Sam’s attorney.” She slides one neatly typed watermarked list and a wrinkled handwritten contract across the table. Jim looks at the contract first and frowns. “Who’s Sam’s attorney?”
“Drew Wissle, do you know him?”
“Oh yeah.” He shakes his head. “This is crap. It doesn’t protect you from anything. My advice is to burn it,” he says, and passes it back to Mimi before changing his mind. “No, give it back. I’ll take care of this.”
“Can I sue someone for making me feel stupid?”
Jim takes notice of Mimi for the first time, and looks at her intently. “You’re not stupid; if you were, you’d have signed this contract. Nope, my guess is you’re one sharp cookie, but somebody’s trying to bite out of you.” He picks up the precisely-typed inventory list, and frowns again. “There’s not much on here; are you sure this is it?”
“I’d like to include my initial investment, if possible. I invested my retirement fund into this venture.” Jim shakes his head. “You’ll be able to recoup some of that loss when you file your taxes, but most of that money’s long gone; have you considered suing for alimony?”
“If we had kids, Jim, I’d do it, but it’s just me. I’m not worried about the money right now; I’ll land on my feet.” Or your ass, Jim thinks, and shrugs. “Okay, your call.”
“Once Sam signs this agreement, it’s over, right? If he has a wreck in the company car and kills someone, or knocks his vodka bottle onto the gas burner and lights up the place, I’m not liable in any way, shape or form, right?”
Jim looks at his watch and pushes back his chair. “That’s right. I’ll give you a ring when the contract’s ready so you can read it before we send Sam a copy. In the meantime, lay low. Avoid contact, and by all means, stay away from the restaurant.”
Oh, Mimi. Where’s the fight song? Where’s the trainer in your corner – the one who says, look, don’t walk away from your business; stand up and fight for your financial rights. It might cost you a body part, but limbs are replaceable. Take him down, girl, sic’em! It sure isn’t Jim; he’s working hard to finish the second short chapter of his Hiaasen. Jim’s a slow reader.
Laying low isn’t an easy task for a woman like Mimi, especially when five messages to Sam go unanswered; Mimi left something very precious in their cottage by mistake: six delicate, tulip-shaped, cobalt blue, mouth-blown champagne flutes, circa 1940’s, inherited from her Aunt Agnes, and they must be retrieved before their condition changes from mint to flea market. On a whim, she stops by and boldly knocks on the front door, not expecting an answer although Sam’s car sits in the driveway. Sam, however, has a more pressing need, a need more enticing than a confrontation with his nemesis. Mimi walks through the gate to the back yard, passes the lovely purple irises she planted three springs ago - they’re in full bloom - and notices the back door standing wide open. She tiptoes to the threshold, peeks around the corner, and gets an eyeful; Jesse, the red-headed, enabling cocktail waitress, walks through the kitchen from the direction of the bedroom. A rat built a nest in her hair, Mimi thinks. Jesse’s wearing one of Sam’s shirts and nothing else; she doesn’t notice Mimi silently gaping. A large bong sits on the coffee table alongside a quart-sized zip lock bag full of what is either catnip or marijuana, and Sam doesn’t like cats. Mimi fantasizes for a moment, but revenge is tricky business; she simply wants her champagne flutes. A note will have to do, Mimi thinks; she pulls a tube of lipstick from her pocket, and, using Sam’s glass door as her canvas, scrawls “FLUTES” in large, Femme Fatale-colored cursive letters across its center.
Mimi’s phone rings two hours later. The voice on the other end is agitated. “Mimi, Jim Morris here. I just received a call from Drew Wissle a minute ago. He says you’ve been trespassing on Sam’s property, is that true?”
“Well dang, Jim,” Mimi replies, conjuring her best childhood innocence; she knows the dress-down is coming, and expects nothing less. “All I did was drop by his house on the way to the grocery store this morning to pick up something. His car was in the driveway; it’s not like I broke in or anything.”
“You shouldn’t have painted on the door, Mimi. Drew says it’s ruined and will have to be replaced.”
“Jim, it’s lipstick; tell Drew to pull his head out of his ass.” Black beret and candy cigarette notwithstanding, innocence was a strong player in Mimi’s formative years; however, the virtuous Pollyanna act is not in her current repertoire. Hayley Mills has a black eye. “I just want my champagne flutes.”
Jim sighs. “Sam will put the glasses on the front porch and you can pick them up tomorrow. Drew also said that a No Trespassing sign will be posted on Sam’s front door the minute you get them.” He pauses. “Is there anything else you want from the house? Because if you do, now’s the time.”
“Nope, that’s it.”
“Okay, I’ll call Drew.” Jim tone turns from reprimanding to conspiratorial. “Something’s very strange about this deal; Drew says he doesn’t really represent Sam anymore and refuses to discuss the contract with me. I think he’s hedging. But he did say he tried to represent both of you through mediation, is that true?”
Mimi isn’t surprised by Jim’s skepticism. “You saw the contract; whose side do you think he took in mediation? All I know is Sam told me to go through his attorney for everything, and he says his attorney is Drew Wissle. God, these guys are such liars.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that unless you think Drew misrepresented you, and then we’ll have a real legal battle on our hands. It’ll cost a lot of money and take a lot of time. But,” Jim says, crossing his fingers, “I’ll represent you if you want to go there.”
Mimi doesn’t hesitate. “Nope, let’s get this over with as soon as possible.”
“Alright,” Jim says, once again missing his chance to be a hero. “I’ll call Sam directly instead of dealing with Drew. I’ll remind him you’re not pressing criminal charges against him for threatening to have you taken away.” Whatever that means, Jim thinks. “Oh, but Drew did mention that Sam is afraid you’ll call the IRS and report him for tax fraud.”
“Good!” Mimi exclaims. “I want him to be afraid. Tell Sam he has one week to sign the contract, or I’ll make the call.”
“That should do it. I’ll be back in touch.”
Jim Morris calls Mimi ten days after their first meeting; it’s a wrap, Sam has signed the contract, Jim says. Save that wine, he chuckles; it might be worth something someday. Mimi laughs. It already is, Jim, she says; it’s worth the year it will take me to drink it.
Mimi’s heart and brain play tackle football on an uneven field. Sam teaches Mimi about spite, and the lessons are bitter and tough. She moves painfully forward with the hesitancy of a blind man touching a cold dead animal for the first time; a very deep freeze sets up camp in her chest. Is it human nature to put love on ice? Mimi needs a military issue wool blanket to keep frostbite from permanently damaging her heart.
Sam dogs Mimi’s every step when she returns to The Firefly for the last time. “Just the computer, Mimi, no backup discs. Not that picture, Mimi; that belongs to the restaurant, not you. Not that wine, Mimi; not that book, Mimi; nope, that’s mine. It’s all mine. Hurry up,” Sam sneers and looks at the velvet Elvis clock in the kitchen. “Your twenty minutes are up; now get the hell out or I’ll call the police.”
Anger and alcohol mix a combustible and toxic blend. Sam opens the telephone book, looks up Jake Reston’s number, but doesn’t dial. Not tonight, Sam thinks. But he is sure of his right to revenge. He sparkles with spiteful glee, sparkles like a laser-cut Blue Nile diamond under a jeweler’s backlit case. His mouth puckers as he bites his tongue until it bleeds and he tastes the bitterness of his own blood; his mouth fills with it until he can’t swallow. Sam looks at his reflection in the bedroom mirror and sees a mouth curved like an upside down horse shoe; all the luck runs out, all his good will spills out and dissipates in a blue vapor. Sam personifies bad intention. This will be good, he thinks. Sticks and stones are meaningless; I’ll hurt Mimi with words. He tries to right his smile, but it pains him.
Sleep eludes Mimi, and the howling coyotes can’t soothe her; their calls conjure death tonight, conjure the thrill of the kill. She jumps out of bed and into her car, wheeling toward the black horizon in bedroom slippers, pajamas, and a baseball cap. “I’m going trespassing,” she says out loud to the wind blowing through her open window. “I’m going to collect sticks and rocks and dirt and plants. I might even break a window,” she whispers to the wind. “I might even set off the alarm.” She smiles, but finds no satisfaction in the act. “Maybe I’ll get arrested, then make a scene and become hysterical. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.” Her fantasy gains speed as her foot guns the accelerator up a long, dark hill. “Maybe the cops will take me to the hospital…the psyche ward sounds good. I’ll get a big shot of a pharmaceutical cocktail, and they’ll put me in the rubber room where I can wear myself out.” Mimi laughs at the headwind as it tries in vain to drive her back home. “No, no…I’ll just tell them I want to kill somebody, maybe myself; then they’ll give me big drugs that’ll knock me out for days.” Mimi slows at the next corner, thinks about pulling into the golden arches for a double cheeseburger instead, but beats Fatty Patty in a hard-fought wrestling match; if Mimi lets her in tonight, she may never leave. “Fuck you!” Mimi yells, battling with an army of forked-tongue fiery demons. “God, this is stupid; just get to a cool, dark corner and pull the covers over your head for a few days. It’s only money, it’s only money, it’s only money.” Mimi slams the brakes one quick time, tries to right her mind with a hard snap; it doesn’t work. “You incompetent shit,” she scoffs. “I fucking hate myself right now; I’m so incompetent. No, no, dammit, I have to stop this, or Sam wins.” She punches the gas again, sticks her head out the window and takes a deep breath. “Go home,” her brain orders. “Go for a walk,” her legs suggest. “Buy a pack of cigarettes,” her hands plead. “Chill in the hammock and read a book,” her intellect chimes. “Get shitfaced! Drink a bottle of Bachio Divino for breakfast!” her liver implores. “Calm down, all of you,” Mimi instructs. “It’s important to calm the hell down before we get in serious trouble. No, I already am in serious trouble; it’s important that I not let Sam steal my money. No, fuck the money, let the money go. You’ve been in need of money before and found a way to survive. What makes this time different? Here I am, no big deal. Breathe, let it go. Let…it…go.” And she does, but not before trespassing. Not before gathering rocks and sticks and dirt and not before staring into The Firefly’s large plate glass window, and not before considering how it might shatter into a million pieces if she stares at it long enough; it never does.
By sunrise, the hammock and a half bottle of Bachio Divino lull Mimi into a dreamless, motionless sleep.
To be continued…
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Chapter Thirteen: Freedom (Part 1)
Freedom: no one is free until we are all free and are freeing each other. Give each other space to taste sweet freedom…expand your mind and make room for all!
The sun casts golden light across Mimi’s closed eyes and wakes her gently, wakes her from a sleep so sweet she can taste the morning. She stretches her muscles until they respond, and rolls onto her stomach; easing her torso sideways across the bed until the mattress’s edge supports her trim waist, she slowly reaches downward until her hands feel warm wood. Bending her elbows, she touches her forehead to the floor as blood fills her sleepy brain; she becomes fully awake as axons cross the synapse and shake hands with dendrites, and gray matter greets white matter with a welcome slap on the back. Mimi has her own little church in her head. Ten sun salutations add extra length to her back, and after a light breakfast of two soft scrambled eggs, a bowl of chilled Swiss chard, a hunk of raw cheddar, and one piece of crispy brown sunflower toast, she quickly showers, dresses loosely in shorts and tee-shirt, laces up her trusty five-eyed Doc Martin’s, pulls a Life is Good cap over her long braid, and cheerfully heads for The Firefly.
Sam kicks tangled bedclothes to the floor, medulla curses oblongata, and a trickle of grapefruit juice angrily splashes into a breakfast vodka shot; morning is just the beginning of another long, miserable day for Sam. He takes a quick shower, and tugs on his red hot chili pepper pants, a faded Yankees tee-shirt, and his tomato-stained running shoes. In an effort to dim the day, he reaches for a pair of dark sunglasses and heads to The Firefly; the last person he needs disturbing his bad mood is Mimi, but he spies her car in the parking lot. He opens the door, and there she is, staked out at the bar drinking coffee and reading the paper like she owns the place. If the heart has a hateful chamber, Sam’s opens wide when he sees her. “Mimi, I don’t want you here anymore.”
“Good morning to you too, Sam,” Mimi says politely, never lifting her eyes from the front page news. “I made a pot of coffee.” Sam silently walks behind the bar, reaches into a humming beer cooler, and pulls out an ice cold Corona. “Yeah well, enjoy it,” he retorts. “Did you hear what I said? I don’t want you here anymore. You’re dead weight.”
Mimi shudders, drops the paper to the bar and looks at her pitiful husband. “Sam, I own half this restaurant, remember? If you want me out, you have to buy me out.” Sam’s eyes roll like a tight quarter slot. “Yeah, right, like this dump is worth anything.” Sam holds the glistening Corona to the light; it looks like liquid sunshine. Sparkles like the Mexican Riviera, Sam thinks, and takes a deep pull.
Mimi shrugs. “Okay, then, I’ll buy you out.”
Sam thrives on cruelty, especially when he runs low on grapefruit juice in the morning. “I’m the one with restaurant experience, remember? You didn’t know shit five years ago. You’ll run this place into the ground, six months, guaranteed, if you can find anybody to work for you.”
“I’ll take that chance, Sam; how much?”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m not selling.”
“Tell you what,” Mimi says, pushing Sam closer to a total meltdown, “let’s hire a restaurant consultant to estimate what this place is worth, and we’ll get an attorney to draw up the papers.” Sam tilts precariously toward malfunction. “Brilliant!” He howls. “Let’s open the books to Joe Schmoe on the street here. Do we tell him about the safe at home? Do we tell him about the cash we take outta here every week? Shit, Mimi, we’ll both end up in jail.” Sam’s Corona takes on the patina and taste of cat urine. He smells the almost-depleted bottle, burps loudly, and pours the dregs in the sink. “You’re a fucking pain in the ass, do you know that about yourself? This business is worth nothing, and nothing is what you’ll get.”
Mimi breathes deeply in a vain attempt to idle her racing heart. “Sam, please stop it.”
Sam jumps. “No Mimi, you stop it! You’ve done nothing to build this business. It’s time for you to go.” You can’t argue with a drunk, Mimi remembers Sam saying. She sits silently as Sam continues to spin toward his warped version of a big payout. “Ask anybody; the staff hates you now; my old customers have always hated you, did you know that? Everybody talks trash about you when you’re not around.”
Mimi’s core body temperature drops as her heart goes into shock. She shivers as she stands, carefully moves toward the sun, and silently asks the beams to deflect Sam’s cold words. “Are you having fun, Sam?”
“Yeah, Mimi, this is fun, isn’t it? I’m having fun, are you having fun? If I hear you mention the word fun one more time, I’m gonna puke. Life is just one big fun game to you, isn’t it?” Sam’s inflamed eyes exit their sockets as his frontal lobe pushes on his last occipital nerve. “Why don’t you go on home now and have some fun with Jake?”
Now I get it, Mimi thinks. Gino must have spilled the beans. “What are you talking about, Sam? Jake has nothing to do with this.” But for the first time, she knows he does; Mimi sees a crack in Sam’s demeanor that leads to a deep fissure, a depression so deep it would take a two-ton dump truck to haul away the rancid, rushing and painful ooze of his backed-up rage.
Pigs wish they could snort like Sam. “Oh, I’ve heard, and I’ve seen, too. You can’t keep your hands off him. Everybody’s talking about it. You’ve been having an affair for years, you damn slut. Having fun yet?”
“Sam, calm down. You know that’s not true.”
“The hell it isn’t!” Blame travels boldly when escorted by a lie.
“You’re way off base, Sam,” Mimi cautions. “Friendly conversation isn’t an affair; be careful what you say now.”
“I may be stupid Mimi, but you’re a big fucking slut. Jake’s a married man,” Sam yells to an invisible audience; he opens the door and spews his toxic rant to the empty parking lot across the street. “Everybody hear that? My wife’s having an affair with a married man!” Turning his attention toward his gray-faced wife, he says, “Now get the hell out of here.”
Mimi plants roots in her little piece of ground. “I’m staying, Sam. If you don’t want to see me today, you go on home. I have work to do.”
“Not for long; it won’t be long now, girl. This restaurant is folding, wait and see.” Sam loiters by the door and pants with the need for a drink. “People are lining up to help me because they know the shit you’ve put me through.” He catches his breath in preparation for next tirade, his last chance money spin, his big hit. “Go ahead, Mimi, call an attorney; see what happens. We haven’t shown a profit in five years. Any businessman worth his salt will think you’re crazy if you put a price on this place. You won’t get a dime from me; I have friends who’ll make damn sure of that. The best money I can spend right now is to take you out for good, and it’ll only cost me five thousand dollars. Your head is cheap, Mimi.”
“Are you threatening me, Sam?”
“No Mimi, I’m telling you. Get the hell out of here.”
And Sam is right. He knows the business better, he cooks better, he steals better, he lies better, he hides better, he cheats better, better, better. Mimi is having no fun, no fun at all. She calls an attorney who makes sure of that.
To be continued…
The sun casts golden light across Mimi’s closed eyes and wakes her gently, wakes her from a sleep so sweet she can taste the morning. She stretches her muscles until they respond, and rolls onto her stomach; easing her torso sideways across the bed until the mattress’s edge supports her trim waist, she slowly reaches downward until her hands feel warm wood. Bending her elbows, she touches her forehead to the floor as blood fills her sleepy brain; she becomes fully awake as axons cross the synapse and shake hands with dendrites, and gray matter greets white matter with a welcome slap on the back. Mimi has her own little church in her head. Ten sun salutations add extra length to her back, and after a light breakfast of two soft scrambled eggs, a bowl of chilled Swiss chard, a hunk of raw cheddar, and one piece of crispy brown sunflower toast, she quickly showers, dresses loosely in shorts and tee-shirt, laces up her trusty five-eyed Doc Martin’s, pulls a Life is Good cap over her long braid, and cheerfully heads for The Firefly.
Sam kicks tangled bedclothes to the floor, medulla curses oblongata, and a trickle of grapefruit juice angrily splashes into a breakfast vodka shot; morning is just the beginning of another long, miserable day for Sam. He takes a quick shower, and tugs on his red hot chili pepper pants, a faded Yankees tee-shirt, and his tomato-stained running shoes. In an effort to dim the day, he reaches for a pair of dark sunglasses and heads to The Firefly; the last person he needs disturbing his bad mood is Mimi, but he spies her car in the parking lot. He opens the door, and there she is, staked out at the bar drinking coffee and reading the paper like she owns the place. If the heart has a hateful chamber, Sam’s opens wide when he sees her. “Mimi, I don’t want you here anymore.”
“Good morning to you too, Sam,” Mimi says politely, never lifting her eyes from the front page news. “I made a pot of coffee.” Sam silently walks behind the bar, reaches into a humming beer cooler, and pulls out an ice cold Corona. “Yeah well, enjoy it,” he retorts. “Did you hear what I said? I don’t want you here anymore. You’re dead weight.”
Mimi shudders, drops the paper to the bar and looks at her pitiful husband. “Sam, I own half this restaurant, remember? If you want me out, you have to buy me out.” Sam’s eyes roll like a tight quarter slot. “Yeah, right, like this dump is worth anything.” Sam holds the glistening Corona to the light; it looks like liquid sunshine. Sparkles like the Mexican Riviera, Sam thinks, and takes a deep pull.
Mimi shrugs. “Okay, then, I’ll buy you out.”
Sam thrives on cruelty, especially when he runs low on grapefruit juice in the morning. “I’m the one with restaurant experience, remember? You didn’t know shit five years ago. You’ll run this place into the ground, six months, guaranteed, if you can find anybody to work for you.”
“I’ll take that chance, Sam; how much?”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m not selling.”
“Tell you what,” Mimi says, pushing Sam closer to a total meltdown, “let’s hire a restaurant consultant to estimate what this place is worth, and we’ll get an attorney to draw up the papers.” Sam tilts precariously toward malfunction. “Brilliant!” He howls. “Let’s open the books to Joe Schmoe on the street here. Do we tell him about the safe at home? Do we tell him about the cash we take outta here every week? Shit, Mimi, we’ll both end up in jail.” Sam’s Corona takes on the patina and taste of cat urine. He smells the almost-depleted bottle, burps loudly, and pours the dregs in the sink. “You’re a fucking pain in the ass, do you know that about yourself? This business is worth nothing, and nothing is what you’ll get.”
Mimi breathes deeply in a vain attempt to idle her racing heart. “Sam, please stop it.”
Sam jumps. “No Mimi, you stop it! You’ve done nothing to build this business. It’s time for you to go.” You can’t argue with a drunk, Mimi remembers Sam saying. She sits silently as Sam continues to spin toward his warped version of a big payout. “Ask anybody; the staff hates you now; my old customers have always hated you, did you know that? Everybody talks trash about you when you’re not around.”
Mimi’s core body temperature drops as her heart goes into shock. She shivers as she stands, carefully moves toward the sun, and silently asks the beams to deflect Sam’s cold words. “Are you having fun, Sam?”
“Yeah, Mimi, this is fun, isn’t it? I’m having fun, are you having fun? If I hear you mention the word fun one more time, I’m gonna puke. Life is just one big fun game to you, isn’t it?” Sam’s inflamed eyes exit their sockets as his frontal lobe pushes on his last occipital nerve. “Why don’t you go on home now and have some fun with Jake?”
Now I get it, Mimi thinks. Gino must have spilled the beans. “What are you talking about, Sam? Jake has nothing to do with this.” But for the first time, she knows he does; Mimi sees a crack in Sam’s demeanor that leads to a deep fissure, a depression so deep it would take a two-ton dump truck to haul away the rancid, rushing and painful ooze of his backed-up rage.
Pigs wish they could snort like Sam. “Oh, I’ve heard, and I’ve seen, too. You can’t keep your hands off him. Everybody’s talking about it. You’ve been having an affair for years, you damn slut. Having fun yet?”
“Sam, calm down. You know that’s not true.”
“The hell it isn’t!” Blame travels boldly when escorted by a lie.
“You’re way off base, Sam,” Mimi cautions. “Friendly conversation isn’t an affair; be careful what you say now.”
“I may be stupid Mimi, but you’re a big fucking slut. Jake’s a married man,” Sam yells to an invisible audience; he opens the door and spews his toxic rant to the empty parking lot across the street. “Everybody hear that? My wife’s having an affair with a married man!” Turning his attention toward his gray-faced wife, he says, “Now get the hell out of here.”
Mimi plants roots in her little piece of ground. “I’m staying, Sam. If you don’t want to see me today, you go on home. I have work to do.”
“Not for long; it won’t be long now, girl. This restaurant is folding, wait and see.” Sam loiters by the door and pants with the need for a drink. “People are lining up to help me because they know the shit you’ve put me through.” He catches his breath in preparation for next tirade, his last chance money spin, his big hit. “Go ahead, Mimi, call an attorney; see what happens. We haven’t shown a profit in five years. Any businessman worth his salt will think you’re crazy if you put a price on this place. You won’t get a dime from me; I have friends who’ll make damn sure of that. The best money I can spend right now is to take you out for good, and it’ll only cost me five thousand dollars. Your head is cheap, Mimi.”
“Are you threatening me, Sam?”
“No Mimi, I’m telling you. Get the hell out of here.”
And Sam is right. He knows the business better, he cooks better, he steals better, he lies better, he hides better, he cheats better, better, better. Mimi is having no fun, no fun at all. She calls an attorney who makes sure of that.
To be continued…
Monday, February 22, 2010
Chapter Twelve: Honesty
Honesty: see things as they are, check your need to alter the truth, and release all fear; there is no advantage in lying…not even about the little things.
Sam and Mimi share a fleeting moment of truth when Warren, gainfully employed by Sam’s old partners at Steeles, stops by The Firefly at the end of service to say hello. But Warren's visit is more than social; his mission is to check up on Sam, to find out why Sam hasn’t been to an AA meeting in over a month. Warren is direct in his questioning. He hasn’t learned the fine art of diplomacy, but bravely takes the offensive against Sam’s battering, cynical tongue. Mimi is an innocent bystander who stands in the shadows watching as two trains collide; much as she’d like to, she can’t avert her eyes from the wreckage. “Sam, you’re drinking again,” Warren states. “Why don’t you admit it, and let me help you get back on track?”
“Nooooo, I don’t drink, not Sam I Am,” Sam sings in a scathing Dr. Suessical impression, cracking himself up as a breathless Mimi freezes. “Why are you laughing, Sam?” Warren asks. “Do you think this is funny? What’s so funny about lying to your wife, or to me? Or, more importantly, to yourself?” Warren is painfully sincere, and so very, very ineffective. Sam jabs Warren as an aggressive child might poke a vulnerable kitten with a stick. “Why, I’m laughing at you, boy! Look at you standing there judging me, all rosy and sober and self-righteous. When’s the last time you had a drink, yesterday?”
Warren is stirred, but not shaken. “Sam, you’re drunk right now, aren’t you? Bet you don’t know Mimi’s listening. She’s over there, watching you act like an ass. Now would a good time to tell her the truth.” Warren points at Mimi’s stricken face. “Doesn’t she deserve the truth?”
Sam laughs maniacally, and stumbles. “No siree, buddy, I am not drunk. Nope.” He leans against the nearest wall and cuts his unfocused eyes toward Mimi, but can’t see past his vodka-enhanced ego. “Why don’t you go on home now, little boy, and have yourself a cold one?” Jab, jab. “You’re about as strong as weak coffee, Warren.” Sam swings, but misses. “Damn wimp. I bet you squat to pee.”
Warren tires of straying close to the bully’s fist and walks dejectedly out the back door, but not before making an impression on Mimi. Sam follows Warren up the street, baiting him, mocking him, but degrading only himself as Mimi sadly looks on. It makes sense now, she realizes; Sam’s confusing behavior makes sense. ‘You’re working too many hours, Mimi; you’re not working enough, Mimi; you’re ordering the wrong wine, Mimi; you’re spending too much money, Mimi; you’re hiring morons, Mimi; stay out of my way, Mimi.’ She finally gets it loudly, deeply, clearly; Warren breaks the code to the map, replaces Mimi’s broken compass, and helps her find true north, although the path he uncovers is strewn with broken dreams.
The confrontation with Warren leaves Sam bubbly. He’s Master of the Universe, and goes about his business very happily for the rest of the night; he’s so happy, in fact, that he stumble-dances, paying homage to his favorite celebrity drunks Jackie Gleason and Dean Martin. He’s loud and funny in a twisted, obnoxious kind of way - scary funny, which isn’t very funny at all. At home, he lies to Mimi multiple times before the indigo-stained morning gives to a blood red sky. “Alright, you win, dammit,” he finally admits. A resigned but unsettled Sam sighs heavily. “I’m drinking again, but not much, and only for two months. It’s not a big deal,” he says, avoiding Mimi’s set face.
“Is that why you’ve been so rude and disrespectful lately?” Mimi seeks answers, answers that make sense. But she can’t make sense of Sam’s puffed up response – none whatsoever. “No, that’s not why I’m so rude, dammit! I don’t think you do a good job with the staff. They run all over you.” Jab, jab. “That’s not why I’m disrespectful! Respect is earned, Mimi. You just piss me off!” Sam turns his head from the window’s fitful light, closes his eyes, and within seconds, his thunderous snoring conjures heavy rain; Sam’s fury shatters the sky and sends the sun on a two-day vacation.
Sam reluctantly agrees that counseling is imperative if the marriage is to be salvaged. Mimi pleads her way into a Sunday afternoon emergency session, and as if taking a cue from the unrelenting downpour, Sam releases the floodgate. Under the watchful gaze of grandmotherly Donese Bradford, MA LPC LMFT, a regular customer and long-time fan of Sam’s unique recipe for shrimp and grits, Sam admits he’s been drinking again for two years. Mimi’s reaction is strangely calm for someone seeking shelter in the middle of a maelstrom. Donese directs her attention to Mimi. “You must be shell-shocked about now. What are you thinking?” Mimi looks from Sam to Donese and pauses. “I feel a strange kind of relief, lighter somehow, like I could blow away, but solid at the same time; maybe this is how it feels to drown.”
“Remember, Mimi, this is Sam’s problem, not yours.” Mimi takes a deep breath and looks gratefully at Donese before continuing. “For two years I’ve been trying to please Sam and couldn’t do it. It’s been confusing; no, awful, really.” She hesitates. “But, tell me, how could I not realize he’s been drinking for two years? I feel so naïve and ignorant.” Mimi looks intently at Sam. “Am I the only idiot? Does everybody else know, Sam?” Sam’s smug answer tips her tenuous balance. “Well, probably not everybody, but Jesse brings me vodka shots when I ask her to.”
“Oh, great. Now I have a cocktail waitress who helps my husband get drunk. What a gift! Is that why we gave her a raise last year?” Sam’s sarcasm is contagious; Mimi feels a rise in temperature until Donese quickly cuts the thermostat on her anger. “What’s Jesse supposed to do, Mimi, ask you first? Get fired because she’s enabling one boss and the other boss finds out? Get in the middle of your crisis?” Donese glances at Sam and continues. “Mimi, Sam’s good at drinking. He knows all the secrets, isn’t that right, Sam?”
Sam grins and leans back in his chair. “I have more tricks up my sleeve than a Las Vegas pimp has hookers.”
“That’s really nothing to be proud of.” Donese stares at Sam until his face turns red, and when he drops his eyes, she makes her call. “I don’t think rehab is the place for you. My suggestion is for you to immerse yourself in AA, Sam. Go to ninety meetings in ninety days. You make a three-month contract with sobriety. That’s where you start, and you start today. Can you do this?” Sam tearfully consents to what sounds like a sentence of hard labor, but with the possibility of parole for good behavior.
“Now, Mimi,” states Donese, “your job is to open your heart and stand upon the rock of your original attraction to Sam. Keep the faith. If that requires you to fake it until it feels right again, then you do just that.” Donese pauses, and softens toward the hangdog couple. “It appears to me you have way too much to lose by giving up now. Can you two stick together on this?”
Mimi silently implores Sam to speak first. “I can, Donese, if Mimi can,” he finally says after two minutes of tension-filled silence. He turns to Mimi and takes her hand in his. ”What do you think, wife? Can you do it?” Mimi puts on her rose-colored glasses. “I can, and I will, Sam.” Donese smiles at their vulnerability, and pulls out her appointment book. “Okay, then. I want to see you both back here next Monday, and every Monday for the next three months. If there are emergencies, call me. It doesn’t matter what time it is, I’ll see you right away. Deal?”
“Deal!” says Sam as he moves confidently toward his goal; however, on the twelfth Monday, on day eighty-four to be exact, a herd of turtles speeds toward the finish line, obliterating the competition. Marginally relieved by a second place finish, Sam pardons himself with an early parole.
Sam tries outpatient treatment. “I’m too good for those losers, not nearly as sick as they are.” So he quits. Donese suggests another twenty-eight day gig at The Farm. Sam says no. Group therapy, no; meetings, no. Bottle, yes. Niiiice fish, purty fish, lots of silver. Sam makes his choice, and it’s not Mimi. Better to be alone than in bad company, Mimi thinks. She moves into Warren’s old bedroom and lives like a stranger in their house until she finds a safe haven in the country, a lovely cottage with a big front porch, with a modern kitchen and heart pine floors.
Diving from high places into a tightly-woven safety net is better than diving into a net with holes, but a freefall is in an altogether separate category. Mimi knows the difference firsthand, thanks to Sam. She describes her depression as if it’s another person; Mimi knows depression, gives her depression a name and a personality. Enter Fatty Patty. Fatty Patty wears muumuus and lives in a dirty house trailer and reclines in a stained, worn out brown corduroy Lazy Boy recliner with rusty, squeaky hinges that groan under her weight. A scurfy little mutt sits on her fat lap and scratches its infected ears, chews its flea-ridden, rodent-like body constantly. Fatty Patty eats bonbons between each cigarette – forty-seven butts form a teepee in the overflowing ashtray and it’s not even bedtime. Fatty Patty’s long, stringy hair is greasy because she hasn’t taken a shower in three days. She watches game shows in the morning and soap operas in the afternoon, and after that, she watches Court TV. Fatty Patty takes a nap during the local news, awakens and slides a TV dinner in the microwave for a quick appetizer, then drives her old low-riding Buick Electra to McDonald’s - the drive-thru, of course - for two double cheeseburgers, large fry, and a jumbo diet coke. The TV tray beside the Lazy Boy is littered with used tissues and National Enquirer magazines.
Mimi allows Fatty Patty VIP entrance into her psyche for three days before she kicks her out; seventy-two solid, miserable hours of abjection are about all Mimi can stand. Then, Mimi stands alone in the dark, fully engaged with the poverty of her spirit; she embraces the darkness until she sees a shadow of light, until she hears music in her head again. Sam? Sam’s not depressed. Depression is for babies, Sam says. He’ll never admit he’s human that way.
Depression is not a solitary sport, but it's not necessarily a team sport, either. Julie Reston, depressed? Hell, no. She doesn’t have time for depression. Put a little lipstick on and forget about it, that’s Julie’s answer when dark thoughts sneak in. She dispels depressive thoughts with an internal vacuum cleaner, sucks those unwelcome mind mites away one, two, three at a time. Jake describes his depression as a nebulous blob.
Jake recognizes a kindred spirit in Mimi. He watches her closely when he’s at the club, spies as she runs through her paces like a professional; she’s unaware of his covert operation, so Jake sees the real thing. He sees Mimi’s mask crack when she thinks nobody’s looking. He feels the sadness in her eyes from the stage, sees it in her usual late night solitary dance after the club closes. Mimi smokes more and smiles less, but is engaging and kind to the musicians, to her staff. There’s a distinct difference in this woman and Jake knows something has changed, but what? What is it, he wonders? He observes Mimi for weeks, exchanging pleasantries and late night stories and basic weather facts and political opinions and they know each other, but they don’t.
Jake gratefully accepts the beer Dee hands him after the night’s gig ends. He takes a big pull and pats the bottle. “Thanks pal,” he says to Dee, grinning. “My throat was beginning to feel like scarecrow guts.”
“Great gig tonight,” Dee responds. “The crowd went crazy over that new blues tune you guys did; I’ve never heard it before. What’s it called?”
“We debuted two new ones tonight, which one?”
“The one you funked out at the end, with the line ‘sit, beg, and behave.'”
“That one’s called Cornbread, and Tommy wrote it. Fine, isn’t it?”
“You have to play it every gig from now on. Did you hear the call and response from the crowd? They were barking like dogs.”
Jake laughs. “You’ll hear it so much you’ll get tired of it, I promise. Give it three weeks and you’ll be begging for a reprieve.” Jake motions Dee closer and lowers his voice. “Hey Dee, I have a question. Tell me if it’s none of my business.” He stops and looks around, making sure they’re alone before venturing into personal territory. “Is Mimi okay? Something’s going down with her, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
Dee shakes her head and looks at Jake. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“Well, don’t then. It’s none of my business.” Jake takes another long pull of his beer and looks around the bar again; Dee does the same, and determining their conversation is private, moves in closer to Jake. “Did you know she and Sam split?”
“No, hadn’t heard that, when?”
“Last month.” Dee’s eyes swing around the bar once more. Mo’s entertaining the rest of the band at the far end, so she continues. “Okay, Jake, I’m gonna tell you some things that could get me fired. You promise to keep this between us?”
“Dee, stop. You’ve said enough.”
“No, listen. Somebody around here needs to know. She won’t talk to the staff. We’ve tried, but she shuts us down.”
“I get that,” Jake says, “you’re too close; but I bet she talks to her friends.”
Dee shakes her head. “I doubt it. She’s in flames. I’ve watched her shake like a leaf for no apparent reason and have to grab a chair to keep from falling down. You’re a doctor, Jake. Maybe she needs medication. I think she’s having a nervous breakdown.”
Jake ponders before answering. “She’s losing weight, that’s for sure. And smoking like a burnt piece of toast.”
“Sam’s drinking again, Jake, and not just a little bit.”
Jake looks surprised. “I didn’t know he ever stopped.”
“Well, he lied to Mimi about it; she was the last to know. They went through marriage counseling and it didn’t take, but she tried, Jake. And he did, too, for almost three months. Can you imagine how hard it must be for them, working together like this? Sam’s so hateful to her, just awful. It makes me sick. The stress is about to tip her over. I’ve seen her bite the head off more than one customer lately and that’s not like Mimi. At least she doesn’t have to go home to that shit anymore.”
Jake finishes his beer, bids goodnight to a departing Melvin, returns to the conversation and lets Dee in on a little secret of his own. “You know Julie and I split awhile back, for four months, and then made a terrible mistake by reuniting. The honeymoon phase of our reconciliation is long gone. We tried too, Dee. But nothing’s changed except the silence is louder, the distance is wider, and the sheets are colder.” Jake stares at the back wall, thinking about the declaration he’s getting ready to make. “We’re back together, but not for long. Please, Dee, don’t mention this to anyone. Melvin doesn’t even know yet. And although I’m relieved, it pains me like a nagging toothache.” He covers his jawbone and chuckles. “I think Julie’s yanking out my last bit of wisdom.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jake.”
“Don’t be. Julie and I are taking our last dying breath as a couple.” He rubs his face and sighs. “We’re total opposites.”
Dee frowns. “I’ve always heard opposites attract.”
Jake shakes his head. “We’ve disproven that old theory.” He grins at Dee. “A strange notion, isn’t it? I mean, think about it: two negatives make a positive, two positives make a positive, but put a negative and positive together, and they do not bond. Like attracts like – it’s a scientific fact, baby, hard core undisputed truth.”
“Sam and Mimi are opposites, too.”
“Their picture’s in the textbook too, right alongside me and Julie.” Jake and Dee share a hollow laugh; there’s nothing funny about dying relationships. “Where’s she living, do you know?”
“Somewhere out west of town in the country. I haven’t seen it, but she says she’ll invite the staff out soon for lunch. I doubt she will, though; she keeps to herself these days.”
Jake focuses in on Dee. “Do you know the road?”
Dee playfully grabs Jake’s shirt and pulls him close. “You’re not gonna stalk her, are you? I’ll have to kill you if you do.”
“Okay, this is weird, but I’m getting a feeling…” Jake pauses. “No, it can’t be…” He shakes his head as Dee releases her grasp. “I lived in a wonderful house for four months when Julie and I split the first time, a great little pad on Jenkin’s Bottom Road.”
Dee laughs. “No way, Jake. I think Mimi lives on that road. How weird is that?”
“Pretty damned weird,” says Jake. “Nah, couldn’t happen. Too weird.” Dee leaves the bar and heads for the office. “Hang on, I’ll ask her.” Before Jake can protest, Dee is halfway to the office door. “Stay right there. Sam’s gone and Mimi’s closing. It’ll be fine, she’ll dig it. She’s probably ready for a glass of wine anyway.”
Mimi tucks the last of the night’s paperwork in a folder and joins Jake at the bar. Her brow is furrowed, and her eyes are tired, but she smiles anyway; her mind fills with the image of her old boss. Nobody is intimidated now, she thinks. “Dee says we may have a shared experience. I live at the end of Jenkin’s Bottom Road in a lovely little farmhouse with a big front porch. Is that where you lived?”
Jake grins. “Sure did, Mimi. Great sunsets there, very peaceful.” Jake shakes his head. “I used to live in your house, can you believe it? Have you heard the coyotes?”
Mimi’s tired eyes light up. “I thought they were dogs howling at the gates of Hell; woke me from a dead sleep, Jake, what a sound. Now, though, I love them; they echo my soul.” Mimi takes off her sweater, picks up a menu and fans herself. “Dang, it’s hot in here. Dee, do you have a bottle of Atlas Peak Sangiovese or Markham Cab open?” Dee holds up the Atlas Peak. “Great, will you please pour me a glass with water back? And I’d like to buy this man a beer, Beck’s I think.”
“Yes, ma’m,” Dee says, turning around before Mimi sees her wide grin. Dee pours a good ten ounces into a sparkling glass and places it on the bar. “Why, thank you Dee! Being an owner certainly has its privileges, now, doesn’t it?” Mimi laughs as she walks toward the door. Jake picks up her water and his beer, and follows her. “We’ll be right outside if you need anything, Dee.”
“I’m fine,” Dee says. “It’s gonna be at least forty-five minutes before I’m ready to roll.” Her boss is visibly relaxed for the first time in weeks, and Dee isn’t in the mood to rush. Jake doesn’t mention Sam, and Mimi doesn’t mention Julie. They don’t talk much at all, but sit quietly under the stars and listen to the thirty-two calls of a mockingbird with the blues; they count his songs and hoot when he mimics the first five notes of Blues, Greens and Beans. Gino the mockingbird becomes a regular at The Phoenix, visits late at night when only songbirds with the blues are awake, and is most prolific when entertaining an audience of two.
Sam and Mimi share a fleeting moment of truth when Warren, gainfully employed by Sam’s old partners at Steeles, stops by The Firefly at the end of service to say hello. But Warren's visit is more than social; his mission is to check up on Sam, to find out why Sam hasn’t been to an AA meeting in over a month. Warren is direct in his questioning. He hasn’t learned the fine art of diplomacy, but bravely takes the offensive against Sam’s battering, cynical tongue. Mimi is an innocent bystander who stands in the shadows watching as two trains collide; much as she’d like to, she can’t avert her eyes from the wreckage. “Sam, you’re drinking again,” Warren states. “Why don’t you admit it, and let me help you get back on track?”
“Nooooo, I don’t drink, not Sam I Am,” Sam sings in a scathing Dr. Suessical impression, cracking himself up as a breathless Mimi freezes. “Why are you laughing, Sam?” Warren asks. “Do you think this is funny? What’s so funny about lying to your wife, or to me? Or, more importantly, to yourself?” Warren is painfully sincere, and so very, very ineffective. Sam jabs Warren as an aggressive child might poke a vulnerable kitten with a stick. “Why, I’m laughing at you, boy! Look at you standing there judging me, all rosy and sober and self-righteous. When’s the last time you had a drink, yesterday?”
Warren is stirred, but not shaken. “Sam, you’re drunk right now, aren’t you? Bet you don’t know Mimi’s listening. She’s over there, watching you act like an ass. Now would a good time to tell her the truth.” Warren points at Mimi’s stricken face. “Doesn’t she deserve the truth?”
Sam laughs maniacally, and stumbles. “No siree, buddy, I am not drunk. Nope.” He leans against the nearest wall and cuts his unfocused eyes toward Mimi, but can’t see past his vodka-enhanced ego. “Why don’t you go on home now, little boy, and have yourself a cold one?” Jab, jab. “You’re about as strong as weak coffee, Warren.” Sam swings, but misses. “Damn wimp. I bet you squat to pee.”
Warren tires of straying close to the bully’s fist and walks dejectedly out the back door, but not before making an impression on Mimi. Sam follows Warren up the street, baiting him, mocking him, but degrading only himself as Mimi sadly looks on. It makes sense now, she realizes; Sam’s confusing behavior makes sense. ‘You’re working too many hours, Mimi; you’re not working enough, Mimi; you’re ordering the wrong wine, Mimi; you’re spending too much money, Mimi; you’re hiring morons, Mimi; stay out of my way, Mimi.’ She finally gets it loudly, deeply, clearly; Warren breaks the code to the map, replaces Mimi’s broken compass, and helps her find true north, although the path he uncovers is strewn with broken dreams.
The confrontation with Warren leaves Sam bubbly. He’s Master of the Universe, and goes about his business very happily for the rest of the night; he’s so happy, in fact, that he stumble-dances, paying homage to his favorite celebrity drunks Jackie Gleason and Dean Martin. He’s loud and funny in a twisted, obnoxious kind of way - scary funny, which isn’t very funny at all. At home, he lies to Mimi multiple times before the indigo-stained morning gives to a blood red sky. “Alright, you win, dammit,” he finally admits. A resigned but unsettled Sam sighs heavily. “I’m drinking again, but not much, and only for two months. It’s not a big deal,” he says, avoiding Mimi’s set face.
“Is that why you’ve been so rude and disrespectful lately?” Mimi seeks answers, answers that make sense. But she can’t make sense of Sam’s puffed up response – none whatsoever. “No, that’s not why I’m so rude, dammit! I don’t think you do a good job with the staff. They run all over you.” Jab, jab. “That’s not why I’m disrespectful! Respect is earned, Mimi. You just piss me off!” Sam turns his head from the window’s fitful light, closes his eyes, and within seconds, his thunderous snoring conjures heavy rain; Sam’s fury shatters the sky and sends the sun on a two-day vacation.
Sam reluctantly agrees that counseling is imperative if the marriage is to be salvaged. Mimi pleads her way into a Sunday afternoon emergency session, and as if taking a cue from the unrelenting downpour, Sam releases the floodgate. Under the watchful gaze of grandmotherly Donese Bradford, MA LPC LMFT, a regular customer and long-time fan of Sam’s unique recipe for shrimp and grits, Sam admits he’s been drinking again for two years. Mimi’s reaction is strangely calm for someone seeking shelter in the middle of a maelstrom. Donese directs her attention to Mimi. “You must be shell-shocked about now. What are you thinking?” Mimi looks from Sam to Donese and pauses. “I feel a strange kind of relief, lighter somehow, like I could blow away, but solid at the same time; maybe this is how it feels to drown.”
“Remember, Mimi, this is Sam’s problem, not yours.” Mimi takes a deep breath and looks gratefully at Donese before continuing. “For two years I’ve been trying to please Sam and couldn’t do it. It’s been confusing; no, awful, really.” She hesitates. “But, tell me, how could I not realize he’s been drinking for two years? I feel so naïve and ignorant.” Mimi looks intently at Sam. “Am I the only idiot? Does everybody else know, Sam?” Sam’s smug answer tips her tenuous balance. “Well, probably not everybody, but Jesse brings me vodka shots when I ask her to.”
“Oh, great. Now I have a cocktail waitress who helps my husband get drunk. What a gift! Is that why we gave her a raise last year?” Sam’s sarcasm is contagious; Mimi feels a rise in temperature until Donese quickly cuts the thermostat on her anger. “What’s Jesse supposed to do, Mimi, ask you first? Get fired because she’s enabling one boss and the other boss finds out? Get in the middle of your crisis?” Donese glances at Sam and continues. “Mimi, Sam’s good at drinking. He knows all the secrets, isn’t that right, Sam?”
Sam grins and leans back in his chair. “I have more tricks up my sleeve than a Las Vegas pimp has hookers.”
“That’s really nothing to be proud of.” Donese stares at Sam until his face turns red, and when he drops his eyes, she makes her call. “I don’t think rehab is the place for you. My suggestion is for you to immerse yourself in AA, Sam. Go to ninety meetings in ninety days. You make a three-month contract with sobriety. That’s where you start, and you start today. Can you do this?” Sam tearfully consents to what sounds like a sentence of hard labor, but with the possibility of parole for good behavior.
“Now, Mimi,” states Donese, “your job is to open your heart and stand upon the rock of your original attraction to Sam. Keep the faith. If that requires you to fake it until it feels right again, then you do just that.” Donese pauses, and softens toward the hangdog couple. “It appears to me you have way too much to lose by giving up now. Can you two stick together on this?”
Mimi silently implores Sam to speak first. “I can, Donese, if Mimi can,” he finally says after two minutes of tension-filled silence. He turns to Mimi and takes her hand in his. ”What do you think, wife? Can you do it?” Mimi puts on her rose-colored glasses. “I can, and I will, Sam.” Donese smiles at their vulnerability, and pulls out her appointment book. “Okay, then. I want to see you both back here next Monday, and every Monday for the next three months. If there are emergencies, call me. It doesn’t matter what time it is, I’ll see you right away. Deal?”
“Deal!” says Sam as he moves confidently toward his goal; however, on the twelfth Monday, on day eighty-four to be exact, a herd of turtles speeds toward the finish line, obliterating the competition. Marginally relieved by a second place finish, Sam pardons himself with an early parole.
Sam tries outpatient treatment. “I’m too good for those losers, not nearly as sick as they are.” So he quits. Donese suggests another twenty-eight day gig at The Farm. Sam says no. Group therapy, no; meetings, no. Bottle, yes. Niiiice fish, purty fish, lots of silver. Sam makes his choice, and it’s not Mimi. Better to be alone than in bad company, Mimi thinks. She moves into Warren’s old bedroom and lives like a stranger in their house until she finds a safe haven in the country, a lovely cottage with a big front porch, with a modern kitchen and heart pine floors.
Diving from high places into a tightly-woven safety net is better than diving into a net with holes, but a freefall is in an altogether separate category. Mimi knows the difference firsthand, thanks to Sam. She describes her depression as if it’s another person; Mimi knows depression, gives her depression a name and a personality. Enter Fatty Patty. Fatty Patty wears muumuus and lives in a dirty house trailer and reclines in a stained, worn out brown corduroy Lazy Boy recliner with rusty, squeaky hinges that groan under her weight. A scurfy little mutt sits on her fat lap and scratches its infected ears, chews its flea-ridden, rodent-like body constantly. Fatty Patty eats bonbons between each cigarette – forty-seven butts form a teepee in the overflowing ashtray and it’s not even bedtime. Fatty Patty’s long, stringy hair is greasy because she hasn’t taken a shower in three days. She watches game shows in the morning and soap operas in the afternoon, and after that, she watches Court TV. Fatty Patty takes a nap during the local news, awakens and slides a TV dinner in the microwave for a quick appetizer, then drives her old low-riding Buick Electra to McDonald’s - the drive-thru, of course - for two double cheeseburgers, large fry, and a jumbo diet coke. The TV tray beside the Lazy Boy is littered with used tissues and National Enquirer magazines.
Mimi allows Fatty Patty VIP entrance into her psyche for three days before she kicks her out; seventy-two solid, miserable hours of abjection are about all Mimi can stand. Then, Mimi stands alone in the dark, fully engaged with the poverty of her spirit; she embraces the darkness until she sees a shadow of light, until she hears music in her head again. Sam? Sam’s not depressed. Depression is for babies, Sam says. He’ll never admit he’s human that way.
Depression is not a solitary sport, but it's not necessarily a team sport, either. Julie Reston, depressed? Hell, no. She doesn’t have time for depression. Put a little lipstick on and forget about it, that’s Julie’s answer when dark thoughts sneak in. She dispels depressive thoughts with an internal vacuum cleaner, sucks those unwelcome mind mites away one, two, three at a time. Jake describes his depression as a nebulous blob.
Jake recognizes a kindred spirit in Mimi. He watches her closely when he’s at the club, spies as she runs through her paces like a professional; she’s unaware of his covert operation, so Jake sees the real thing. He sees Mimi’s mask crack when she thinks nobody’s looking. He feels the sadness in her eyes from the stage, sees it in her usual late night solitary dance after the club closes. Mimi smokes more and smiles less, but is engaging and kind to the musicians, to her staff. There’s a distinct difference in this woman and Jake knows something has changed, but what? What is it, he wonders? He observes Mimi for weeks, exchanging pleasantries and late night stories and basic weather facts and political opinions and they know each other, but they don’t.
Jake gratefully accepts the beer Dee hands him after the night’s gig ends. He takes a big pull and pats the bottle. “Thanks pal,” he says to Dee, grinning. “My throat was beginning to feel like scarecrow guts.”
“Great gig tonight,” Dee responds. “The crowd went crazy over that new blues tune you guys did; I’ve never heard it before. What’s it called?”
“We debuted two new ones tonight, which one?”
“The one you funked out at the end, with the line ‘sit, beg, and behave.'”
“That one’s called Cornbread, and Tommy wrote it. Fine, isn’t it?”
“You have to play it every gig from now on. Did you hear the call and response from the crowd? They were barking like dogs.”
Jake laughs. “You’ll hear it so much you’ll get tired of it, I promise. Give it three weeks and you’ll be begging for a reprieve.” Jake motions Dee closer and lowers his voice. “Hey Dee, I have a question. Tell me if it’s none of my business.” He stops and looks around, making sure they’re alone before venturing into personal territory. “Is Mimi okay? Something’s going down with her, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
Dee shakes her head and looks at Jake. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“Well, don’t then. It’s none of my business.” Jake takes another long pull of his beer and looks around the bar again; Dee does the same, and determining their conversation is private, moves in closer to Jake. “Did you know she and Sam split?”
“No, hadn’t heard that, when?”
“Last month.” Dee’s eyes swing around the bar once more. Mo’s entertaining the rest of the band at the far end, so she continues. “Okay, Jake, I’m gonna tell you some things that could get me fired. You promise to keep this between us?”
“Dee, stop. You’ve said enough.”
“No, listen. Somebody around here needs to know. She won’t talk to the staff. We’ve tried, but she shuts us down.”
“I get that,” Jake says, “you’re too close; but I bet she talks to her friends.”
Dee shakes her head. “I doubt it. She’s in flames. I’ve watched her shake like a leaf for no apparent reason and have to grab a chair to keep from falling down. You’re a doctor, Jake. Maybe she needs medication. I think she’s having a nervous breakdown.”
Jake ponders before answering. “She’s losing weight, that’s for sure. And smoking like a burnt piece of toast.”
“Sam’s drinking again, Jake, and not just a little bit.”
Jake looks surprised. “I didn’t know he ever stopped.”
“Well, he lied to Mimi about it; she was the last to know. They went through marriage counseling and it didn’t take, but she tried, Jake. And he did, too, for almost three months. Can you imagine how hard it must be for them, working together like this? Sam’s so hateful to her, just awful. It makes me sick. The stress is about to tip her over. I’ve seen her bite the head off more than one customer lately and that’s not like Mimi. At least she doesn’t have to go home to that shit anymore.”
Jake finishes his beer, bids goodnight to a departing Melvin, returns to the conversation and lets Dee in on a little secret of his own. “You know Julie and I split awhile back, for four months, and then made a terrible mistake by reuniting. The honeymoon phase of our reconciliation is long gone. We tried too, Dee. But nothing’s changed except the silence is louder, the distance is wider, and the sheets are colder.” Jake stares at the back wall, thinking about the declaration he’s getting ready to make. “We’re back together, but not for long. Please, Dee, don’t mention this to anyone. Melvin doesn’t even know yet. And although I’m relieved, it pains me like a nagging toothache.” He covers his jawbone and chuckles. “I think Julie’s yanking out my last bit of wisdom.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jake.”
“Don’t be. Julie and I are taking our last dying breath as a couple.” He rubs his face and sighs. “We’re total opposites.”
Dee frowns. “I’ve always heard opposites attract.”
Jake shakes his head. “We’ve disproven that old theory.” He grins at Dee. “A strange notion, isn’t it? I mean, think about it: two negatives make a positive, two positives make a positive, but put a negative and positive together, and they do not bond. Like attracts like – it’s a scientific fact, baby, hard core undisputed truth.”
“Sam and Mimi are opposites, too.”
“Their picture’s in the textbook too, right alongside me and Julie.” Jake and Dee share a hollow laugh; there’s nothing funny about dying relationships. “Where’s she living, do you know?”
“Somewhere out west of town in the country. I haven’t seen it, but she says she’ll invite the staff out soon for lunch. I doubt she will, though; she keeps to herself these days.”
Jake focuses in on Dee. “Do you know the road?”
Dee playfully grabs Jake’s shirt and pulls him close. “You’re not gonna stalk her, are you? I’ll have to kill you if you do.”
“Okay, this is weird, but I’m getting a feeling…” Jake pauses. “No, it can’t be…” He shakes his head as Dee releases her grasp. “I lived in a wonderful house for four months when Julie and I split the first time, a great little pad on Jenkin’s Bottom Road.”
Dee laughs. “No way, Jake. I think Mimi lives on that road. How weird is that?”
“Pretty damned weird,” says Jake. “Nah, couldn’t happen. Too weird.” Dee leaves the bar and heads for the office. “Hang on, I’ll ask her.” Before Jake can protest, Dee is halfway to the office door. “Stay right there. Sam’s gone and Mimi’s closing. It’ll be fine, she’ll dig it. She’s probably ready for a glass of wine anyway.”
Mimi tucks the last of the night’s paperwork in a folder and joins Jake at the bar. Her brow is furrowed, and her eyes are tired, but she smiles anyway; her mind fills with the image of her old boss. Nobody is intimidated now, she thinks. “Dee says we may have a shared experience. I live at the end of Jenkin’s Bottom Road in a lovely little farmhouse with a big front porch. Is that where you lived?”
Jake grins. “Sure did, Mimi. Great sunsets there, very peaceful.” Jake shakes his head. “I used to live in your house, can you believe it? Have you heard the coyotes?”
Mimi’s tired eyes light up. “I thought they were dogs howling at the gates of Hell; woke me from a dead sleep, Jake, what a sound. Now, though, I love them; they echo my soul.” Mimi takes off her sweater, picks up a menu and fans herself. “Dang, it’s hot in here. Dee, do you have a bottle of Atlas Peak Sangiovese or Markham Cab open?” Dee holds up the Atlas Peak. “Great, will you please pour me a glass with water back? And I’d like to buy this man a beer, Beck’s I think.”
“Yes, ma’m,” Dee says, turning around before Mimi sees her wide grin. Dee pours a good ten ounces into a sparkling glass and places it on the bar. “Why, thank you Dee! Being an owner certainly has its privileges, now, doesn’t it?” Mimi laughs as she walks toward the door. Jake picks up her water and his beer, and follows her. “We’ll be right outside if you need anything, Dee.”
“I’m fine,” Dee says. “It’s gonna be at least forty-five minutes before I’m ready to roll.” Her boss is visibly relaxed for the first time in weeks, and Dee isn’t in the mood to rush. Jake doesn’t mention Sam, and Mimi doesn’t mention Julie. They don’t talk much at all, but sit quietly under the stars and listen to the thirty-two calls of a mockingbird with the blues; they count his songs and hoot when he mimics the first five notes of Blues, Greens and Beans. Gino the mockingbird becomes a regular at The Phoenix, visits late at night when only songbirds with the blues are awake, and is most prolific when entertaining an audience of two.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Chapter Eleven: Grace
Grace: we may request it, we may seek it, we may beg for it – but we have no right to demand it…being granted grace is strictly a karmic thing.
Lifestyle of the Rich, but Not Necessarily Famous, and Truly Blessed: You wake up on the sunny side after a solid night’s sleep in your well-appointed Italian villa, practice yoga for one graceful hour, dance wildly for twenty minutes, then steam your pores in a native marble shower. Your live-in housekeeper delivers fresh squeezed orange juice, two perfectly poached eggs, just-plucked asparagus from the garden, a triple decaf skinny latte, homemade hazelnut biscotti and today’s schedule of events to your desk by the window overlooking your perennial garden. You dress in your favorite riding breeches, the ones with a hole in the knee (you can’t part with them because they fit so well) and walk briskly through the arched breezeway to the connecting ancient stone and wood barn. Songbird, your happily retired, totally sound, dark bay Grand Prix dressage schoolmaster is perfectly groomed and tacked in only a bareback pad and halter. He accepts your offering of carrots and nuzzles your hair in appreciation. You ride for thirty minutes, hitting all the letters in perfect balance and harmony. You hug him as you swing from his tall back and hand him to your trusty working student, then hop on retired three-day-eventer Pal, your happy, totally sound, mahogany bay Thoroughbred and enjoy a cross-country gallop with flight over short log fences. You walk Pal back through the vineyards, fingers lightly on the buckle. Il Cordellino, the European Goldfinch, flies by your shoulder as your incredibly smart and loyal mountain dog Benito keeps pace. Upon returning to the barn, you groom Pal to a shine and turn him out to play with Songbird in the lush pasture by the lake. You head to the gazebo and eat a light lunch of homemade foccacia, olive oil, fresh herbs, and garden tomatoes with your wonderfully attentive and delightful multi-racial, multi-cultural staff. You hit the hammock with journal in hand, write a haiku worthy of Clark Strand’s appreciation, and take a catnap with Ciao-Ciao, your favorite cat, curled by your head. You awaken to the news that your latest Super Tuscan release has received ninety-five points from Robert Parker and the calls, oh - the calls roll in. You put on a pair of well-worn leather gloves, hit the vineyards, and work alongside Italian wine master Angelo Gaja, who imbues you with his bounteous knowledge. At dusk, you hit your office after taking off your boots and return calls to Wine Spectator – the time difference, you know. You take a long, hot shower, dress in cool silk, and entertain one hundred of your best and truest friends and business associates with a five-course dinner and live music by the lake where soft candles float on lily pads. At midnight, you retire to your inner sanctum with your significant other, the love of your life, send up sincere prayers of gratitude to God Goddess Mother Father Divine Spirit, close your eyes and soul travel for seven straight hours. You wake up, reach for your lover, make sleepy but passionate love and start a brand new day.
Lifestyle of the Struggling, but Truly Blessed, Independent Restaurateur: You wake up at nine a.m. wondering why the hell you didn’t get up earlier, then remember you went to bed at three a.m. You jump out of bed with a nervous heartbeat, grab a quick shower and curse because the drain’s still clogged and you forgot for the tenth day in a row to bring home the mercuric acid from the restaurant. You slam some weird-tasting green powder in the blender, reach for the juice, and it’s not there, so you mix it with water instead and chug it for much-needed energy. You dress in whatever doesn’t smell like bar funk, go to work, make a pot of coffee and let the answering machine catch the calls for thirty minutes until you can speak without croaking like a bullfrog with grasshopper legs stuck sideways in its throat. You accept wine shipments, beer shipments, fish shipments, linen shipments, cold-calling salesmen and solicitors. Then, you go to the bathroom. You prep, check and recheck the reservation book, post the endless stream of necessary paperwork, pay bills, and freak out because the health department just showed up and the bar is trashed. You look at the clock: 4:52p.m! You yell a threat to your staff and rush out, praying the road rage patrol is in another neighborhood. You hit the bank at 4:59p.m. for change, take the shortcut home, drive fifteen miles over the posted speed limit, quickly pull clothes from the dryer, check for wrinkles (everything’s wrinkled), change into the least wrinkled, feed the critters, clean chipmunk guts off the living room floor, call the restaurant for any last-minute dire strait needs and head back to work. You pray out loud that the wait staff has completed their set-up and managed to avoid confrontation with the kitchen staff; you get in your car, notice the reserve tank light is on, pray for fumes, coast into the parking lot as the first customer is entering the front door, breathe deeply to expel all negative vibes and plaster a smile on your torqued-out face. You work your ass off upstairs in the dining room until 10:30 p.m., then you head downstairs to bar-back. At 12:45a.m., your bartenders shout Last Call! You play the theme from Rawhide four times before the drunks stop line-dancing and fucking get the hint. You pray the toilets aren’t stopped up with vomit, and do your level best to help clean up the biggest part of the evening’s gooey mess. You say goodnight to all the musicians after a short recap of the day’s events and everyone heads home at two a.m. You haven’t eaten a hot meal since last Tuesday and scrambled eggs sound really good but you opt for cold two-day old pizza instead because there’s nothing much to clean up. You watch BET comedy on the tube until the sandman cometh. You sidestep little gutless furry presents and congratulate the talking cats on their prowess while walking the littered path from the den through the hall to the bedroom. You thank God Goddess Mother Father Divine Spirit for your many blessings, do wine inventory in your sleep, and wake up and do it again!
It’s three o’clock p.m. and The Firefly is in shambles from the front door to the wait station, from dry storage to the back bar; every foot is littered with produce boxes, dirty coffee cups and piles of paperwork – perfect time for a visit from the Health Department. “Oh my God! It’s the Health Department!” Mimi runs upstairs yelling. “It’s the Health Department, clean something!” She runs to the wait station. “It’s the Health Department! Throw out the Chinese takeout in the wine cooler!” Breathe, Mimi, breathe, that’s it, suck in air, blow hard, inhale, exhale, ohmmm. “Fuck!” Gotta buy the staff time to find the ice scoop and replace the empty hand soap container and empty the nasty gray mop water and change the burnt out light on the line and chill out, Mimi, she thinks. Brushing her hair from her forehead, she calmly walks back downstairs. With a look of surprise that fools nobody, she extends her hand. “Hi, Conrad! How are you? How’s your son? Been to the beach lately? Didn’t you tell me you were going to the beach?”
Conrad smiles, and looks up. “Did you know your ceiling is leaking right over the bar there?”
“No, Conrad. Thanks for pointing that out.” Mimi walks to the stairs and yells, “GUYS, WE HAVE A LEAK IN THE BAR!” She closes her eyes, and turns to Conrad with a contrite look. “I have to explain this mess, Conrad. See, we’re not open down here on Tuesday nights. The bar doubles as our office until tomorrow and we also accept shipments down here and Mo’s coming to clean in about an hour.”
Conrad keeps on smiling. “It’s okay, Mimi. You told me all that last time. Don’t worry about it. Is Sam upstairs?”
“I think so, but let me check. I’ll be right back.” Mimi grabs six dirty mugs by the handles and slowly walks up the stairs, Conrad right behind her. “Sam! Did you hear me yell about the leak?”
“Yes I did, Mimi, and so did the patrons at the art gallery across the street. Hi, Conrad, good to see you.” Sam had the foresight to change aprons, and is almost clean.
“Sam, how you doing?”
“Fine, Conrad. Just busy as usual. How was your beach trip? Didn’t you say you were going to the Banks? I used to fish down there some when I was a kid. Do you fish? I bet the water is still cold. How’s the undertow this time of year?”
Conrad is a true gentleman caller. He knows the ruse, gets the same shuck and jive from owners at every restaurant in town. And he knows as well as they do that a good stall tactic can’t buy enough time to replace those worn-out refrigerator gaskets or clean that nasty grease trap or empty the ice cooler or rearrange dry storage on the fly. But, he plays the game so well. Too late, Mimi thinks. Take the hit, pray for a 90.5 rating – still an A – and hope your patrons look at the letter and not the number.
Mimi is no longer Alpha-dominant bitch of her domain. If she dies today, her epitaph will read She Willingly Kissed the Health Department’s Ass. If Sam dies today, his epitaph will read Do Not Offer Them Money, You Fool! And at the wake there will be a lovely photo collage of Sam and Mimi in the chew, lick, tuck, drop, roll, and bend over positions displayed next to a signed copy of their latest health rating, a solid ninety four points – excellent considering the age of their charming, but rickety building. Sam and Mimi breathe a sigh of relief, and smile. They know it’s a good day to die.
Unfortunately, several people at Eastern General Hospital feel the same way. Jake leaves his latest loss and feels a vibration on his hip. “What the hell is this?” he mutters as he looks at the familiar number. “Julie?”
“Jake. How are you?”
He keeps it short. “Good.”
“I know you’re busy. I’ll cut to the chase. I’d like to see you as soon as possible. We need to talk. Can you come over for dinner tonight?”
“Actually, Julie, I have plans.”
“No problem. I know it’s short notice. How about tomorrow?”
Jake hesitates. “I’m not sure that would be good for me right now.”
Julie pauses before jumping in with a nosy question. “Are you involved with somebody?”
Jake looks at Nan’s purse sitting on his desk. “Not really,” he answers.
“Are you seeing her tonight?” Jake doesn’t respond. Julie thumps away in typical Julie style. “How long have you been seeing her?”
“That’s none of your business, Julie.”
“Are you in love with her?”
“I have to go now, Julie. Bad day.” Jake can’t hang up; he wants to, but Julie’s voice pulls him through the receiver like an electromagnet.
Julie presses. “Look, Jake we really need to talk. Will you call me? I don’t have your home number and I don’t want to call you at work. Just call me tomorrow, will you?”
What the hell? Jake thinks. He pauses, and takes a deep breath. “Why don’t I come by tomorrow night around seven?”
“Great! Will you stay for dinner?”
“Let’s play it by ear, okay?”
“Yep, that’s fine. Bring Molly, too. I miss her.”
Jake’s blood pressure rises; he can feel his heart beat against his ribs. He hasn’t heard from Julie in four months. He rode by the house one night by mistake, took the wrong highway to the wrong home after a troubling day at work, his short term memory taking a vacation less than a week after he moved out, and what did he see? Dr. Tucker Bush’s car parked in the driveway. No official separation papers are signed, but Jake knows the gig is up and anticipates a divorce. He’s settled about it, but wants Julie to make the first move; let Tucker pay the attorney fees, he thinks.
Jake leaves work, drives to the right house, his house, his haven – his. Nan arrives at seven sharp, kisses Jake, loves on Molly, walks in the kitchen – she loves his kitchen – puts a chicken pie in the oven, sets the table, changes Molly’s water bowl, walks to the bathroom, brushes her teeth – she keeps a toothbrush there now, has slept in Jake’s bed three times a week for the last two months – and feels comfortable as she marks her territory. Nan is young and cute and talkative; Jake, whose moods swing like monkeys from banana trees, is charmed, but mostly bored, by Nan’s youth and cuteness and conversation. Jake’s mind is otherwise engaged. Does Julie want to sell the house? Is that it? Is she moving in with Tucker? She needs me to sign papers, I bet that’s it, he thinks. He eats quietly, barely making a dent in his chicken pie.
Nan snaps her fingers from across the table. “Jake, did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, Nan. I’m a little distracted tonight. What did you say?”
“I said let’s take Molly for a walk before the sun goes down.”
Jake shakes his head. “I can’t right now.” He stands up. “Listen, I have some stuff to take care of.”
“Let me help you.” Nan can’t help herself. She’s a service provider on and off the clock. What can I do?”
“Nothing, Nan. I have to get on the phone in a minute and find a bass player for next week’s gig.” Jake stares out the window looking for answers to a multitude of questions – one being, how do I get rid of Nan?
“I’ll clean up,” she says, “then I’ll walk Molly while you make the call. Nan starts to clear the table, but Jake intercepts her. Removing the plates from her hands, he looks at her kindly and says, “Don’t worry about it. Molly’s fine, and I’ll do the dishes later. Sweet of you to offer, though.” His politeness chills Nan; she feels a slight twinge of that old familiar ‘getting kicked to the curb’ feeling. “Well, I was planning on staying over. Is that okay, or do you want me to leave?” The curve of her mouth turns south.
“No. Yeah, yeah. That would be best.” Jake rubs his head and says, “Nan, I’m just low on energy tonight. You’re a baby doll, though. I really appreciate dinner. I’m sorry you came all this way just to turn around and go home, but thank you.” Jake’s ambivalence tips Nan’s confidence in a precarious direction. Her vulnerability is painful for Jake to witness, but he’s not good at dishing out rejection. Nan reaches down to pat Molly, avoiding Jake’s distracted face. “So, can we get together tomorrow instead?”
“Yeah, sure. No, wait, we can’t. Julie called today. I have to sign some papers at the house tomorrow night." Nan picks up the plates again and heads to the sink. Jake doesn’t stop her this time. He kindly lets her process. “What kind of papers?”
“Probably separation papers,” Jake says as he walks to the sink and refills his water glass. Nan is visibly relieved. “So, that’s what’s bothering you. Now I understand.” She wraps her arms around Jake’s waist, pulls back from him, and smiles. “We’re still going to the beach on Friday, right?”
“Right.” Jake doesn’t feel like dampening Nan’s spirits again. He smiles, and hugs her. That’s all Nan needs. She gives Jake a kiss on the cheek, and with a lilt in her step and voice, turns to the door. “Okay, lover, call me later. I’ll come back over if you want me to.” Jake walks her to the porch and takes a deep breath; the evening air is perfumed with the aroma of new mown hay. Reason number twenty why I live here, thinks Jake. “That’s sweet of you, Nan, but let’s just say goodnight. It’s been a long day. Watch for deer in the driveway. See you tomorrow.”
Jake calls Melvin first. Good news: Melvin’s hooked up a bass player. His grandkids are over and their laughter fills the phone; Melvin is merrily distracted, so it’s a short powwow. Jake cleans up the kitchen, then sits down at his keys and plays for an hour, but he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Molly’s damp nose on his leg indicates a need for an outside visit and provides a welcome diversion – good timing because it’s a warm, clear night on the farm and the cattle are lowing. After a turn around the pasture with Molly to clear his head, Jake returns home and turns on the television; he still can’t concentrate. The ringing telephone offers no assistance, as Nan’s number shows up on caller ID. Jake doesn’t answer, but considers his options for a long minute before picking up the phone and calling Julie, who answers on the second ring. “Jake, I’m so glad you called me.”
Jake has no time for small talk. “Do you have papers for me to sign? Is that why you want me to come over?”
“Papers? No… what kind of papers?”
“Separation papers, I guess.” Jake pauses. “Are you thinking of selling the house?” Julie laughs. “Why would I want to do that? No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just – look, I want to talk about some things; some personal things.”
“Talk, then,” Jake says. “I’m right here.”
“No, I want to talk in person, Jake. Do you have company?”
“She left a couple of hours ago.” Julie’s happy to hear that. “Great! Can you come over now?”
“Where’s Tucker?” Jake asks.
“We stopped seeing each other a couple of months ago,” Julie says. “I don’t work for him anymore, either.”
Jake digs. “Did he dump you for a younger model?”
“I guess I deserve that.”
“No, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
“How about it, Jake?” Julie is relentless in her pursuit. “Come on over.”
Jake sighs. “Julie, it’s ten o’clock. I’m tired. I haven’t heard from you in over four months. What’s a few more hours? I said I’d come over tomorrow night.”
Julie pleads. “Come on, Jake, it’s only twelve miles.”
Jake shakes his head and ponders his next thought. He grins. “Will it be worth it?”
“Absolutely, at least I hope so.”
Jake hesitates, but gives in. “Alright, I’m on my way.”
“Bring Molly.”
Julie and Jake talk until two a.m., talk and cry and laugh and hug and kiss – kiss passionately. Julie tells Jake almost everything. Almost. She doesn’t tell him about her trip to St. Petersburg and her visit to Bread and Roses Women’s Clinic, about her roundtrip ticket, about flying with a companion and returning alone. Jake calls the hospital at three a.m. “I’m unavailable until early afternoon,” he says. “Please call for backup.” Julie sleeps naked with her body pressed against Jake’s muscular back, with her arm wrapped around his chest, with her blue-veined hand resting on his steady heart. Julie homes in on her husband.
Jake is happy for the first time in four months, and forgets about Nan – until he sees her crushed face in the hall just outside his office. She spends the better part of the afternoon finding reasons to spy on his door. “Where did you go after I left last night, Jake?”
Jake blankly stares at Nan. “Nowhere.” He’s a proficient liar when he feels he has to be. Nan’s innocent, but not stupid. “Why didn’t you answer the phone, then? I called you four times.”
“Nan, look.” Jake puts his hand on her heart as if protecting it from his next words. “You’re a sweetheart, but I can’t see you anymore.”
Nan is one part anguished child, two parts distraught woman. “Why?” Nan wants an explanation; her sky is falling. “It just doesn’t feel right,” Jake says.
“But, what about our beach trip?”
Jake removes his hand, and waves impatiently to a scurrying, eavesdropping nurse. “I’m sorry about that, too. Look, Nan,” he says softly, “you’re a good girl, and we had fun, but it’s over.”
“What about my stuff at your house? Can I get my stuff?”
“All you have is a toothbrush, Nan.”
Nan’s anguished child throws a temper tantrum, right there in the hall, right there in full view of the nurse’s station. “That’s it? No explanation, just a brush-off? You have a lot of nerve, Jake Reston.”
Jake puts a finger to her lips in a feeble attempt to quiet her. “Shhh, Nan. Shhh.” He quietly says, “Baby girl, you don’t know me.” Nan smacks his hand away. “I think I do, Jake. This is about Julie, isn’t it? That’s where you went last night, isn’t it?” Her voice throws itself against the wall and echoes through the ER, making the patients moan.
“Nan, let it go.”
“Tell me, dammit!” People notice; curious eyebrows rise like cafeteria yeast rolls. Jake, not daring to take her behind closed doors, grabs a rather beefy little arm and steers her down the hall seeking privacy, but this is prime time entertainment of soap operatic proportion, featuring a favorite daytime star. Not even one wanton gaze is diverted. Jake smells popcorn. “I don’t want to see you anymore, Nan. That’s it; now, please, just let it go.”
Nan shrugs Jake’s hand from her arm and plants her feet; the riveted audience emboldens her, and she plays to them, speaking with amplitude and clarity so spying eyes can get their ears full, too. “Well,” she slowly says, “you want to know something, Mr. Hot Pants? This is perfect timing. I was about to fall in love with you. What a mistake that would have been, you big fucking shit! I came so close to turning down a pie job just to stay in this miserable little town because of you.” Nan dramatically hits herself in the head, and says, “What was I thinking? Those nurses over there were right – you have way too much baggage, and you’re really high maintenance. Not my kind of guy at all.” Oooh, girl, now you’ve stepped in it. The nurse’s station is full of bug-eyed women shaking their heads to disavow ownership of the gossip, but who jockey for front row seating. Nan’s summary is less than poetic, but her delivery receives high marks from the gallery of onlookers. “Go to Hell, moron,” she declares with a three-fingered salute. “You’re making a big mistake, and you deserve what comes your way. If Julie knows what’s good for her, she’ll leave your ass hanging out to dry.” Nan takes aim and drives in the last stake. “And by the way, you old fucker, your taste in music sucks.” Chin up, she exits stage left to a short burst of quickly stifled mad applause; the thought of a repeat performance, its effect on the nurses’ critical care patients, and the possibility of an increased work load puts the quietus on.
“Has anybody seen my brain?” Jake asks of no one in particular as he walks past the nurse’s station. Grabbing the bag of popcorn, he removes a scalpel from his breast pocket with his free hand, continues walking down the hall, and, pausing midway to his office door, takes aim; he hits the bulls eye from twenty feet, turns, flashes a luminous grin, and bows to thunderous applause which almost, but not quite, smothers the moans coming from critical care.
A week later, Jake moves back home to Julie, moves from his lovely country cottage with the big front porch, moves forward so fast that back is front and air is earth and fire is ice and time is motion. Beautiful house, beautiful wife.
If you drive to the country when the summer moon is rising and you detour down the right unmarked dirt road, you might see a lonely cottage; but the cottage is not alone, for in surrounding fields, thousands of fireflies blink a signal of love or a signal of duplicity, or sincerity, or mimicry – a signal solely dependent upon the mating behavior of the signalee.
Lifestyle of the Rich, but Not Necessarily Famous, and Truly Blessed: You wake up on the sunny side after a solid night’s sleep in your well-appointed Italian villa, practice yoga for one graceful hour, dance wildly for twenty minutes, then steam your pores in a native marble shower. Your live-in housekeeper delivers fresh squeezed orange juice, two perfectly poached eggs, just-plucked asparagus from the garden, a triple decaf skinny latte, homemade hazelnut biscotti and today’s schedule of events to your desk by the window overlooking your perennial garden. You dress in your favorite riding breeches, the ones with a hole in the knee (you can’t part with them because they fit so well) and walk briskly through the arched breezeway to the connecting ancient stone and wood barn. Songbird, your happily retired, totally sound, dark bay Grand Prix dressage schoolmaster is perfectly groomed and tacked in only a bareback pad and halter. He accepts your offering of carrots and nuzzles your hair in appreciation. You ride for thirty minutes, hitting all the letters in perfect balance and harmony. You hug him as you swing from his tall back and hand him to your trusty working student, then hop on retired three-day-eventer Pal, your happy, totally sound, mahogany bay Thoroughbred and enjoy a cross-country gallop with flight over short log fences. You walk Pal back through the vineyards, fingers lightly on the buckle. Il Cordellino, the European Goldfinch, flies by your shoulder as your incredibly smart and loyal mountain dog Benito keeps pace. Upon returning to the barn, you groom Pal to a shine and turn him out to play with Songbird in the lush pasture by the lake. You head to the gazebo and eat a light lunch of homemade foccacia, olive oil, fresh herbs, and garden tomatoes with your wonderfully attentive and delightful multi-racial, multi-cultural staff. You hit the hammock with journal in hand, write a haiku worthy of Clark Strand’s appreciation, and take a catnap with Ciao-Ciao, your favorite cat, curled by your head. You awaken to the news that your latest Super Tuscan release has received ninety-five points from Robert Parker and the calls, oh - the calls roll in. You put on a pair of well-worn leather gloves, hit the vineyards, and work alongside Italian wine master Angelo Gaja, who imbues you with his bounteous knowledge. At dusk, you hit your office after taking off your boots and return calls to Wine Spectator – the time difference, you know. You take a long, hot shower, dress in cool silk, and entertain one hundred of your best and truest friends and business associates with a five-course dinner and live music by the lake where soft candles float on lily pads. At midnight, you retire to your inner sanctum with your significant other, the love of your life, send up sincere prayers of gratitude to God Goddess Mother Father Divine Spirit, close your eyes and soul travel for seven straight hours. You wake up, reach for your lover, make sleepy but passionate love and start a brand new day.
Lifestyle of the Struggling, but Truly Blessed, Independent Restaurateur: You wake up at nine a.m. wondering why the hell you didn’t get up earlier, then remember you went to bed at three a.m. You jump out of bed with a nervous heartbeat, grab a quick shower and curse because the drain’s still clogged and you forgot for the tenth day in a row to bring home the mercuric acid from the restaurant. You slam some weird-tasting green powder in the blender, reach for the juice, and it’s not there, so you mix it with water instead and chug it for much-needed energy. You dress in whatever doesn’t smell like bar funk, go to work, make a pot of coffee and let the answering machine catch the calls for thirty minutes until you can speak without croaking like a bullfrog with grasshopper legs stuck sideways in its throat. You accept wine shipments, beer shipments, fish shipments, linen shipments, cold-calling salesmen and solicitors. Then, you go to the bathroom. You prep, check and recheck the reservation book, post the endless stream of necessary paperwork, pay bills, and freak out because the health department just showed up and the bar is trashed. You look at the clock: 4:52p.m! You yell a threat to your staff and rush out, praying the road rage patrol is in another neighborhood. You hit the bank at 4:59p.m. for change, take the shortcut home, drive fifteen miles over the posted speed limit, quickly pull clothes from the dryer, check for wrinkles (everything’s wrinkled), change into the least wrinkled, feed the critters, clean chipmunk guts off the living room floor, call the restaurant for any last-minute dire strait needs and head back to work. You pray out loud that the wait staff has completed their set-up and managed to avoid confrontation with the kitchen staff; you get in your car, notice the reserve tank light is on, pray for fumes, coast into the parking lot as the first customer is entering the front door, breathe deeply to expel all negative vibes and plaster a smile on your torqued-out face. You work your ass off upstairs in the dining room until 10:30 p.m., then you head downstairs to bar-back. At 12:45a.m., your bartenders shout Last Call! You play the theme from Rawhide four times before the drunks stop line-dancing and fucking get the hint. You pray the toilets aren’t stopped up with vomit, and do your level best to help clean up the biggest part of the evening’s gooey mess. You say goodnight to all the musicians after a short recap of the day’s events and everyone heads home at two a.m. You haven’t eaten a hot meal since last Tuesday and scrambled eggs sound really good but you opt for cold two-day old pizza instead because there’s nothing much to clean up. You watch BET comedy on the tube until the sandman cometh. You sidestep little gutless furry presents and congratulate the talking cats on their prowess while walking the littered path from the den through the hall to the bedroom. You thank God Goddess Mother Father Divine Spirit for your many blessings, do wine inventory in your sleep, and wake up and do it again!
It’s three o’clock p.m. and The Firefly is in shambles from the front door to the wait station, from dry storage to the back bar; every foot is littered with produce boxes, dirty coffee cups and piles of paperwork – perfect time for a visit from the Health Department. “Oh my God! It’s the Health Department!” Mimi runs upstairs yelling. “It’s the Health Department, clean something!” She runs to the wait station. “It’s the Health Department! Throw out the Chinese takeout in the wine cooler!” Breathe, Mimi, breathe, that’s it, suck in air, blow hard, inhale, exhale, ohmmm. “Fuck!” Gotta buy the staff time to find the ice scoop and replace the empty hand soap container and empty the nasty gray mop water and change the burnt out light on the line and chill out, Mimi, she thinks. Brushing her hair from her forehead, she calmly walks back downstairs. With a look of surprise that fools nobody, she extends her hand. “Hi, Conrad! How are you? How’s your son? Been to the beach lately? Didn’t you tell me you were going to the beach?”
Conrad smiles, and looks up. “Did you know your ceiling is leaking right over the bar there?”
“No, Conrad. Thanks for pointing that out.” Mimi walks to the stairs and yells, “GUYS, WE HAVE A LEAK IN THE BAR!” She closes her eyes, and turns to Conrad with a contrite look. “I have to explain this mess, Conrad. See, we’re not open down here on Tuesday nights. The bar doubles as our office until tomorrow and we also accept shipments down here and Mo’s coming to clean in about an hour.”
Conrad keeps on smiling. “It’s okay, Mimi. You told me all that last time. Don’t worry about it. Is Sam upstairs?”
“I think so, but let me check. I’ll be right back.” Mimi grabs six dirty mugs by the handles and slowly walks up the stairs, Conrad right behind her. “Sam! Did you hear me yell about the leak?”
“Yes I did, Mimi, and so did the patrons at the art gallery across the street. Hi, Conrad, good to see you.” Sam had the foresight to change aprons, and is almost clean.
“Sam, how you doing?”
“Fine, Conrad. Just busy as usual. How was your beach trip? Didn’t you say you were going to the Banks? I used to fish down there some when I was a kid. Do you fish? I bet the water is still cold. How’s the undertow this time of year?”
Conrad is a true gentleman caller. He knows the ruse, gets the same shuck and jive from owners at every restaurant in town. And he knows as well as they do that a good stall tactic can’t buy enough time to replace those worn-out refrigerator gaskets or clean that nasty grease trap or empty the ice cooler or rearrange dry storage on the fly. But, he plays the game so well. Too late, Mimi thinks. Take the hit, pray for a 90.5 rating – still an A – and hope your patrons look at the letter and not the number.
Mimi is no longer Alpha-dominant bitch of her domain. If she dies today, her epitaph will read She Willingly Kissed the Health Department’s Ass. If Sam dies today, his epitaph will read Do Not Offer Them Money, You Fool! And at the wake there will be a lovely photo collage of Sam and Mimi in the chew, lick, tuck, drop, roll, and bend over positions displayed next to a signed copy of their latest health rating, a solid ninety four points – excellent considering the age of their charming, but rickety building. Sam and Mimi breathe a sigh of relief, and smile. They know it’s a good day to die.
Unfortunately, several people at Eastern General Hospital feel the same way. Jake leaves his latest loss and feels a vibration on his hip. “What the hell is this?” he mutters as he looks at the familiar number. “Julie?”
“Jake. How are you?”
He keeps it short. “Good.”
“I know you’re busy. I’ll cut to the chase. I’d like to see you as soon as possible. We need to talk. Can you come over for dinner tonight?”
“Actually, Julie, I have plans.”
“No problem. I know it’s short notice. How about tomorrow?”
Jake hesitates. “I’m not sure that would be good for me right now.”
Julie pauses before jumping in with a nosy question. “Are you involved with somebody?”
Jake looks at Nan’s purse sitting on his desk. “Not really,” he answers.
“Are you seeing her tonight?” Jake doesn’t respond. Julie thumps away in typical Julie style. “How long have you been seeing her?”
“That’s none of your business, Julie.”
“Are you in love with her?”
“I have to go now, Julie. Bad day.” Jake can’t hang up; he wants to, but Julie’s voice pulls him through the receiver like an electromagnet.
Julie presses. “Look, Jake we really need to talk. Will you call me? I don’t have your home number and I don’t want to call you at work. Just call me tomorrow, will you?”
What the hell? Jake thinks. He pauses, and takes a deep breath. “Why don’t I come by tomorrow night around seven?”
“Great! Will you stay for dinner?”
“Let’s play it by ear, okay?”
“Yep, that’s fine. Bring Molly, too. I miss her.”
Jake’s blood pressure rises; he can feel his heart beat against his ribs. He hasn’t heard from Julie in four months. He rode by the house one night by mistake, took the wrong highway to the wrong home after a troubling day at work, his short term memory taking a vacation less than a week after he moved out, and what did he see? Dr. Tucker Bush’s car parked in the driveway. No official separation papers are signed, but Jake knows the gig is up and anticipates a divorce. He’s settled about it, but wants Julie to make the first move; let Tucker pay the attorney fees, he thinks.
Jake leaves work, drives to the right house, his house, his haven – his. Nan arrives at seven sharp, kisses Jake, loves on Molly, walks in the kitchen – she loves his kitchen – puts a chicken pie in the oven, sets the table, changes Molly’s water bowl, walks to the bathroom, brushes her teeth – she keeps a toothbrush there now, has slept in Jake’s bed three times a week for the last two months – and feels comfortable as she marks her territory. Nan is young and cute and talkative; Jake, whose moods swing like monkeys from banana trees, is charmed, but mostly bored, by Nan’s youth and cuteness and conversation. Jake’s mind is otherwise engaged. Does Julie want to sell the house? Is that it? Is she moving in with Tucker? She needs me to sign papers, I bet that’s it, he thinks. He eats quietly, barely making a dent in his chicken pie.
Nan snaps her fingers from across the table. “Jake, did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, Nan. I’m a little distracted tonight. What did you say?”
“I said let’s take Molly for a walk before the sun goes down.”
Jake shakes his head. “I can’t right now.” He stands up. “Listen, I have some stuff to take care of.”
“Let me help you.” Nan can’t help herself. She’s a service provider on and off the clock. What can I do?”
“Nothing, Nan. I have to get on the phone in a minute and find a bass player for next week’s gig.” Jake stares out the window looking for answers to a multitude of questions – one being, how do I get rid of Nan?
“I’ll clean up,” she says, “then I’ll walk Molly while you make the call. Nan starts to clear the table, but Jake intercepts her. Removing the plates from her hands, he looks at her kindly and says, “Don’t worry about it. Molly’s fine, and I’ll do the dishes later. Sweet of you to offer, though.” His politeness chills Nan; she feels a slight twinge of that old familiar ‘getting kicked to the curb’ feeling. “Well, I was planning on staying over. Is that okay, or do you want me to leave?” The curve of her mouth turns south.
“No. Yeah, yeah. That would be best.” Jake rubs his head and says, “Nan, I’m just low on energy tonight. You’re a baby doll, though. I really appreciate dinner. I’m sorry you came all this way just to turn around and go home, but thank you.” Jake’s ambivalence tips Nan’s confidence in a precarious direction. Her vulnerability is painful for Jake to witness, but he’s not good at dishing out rejection. Nan reaches down to pat Molly, avoiding Jake’s distracted face. “So, can we get together tomorrow instead?”
“Yeah, sure. No, wait, we can’t. Julie called today. I have to sign some papers at the house tomorrow night." Nan picks up the plates again and heads to the sink. Jake doesn’t stop her this time. He kindly lets her process. “What kind of papers?”
“Probably separation papers,” Jake says as he walks to the sink and refills his water glass. Nan is visibly relieved. “So, that’s what’s bothering you. Now I understand.” She wraps her arms around Jake’s waist, pulls back from him, and smiles. “We’re still going to the beach on Friday, right?”
“Right.” Jake doesn’t feel like dampening Nan’s spirits again. He smiles, and hugs her. That’s all Nan needs. She gives Jake a kiss on the cheek, and with a lilt in her step and voice, turns to the door. “Okay, lover, call me later. I’ll come back over if you want me to.” Jake walks her to the porch and takes a deep breath; the evening air is perfumed with the aroma of new mown hay. Reason number twenty why I live here, thinks Jake. “That’s sweet of you, Nan, but let’s just say goodnight. It’s been a long day. Watch for deer in the driveway. See you tomorrow.”
Jake calls Melvin first. Good news: Melvin’s hooked up a bass player. His grandkids are over and their laughter fills the phone; Melvin is merrily distracted, so it’s a short powwow. Jake cleans up the kitchen, then sits down at his keys and plays for an hour, but he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Molly’s damp nose on his leg indicates a need for an outside visit and provides a welcome diversion – good timing because it’s a warm, clear night on the farm and the cattle are lowing. After a turn around the pasture with Molly to clear his head, Jake returns home and turns on the television; he still can’t concentrate. The ringing telephone offers no assistance, as Nan’s number shows up on caller ID. Jake doesn’t answer, but considers his options for a long minute before picking up the phone and calling Julie, who answers on the second ring. “Jake, I’m so glad you called me.”
Jake has no time for small talk. “Do you have papers for me to sign? Is that why you want me to come over?”
“Papers? No… what kind of papers?”
“Separation papers, I guess.” Jake pauses. “Are you thinking of selling the house?” Julie laughs. “Why would I want to do that? No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just – look, I want to talk about some things; some personal things.”
“Talk, then,” Jake says. “I’m right here.”
“No, I want to talk in person, Jake. Do you have company?”
“She left a couple of hours ago.” Julie’s happy to hear that. “Great! Can you come over now?”
“Where’s Tucker?” Jake asks.
“We stopped seeing each other a couple of months ago,” Julie says. “I don’t work for him anymore, either.”
Jake digs. “Did he dump you for a younger model?”
“I guess I deserve that.”
“No, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
“How about it, Jake?” Julie is relentless in her pursuit. “Come on over.”
Jake sighs. “Julie, it’s ten o’clock. I’m tired. I haven’t heard from you in over four months. What’s a few more hours? I said I’d come over tomorrow night.”
Julie pleads. “Come on, Jake, it’s only twelve miles.”
Jake shakes his head and ponders his next thought. He grins. “Will it be worth it?”
“Absolutely, at least I hope so.”
Jake hesitates, but gives in. “Alright, I’m on my way.”
“Bring Molly.”
Julie and Jake talk until two a.m., talk and cry and laugh and hug and kiss – kiss passionately. Julie tells Jake almost everything. Almost. She doesn’t tell him about her trip to St. Petersburg and her visit to Bread and Roses Women’s Clinic, about her roundtrip ticket, about flying with a companion and returning alone. Jake calls the hospital at three a.m. “I’m unavailable until early afternoon,” he says. “Please call for backup.” Julie sleeps naked with her body pressed against Jake’s muscular back, with her arm wrapped around his chest, with her blue-veined hand resting on his steady heart. Julie homes in on her husband.
Jake is happy for the first time in four months, and forgets about Nan – until he sees her crushed face in the hall just outside his office. She spends the better part of the afternoon finding reasons to spy on his door. “Where did you go after I left last night, Jake?”
Jake blankly stares at Nan. “Nowhere.” He’s a proficient liar when he feels he has to be. Nan’s innocent, but not stupid. “Why didn’t you answer the phone, then? I called you four times.”
“Nan, look.” Jake puts his hand on her heart as if protecting it from his next words. “You’re a sweetheart, but I can’t see you anymore.”
Nan is one part anguished child, two parts distraught woman. “Why?” Nan wants an explanation; her sky is falling. “It just doesn’t feel right,” Jake says.
“But, what about our beach trip?”
Jake removes his hand, and waves impatiently to a scurrying, eavesdropping nurse. “I’m sorry about that, too. Look, Nan,” he says softly, “you’re a good girl, and we had fun, but it’s over.”
“What about my stuff at your house? Can I get my stuff?”
“All you have is a toothbrush, Nan.”
Nan’s anguished child throws a temper tantrum, right there in the hall, right there in full view of the nurse’s station. “That’s it? No explanation, just a brush-off? You have a lot of nerve, Jake Reston.”
Jake puts a finger to her lips in a feeble attempt to quiet her. “Shhh, Nan. Shhh.” He quietly says, “Baby girl, you don’t know me.” Nan smacks his hand away. “I think I do, Jake. This is about Julie, isn’t it? That’s where you went last night, isn’t it?” Her voice throws itself against the wall and echoes through the ER, making the patients moan.
“Nan, let it go.”
“Tell me, dammit!” People notice; curious eyebrows rise like cafeteria yeast rolls. Jake, not daring to take her behind closed doors, grabs a rather beefy little arm and steers her down the hall seeking privacy, but this is prime time entertainment of soap operatic proportion, featuring a favorite daytime star. Not even one wanton gaze is diverted. Jake smells popcorn. “I don’t want to see you anymore, Nan. That’s it; now, please, just let it go.”
Nan shrugs Jake’s hand from her arm and plants her feet; the riveted audience emboldens her, and she plays to them, speaking with amplitude and clarity so spying eyes can get their ears full, too. “Well,” she slowly says, “you want to know something, Mr. Hot Pants? This is perfect timing. I was about to fall in love with you. What a mistake that would have been, you big fucking shit! I came so close to turning down a pie job just to stay in this miserable little town because of you.” Nan dramatically hits herself in the head, and says, “What was I thinking? Those nurses over there were right – you have way too much baggage, and you’re really high maintenance. Not my kind of guy at all.” Oooh, girl, now you’ve stepped in it. The nurse’s station is full of bug-eyed women shaking their heads to disavow ownership of the gossip, but who jockey for front row seating. Nan’s summary is less than poetic, but her delivery receives high marks from the gallery of onlookers. “Go to Hell, moron,” she declares with a three-fingered salute. “You’re making a big mistake, and you deserve what comes your way. If Julie knows what’s good for her, she’ll leave your ass hanging out to dry.” Nan takes aim and drives in the last stake. “And by the way, you old fucker, your taste in music sucks.” Chin up, she exits stage left to a short burst of quickly stifled mad applause; the thought of a repeat performance, its effect on the nurses’ critical care patients, and the possibility of an increased work load puts the quietus on.
“Has anybody seen my brain?” Jake asks of no one in particular as he walks past the nurse’s station. Grabbing the bag of popcorn, he removes a scalpel from his breast pocket with his free hand, continues walking down the hall, and, pausing midway to his office door, takes aim; he hits the bulls eye from twenty feet, turns, flashes a luminous grin, and bows to thunderous applause which almost, but not quite, smothers the moans coming from critical care.
A week later, Jake moves back home to Julie, moves from his lovely country cottage with the big front porch, moves forward so fast that back is front and air is earth and fire is ice and time is motion. Beautiful house, beautiful wife.
If you drive to the country when the summer moon is rising and you detour down the right unmarked dirt road, you might see a lonely cottage; but the cottage is not alone, for in surrounding fields, thousands of fireflies blink a signal of love or a signal of duplicity, or sincerity, or mimicry – a signal solely dependent upon the mating behavior of the signalee.
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.
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.
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