Four years had passed since he’d been inside the Cosmic, and when he’d entered he’d recognized a few of the waiters, and one of them recognized him, too, and didn’t seem to care that he’d taken up a four-top for the better part of the afternoon. John had been avoiding his eye, but when things calmed down the waiter sauntered over.
So you finally come for the job? the waiter asked, arms crossed over his profound chest. He wore a white shirt and black vest stained with a palette of soups and pastes, and transmitted the impatience of a professional forced to deal with amateurs all day long.
Where do I sign? John said.
Nikos, the waiter said, extending his hand.
Nikos, John said. I remember.
I tell you something, Nikos said. These guys … He shot the kitchen a forlorn look and stroked his white mustache, movements that invoked a spectrum of ancient disappointments that somehow encompassed brutal winters and rotten harvests, deaths at sea, generations living in the disfavor of the gods. It’s been a while, my friend. You’ve been in prison, no?
John shook his head.
Ran off with a woman?
Something like that, John said.
You finished school?
All done.
So finally now you come to work for us? the waiter said, jabbing John in the shoulder.
When he was at Juilliard, John had talked with this waiter sometimes, late-night, the place populated by old men in overcoats nursing cups of coffee, old women reading the Times with a magnifying glass.
These guys, the waiter said again. He slid into the booth across from John and leaned across the table. I tell you, he whispered. These guys. He can’t fire them, you know? Good luck if you do want to work here.
John raised his eyebrows. The owner, who occupied a stool by the door, his girth running over the sides of the seat like warm dough, spent his day ringing up checks and intermittently yelling at the staff, rousing himself only for shuffling trips to the head, didn’t strike John as the type who’d think twice about firing his own mother, much less his kitchen staff. That wasn’t the point. This waiter wanted to vent his spleen, divulge the same complaints he laid on anyone he got into a corner, John suspected. He was about to deliver a conspiracy, and all conspiracies were the same: conceived in fear, nourished with jealousy and spite. All Nikos wanted from John was a little collusion, a sign that he, a fellow white man, had also suffered as a result of the special treatment the Negroes, the coloreds, the whatever-they’re-called-this-week got. How about a little compassion, a nod of agreement at the injustice? John set his face to regard the waiter without malice, but with no hint of understanding.
They come down from Harlem, the waiter said quietly, splaying out his fingers on the tabletop. First he hire only one. But then another, and another. And now they’re a gang. If he try to get rid of one, he has a riot on his hands. The whole restaurant, burned. You see what they did in the Bronx, right?
John tipped back his head to indicate that he’d listened with an impartial ear, a judge on the bench.
The Black Panthers are everywhere, the waiter whispered, holding up his fist. You understand?
John sipped his drink.
I tell you one thing. He fire them right now, maybe no problem. Those people can’t stand cold, so no protests. I don’t make this up. It’s evolution, it’s scientific. This climate is all wrong for them. Survival of the fittest. They’re too easy to spot in the snow.
Nikos stopped talking and looked at John. He waited.
Finally John said, So how long have they worked here?
Nikos said, Twenty, twenty-five years. So you see my point, yes?
I suppose, John said.
The waiter leaned back in his seat and wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. You got a job? he said.
Trademark office, John said.
The waiter nodded. You still sing?
Here and there. Maybe a summer tour. Festivals.
So, the trademark office?
Just temporary until I get a role.
To keep the mind occupied, the waiter said.
Something like that.
No? Don’t occupy your mind?
It’s fine.
You don’t like it, you come work here, Nikos said.
What a joy that would be, John thought.
How’s family? Your wife is happy?
Yep, John lied. You know. Marriage.
Nikos smiled, exposing two rows of perfect popcorn kernels.
You lost your ring, Nikos said.
She’s pregnant, actually, John said. He and his wife had split up. She was not pregnant, at least not that he knew of. He hadn’t seen her in three years.
Congratulations, my friend! the waiter said, clasping John’s hand in his own.
Any day now, John said, nodding, smiling.
I’m sorry, now I’ve forgotten your name, John said, still holding the waiter’s hand.
Nikos.
Thank you, Nikos, John said, sliding out of his seat without releasing Nikos’s hand, making it impossible for Nikos not to get up from his seat, too. It was an old trick he’d seen his father use, and he was surprised at how well it worked, as though he’d pulled an antique flintlock pistol out of its velvet case and it had fired a round straight and true.
I get you a refill, Nikos said, heading off to the fountain with the red plastic cup in his hand, his shoes crunching on the salt-caked floor.
John had worked at Patents & Trademarks off and on over the years, checking and cross-referencing files. Practically the entire research staff was singers. It paid by the hour. You set your own schedule. John preferred the emptiness of the place at night to the day-shift company of other singers, who were incapable of talking about anything but contests and auditions, whining about the undeserving and talentless who’d stolen their roles, the rest of the sad sad story. If not for the storm, he’d be on his way there soon.
Nikos was coming back.
