“Somebody should do something with these bastards.” Edward complains, while ignoring the small child –probably eight, or nine- who is knocking his window, with a pleading look upon his face. Like the other eight –I count them-, he wants money. “I mean, at least some of them kinda do their shows, and, you know, juggle their balls and whatever. But these bastards just stand besides your window, waiting to for you to give them money, just because they are small and dirty. What am I supposed to do? Feel sad for them? Help them out? That’s for the birds, man.” I just nod my head. We are inside Edward’s car, an expensive Mercedes, which he has just acquired as a gift from the company we both work for. Soft jazz comes from the speakers, on the back. The trumpets and sax solos made the Italian leather seats rumble. I didn’t really agree with Edward’s views, hell, I didn’t even want to have dinner with him, but I couldn’t say no to my new boss. So, back on the office, while we were getting ourselves a cup of coffee, and he offered to have dinner with me –on a super-posh new restaurant named Tanta-, I was obliged to go. Now I was stuck with his ranting. There was another knock. This time, Eddy turned to face the kid. “I don’t have anything for you, you little shit! I won’t give you anything!” Then the light turned green. We continued our journey. “Un-bloody-believable.”
“An insult.” I add, sucking up. Edward had been promoted to chief of staff two months ago, which was something that could be translated to vice-president of the company, except that being the chief you actually did something other than waiting for the president to die. Still, as the people get promotions, the responsibilities get smaller, and the salary gets bigger. Last year, me and Eddy would barely see each other, as we run around looking for files, and analyzing documents on our offices. Now, I always caught Eddy flirting with my secretary, sitting in her desk –which was annoying, because that worsened her work-, simply eyeing the paper in some corner of the building, or in the small kitchen we had, grabbing a sandwich, or making himself a coffee (which had been the scenario of my unfortunate invitation). “Freaking bums stay watching TV on their huts, and sending this suckers to get the money they need for their heroin by bugging us.” Edward is still fueled up after the incident.
“Yeah. Us. Honest, working English citizens, who only want to get a steak, and have a bloody drink, before going back to our honest, hard working lives. Bloody unbelievable.” I nod, eyeing him. It is funny seeing Edward get angry. He turns red, and his eyes get moist. I can’t help but smile, turning away, and making sure he isn’t looking. The car makes a right turn.
“Wait… don’t you have to turn left?” I ask, fearing more Eddy-minutes than I actually deserve. “Aren’t we going to Tanta?” Edward thinks for a moment, and then looks at me, raising an eyebrow.
“No. We’re going to La Mar.” Edward smiles, awkwardly. “I told you when we got into the car.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. I said, by the way, Johnny, we can’t go to Tanta, I made reservations at La Mar.” He stares at me, as if I were crazy. I nod my head again.
“You’re right. You did.” I chuckle, making me sound like an idiot. “How very stupid of me, I’m sorry.” I sighed, not really remembering him saying that. Edward laughs, not finding it funny at all.
“Did you check the ass on that receptionist?” he whispers, punching me softly in the arm. I looked at the woman in front of me, lowering my eyes. The receptionist was an old woman, probably fifty-five years old, with the hair dyed blonde, siliconed front, over-used make-up, and a fat, floppy bottom. I didn’t know if Edward was joking, or actually being serious. He had always had a strange taste of women. He was one year older than me, twenty-six, yet he had always had a taste for older women. The last girlfriend she had was a new record for him, being forty-six years old. I thought it was sick. Him dating women old enough to be his mother. Probably some age-old trauma. Maybe he wasn’t breast-fed. I heard once that most sick people weren’t. But the worst thing was that the women he dated weren’t only old enough to be his mother, but they actually looked old enough to be his mother, even though some weren’t (one of them, I remember, the youngest, was thirty-nine, but looked like she was sixty). We followed the receptionist to a nice-looking table, next to the window. It was pretty much the best on the place, or at least the best one of the four seat tables. The kind of table specifically designed for Chiefs of Staff.
“Here you go, Mr. Hamilton.” Announced the fat, floppy bottom, to Edward, when we arrived, in a way that made me think that they had already slept together. I imagined them doing so, disgusted. As I sat down, I couldn’t help but think that the comment about the receptionist ass wasn’t made out of genuine attraction, but it had been specifically said to make me jealous –as soon as I made the connection. Edward’s grin as we sit down confirms my suspicion. He’s a jerk, I conclude, almost saying it out loud.
“Not too shabby, eh?” he said, as he eyed the menu –with the word La Mar printed on the front, in big, silver, bold letters- the receptionist had handed to us before leaving. I bit my lip, as if I were impressed.
“Not shabby at all.” I lie.
“You know, I have her number, if you want I could set you up. You know, give her a… better look.” The comment surprises me. Not because Eddy already know I am engaged (which hasn’t really stopped me in the past), but because Edward is not really a sharing guy.
“Sure. I’d appreciate that.” I answer, knowing that he’ll forget the promise as soon as we have our third vodka, and tonic. Suddenly, Edward tosses the menu away, resigned.
“I give up. I don’t know what the hell I’m having.” He makes a pause, sniffing. “What are you having?”
“I’ll probably have this… this mousse…” I show my menu to him, pointing at the option that reads: ‘TUNA MOUSSE: Soft, delicious mousse, made of the finest tuna fish. An explosion of taste.’
“That’s… that’s a mousse?”
“Yeah. A Tuna Mousse.” I answer surprised by the stupidity of the question. Edward seems genuinely surprised.
“Aren’t those… like for dessert?”
“Yes. But those are… you know, chocolate mousse, lemon mousse, passion fruit mousse, kiwi…” I explain, trying not to make him feel stupid. Which he really was. I came to the conclusion that he probably was new to all this super-posh restaurant stuff. I imagined him, eating at a diner called Joe’s a few years ago, in his cheap suit, and ugly Gianfranco shirt. He probably was a preferred costumer there, he probably knew everybody. And look at him now. Trying to figure out what to order in La Mar, just because his father was a close friend of that old wretch, Timothy Kesey, president of the company. I eyed his suit. It was nice Canali Minalo suit, black, a cotton shirt (Ike Behard), a silk tie, which I guessed was a Bill Blass one, and black Gucci shoes, to go with the suit. Dressed as a winner, he had said, when I had complemented him earlier.
“I’ll… have the same.” He says, raising his hand and clicking his fingers, calling the waiter over. The man looks around, wondering if Eddy is calling him, and then, reluctant, walks over to our table.
“Can I take your order, sir?” he asks, smiling. I smile back, and then look at Eddy, expecting him to talk.
“Yes… uh… We want… these… Tuna Mousse, thingies. Two of them. And bring me a vodka and tonic, please. Absolut. I don’t want any of those Russian ones. So if you don’t have that one, bring us some Smirnoff.” I ignored the contradiction, and so did the waiter, who turned his attention to me.
“And for the other sir?” he asks me, inquiringly.
“He’ll drink the same.” Edward instantly assumes, which of course wasn’t what I really wanted. “And keep them coming.” The waiter nods his head, and walks away. After a few seconds of silence, Eddy adds: “Did you see that guy’s teeth? Don’t these people know a tooth-brush?” Then he laughs noisily.
Some time after our fist vodka and tonic, which I finish in one drink, trying to make the conversation enjoyable, a bum stands right outside our window, with a cardboard sign that reads: “THE END OF THE WORLD IS COMMING. SPERE A DIME.” Edward, who has already finished half his glass, looks at him, and tries to shoos him. I smile to myself, of the situation. “This is bloody unbelievable is what it is, Johnny. I come here, trying to eat my lunch, and this bastard comes here. I can’t even eat now. I can’t even drink.” He doesn’t sound so alarmed now, maybe because of the vodka, or maybe because he has realized he can’t do anything about it.
“They should do something about it.” I tell him, shaking my head. My comment surprises myself, coming much as a reaction, rather than something I actually thought out.
“They should. I mean, they’re everywhere. Really, I mean seriously, someone should put them out of their misery.” He says to me, before knocking on the window, and pointing to a direction to which the bum can go. The bum just lowers his head and walks away. “Yeah, you better go. Asshole. Bringing that ‘the end is nigh’ bullcrap to our table. Bloody bum.” I just nodded, as a waiter came, with the second set of vodka and tonic. I take mine, and Eddy, instead of rejecting it, finishes the remaining of his first glass with one drink, and takes the other glass, without saying “Thank you.” I smile at the waiter. As we both take a sip, silently, Edward remembers something. “Oh, did I ever tell you that story about that bum that me and Gabriel saw the other day?” I had heard it that afternoon, but I wasn’t going to stop him. It’s not like he waited for a response. I start to look at his outfit again, comparing it to mine. “Well we’re walking down the street, toward this café Gabriel knows, right next to… what was that restaurant called again? The one… oh, right. It was a café right next to Dear Kaiser. I remember because Gabriel made a funny joke about Hitler. It was about how Hitler goes into a bar, and haves sex with this black girl, and then… he…he… well, it doesn’t matter. The point is, we cross a bum who asks us for a dollar, and, naturally, we ignore the ugly bastard, right? But then, guess who we see across the street?” Terry Bates. “Bloody Terry Bates. Can you believe it? Of course, neither of us has seen him since, like, forever.” I look at the butter knife, lying next to my glass, and then at Edward. Then at the knife. And then at Edward, again. . “And, of course, we hate this bastard. Bates is the whole damn reason we didn’t make that deal last year. So we decide that it would be funny, if we paid this homeless person to scare him. You know, nothing too son-of-a-bitch-y, just something we can laugh about later. So, Gabriel takes out ten dollars, and shows them off in front of the bum who tries to grab it, right?” I take the knife, and then think about Gabriel Richards. Then I look at Edward, and wonder how long it would take for the police to find me if I stuck the piece of metal into his eye, and then just walk out the restaurant, go back to my office, take my things, go to my house, watch a video, and go to sleep. “But then Gabe puts away the bill, the magnificent bastard. So then the bum starts to cry, and we start to laugh.” I leave the knife on the table, again, and then try to concentrate on what Eddy’s saying. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, we just couldn’t help it. So then Gabriel tells him that he can gain those ten bucks, by walking towards that man over there, and screaming at his face, and scaring him. But then the bum stops crying and says, you know, with his nigger kinda voice, yo, man I don’t do that.” I think about Gabriel, the magnificent asshole. Maybe he and Michel are through. I wonder what she’s up to. I should call her. She looks like Madonna. “And then we keep insisting. So he stands up, to go away right, and then Gabriel says… ha… he says: ugly nigger. And then, out of the blue, this huge blackie, straight out of Africa, punches the heck out Gabriel.” He stops, expecting a reaction. I clear my throat.
“Whatever did you do, Edward?” I ask, as I had done four hours before. I try and focus on the different conversations the people around us are having, probably just as void and pointless as ours. Elvis lives. That new Thai restaurant. How good Jenna Jameson looks on a Plasma TV. Plasma TV. I should get one of those.
“Well, I’m not about to try to stop him. He’s all dirty, and I don’t wanna get AIDS. I mean, what if he bites me, or something. So this nigger, this huge negro, is on top of Gabriel breaking his face. You know, Gabe is now walking around like…” He fills his cheek with air. The Thai restaurant. I wonder if Michel likes Thai food. I should make reservations, and ask her. Or maybe we could go to Tanta. “Bloody hilarious, I’m telling you. Anyways, I didn’t do nothing, so then a policeman came, with his nightsticks, or whatever that’s call, and it turns it’s pretty useful. He beat the hell out of the bum. Got what he deserved.” We should go to Tanta. Yes. Tanta is nice. And before Edward jumps from that story to another, our food arrives, with another Vodka and Tonic. I wonder who’s going to pay for everything. If Edward was someone else, I would naturally offer to pay for it fifty-fifty. But he invited me. Did that meant he was gonna pay everything? Was this like a date? Maybe he would pay for the dinner, and I would have to pay for the drinks.
“Um… could you stop bringing this, please? We’ve had enough.” I say to the waiter, as he puts my reddish mouse in front of me, pointing at the drinks –and trying to sound low enough for Edward not to hear. But he hears everything.
“Oh, don’t worry, Johnny.” He tells me, almost accusingly. And then he indicates to the waiter: “Keep bringing them. The drinks are on me.” I curse, under my breath. Did that mean that dinner was on me? Or was he going to pay for that too? If I knew I was going to pay for dinner I would’ve ordered the smoked salmon, or a steak. I imagined the cost. A hundred. Two hundred. The numbers kept going upwards. I fixed my Hugo Boss tie –pink, with silverish diagonal line crossing it-, and coughed loudly. Edward’s mousse was put in front of him. He seemed surprised.
“What the hell is this?” he asked the waiter, annoyed. I sighed, as the waiter’s smile turned into subtle fear, or mock.
“It’s the Tuna Mousse, sir. Isn’t that what you ordered?”
“I ordered a meal. This is minute.” Eddy complained, pointing at his plate. His had a point. The reddish mousse was set in the middle of a big white plate, accompanied by a thin herb next to it, looking completely… alone. I hated this new tendencies, and this super-posh restaurants. But I liked going there, and I liked knowing that I could go. And I liked knowing that I was in a circle of people that had to go.
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand.”
“What is there to understand? I’m the one that’s confused… is this… is this some kind of… of…” and then he adds, with bad pronunciation, and a humble amount of embarrassment: “Entrée?”
“No, sir, this is your main course.”
“I could eat it in one bite. It doesn’t even fill up a quarter of the dish. It’s… this is unacceptable… this is…”
“Sir, I’ll call the manager.” Announces the waiter, but Edward stops him, shakes his head, and asks him to leave with a gesture. I have already finished my mousse. Edward is starting his. A different waiter –a nice-looking blonde- is bringing to more vodka. I’m starting to feel dizzy.
*I know it's not really that good, and I just did out of boredom. But what do you think?*
Keep writing!