Straightjacket of the Gods

Charlie Barton was forty-nine years old and said so to himself like it was the sum total of his self-definition. He didn’t add that he’d been married and divorced with a child in high school, worked a management job, carried thirty extra pounds on his six foot two inch frame or survived a one and a half pack a day cigarette habit. He just stared down the barrel of forty-nine years like a rifle pointed between his eyes. A worn down, rusty rifle, which may shoot now or later but was definitely designed to put his lights out. In his mind, he wrote forty-nine on a piece of paper and stuck it in his wallet so that when the destiny cops pulled him over he could whip it out like a license to give up. In the corner of his kitchenette, by the two-burner stove and the hot water heater, the ghost of his ambitions stood in curlers and cold cream, clenching a Marlboro and pouring out cornflakes, nagging like an unsatisfied housewife, running through the unfinished honey-do list of his life. Good morning, Charlie, he whispered to himself. Another day in paradise.

If a survey question asked, What is your favorite beverage, Charlie would answer, The first cup of coffee in the morning. Not the second or the third or the one he has at ten or the three or four he has in the afternoon, but that first cup of the morning with a cigarette and the Today Show. At this moment, before he is completely awake, before the ghost wakes up and shuffles to the pantry, before he evaluates the quality of his sleep and his readiness for the day, while his mind still yawns, he feels about seventeen. Not eighteen, not after he’s taken his SATs and been locked into the level of education he could expect to get, not nineteen after he’s knocked up his first real love and sold the MG he was restoring to nip that potential in the bud. Not twenty-two, when he left the small southern town where he grew up to move to New York City and make his mark or twenty-nine when he returned broke. Not thirty three when he married or thirty four when his child was born or forty six when he divorced but seventeen. That’s about right. That first cup of coffee in the morning was a prick-tease for the rest of his day. But it was beautiful being brewed, hot, gorgeous in the cup, aromatic and tawny with cream, and thick with oils floating at the rim. Good to the last drop.

What shall we do today, Charlie, he asked himself because he has to have his daily dose of sarcasm like a vitamin. How about we go to work? Charlie always goes to work. Work is the prelude to the four or five drinks he will have when he gets home. Drinking is the reward Charlie gives himself for going to work everyday.

Charlie Barton will ask himself about twelve thousand times, what made today so different from every other day? The rifle, the license, the coffee, the ghost, the Today Show was all in place like every other day. What the hell happened?

He walked into work unaware of the big You Are Here mark on his life map.

Let’s say the gods became aware of Charlie. Let’s say the destiny cops pulled his jacket in a case of mistaken identity. As they read his life story, they were amused by his lack of consequence and a little drunk with power, Gestapo-like, decided to focus a little attention on Charlie. People always mistakenly think this is what they want, to come to the attention of the gods. Unaware of the actual mechanics of destiny, they want to win the lottery or lay down the winning hand and take the pot. They want to win the girl or get the job or find the guy or write the book, be healed, be famous, be the one, the one out of many. What they don’t understand is the actual architecture of destiny. When you come to the attention of the gods, you are just as likely to be the victim of a freak accident as you are to win at the slots. It’s all the same to the gods. The machine is the machine. It can make a bomb or a cookie. You Are Here.

Who decided that people should work like this? In these cubes. Space Management, that’s who. That’s whom Charlie had to call this morning. He had a new employee starting and the cube was not ready. He had called Space Management three weeks prior. As soon as he knew he would be hiring, he called Space Management and ordered a cube. He interviewed and narrowed the selection and interviewed the short list and narrowed and interviewed the remaining candidates and made a selection. Come On Down! You have been chosen! He remembered reading the resume and thinking, you poor bastard, be careful what you ask for. But Charlie presented the position like it was the prize on a game show. He did this because he was a good soldier. He was a good employee, Charlie. But he never stacked that up on his list of attributes along with being forty-nine because he didn’t see it that way. He was disgusted with himself, bringing this young buck into the cube like a steer through the gate to slaughter. He tagged him with a name badge and held out a card key like shooting a nail into his brain. He’ll make a good steak when he’s cooked. Grade A. Angus beef. Charlie sighed at his own analogy.

"This is not actually your cube. Space Management is a little slow but they’ll be building you a cube probably somewhere over there." Charlie waved an arm in the general direction of somewhere else. “But you can work here for right now.”

Look at a biography of a man of age and consequence. Say Winston Churchill or Bob Dylan. There’s the context part, to whom he was born, where he was born, into wealth or poverty and the genealogy and history of his parents. Then you step through the different events and people that influenced or shaped his life. Then you look at the decisions he made for himself, the path he walked and the consequences of those decisions. Prismatic then coalescing, that life appears before you as if it were written before it happened, as if there was a hand unseen pulling the strings, painting the picture, placing the pieces. The people, talismanic. The events, miraculous. You could say there was an overriding intention that arose at some point in his youth that became the beacon guiding the vessel to its final destination. You can say he stepped into his life like a suit tailor made for him by the gods. One man, a point in time, flash/pop. That’s all twenty-twenty hindsight and commentary from the biographer.

“Great. Thanks, Mr. Barton.”

“Charlie”

“Charlie. Is there something you want me to get started on?”

“Tell you what, even though this isn’t where you’ll eventually be, go ahead and get settled in, set up your email, get into your applications, find out where everything is and then let’s meet back around lunch time and we’ll grab a bite to eat.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Good deal.”

Charlie never drank at lunch. Every day he wanted to but every day he didn't. He took the new guy to The Marina, an upscale restaurant reserved for client lunches. He didn’t know why. Maybe he wanted to impress the new guy or apologize or fool him into thinking he had a budget. The hostess snaked toward them through the tables carrying two captain-sized menus. She was tall, elegant in her black sheath frock that clung to her curves and tapered at her slender knees. The lighting and color in the dining room, warm and buttery, was flattering to her. The sparkle of the silver and crystal seemed to ping off her hair and the simple gold choker at her neck.

“Two for lunch?” she asked Charlie.

“Yes, please, by the view, if possible,” Charlie requested.

“Certainly,” she answered and turned to lead them to a table by the windows overlooking the lake. Just as she turned, just as any man’s would, Charlie’s eyes shifted south from her face to her chest. Just as she turned, he thought he saw an outline, an embossing on her left breast, through the fabric of her dress an assertive ring at the center of her left breast, incongruous, maybe a trick of the lighting. It looked like a nipple ring. Further south, her hips swayed slightly, more graceful than provocative, like seaweed floating in a shoal and southward still, her heels barely tapped the high lacquer hardwood floor of the foyer, and then were silent on the carpet.

The new guy sat down with a pursed grin on his lips, held his menu to hide his mime and with an index finger drew a ring on the breast pocket of his dress shirt, cocking his head toward the hostess. Charley leaned in.

“You saw that, too?” Charlie asked.

“Shit,” laughed the new guy.

“I wasn’t sure I was seeing that right. But, shit, you saw it, too? Damn.”

“Oh, man. Man-oh-man.”

“So what was it, like, a nipple ring, right?” asked Charlie.

“The secret lives we lead, huh?”

“I guess. I know nothing about these things.” Charlie and the new guy stuffed napkins in their laps and read the menu.

“So, Charlie, how long have you been with the company?” asked the new guy.

“About fifteen years.”

“So did you start at executive level?”

“Oh, hell-no. I started about your level.”

“Okay. Well, that’s good to know,” the new guy says, going back to the menu. “Oh, man, this is a great place. They have John Courage on tap. That's a good brew."

The hostess appeared at table’s edge, appeared without prelude, making the men jittery. Her smile was knowing, not like the congenial smile of her greeting. No, her smile was congenial, and then her smile said, Busted. Her smile was Cheshire-like. It could have said, Can I bring you boys a booster chair. But it didn’t. Another trick of the lighting perhaps. Her smile said, I'm paid to be friendly. She wore a fragrance but it was faint and unrecognizable. It could have been scented soap. It could have been a feminine hygiene product. It could have been the natural scent of her skin. If you opened her panty drawer it might be infused with that scent.

“Your waitress today is Natalie. She’ll take your order shortly. Can I bring you drinks in the meantime?” she asked Charlie. Charlie looked at the new guy. The new guy shrugs.

“Whaddaya say, Charlie? A beer?”

Charlie checked his watch, one pm. What made today different than any other day?

“Well, I don’t know. On the clock, you know.”

“I’ll have a John Courage. Try it, Charlie. I love it. It’s my favorite beer. I’ve never seen it anywhere on tap.”

“Okay,” says Charlie. ‘Two. By the way,” Charlie asks the hostess, “What’s your name?”

“Raine,” replies the hostess.

“Pardon,” says the new guy.

“My parents were hippies. They named me Rain. R-A-I-N. Then, when I was about eleven, they changed it. Added an E on the end. It’s English. It means Wise Ruler. Princess Dianna’s stepmother was named Raine. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

The new guy smirked and concentrated on the menu. Charlie did the same.

“What’s good here?” asked the new guy.

“Oh, everything. I’ve never had a bad meal here. The veal is good.”

“Baby cow.”

“Vegetarian?” Charlie asked.

“Oh, hell-no. Definitely carnivorous. How’s the seafood?”

“Good. Everything’s good. You know what’s really good? The chicken wings.”

“I don’t see it,” said the new guy, scanning the menu.

“It’s an appetizer.” Charlie reaches over the table to point it out on the new guy's menu.

“Oh, yeah. I could eat some wings. Let’s have some. ”

“Good,” Charlie agreed.

Raine brought a tray with two tall glasses of Courage with foamy heads and thick, dark bodies. She dipped to place the glasses on the crisp tablecloth in front of Charlie and the new guy.

“Thanks, Raine. Listen, I think we’ll start with some wings,” Charlie ordered.

“They’re excellent. How many?” asked Raine. The men looked at each other over their menus.

“What-“ Charlie asked the new guy. “Six, twelve?”

“I could eat six,” says the new guy.

“Twelve, then,” answered Charlie and closed his menu.

“How hot?” asked the hostess.

Charlie and the new guy squared off.

“Hot,” said the new guy, nodding at Charlie.

“Hot,” agreed Charlie with a nod.

“There’s hot, extra-hot and nuclear,” said Raine.

“How hot is nuclear?” asked the new guy.

“Extremely hot,” answered Raine. “Very, very spicy.”

“Hotter than extra-hot, I bet,” reasoned Charlie. The new guy laughed. “Hot is usually hot enough for me.”

“It’s been my experience that nothing’s as hot as they say it will be. Now, I can eat some hot food. What do you think?” he asked Charlie.

Charlie took a long pull from his glass, swallowed. Tasting his beer for the first time, he nodded in appreciation.

“Good?” asked the new guy.

“This is very nice,” Charlie said. “I didn’t know it was a stout.”

“Oh, yeah. Courage Russian Imperial Stout. Very, very nice,” said the new guy sipping his beer.

“Very nice,” agreed Charlie.

“Originally brewed for Catherine II, Empress of all the Russias. Catherine the Great?” said Raine, smiling again, tilting her head, the sun through the window stationed at the crown of her head, a corona. This made Charlie and the new guy fuss with their napkins, unfurling, fluffing and folding their white flags. “Wings?” asked Raine.

“Nuke ‘em,” said Charlie. “I’ll try anything once.”

“Oh, yeah,” said the new guy. He and Charlie drew on their brew at the same time, glasses hitting the table at the same time, at the same level of half empty.

“So, Charlie, you know what I would love to see?” asked the new guy.

“That nipple ring?” replied Charlie making the new guy laugh and slap the table, bouncing his place setting.

“Yeah, man. That, and an org chart.” Charlie cocked his head in a question. “I’d like to get a lay of the land, you know. Who’s got the juice?”

“Whose ass do you kiss in what order?”

“You bet.”

“I’ll find one when we get back. But you can find it, too. It’s on the intranet.” Charlie pulled on his beer. Ten percent alcohol by volume. Six, maybe seven ounces down. It didn’t take long for Charlie to feel the spring unwind. He never drank at lunch and he shouldn’t be drinking now, he thought. Well, he’ll be eating soon. The food will soak up some of the fuzz.

“Where are you?”

“On the org chart? I report to the guy who reports to the guy.”

“The top guy?”

“That's right."

“And I report to you.”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Probably. Eventually. But we’re in the middle of a re-org and I’m really not sure how it will shake out. But more than likely.”

“So what kind of boss are you?”

This took Charlie by surprise. I’m the forty nine year old kind, thought Charlie, what are you? Twenty-five? Past that, he was at a loss and a little pissed. The question seemed confrontational, inappropriate and disrespectful.

“I don’t know how to answer that?” Charlie said.

“You know, my last boss was very analytical. He set a lot of statistical goals. Performance reviews were done on graph paper.”

Charlie was barely listening. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have gotten chummy with the new guy. He shouldn’t be drinking with him in the middle of the workday. He shouldn’t have taken him to The Marina. He shouldn’t have made dirty jokes about the hostess. What the hell was he thinking? So now this new guy thinks he’s a dude, he’s lost his authority, lost his distance and there was no way to get it back now without demeaning the new guy. Knocking him down a peg or two. And his glass was empty and he was madder than he was a minute ago.

“And that’s bad thing? Statistical goals?”

“No, not at all. I didn’t mean to infer that it was.”

“Insinuate.”

“Pardon?”

“You insinuate….. I infer from your insinuation.” The new guy looked blank. “You used the word incorrectly. A malapropism. Maybe that’s the kind of boss I am. I correct everybody’s English.”

“So you’re telling me…you’re a fag?” asked the new guy with mock solemnity.

Charlie had to laugh. He’d been creasing the tablecloth with his butter knife but he put it down now. Charlie appreciated a sense of humor.

Raine appeared with their order. With another dip, she placed the plate of red, saucy wings in the middle of the table. The plate carried ramekins of blue cheese and celery spears as well. She placed two empty plates in front of Charlie and the new guy. The pierced nipple hovered.

“Can I bring you another round? You may need it with your wings,” she said.

“How about it, Charlie?”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

Raine nodded and smiled. As she turned from the table, the men made a conscious effort to avoid looking at her ass.

“You know I can’t expense these,” said Charlie waving a finger at beers.

“Oh, hell. My treat,” said the new guy.

“I’ll get the first round,” said Charlie.

“Deal.”

“Okay, let’s get into these bad boys,” said the new guy, lifting a wing to his plate. “So Charlie, are you married?”

“Was.”

“Kids?”

“One. Fifteen. Lives with Mom. You?”

“Not yet,” said the new guy. The sight of food and preparing to eat had made them both loose the capacity for full sentences.

They each honed in on three inches of spicy wing held in front of them, mentally stableizing for the sinus cauterizing effect. They tore into it at the same time, chewing and inhaling. The burn didn’t creep up but slugged Charlie square in the face. Chewing, the burn didn’t go away. The burn blossomed and evolved like some ingenious Chinese firecracker. The burn was spectacular. It sang an aria with high notes bouncing off the inside of his skull. Incinerating, devastating and catastrophic, the burn had a name, an IQ and a bank account. They finished the first wing and threw the bones on their empty plates with a clink.

“Hot enough for you?’ asked Charlie.

The new guy chewed and nodded, evaluating. They each grabbed a celery spear, dunked it in blue cheese, slammed four ounces of Courage and wiped their mouths.

“How are your wings?” Raine asked on her return.

“You know,” answered the new guy. “They could be hotter.”

Charlie chuckled. Good one. He looked at the new guy for signs of joking. Logically, he would be joking. But the new guy looked slightly askew; otherwise serious.

“Got any hot sauce back there?”

Charlie regarded the new guy with something like horror. At that moment, he couldn’t remember the new guy’s name so he tweaked his eyes down to read the nametag on his lapel, the nametag he had given him earlier today. There was something on his lapel but it didn’t look like a nametag. Charlie couldn’t place what it was. Then he realized the new guy had fastened his magnetic nametag to his lapel backwards. Charlie was looking at the back-fastening strip of magnetic metal, knowing that the name portion of the tag was facing inward. Something about that, he couldn’t say what, revolted him.

“Well now, as a matter of fact, we have the world’s hottest hot sauce. Rated 7.1 million Scoville units,” said Raine.

“What is a Scoville unit?” asked Charlie.

“Oh man, you are not a hot sauce connoisseur, are you?” asked the new guy.

“Scoville was a chemist,” explained Raine.

“He worked for Parke Davis,” interrupted the new guy.

“He developed a unit of measure for the heat in chili peppers. It’s a dilution test where chili pepper powder is diluted with sugar water and tasted. The point at which there’s no more burn determines the point on the heat index.”

“So, so 7.1 million Scoville units means that one ounce of this hot sauce would have to be mixed with 7.1 million ounces of sugar water to put out the burn.”

“That’s about hundred thousand gallons,” Raine computed.

“We’re going to need another round, “said Charlie.

“And some more napkins,” added the new guy.

“Actually, I can’t really serve it. Sorry. It’s not really a sauce, it’s not meant to put directly on your food. It’s more like an additive.”

“Is it in this sauce? “asked Charlie.

“Yes, actually," Raine affirmed.

“Can we see it?” asked the new guy. “What’s it called?”

“It’s got great packaging,” said Raine. “It’s called The Source. It comes in a one ounce bottle inside a box. On the inside of the box there’s a legend. I can show it to you, but I can’t serve it.” Raine left the table and walked toward the swinging doors marked For Employees Only.

“These hot sauces they usually have the coolest packaging. They all have great names. There’s the whole Ass genre like Ass Blaster and Ass Reaper and Assplosion, Kick Yo Ass, Screaming Sphincter, Weapons of Ass Destruction. Then there are the clever ones like Lawyer’s Breath and Acid Rain and Toxic Waste. Then there’s the whole-you-gotta-be-crazy-to-eat-this like Mad Dog and Nuckin Futs and Dave’s Insanity.” The new guy plucked another wing from the plate and looked around to see if Raine was nearby. “Then there’s the references to women,” he said in a lowered voice. “Bad Girls in Heat, Scorned Woman, Devil’s Bitch, Mean Devil Woman.”

“You’ve tried all these,” asked Charlie.

“Man, I collect them, oh yeah,” said the new guy. “You know how it is. It started in college, in the frat. Guys trying to kill themselves, kill each other, with freakin’ hot sauce, trying to outdo each other with how much pain they could stand. Oh yeah, there’s the whole Pain collection like Pain 100%, Pain 85%, Pain and Suffering.”

“You went to Wake Forest.”

“Yep. You?” asked the new guy, chasing his wing with a crunch of celery.

“East Carolina.” Charlie sipped his beer.

“Okay. Yeah. I had buddy went to East Carolina. You gonna have any more of these?” asked the new guy, finger flitting from wing to wing like eenie-meanie-minie-mo.

“I’m waiting for The Source,” answered Charlie.

“Yeah, but she can’t serve it. Oh yeah, there this one hot sauce called So Sue Me,” the new guy giggled. He actually giggled high pitched like a girl. It startled Charlie. “I love the ones with religious references like Satan’s Blood, Gates of Hell, Good & Evil, Adam & Eve.” The new guy plucked another wing from the middle of the pile. Mo.

“Adam and Eve. Where’d that come from?” asked Charlie, draining his second beer.

“Oh you know, probably something about eating from the Tree of Knowledge. The forbidden fruit.”

“How did eating hot sauce get this kind of mystique?”

“It’s the Pain.”

“Pardon?”

“The pain, man.” The new guy wiped his fingers, mouth, and eyes, blew his nose into his napkin, and laid it on the table beside his plate of saucy chicken skin and bones. “Well, you could shoot yourself in the face with some pepper spray but it’s not like eating it. It’s the capsaicin.”

“That’s the ingredient that makes it hot?” Charlie asked.

“It’s a crystalline alkaloid concentrated mostly in the placental tissue inside the pod of the chili pepper.”

“Peppers have placentas?” asked Charlie.

“Pure capsaicin so powerful that chemists have to wear HAZMAT suits in a controlled environment just to handle it.”

“No shit.”

“I would not shit you.”

“So can you die from it?”

“No. You just want to. The capsaicin creates pain and the pain makes your body release endorphins and the endorphins give you like a high.”

Raine returned with a tray that she lowered to table level. On the tray were two more glasses of dark beer, napkins and a box. She set the beers in front of the men, removed the empties and set the small box in front of the new guy. The box had a picture of a gargoyle with a wide monkey face and a groomed rope-like beard. He sat in squat with his hands on his knees. The new guy smiled.

“I love this packaging. How much is this? Can I buy it? Look at this Charlie,” he said, reversing the box and sliding it across the linen table cloth to Charlie. Charlie picked it up. The box opened book-like and Charlie pried out the small bottle and pinched it between his thumb and index finger.

“It’s a hundred dollars,” quoted Raine.

“Get out,” said Charlie.

“What’s the box say, Charlie?”

Putting on his glasses, Charlie read the front of the box.

“ ‘All things good or bad are driven by energy.’ ”

“How cool,” said the new guy.

Charlie opened the box again and read from the inside cover. ““The Legend of The Source: Ancient cultures, from the Egyptians, to the Mayans and the Aztecs, were bound by a common belief...that all things good or bad are driven by energy. It is the force behind the rising sun and the shining of a nighttime star; it's responsible for precision and passion. Legend has it that the god of love held the Source of all energy. He was trusted with this responsibility by the other gods because his heart was filled with good. For millenniums he used the energy to fill the world with love. But, a time came when the other gods quarreled amongst themselves. One after another they would come to the god of love demanding that he use the energy to serve their own selfish desires. At first he would yield to their demands, then he saw the outcome. The world was no longer filled with love...bad was beginning to prevail. He knew he had to protect the Source and not let bad grow stronger than it already had. He plotted, and deep within a long neglected pyramid he hid the Source. When the other gods came to him and demanded energy to achieve their evil deeds he told them of his defiant act. He steadfastly refused to reveal where the Source was hidden and the other gods banished him from his throne, leaving him to wander and die a mortal's death with his secret in his heart. With the Source hidden away good and bad held equal measure. After thousands upon thousands of years the Source became nothing more than a legend. Until now. In your hand is the Source. Now you have the responsibility to use the Source....Are you strong enough to face the challenge?” ” Charlie looked up. The new guy was handing Raine a platinum credit card.

“Put it on this, babe. Put the whole thing on this,” he said whirling his finger around the perimeter of the table. “And bring two more beers, if you will please and let say, oh, what Charlie, another dozen or so wings?”

“Sure,” said Charlie. He replaced the small bottle in the box, closed it and slid it back across the table to the new guy. “Do me a favor, will you?”

“You bet.”

“Fix your name tag.”

The new guy swiped his hand down to his lapel, looking down he laughed and flipped his lapel back and forth, realizing what he’d done.

“Crap,” he laughed. “It’s been like that all morning.” He peeled off the magnetic back piece. The front of his nametag dropped down to his lap. Charlie took a draw off his beer and watched the new guy squirm in his seat looking for his nametag. Charlie took a wing and motioned for the box of hot sauce.

“Go, man, go,” the new guy said and tossed the box of hot sauce to Charlie as he fished for his nametag. Charlie placed the wing on his plate, loosened the ounce bottle from the box, and unscrewed the lid. He tapped out one small dot of brown liquid, screwed the lid tight, replaced the bottle in the box, closed it and slid it back across the table. Raising the wing to his mouth, he lowered his eyes to the new guy’s nametag that had been recovered and fixed on his lapel. Danny Singer. Danny. A boy’s name.

“Charlie, man, you are an animal,” Danny laughed. Charlie bit into the wing, tore off the meat, closed his burning lips and chewed. As the pain began, Charlie placed it at the same level as the first wing. Excruciating but familiar. Then the pain matured. The unholy child grew up into a complex, diabolical adult. The pain flexed its ripped muscles and split the seams of its straightjacket. The pain roared. The pain went on a rampage. It burned down the village, raped the women, slaughtered the babies, it annihilated the tribe. The infernal heat could not be defined; Charlie’s mind could not contain it. He reached involuntarily for his beer and chugged it down. For only a moment, the heat was in custody. Then it broke loose again, renewed, angry, agonizing. Charlie had to apply all of his concentration not to run wild in anguish. Every molecule of Charlie’s being telescoped into the pain, his consciousness sucked straight to the vanishing point on the plateau of pain. For a split second Charlie was separated from his body, he was witnessing his pain. For a nanosecond, he was the watcher hovering Buddha-like above his pain. He grew old, saw his daughter marry and have children of her own and their children have children, all without sound, all sound obliterated by the pain. Then pain lost its meaning. It was a nonsense word and nonsense thought inside this thought. This was an epiphany that pushed past pain. Then, like a receding Tsunami, the pain sucked back in. The pain walked backwards in its own steps to it’s agonizing birth. Charlie was slammed back into his body, wretched but recovering or, at least, he could see a possibility for recovery sometime in the distant future of humanity. He opened his eyes and looked from afar across the table where Danny was crying with laughter. Charlie raised a weak arm to call for another beer.

“No, man. Don’t. That’s not going to help you, man.” Danny laughed. “Here. Look at me, man.” Danny was holding out a celery spear loaded with blue cheese. “Capsaicin isn’t water soluble, man. It’s fat soluble. You gotta eat something fatty. That’s why they give you blue cheese. Eat the cheese, man.”

Then it was Danny’s turn. Then Charlie’s again. Another round of beers and twelve more wings arrived and they went around again. A drop of liquid crucifixion followed by resurrection. The wings disappeared and more beers came and went.

“………….it’s all an agenda, man,” said Danny. “So, so the national preparedness agency says the best thing we can do to prepare ourselves for biological attack is to stock up on bottled water? How is that any different from teaching schoolchildren to protect themselves from a nuclear bomb by hiding under their desks? How are Al Qaeda operative cells any different from the Red Menace? How is the Office of Homeland Security different from the House of Un-American Activities Committee? So, how long were you married, man?” asked Danny with a mouthful. Charlie laughed at the seamless segue.

A lot of conversation went down in the throws of blissful agony. Not that Charlie could remember a lot of it but he knew there had been too much conversation on topics he didn’t normally address. He could tell he’d talked too much and too freely by the dirty dishwater feeling he had in his gut. Occasionally, Raine would check on them.

More than anything, right then, Charlie wanted to take a piss but he couldn’t figure out how. It would start with leaving the table but he was locked into rounds of beer, wings, hot sauce, laughing, talking, and beer wings hot sauce laughing talking.

“Hey, hey,” said Danny, “Whatever happened to Natalie?”

“Who the hell is Natalie?” asked Charlie.

“Doncha remember when we first got here. Raine said ‘Natalie will take your order’. So, so, where the hell is Natalie?”

“There never was a Natalie.”

“There never was a Natalie?”

“No. It was all a ruse. Like that, ‘I can’t serve it to you’ shit. She knew if she brought out that bottle, you’d buy it. You’d buy it because she couldn’t serve it. She couldn’t serve it but she could sell it. She sold it pretty damn good.”

“NO, Charlie, no man. You are talking about the love of my life. I love that chick, Charlie. I’m in love with her, man. Look at her. She is so, she is so, what’s the word I’m looking for, Charlie.”

“Unavailable.”

“You think?”

“Danny, you ever had a chick that good looking?”

“No, that’s not the right word. I have to disaggree.”

“I’ve got to take a piss.” The need was urgent. Charlie swiveled his head around the dining room. It was filled with the dinner crowd now. It was 6:42 pm by his watch. In his mind, what was left of it, he ticked off the items he did not accomplish today at work. In his mind, he opened his Outlook and saw the meetings he’d missed. He really needed to pee. Raine was swift to the table, summoned by his looking around.

“Can I get you fellas something else?” she asked.

“Uhmmmmm,” said Charlie, scanning the room.

“Buddy needs the men’s room, Raine,” said Danny.

“Oh, sure. It’s past the bar, turn to your left,” said Raine.

“How much,” said Charlie. “How much to,” he hesitated. “How much to, uhm.” He shot a look toward Danny.

“How much for what?” asked Raine leaning in.

“To see that nipple ring,” whispered Charlie. Danny flopped back in his chair, face flushed, suit jacket gaping. Raine’s eyes widened and then mellowed. Her lip curled in an Elvis grin. She genuflected to whisper in Charlie’s ear, rose and walked away.

“No you did not,” said Danny.

Charlie laughed, “I’ve got to pee,” he said and left the table, navigating the dining room. On the way he smelled the entrees. He passed the bar, a blur in his vision but the smell of alcohol created a yearning. He turned left, into the cool, dark corridor to the men’s room and felt a tug on the back of his jacket. He swirled around, chest to chest with Danny.

“You did not. What did she say?”

“She’s a merchant, man. What do you think she said?”

“I think she told you to go fuck yourself.”

“Aw,” said Charlie, pulling away, crashing through the swinging door to the men’s room, Danny followed. They each took a urinal, unzipped and swayed as they pissed. The piped music was louder, acoustically better.

“She told you to fuck yourself,” insisted Danny.

“She told me it was five hundred dollars,” said Charlie.

“No, she did not,” Danny said in a high-pitched squeel at the end of a long, strong, hard piss.

Charlie sighed, still dribbling as Danny zipped. “I’m afraid so, my friend.”

“How much do you have?” Danny asked.

“In cash?” Charlie asked.

“I have, maybe eighty, ninety,” Danny said trolling for his wallet.

Charlie finished peeing with satisfaction. “I’ve got maybe fifty, in cash.,” he said as he zipped.

“Where’s the closest ATM?” asked Danny.

“Let it go, man,” said Charlie.

“Five hundred dollars away from paradise, man. You’d let that go?”

“I was just proving a point,” said Charlie, meeting himself in the lavatory mirror.

“Oh yeah and I got it,” said Danny, meeting Charlie’s eyes in the mirror. “She’s a merchant. You banged it, buddy. But there’s being right and then there’s titty, man. Are you just going to stand there, holding your dick and being right, or are you going to see some titty?”

“I’m going to the bar,” said Charlie. “I’m going to smoke. You want to get cash, that’s up to you.”

“Five hundred. You’re sure? So I need what? Three fifty-three sixty?”

“You need five hundred ‘cause I’m not in on this deal. I only brokered it to prove a point.”

“You are so chicken shit, man. You can’t tell me that you don’t want to see that titty and you won’t cop a look if it gets whipped out.”

“So.”

“So,” said Danny, “So you’re in on this.”

That seemed to be the final word as Danny left the men’s room in a gust of perfumed lavatory funk. Charlie took a moment to wash his hands and check himself in the mirror. He rubbed his five o’clock shadow, sucked his teeth, finger combed his hair, smoothed his dress jacket, removed his nametag and stuffed it into his pants pocket and shambled out into the corridor. He smelled her before he acutally saw her.

“Where did your friend go in such a hurry?” asked Raine, “He’s got to sign for his tab.”

“He’s coming back,” he said.

“Good,” she said. Charlie tried to ease by her. He really needed to smoke. “I’m just going to the bar.”

“That thing you asked me, earlier” she said, “Do you want it now? I’m off. My shift ended at six. I was just staying on to finish you guys.”

“What happened to,” Charlie’s throat clenched. The space became airless. “What happened to Natalie?”

“Natalie?" Raine asked. "The waitress? She here. She’s working. Why? Do you know her?”

“No, it’s just that, when you first, when we first got here you said Natalie would take our order. But she never did.”

“Oh, well, you never seemed to want to order an entrée. You just kept eating wings. That’s an appetizer,” she replied. Her face was moon glow.

“We must have ordered two, three dozen wings and I-don’t-know-how-many beers. At what point does an appetizer turn into an entrée? I mean, with that hot sauce what’s the total tab? Two, three hundred. For lunch?”

“Good question. I don’t know. Probably. I’d have to close out his ticket to know the exact amount. Were you serious about that other thing?’ she asked. He really needed a cigarette and patted his pockets.

“Can I smoke?” he asked.

“Why not?” she grinned.

“Well, I’m trying to be polite,” he said. “You never know who you’re going to offend with your vices anymore.”

“So, uhm,” Raine said. She took a half step forward. “Are you ready?” She did an Is It All Clear look around the dark carridor and leaned back a bit to check out the bar area. Charlie’s attention shifted to distant laughter, table talk and bussing and bar noise but quickly returned as Raine positioned her hands at the back of her neck, at the top of the zipper on her black form-hugging dress.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait,” said Charlie, hands raised in surrender.

“I thought that’s why you stayed back here.”

“I came back here to take a leak.”

“Yes. But you stayed. So are you serious?”

“Are you?”

“Why not?

“You’re going to flash me right here in the hall to the men’s room?”

“Sure. More exciting when there’s a chance you could get caught, you know,” Raine whispered. “So. Are we on?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have the cash.”

“Isn’t that where your friend went? To get cash?”

“I don’t know. Yes.” Charlie hung his head. “He’s not my friend. He’s my employee. We actually just met. Today is his first day.” Charlie’s mouth was dry.

“Wow. You’re a nice boss taking the new guy to lunch” She stepped closer. “To a five hour lunch. To a nearly liquid five hour lunch.” Raine laughed and spoke in whispers. “I have a mean boss,” she pouted. “I’d like to have a boss like you. Would you be my boss? Would you boss me around?” Now, Charlie could smell the scent at her neck, mingled with his own meaty wing smell and the spice of the hot sauce and the burnt malt of the beer.

“Oh, Raine. This is really good stuff. But you want to turn it on for the other guy. He’s young and obviously has some disposable income. Me, I’m old with alimony and child support.”

Rain laughed. “I like older men. You’re very handsome. You don’t see it, do you?“

“I don’t. I don’t see it. And, believe me, I’ve looked.”

“You’re funny,” Raine laughed. “I like you. And I know you like me.” Charlie was yanked by a savage nicotine jones.

“Let’s go sit at the bar and wait for the other guy,” Charlie said.

“Make me,” Raine smiled. Charlie laughed and turned her around with a light hand on the top of her sleeveless arm. Walking straight down the dim corridor she hesitated and Charlie guided her on with a nudge at the base of her spine.

Danny returned, breathless, harried and carrying an envelope of fresh night air around him. He found them at the bar. Charlie had an ashtray in front of him holding three crushed butts and one burning. They both cradled drinks and talked with heads together.

“Hey, man. I didn’t know you smoked,” he greeted Charlie. “Hey, there,” he said to Raine. She handed him a receipt and a pen.

“Can you sign for your tab?” she asked.

“Oh sure, sorry. I just needed to, you know, get something from the car.” Danny said. He signed and handed Raine the receipt. She thanked him and left to close out the ticket.

“Did you tip her?” Charlie asked.

“Oh Shit!” Danny said spinning around to call her back but she was gone. “Oh. I forgot.”

“Did you find an ATM?”

“Man, how come you see those all over the place when you don’t need them and when you do there’s not one on the face of the freakin earth? So you two were looking cozy there.”

“Calm down. I didn’t steal your prom date. I just sat down to smoke. She’s clocked out.”

“Hey, why don’t we all go to dinner?”

“You’re nuckin futs.”

“Sure. Let’s ask if she’s got a girlfriend. We’ll pick her up and get some chow.”

“Well, first of all. See this,” said Charlie holding his tumbler of straw-colored, straight up liquor. “This is Glenfiddich and I can’t taste it because my mouth is completely reamed out by that hot sauce. I can’t feel my lips. I don’t even know if I’m drinking. I’m blowing my nose every two minutes.”

“Yea. That stuff is wild,” agreed Danny. “That is some shit. Wait a minute. Did you pick it up? I left that bottle on the table. Oh man! Don’t let them buss that table. I gotta get that bottle.”

“How much was the tab?” asked Charlie.

“You know, I don’t know. I didn’t even look. I was distracted,” Danny laughed.

“You always gotta look,” Charlie instructed.

Raine returned with her jacket and purse. She handed Danny a reciept.

“Here you go,“ She said.

“Thanks,“ Danny replied. He took a swift look at it, crumpled it and smashed it into his pocket.

“You left this on the table." Rain produced the box of hot sauce from beneath her folded jacket like a magic trick.

“Oh great! Thanks. Yes, and hey, I forgot to tip you,” said Danny, palming a thick folded square of hundreds into Raine's hand. She smiled and tucked the bills into the same fold that secreted the hot sauce.

“Say, listen. We were about to go get some dinner,“ Danny did a back and forth finger between Charlie and himself. “Would you like to join us?“ He did a circle finger to include the three of them. “You could bring a friend maybe?” he suggested and shrugged.

Raine looked from Charlie to Danny and then at the floor, smiling. “Let me see if I can get a forth. Be right back.”

“I’m really not up for this,” said Charlie.

“Oh sure you are. C’mon.” Danny opened the box of hot sauce and took out the little bottle and shook it with a vigor that claimed his entire torso. Grinning at Charlie, he opened the cap and tapped a drop directly on his tongue. On a count of one, he shut his eyes tight against the tears and bent over at the waist. With exquisite empathy, Charlie could imagine the effect. Danny straightened up and giggled that high pitch girly giggle that chilled Charlie’s blood. Danny placed the bottle on the marble bar top at Charlie’s elbow with a chink.

“Go,” he challenged Charlie. Charlie looked down at the little bottle. He was going to do it, there was no doubt. He just couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

Charlie picked up the little brown bottle and opened the cap. He leaned his head back, stuck out his tongue and carefully tapped out one dot with a light index finger. A sizemic eruption of pain shattered the mantle of his compure. Fissues opened and lava spewed into this brain. The flaming death of Pompeii. He seized in agony. But, more quickly this time, he found the avenue to detachment. A mantra vibrated in his cells and he slipped quickly into the safety space between cause and effect. The high was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It was ecstasy. Like winning the big game, like bagging the best girl, like taking the whole pot on a bluff.

“Hey. Charlie,” whispered Danny, “We’re gonna see some titty.”

“How old are you? Just wondering,” Charlie croaked.

“Twenty seven. How old are you?” Danny asked, offhand. He was reading hot sauce box again.

“Forty nine.”

“No shit.”

“I would not shit you.”

“You don’t look forty nine,” Danny said, not really looking.

“The hell I don’t.”

“Well, you don’t act forty nine.”

“Yes. I do. Most of the time. I do.”

“Did you read this?” asked Danny, holding up the box.

“Yes. I did. I read it to you.”

“Oh, duh,” laughed Danny.

“I just want to go home, now.”

“Kansas.”

“Sorry?” said Charlie.

“The peppers in this stuff. They come from Kansas.”

“No shit.”

“I would not shit you,” Danny said. He slipped the box into his jacket pocket.

Raine returned with a friend. She was a smidgen shorter than Raine, long brunette hair swept up in chignon, fastened with a chopstick. “This is Natalie. You were asking about her earlier so I thought I’d ask her to join us.”

“Hi,” said Natalie shaking hands around. “I could go for some dinner,” she said. “Think we could stop by my place so I could change? I just got off shift.”

“Why?” asked Danny with a charming smile. “You look great.” Natalie wore a straight knee length black skirt, white button down blouse and black, shiny, patent leather flats.

“Thanks. But these are work clothes. I’d like to maybe take a shower and change. It won’t take a minute and I live real close by.”

“It’s not a problem, is it fellas?” asked Raine.

“No, not a problem,” said Danny. “Are we all riding together? Well, actually, I can only fit two in my car. It’s an MG.”

“My car,” said Charlie with a sharp intake of air. “We can go in my car.”

“Maybe we should take separate cars,” suggested Raine.

“Sure, sure,” agreed Danny.

“Actually, why don’t we meet you there,” offered Raine.

“Sure,” said Danny. “Where? Where are we meeting?”

Natalie and Raine confered with a glance. “The Congo?” suggested Raine. “Do you know it? It’s a nice place. They have a great wine list. Do you like wine?”

“Love it,” said Danny.

“Excellent,” said Raine. “It’s on Forest Road past-”

“I know it,” Charlie interrupted.

“Great,” said Raine. “So we’ll meet you there in, well, no more than an hour.”

Leaving the restaurant, braced by the night chill, Charlie caught a second wind. Danny was springing along beside him but peeled off when he reached his car. Tucked between a Ford Explorer and a Nissan Pathfinder, it looked like a toy. A really nice toy.

“So this is your MG,” said Charlie. It was sweet. Top down and cherry red with shiny, leather seats and reflective chrome, all big mounds and curves like plump 1960's porn star.

“Ride with me, man.”

Of course he was going to. He couldn’t resist. It was an MG. He‘d always wanted an MG. Charlie made an If You Insist gesture and opened the passenger side of the convertible and sank into its seat.

“Hang on,” said Danny. He ignited the engine and slipped into reverse. Charlie’s hand reached reflexively for a shoulder strap but couldn’t find one. He slid his hand under his ass, looking for a belt.

“There are no seat belts, man. Sorry,” said Danny.

“How does it pass inspection?”

“Oh, it wouldn’t. No way. The immisions, no belts. No way it would pass,” said Danny.

“How are you driving it?” asked Charlie.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t much. It’s just hobby. I like working on it. I restored it. It mostly sits in the garage. I take it to shows sometimes.”

“What year is it?”

“Sixty two,” said Danny.

“Does the top go up?”

“Sure. But it would take a couple of hours,” laughed Danny. “And a couple more guys. And a top.” Charlie looked behind him, he had missed that detail. There was no top.

“I had to take if off when I had the body work done. That’s the next thing I’m going to work on. When I get the time. And the money.”

Danny started to pull out blind from between the minivans. Headlights struck the tail end of the MG and a horn blared. Danny applied the breaks. Charlie was thrown forward, his forehead inches from his knees. The approaching minivan, a Honda Odyssey, pulled past. “See, that’s the problem with driving this on the road. It’s like a Matchbox car compared to all these monster minivans. I can’t see shit. I usually drive my Jeep.” Danny eased the MG out. He came to a full stop at the intersection of the parking lot and the main road.

“You’re going to have to navigate, buddy. I don’t know where this place is,” said Danny.

“Why don’t I drive?” Charlie suggested.

“You want to drive? Oh, you want to drive my car?”

“Might be easier.”

“Okay. Sure,” Danny agreed. He shifted the MG into neutral and squeezed down the emergency break. He opened the driver’s side door, leaving it open and ran around the the front of the car. Charlie noted the missing car dialog, the ding-ding that signaled a driver fuck up. He supposed men in 1962 didn’t need the nagging car-wife that said, Your door’s open, Your lights are on, Your key’s in the ignition, Your seat belt’s unfastened. In fact, there was probably nothing on this car that gave you forewarning of impending fuck up. No signals that said, Better get some gas, The engine’s hot, Refill the freaking windshield wiper fluid, you looser. In fact, looking at the dash, Charlie noted there was no radio, no CD player, no tape player, no GPS. Just a glove box, where a man keeps his road map of the United States of America.

Danny froze midway around the front of the car. “Hey,” he yelled. “Deer in Headlights,” he mimed, eyes wide and terrified.

Charlie opened the passenger door and walked around the back end. Looking at the car from the back, it had a winged Venus look with both doors opened, crowned by lights. Charlie had a Flight of the Valkyrie feeling as he slipped in behind the wheel. Danny took the seat shotgun.

“She’s got some idiosyncrasies so let me tell you about them. The gas and break peddals are loose so you really have to mash. There is no second gear. She basically goes from first to third and she pulls slightly to the right, I don’t know what that’s all about, so you have to compensate with a little extra tug to the left. Otherwise, she drives real nice. Have fun.” Danny sat back in the passenger seat. “Hey, you know what, I’ve never been in this seat. Cool.”

Driving the MG wasn’t as much fun as Charlie thought it would be, as with most things. He hadn’t anticipated the wind chill factor at fify five miles an hour, with the top down the effect was minus twenty degrees. He lost feeling in his fingers.

“You need to fix that top,” Charlie yelled.

“I’ve been meaning to,” Danny anwered.

“I can’t feel my nose.”

“Here,” said Danny, handing Charlie the little brown bottle of hot sauce. “Warm you up good.“ Charlie accepted it but handed it back.

“Can you overdose on this stuff,” he asked.

Danny opened the cap and tossed a drop on his tongue so the answer came after a spasm of whooping and air sucking.

“Maybe,” he said. “In a laboratory situation. If you were really trying to. Hell, guys in my frat used to pour this stuff out into a shot glass and chug it.”

“You ever?” asked Charlie.

“Oh hell no. Too pussy,” answerd Danny. “Of course, they’d miss the next three days of classes sitting on the crapper in total agony. But nobody ever died.”

“THEY JUST WANTED TO,” said Charlie and Danny in unison, laughing. Charlie reached for the open bottle and knocked out a drop into his open mouth. The pain seared through his sinues like a ten car pile up on the freeway. The pain burst into flame and exploded and didn’t subside. The pain detoured and found new avenues of torture, shocking Charlie with every agonizing twist and turn. Charlie had lost his directions to euphonia. He tried to breathe past it. But the air through his nostrils just formed a stiff, icy crust over the burn, trapping it in, forcing it to find even more ingenious ways to annihilate him. The pain snaked like a flame on a gas spill further and further through his face, down his chest, out his arms, through his fingers like laser beams that disrupt aircraft. Charlie veered off road, mouth sputtering, eyes and snot running. He tried to stop the MG, stomping on the break in total body rigor but the MG continued to roll for what seemed like an eternity. Charlie steered the sports car through its mindless zombie progress, turning right, then left, into an empty parking lot and back out again, finally rolling to an exhausted stop on the shoulder at a deserted intersection, pointing in the opposite direction to where they were headed. Charlie squeezed his eyes against the flood of tears and raging, rogue pain.

“You didn’t tell me I had to stop this thing like Fred Flinstone!” Charlie yelled.

“I said the break was loose, man. I said you had to mash,” Danny screeched in his high pitched giggle.

“Yeah. You did not say there was only a fifty-fifty chance of actually stopping. Ever! Hand me a hankie.”

“A hankie?” Danny cackled. “Oh shit, my mommy forgot to give me one this morning.”

“Dick head.”

Danny answered with revved laughter.

“Well, that’s settled. You can’t work for me,” Charlie said, grinding the transmission into neutral.

“Why? Because I don’t carry a hankie?”

The two writhed in the MG’s bucket seats in hysterics for several minutes. They snorted and spewed body fluids, rubbed their stinging lips and laughed. Parked on the roadside, idling, an arial view of the two men in the convertible would tell an odd story. That’s why the police helicopter stalled over them, turning on a spotling that haloed the parked car and it’s occupants, singling it out, freezing them in space and time and making the beyond impenetrably darker. A disembodied voice crackled through a speaker that disorganized the sound, making the words blur like a bus station announcement.

“Driver of the red sports car,” it said. “What’s the trouble?”

Charlie looked behind him and up. All he could see was the transporting light of an alien abduction. Charlie had never encountered a police helecopter before. He didn’t even know the city had them. He had never seen them on the news. Sure, he’d seen traffic helicopters and medical emergency helicopters, even news helicopters but never a police helicopter. Charlie tried to visualize what they must look like to the helicopter, solo on the roadside. He tried to think of what the correct response would be. What was the communication protocol between buglike driver and omniscient police helicopter? Was it hand signals? Should he get out of the car and signal the all’s-well? What would that look like? What was the universal hand signal for No Problem Here Officer? Should he simply start the engine and move away, assume the normal motorist behavior and disregard the question.

“Wave,” said Danny, twisting in his seat to look skyward and wave like a parade float princess.

“Driver. Cut your engine and wait for the trooper,” the voice instructed. The light snapped off and the helicopter turned and flew away. Charlie cut the engine. They sat in stunned silence. The police helicopter sucked off all the street noise leaving only the slicing of propellers through the night sky. Then they heard the traffic light at the deserted intersection switch from red to green. A light rain began to fall.

“What do you think you’d blow, man?” asked Danny, releasing the sound vacuum.

“What?” Charlie whispered. The traffic light ticked from green to yellow.

“How many beers did you have? I had maybe six. No five. No six.”

Charlie sat unresponsive, the whole impossible day coming back to him in a litany of indefensible actions. He stared at his hands, ten and two on the wheel, tinted red from the stoplight .

The extravagant choice of restaurant for an employee lunch.
The uncharacteristic decision to drink in the middle of the day.
The unexpected attraction to the hostess.
The wildly disrespectful and inappropriate proposition.
The delicious but terrifying flirting in the lavatory hallway.
The shocking encounter with the police.
And the pain and the ecstasy and the pain.

“What are you doing?” asked Danny as Charlie ignited the engine.

“Fuck it,” said Charlie.

“We’re suppose to wait,” Danny warned.

“We did,” said Charlie, peeling off through the intersection as the traffic light switched to green.

“Now we’re leaving.”

“Oh, shit,” said Danny. “I suppose that’s an executive decision, boss? You don’t want to maybe wait for the board to come in on that one?”

“Fuck it,” Charlie repeated.

Charlie took back roads and a circuitous route from the site of their celestial traffic stop to The Congo. He drove ten to fifteen miles over the speed limit after the dash lights flickered and snuffed out, killing the speedometer.

“Dammit,” said Danny. “Fuse.”

They rolled into The Congo parking lot, taking a speed bump in stride. Charlie’s body jackknifed trying to stop the MG but he had too much speed. The car jumped the concrete partition between parking spots and lodged when the back tires hit it. Charlie snapped off the engine and threw open the car door. He crossed the lot and entered the restaurant like Clyde Barrow entered the Bank of Alma. He brushed past the approaching hostess and went straight to the bar. He didn’t even notice when Danny had joined him. He didn’t come up for air until he’d swallowed three forths of his scotch and sucked up half a ciggerette.

“This is a nice place,” Danny said, taking in the décor. The Congo theme was tastefully executed with intimate seating tucked into alcoves of live palms, ferns and rubber plants. The style was Hemmingway with sensual animal hides and wood. There were several fireplaces blazing and the walls were studded with mounted wild game trophies, a rino, a gazelle, a zebra, an antelope. The restaurant logo was a gecko. Inconspicuous, it was on everything, crawling on the corner of the cocktail napkin, etched on the surface of his glass. It was enlayed in the marble bar top. Charlie turned without comment and took his drink and smoke to the leather couch by the fire.

“Are you okay? Are you pissed?” Danny asked. “So when the girls get here, how…”

He was going to say, How long do you think it will be before we see titty? Which one do you want, Raine or Natalie? Of course, Danny would prefer Raine. She was obviously superior. But she seemed, oh, what to you call women when they’re smart and beautiful. Oh yeah, complex. Natalie seemed easier. It would all work out, though, after titty. But Danny didn’t get to say any of this because Charlie said, “How nieve are you?”

“Sorry?”

“We will never see those women again.”

“Why not?”

“Dufus, she’s got your money. You gave her the money. Didn’t you. So why the hell would she come out here?”

“I don’t know, man. To eat?” Danny pouted. “And I’d prefer to think I’m trusting. Not nieve.” Charlie said nothing. “I can see your point,“ Danny said. “But I hope you’re wrong.” The men drank in silence.

“You really think I’m out five hundred,” Danny asked.

“You’re out five hundred whether they show up or not.”

“No, no, if they show up, I made a purchase. If they don’t show up I’m out five hundred.”

“It was just a joke. I didn’t think you’d actually pay it.”

“Oh hell, I’ve dropped five hundred one night at a titty bar. Haven’t you? By the time you sit down, have a drink, you’ve dropped a hundred. By the end of the night you’ve dropped what? Five-six hundred?

“What’s the point?”

“Like you haven’t.”

“To see tits?”

“Oh, Charlie! Man, when’s the last time you been to a titty bar? Ever been to a really nice titty bar? Where all the girls are law students or majoring in pre-med. With Gold’s gym hard bodies and great dance moves. Working the pole like world class gymnasts. And the lap dances, don’t get me started! I’ve seen chicks getting lap dances. Titillation is transgender, man. The female form is uni-salacious”

“I went to titty bars in the seventies. The dancers lived in trailer parks. They were sluts and had real bodies.”

“OH,” says Danny. “Now, I may be nieve but you, man, you’re,” Danny made a humorous disgusted face, shaking his head, “you’re…..judge-MEN-TAL.” Charlie had to laugh.

“Where’s the titillation? Charlie asked. “The new bodies are all augmented to perfection or hyperbolie-”

“Hyperbolie. Good word,” Danny complimented, toasting his drink.

“It’s all sanitized. Homogenized. Advertized.”

“Were you a hippie?” Danny asked.

“I’d like a cigar. They have a cigar bar here,” Charlie said, grabbing his scotch and rocking to his feet. He weaved though the ferns and leather settees to the cordon demarcating the cigar bar from the rest of the restaurant.

Charlie found an empty table for two in a corner of the cigar bar and ordered a Montecristo. Danny ordered a Romeo y Julieta on Charlie’s suggestion. They each ordered a cognac. The cigar bar was darker than the cocktail bar, infused with the umber of tobacco. The glass display of the walk-in humidor provided the only illumination. The contents kept at the perfect temperature and humidity by computerized environmental controls. The cigars cuddled safely inside like incubated babies. Occasionally the business end of cigars would glow on inhalation like red fireflies in the dusk, the smoke whisked away by a clever exhaust system. All this technology couched in a lush tropical context. All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace.

“Whassat, man?” asked Danny.

“What?” said Charlie.

“Something about machines?”

Had he said that out loud? He hadn’t realized.

“All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace was a poem by Richard Brautigan written in 1967. He envisioned the computer age long before it existed. In his vision, computer technology was a way to free human beings to return to a simpler time, in harmony with nature, a part of the ecosystem. It was integrated and benign. In actuality the cyber age is porn sites and hate sites and lewd chat rooms. It’s isolating, incubating and festering. Feeding every fetish that should never see the light of day. The worst of society rising to the surface. Remember that story about the teenager who committed suicide after spending months holed up in his room, eating junk food an playing a computer game?”

“Hey, Jerry Garcia, you are so bumming me out right now. See, right now, you know what you need? Titty.”

When the cigars were served, the waiter asked if they wanted them punched or cut. They both chose cut and, with ceremony, the server pierced the tobacco cap with the guillotine and slowly rotated the cigar until he removed only half the cap, leaving the half the curve of the cap intact, thus not destroying the construction of the cigar.

“I collect these. Cigars,” Charlie said as he rolled his Montecristo in his lips with suction and spewed an eruption of smoke into the air between them. “ I have a humidor at home with Cubans maintained at a perfect 70% since the embargo.”

“No shit,” said Danny.

“I would not shit you,” said Charlie.

“Is that your favorite, the Montecristo?” asked Danny, choking a little and wincing against the smoke.

“Nope,” replied Charlie. “My favorite is the Cohiba Corona Chrystal. The wrapper leaf is grown in Cameroon especially for Cohiba and the Piloto Cubano filler leaves are grown in the Dominican Republic. Castro created it for himself. They only came to the open market in 1985. I have a box of them in my humidor at home.”

“I’ve never been into tobacco much,” said Danny, laying his cigar aside to sip his cognac.

“The best drink with a good cigar, in my opinion, is a demitasse of esspresso.”

“You go, man. Very European.”

“To answer your question, yes, I was a hippie.”

“Were you at Woodstock?”

“Woodstock was in 1969. I was thirteen.”

“Sorry.”

“But I read about it in Life Magazine.” They both laughed. “I clipped the pictures of half naked chicks. But I was sixteen during Watergate. Those days, you were in love with the homecoming queen but you were titillated by her mother with sagging breasts and baggy hot pants, smoking mentholated cigarettes and drinking bourbon sours. Hey, you know who was a good employee?” Charlie asked rhetorically. “Rose Mary Woods. Nixon’s secretary. She just died. Eighteen and a half minutes of tape.”

“Pardon?”

“She erased eighteen and a half minutes of tape crucial to the Watergate investigation. The conversation between Nixon and Halderman discussing how much Nixon knew about the break-in at Democratic headquarters. She was transcribing the tape and she erased it.”

“Ohhh, no shit” said Danny, “To protect her boss. I get it.”

“She and Nixon were very simpatico. They’d been together since the fifies. She was very competent, high-speed skills, devoutly loyal, very disciplined yet passionate. Very descreet. Very…loyal.”

“Hey, Charlie,” said Danny, ‘You know what we have here. A generation gap, man. ‘Cause I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.”

“Uhm, Fawn Hall? Oliver North’s secretary. Obstructed official investigations, altering, destroying, and removing official Iran/Contra-related documents from the White House. She shredded a one and a half foot pile of documents. What she couldn’t shred she hid, inside her boots, inside the back of her skirt.

"That's kind of sexy. She was good-looking, too, wasn’t she?" Danny asked.

"This says something about Republican team building skills, I think," Charlie continued. "Democrats only get skanks like Monica Lewinsky and Linda Tripp. They must not know how to hire.”

“Technically, technically Linda Tripp worked for Bush before she worked for Clinton. So, therefore, technically, she could still have been a good employee. But for the Republicans. You forgot Betty Currie, Clinton’s secretary. She was loyal.”

“Good point.”

“Charlie, are you a misogynist?”

“Damn good word, Danny.” Charlie toasted with his cognac.

“Yeah. A chick called me that once so I had to look it up.”

“To the dictionary,” toasted Charlie.

“To the dictionary,” Danny agreed.

“Misandrist.”

“Whassat?” asked Danny.

“The female equivilent. The hatred of men. Rarely used. I wonder why.”

“Because…men…would…have…to…lookitup?” asked Danny.

“…probably,” Charlie laughed. Danny suddenly lurched in paroxysms of high pitched giggles.

“Oh, damn. That tickles,” he said, removing a device from his pants pocket and laying it on the table. It was a round disc with an orbit of red lights blinking on the perimeter, like a tiny flying saucer. It vibrated on the table top shaking the glasses and ashtray, rolling out Danny’s extinguished Romeo y Julieta.

“Our party is on, Top Cat,“ Danny said. “And our table is ready.”

Charlie concealed his surprise with regret at having to leave his cigar. Danny led the way to the hostess who was cute but a far cry from the cool elegance of Raine.

“My beeper went off,” Danny said, passing the tiny flying saucer to the hostess.

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Your party’s arrived. They’re seated at your table. Jocelyn will take you.”

Danny and Charlie followed their seater, Jocelyn, on a meandering route through the dining area. The décor was so artful they were hardly aware of other diners. Spotting them made Charlie feel like Dian Fossey finding gorillas in the mist. Their table was situated in a grouping of palms and cycads. A staghorn fern hung from the trunk of a guava tree. A bromeliad’s red flower stalk exploded against a lattice of ferns. Raine sat in a high backed chair with brown leather cushions hammered with bass tacks into a teak wood frame. Natalie sat beside her. Danny and Charlie were offered seats opposite the women. The tablecloth was white linen with the restaurant logo woven into the fabric. The men were surprised by the change in the women. Obviously both had decided to dress for dinner which accounted for the wait. Natalie wore her hair down, straight and parted on the side with a slight flip at the ends. Her tube sarong was a vibrant, floral batik and she wore coral beads at her neck and wrist. She sucked on the tiny straw of a sweet drink, the kind with a toothpick of citrus fruit and an umbrella. Raine wore a cheongsam of navy silk with cherry blossom brocade. Her short, blonde hair just touched the high mandarin collar. The dress had a frog clasp on the shoulder and cap sleeves. Natalie flashed a smile. Raine lifted her gimlet in a toast.

“The gang’s all here,” she said.

“Glad you could make it,” said Danny. Charlie sat without speaking.

“You smell like cigars,” Natalie said.

“Yeah, we should go wash up,” Danny said. “Charlie?”

“I’m fine,” Charlie replied, opening his menu.

“That’s okay. I like cigars,” Raine said and Natalie agreed.

The waiter came for the men’s drink order and recited the specials. Danny ordered a beer. The women, another of the same.

“Any single malt scotch would be fine,” Charlie said.

“Yes, sir. What age?” asked the waiter.

“Damn, Charlie. Are you getting carded?” Danny joked and the women laughed. The good natured waiter smiled.

“No, sir. The scotch. How aged would you like it? Our single malts range in age from ten to fifty years old,” said the waiter.

“You have a fifty year old scotch?” Charlie asked.

“Yes sir. Macallan Millennium,” the waiter replied. “Would you care to try it this evening?”

“Just out of curiosity,” said Danny. “What would that sell for?”

“That drink sells for five hundred, sir.”

“For the bottle,” said Danny.

“No sir,” the waiter laughed, “for a one and a half ounce serving.”

Danny whistled in amazement and the woman giggled. ‘You gotta really love scotch, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Any twelve year old will be fine,” said Charlie. “Surprise me.”

As the waiter left to fetch drinks, Raine said, “I had it once.” The table was stunned. “I came here for dinner with some Japanese businessmen, once. They didn’t speak a word of English and smoked Marlboros all through the meal. They bought the whole bottle and drank it for dessert.”

“Was it worth the money?” Danny asked.

“I’m not sure how to answer that. For me, I’m not a big scotch drinker so I would not perceive the price as worth it. But prices are set by strategies. You can cost out a price, price competitively, price by position. To the average consumer, say not a big scotch drinker, the price seems high. I bet, if you ask the owners, the gross margin doesn’t return much on investment. It’s probably considered a novelty item. One that contributes more to the overall value of the bar merchandise because it sets the high end really high…”

“Wait a minute, hold up,” Danny interrupted. “Are you like a CEO?”

Raine laughed, “I have an MBA from Duke.”

“Does that qualify you to work as a hostess at The Marina?” Charlie asked.

“I was marketing director for a micro-fibers manufacturing firm until last year. I was downsized. This is the only work I could find.”

“Don’t mind Charlie,” Danny apologized, “He didn’t mean anything by that.”

“I don’t mind. It pays the bills. But sometimes I miss it. Commerce is not a dull as it may seem. There’s strategy and negotiation, emotions and even a bit of augury.”

“Whassat?” asked Danny.

“Reading the future,” Charlie answered.

“Human interaction can be said to be commerce between people. Transactions.” Raine continued. “That interesting proposition you made earlier, for example,” she said to Charlie. Danny shot a warning glance. “That’s okay. Natalie knows about it,” said Raine.

“Good for a laugh?” asked Charlie.

“On the contrary. Natalie was intrigued. She was wondering if she could get in on the deal.”

The men looked at Natalie, who pulled back a curtain of chestnut hair to tuck behind her ear. Lips pursed around her drink straw, the corners of her mouth curled in an elfin grin. Her eyes took a slow motion blink.

“Only if it’s two for the price of one,” Danny laughed.

“You haven’t heard the details,” said Raine. “Tell them.”

“I have a piercing,” said Natalie. “It’s a little south of Raine’s.”

“Navel?” asked Danny.

“Further south,” said Natalie whispered.

“South of the navel?” said Danny in astonishment. Charlie’s curiosity was peaked as well. He wasn’t as attracted to Natalie but the novelty of her attraction superceded that.

“Stud or ring?” asked Danny.

“Stud,” replied Natalie.

“Would you excuse us for a minute? My friend and I, we have to have a conference.” The women laughed as Danny leaned in to speak to Charlie behind a menu. “South of the navel. You ever seen that? In real life, I mean?”

“I have not.”

“Me neither.”

“Can I ask a personal question?” Danny asked Natalie. “Isn’t it, well, painful?”

“When I first had it done it was, a little. But it was worth it.”

“What’s the point?” Charlie asked Natalie, point-blank. “I mean, aside from being decorative and rare, is it functional?”

“Well, the point,” Natalie said, “ is stimulation. It’s very functional.” The women tittered.

“Price?” asked Charlie.

“Seven,” Natalie quoted.

“Ouch. That’s high,” said Danny.

“Non-negotiable,” said Natalie.

Charlie scanned the faces at the table and took a sip of his water, returning his glass to the table precisely inside the ring it had left on the table cloth.

“I don’t believe your claim,” Charlie said.. “I don’t think it works.”

“Oh, it’s true,” said Raine. “For a woman, it reduces time-to-climax to ten, fifteen minutes tops.”

“I’m skeptical,” said Charlie.

“For real,” said Natalie.

“We would have to have a demo,” said Charlie.

Natalie looked at Raine who shrugged with a smile.

“No problem,” said Natalie.

Danny looked at Charlie with something like awe. “You are my hero, man.”

“Your call,” Charlie said to Danny.

“S’cuse us,” said Danny, raising a one-minute finger to the women and leaning in to Charlie. “I might be a little tapped, buddy. Can you spring?” Charlie fluffed his napkin and repositioned it in his lap. The waiter returned with drinks.

“We’ll think about it over dinner,” Charlie told the women. “Could you repeat the specials?” he asked the waiter who recited them again for Charlie to ignore. He pretended to read the menu but nothing about tonight was coming into focus. Sure, it was a good deal. The scent of Raine sitting next to him under a spray of phalaenopsis orchids was distracting. He was drunk. He needed to eat. He needed some real food, some starch. Something meat and potato-like. He wished he’d driven his own car. He wished he’d requested the smoking section. He wished he’d taken advantage of the private show in the lavatory hallway. That was three wishes.

“Would you like to look at the wine list?” the waiter asked.

“I would,” answered Raine. The waiter handed over a book. A look passed between them. Was that an exchange, Charlie wondered? Maybe it wasn’t a look but it was some kind of commerce. He wondered why he was sensitive to it. Normally, that kind of thing passed him by. Maybe it wasn’t a look. Maybe he was having some sort of mammalian reaction to a pheromone. The waiter, while courteous and accommodating was imposing with his handsomeness. It was irritating. Charlie preferred the days when wait staff remained anonymous. They didn't introduce themselves and state their function. They used to be hands that brought the food devoid of personality, history, context. They used to be waiters and waitresses, now they were servers. Hello my name is Niomi and I'll be your server today. But this waiter had not said his name, had he?

“Take your time, enjoy your cocktails,” the waiter said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The waiter left behind another round of drinks including a mystery scotch for Charlie. It sat two fingers neat, the color of wheat.

“What kind of wine does everyone like?” asked Raine. “And please don’t be offended if I don’t really care.”

“I’m not offended. I’m glad you’re taking charge of that,” said Danny, struggling with the menu which seemed to have way too many categories. Charlie lifted his mystery drink but set it down again to read his menu.

“This is my thing. I love wine. How does everyone feel about German wines.”

“Do you care?” asked Danny.

“Not really,” Raine replied.

Nothing simple was appearing on the menu for Charlie. The entrees squirmed on the page in front of a gecko watermark. He patted his breast pocket for his reading glasses but didn’t feel them. He lifted his drink again but only held it as he tried to remember the last place he had his glasses. Did he bring them from work? Yes. He wore them to read the box of hot sauce at the table in The Marina. Did he leave them there? Must have.

“How’s your scotch, man?” Danny asked Charlie. “What did he bring you?”

“Actually, I don’t know. I haven’t tried it.”

“Do you think you could guess what it is?” asked Raine.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I bet you could,” said Danny. “Go on, taste it.”

Charlie lifted the glass, smelled the aroma and set it down again.

“What do you think?” asked Danny.

“I don’t know,” Charlie replied. “I could guess.”

“We could all guess,” Danny suggested. “Lemme see.” He lifted Charlie’s drink glass and sniffed. “Hmmm. You mind?”

“Help yourself,” Charlie said. Danny took a small sip and smacked it between his lips and nodded. “I'll take a guess. Raine? You want in on this?”

“Why not.” Danny passed the mystery drink to Raine. She sampled the nose and took a sip, curling her tongue around it, breathing through it. “Okay,” she said and passed the glass to Natalie.

“I really don’t know that much about scotch,” she complained but sipped it and swallowed.

“Okay, okay. Let’s all make a guess,” said Danny.

“I’d say-” Raine started.

“Wait, hold up. Charlie didn’t drink. Charlie take a sip, man.”

The glass sat at the center of the table. Danny passed it to Charlie with five fingers around the lip rim. Charlie accepted the glass, five fingers on the base. Two colors of lipstick imprinted the rim. Charlie raised the glass to scope through it. The remaining scotch encapsulated the table and diners like Andres Serrano’s Piss Christ.

“Taste it, man.”

Charlie knocked back what was left in the glass.

“What’s your guess,” Raine asked?

“Wait, hold up. Let’s write down our guesses,“ Danny suggested, miming a scribble in the air. “How do you get the waiter? Garcon,” Danny barked, raising his arm and snapping his fingers. “What’s his name?”

“John,” said Raine and Natalie together.

“Did he say his name,” asked Charlie?

“No, actually, he didn’t. He probably should have but he didn’t,” said Natalie.

“You know him?” asked Charlie.

“Yes. He works at The Marina,” said Natalie. “Good wait staff work between restaurants. If they’re flexible, they can pull all the good shifts.”

“Are you?” asked Charlie. “Flexible?”

“Sure.” Natalie replied. “I pick up shifts sometimes.”

“You ever work here?” Danny asked.

“Sure,” said Natalie.

John appeared from the brush. “Are you ready to order?”

“No. John. We were wondering if we could borrow a pen and paper. We need to make some notes.”

“Sure, I’ll get that for you.”

“Can’t we just use yours?” asked Danny.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have a pen and paper on me. But I’ll get it for you.”

“Okay, said Danny. “Hold up, John. How do write down orders if you don’t carry a pen and paper?

“I remember.”

“You’re kidding. You must have a great memory. If I gave you a string of twenty random words could you remember them?” Danny asked.

“Probably not,” John smiled and shook his head.

“So how do you remember our orders?” ask Danny.

“I don’t know. I just do.” John smiled. “I guess because I’m familiar with the menu.”

“Oh, okay. Hey, John. How come you didn’t say hello to your colleagues?” Danny asked, indicating the two women at the table. “You do know them, right?

“Yes. Hi, Natalie. Hi, Raine.”

“Hi, John,” the women replied, briefly looking up from their menus. Nevertheless, Charlie detected a tenderness.

“John, we’re guessing the brand of the scotch you chose for our friend and we want to write down our guesses.” Danny explained.

“Sounds like fun,” John said.

“So if we guess it right, our meal is on the house, right?” Danny joked.

“Uhm, probably not,” John demurred. “But I could arrange something worthy of a good guess.” John left to get pen and paper, promising to return shortly.

“What’s John’s last name?” asked Charlie.

“Pullman,” said Natalie.

“Do you work together a lot?” Charlie asked.

“Pretty much,” said Natalie. Danny hunkered in to have an offline conversation with Natalie. Charlie spoke to Raine behind the screen of his menu.

“So he’s a good waiter?” Charlie asked.

“Yes. He’s a very good waiter,” replied Raine, looking through the wine list.

Lowering his menu, Charlie said, “I bet you requested his table when you came in.”

“Yes, we did,” admitted Raine.

Charlie patted his pockets again for his glasses, then remembered he didn’t have them. John returned with a pen and a pad of Post Its and handed them to Danny.

“Good luck,” he said.

“Any hints?” asked Danny.

“Uhm. It’s Scottish,” John replied.

“Hey, thanks,” Danny laughed.

“Can I bring you anything to start?” John asked.

“That would be good.” Rain rattled off an order of appetizers and John nodded, without writing any of it down.

“Sounds good. Would you like to order a wine?” John asked.

Raine closed the wine list and handed it to John. “House white will be fine thanks, John.” John accepted the wine list and left. Charlie and Danny looked at Raine with some surprise.

“I thought wine was your thing. I thought you were going to order something great and foreign and affect some phony-baloney accent," Danny said.

“The house wine is great and forgive me for ordering the appetizers. We didn’t seem to be making much progress so I,” Raine smiled at Danny, “took charge of it. Hope you don’t mind. I think you’ll like what I ordered.”

“No, thanks. Actually, damn, that’s pretty sexy. What do you think, Charlie? Sexy?”

“You bet. Excuse me. I’m going to grab a smoke.” Charlie said, rising. He folded his napkin and left it on the seat of his chair, under his menu. He tried to retrace his steps to the bar but had to ask the wait staff for directions. At one point, he met up with John leaving another table of diners.

“Can I help you?” John offered.

“I’m just going to grab a smoke," Charlie demurred.

“I can reseat you in the smoking section."

“No. That’s fine. The rest of the party doesn’t smoke."

“Natalie smokes. I thought,” John said, puzzled.

“Really? I haven’t seen her smoke."

“Oh. Maybe she quit."

“Smart," Charlie said.

Charlie sat at the bar and lit up. The bartender greeted him with a coaster and an ashtry. “What can I get you?”

“Scotch,” Charlie ordered. “Twelve year old, single malt. Your choice.”

Charlie watched the bartender grab the neck of a bottle and point the silver beak into a rocks glass. Charlie smoothed his hand down his breast pocket looking for his glasses but they still weren’t there. He squinted and tried to read the label upside down. His assumption was that John would have left the scotch selection to the bartender. The bartender poured by count, two fingers neat and sat the glass on top of the gecko on the coaster. It was a generous pour. “On your tab, sir?” he asked.

“No. I’ll get it,” Charlie said and laid a twenty on the bar. He slammed the drink and sucked up the rest of his smoke and left the change. Making it back to the table was tricky. Charlie was hammered. He nearly passed it but Danny hailed him.

“Hey, buddy. Whoa, whoa. Look, bread,” Danny held up a basket.

Charlie sat and helped himself to a hot roll, speared it with his knife and smeared a pat of soft butter on the steaming center. It melted on contact. Charlie ate that one and then another and hoped John would return with another basket quickly. John did return but with a tray of appetizers. He opened his folding tray stand tableside and parked the appetizers, Bruschetta and dried Black Mission Figs, grilled in olive oil with Prosciutto and Mozzarella. He placed a tray in the center of the table, a couple dozen raw oysters on the half shell situated on a bed of rock salt, arranged cleverly as if they'd washed up on shore.

“I’ll come back and serve the others when you’ve finished your oysters. Any thoughts on what you might like to follow?” The diners scrambled for their menus, except for Charlie.

“You know, John,” said Charlie. “I don’t actually know what’s on the menu because I seem to have lost my glasses. But if you would just bring me a Ceasar salad, steak medium rare and a baked potato, I’ll be happy. And more bread."

“Absolutely,” said John.

Raine ordered a baby arrugula salad with balsamic vinaigrette followed by the tenderloin medallions with portebello creamed potatoes. Natalie, a mixed greens salad and duck confit with blood oranges, lentils and endive. Danny ordered a Cobb salad and the lamb with red wine garlic sauce and cassolet beans.

John nodded with each order but wrote nothing down. Charlie ached to quiz him but knew it would just piss off the women.

“I’ll be right back with your wine,” John said and left the table.

Danny reached into his coat pocket and brought out the box of hot sauce.

“Nothing better on oysters,” he said, opening the box, he pried out the bottle. Danny picked out an oyster and tapped a drop of hot sauce on the flesh which bled off and mingled with the juice in the shell. He tilted the shell and swallowed up juice and flesh without chewing. The table waited for his reaction. Danny held his head down, as if in prayer for a moment and then raised it with a smile on his wet lips.

“Delicious. Try it,” he said, placing the bottle in the center of the table. Raine picked up.

“You know you guys are crazy. The whole restaurant was watching you all afternoon. Even the kitchen staff took turns to come out to get a load of you two."

"That's a controlled substance," said Natalie.

"Have you ever tried it?" asked Danny, wiping his eyes and nose with his napkin. "You've got to."

The women exchanged game looks and finally tilted their heads in a what-the-hell gesture. Natalie chose an oyster and set it on her plate. Accepting the small bottle of hot sauce from Danny, she tipped a drop onto the belly of the oyster and handed the bottle to Raine.

"Here goes," she said, sucking up the slippery flesh. In a moment her eyes began to water and she pushed away from the table wringing her hands. Natalie's features contorted in a red mask of agony as she puffed and whistled, then opened her mouth wide in a wrenching moan. She snatched her linen napkin from her lap and held it to her mouth while reflexively reaching for her water glass, eyes squeezed tight against the tears. Danny tore off a bite of hot roll and iced it with a thick layer of butter.

"Here," he said. "This will help."

Natalie chased the oyster with the bread, chewed, and slowly began to calm down, her lips still red and swelling. Danny laughed and faked a punch to Natalie's bicep.

"Pow," he said. "That'll put your lights out. Hot?"

Natalie could speak yet but nodded in agreement.

"More," she begged with mouth open and Danny buttered her another bite of bread. Her tears laid a track of black mascara down her checks. Danny dipped a corner of his napkin in his water glass, held Natalie's chin and doctored her face.

For the first time, Charlie noticed the cocktail glasses were gone and each setting now had an empty white and red wine glass along with a full, sweating glass of water. He couldn't say when that had happened.

John returned with the wine. He went directly to Raine and held the bottle for her approval. With a nod from Raine and holding the bottle with one hand, John cut the foil with a waiter's tool, screwed the helix into the cork and popped it, all in fluid mid-air motion. He placed the cork beside Raine's bread plate, where it laid untouched. He poured out an inch of buttery white wine for Raine to sample and stood back.

"The Source," John said from foliage behind Raine. "Are you strong enough to face the challenge," he quoted the box from memory.

"Have you tried it?" asked Danny.

Raine held her glass by the stem and swirled the liquid in the bowl to check its legs. She nosed the wine and then sipped it.

"Oh yeah, it's great on eggs," John replied.

"You guys are twisted," said Natalie, still recovering.

Raine returned her empty wine glass to the table. "It's fine, John. Thanks," she said. "Pour lightly, please." Starting with the women, John circled the table clockwise then counterclockwise, pouring the wine.

"Did you all make your guesses on the scotch?" John asked, pouring only about three fingers into each glass. Pour Lightly obviously meant Don't Pour Full Glasses.

Charlie now noticed the pieces of paper at each setting. They had all made their guesses in his absence. Each diner's hazard lay tightly folded in front of them like fortunes from a cookie.

"No," said Danny. "Charlie, you need to write down your guess." He passed Charlie the pad of Post Its and the pen. Charlie chose an oyster, drank it down and sipped his wine.

"Very nice," he commented. "What is this?"

"It's a Batard Montrachet," answered Raine.

"It's good," Charlie said.

"This one's too young. But a mature vintage would be way too expensive. Anyway, you get the picture. Even mature, it's never going to be a 'nice' wine. It's a great wine but it's not charming."

"Now, explain that. I love it when you wine people talk," Danny laughed.

"The Batard is a big wine," Raine described. "It's not civilized or cultured. Some call it 'backwards' because it's undisciplined and emotional. It's one of the greatest white wines in the world."

"Batard," Danny read from the label. "Is that French for bastard?"

"Yes," Raine answered.

"It is! I was kidding. But it really is?" Danny laughed.

"Legend goes that originally the three vineyards of Montrachet belonged to one vigneron who divided it between his sons, like King Lear. He gave one section to his youngest son who was chivalrous, that became known as Chevalier Montrachet. Its wines are rich, noble, elegant, pure. He gave another section to his bastard son, Batard Montrachet. Its wines are racy, bold and headstrong, full of fruit and minerals. The center section, he gave to his eldest son because it showed the best qualities from both Chevalier and Batard. Those wines have the perfect combination of richness and acidity, fruit and finesse and are simply known as Le Montrachet."

"Cool," Danny remarked.

Holding a half eaten roll, Charlie used a finger to push back the cuff of his shirt to read the time but his watch was missing. The loss didn't register. Somehow there where three empty oyster shells on his plate. He was occupied with eating and trying to straighten up, trying to follow the conversation. Trying to lose the image of Natalie with stinging, swollen lips moaning in agony. Something about a bastard. Could that be right? Something about King Lear? What the hell was she talking about? Smarty pants. What do you call women who are smart and beautiful oh yea complex. Charlie laughed at his own inner dialog and then realized he'd laughed out loud. His table companions waited for an explanation.

"Sorry, sorry. Something Danny said earlier. 'What do you call women who are beautiful and smart? Complex." He laughed again and placed a compatriot hand on Danny's shoulder. Danny looked at him quizzically.

"I never said that," Danny contradicted.

"Sure you did. You can admit it. It's not insulting," Charlie said.

"No, it's not. It's just that I never said it," Danny insisted, slurping a wet oyster.

"Yes. We were sitting in the bar, by the fire, waiting for the ladies."

"You mean when you were all in that funk thinking that they weren't going to show up?" Danny smirked.

"Why did you think we weren’t going to show up?" Raine asked.

"He thought you were going to, you know," Danny lowered his voice. "Take the money and then, you know, not show up."

"Well that's insulting," said Raine.

"No," said Charlie, raising his hands as if at gunpoint.

"Here we were getting all dressed up in a mad rush and you were here thinking we weren't going to show?" Natalie pouted.

"Not me," Danny defended, pointing to himself. "I had complete trust."

"Shut up," said Charlie.

"Charlie was a hippie," Danny laughed.

"Okay," Charlie said, wiping his mouth with his palm and brushing the crumbs from hands and readjusting defensively in his seat. "Lagavulin."

"What?" Danny asked.

"That's my guess," Charlie said, palms down on either side of his plate. "On the scotch. Lagavulin. Let's see who's right." Charlie twisted yoga-style in his chair, one way and then the other, looking around for John, not sure when he'd left the table. This exercise must have signaled on the secret waiter radar because John appeared.

"I'll get this out of your way," John said, lifting the empty tray of oysters over Charlie's head with a backdraft of ocean and salt.

"John, we're ready to guess on that scotch. I say Lagavulin. Want to tell us what it was?"

"Oh," John said with dismay, "sorry. It was a Speyside not an Islay, not Lagavulin. Good guess, though. It was Aberlour," he said, serving the Brushetta and figs. "Be right back." John hoisted the empty appetizer tray and tucked the folded stand under his arm.

"Sure," said Charlie. "Oh, John, could you bring the bottle? I'd like to see it."

"Anybody guess that?" Danny asked.

"No," said Raine unwinding her slip of paper. "I said Cragganmore. A Speyside, but no cigar."

"I said Glenfiddich," said Danny, opening his slip of paper, "because it's the only single malt scotch I know. Hell, it's the only scotch I know besides Chivas Regal," Danny laughed. "And I only know it because Charlie ordered at the Marina. And I only know Chivas Regal because my dad used to drink it. I was faking. I'm not a scotch drinker. What did you guess?" he asked Natalie.

"I'm embarrassed," said Natalie.

"Why, what did you guess?" said Danny, grabbing at the folded Post It in front of Natalie. He missed and Natalie snatched it up. "Was it even a scotch?" Danny laughed. The two struggled over the folded note, giggling in the same high pitched timber.

"No, really, I'm embarrassed," Natalie whined as Danny wrenched the bullet of paper from Natalie and unfolded it with simulated suspense. Danny turned it one way and then the other. He read Natalie's entry and did a mock double take with open-mouthed shock. He turned to Charlie and showed him the note.

"How did you guess that?" Danny asked Natalie.

"You guessed it?" Raine asked.

"Oh, god," Natalie moaned. "I'm so embarrassed." Natalie pointed her forehead to the table.

John returned with a pitcher of water and the bottle of scotch, handing it to Charlie.

"John, we have a winner!" said Danny, holding up Natalie's arm like a boxing champion.

"Really? Excellent," said John.

"What's the prize?" Danny asked John.

"There's no age on this," said Charlie, reading the label on the bottle of Aberlour at some distance without his glasses.

"No, there's no age on it. You're right. It's an A'bunadh," said John.

"Yes," said Charlie. "I can read that on the label. But it doesn't tell me anything."

"It's Gaelic. It means 'the origin'. If I had to guess I'd say it was probably aged ten years maybe. Obviously, in sherry casks because you can taste it," John said with appreciation.

"I liked it," said Danny.

"I thought when you said 'twelve year old', you just meant you wanted a good single malt. I brought you the best one I know," John said.

"Oh, okay," said Charlie. "But for future reference when I say I want a twelve year old scotch I don't mean anything else. That's just what I want. Okay?"

"Yes, sir. My apologies," John repented. "It's on the house." John left and the table sunk into an uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Natalie spoke. "I don’t like it when people are rude to waiters."

"Was I rude?" Charlie questioned. "Didn't mean to be. It's just that I asked for something and I didn't get it."

"But you got something good," Natalie insisted.

"In his opinion," Charlie said.

"John is a scotch drinker," said Natalie. "In fact, he's a scotch expert. He brought you his favorite drink."

"Ah," Charlie said with a wink to Natalie, "so that's how you guessed right? You know John and you're, what, familiar with his favorite drink? I get it. No fair. You had inside information."

"Whoa," said Danny trying to rein in the conversation. "Don't be a sore loser, man."

"I'm not. I just think that's unfair advantage," Charlie replied.

"You know, the price of that drink's coming out of his tip, right?" said Natalie.

"He offered," said Charlie.

"No worries," said Danny. "We'll tip him out to compensate, right Charlie?"

"Sure," said Charlie.

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Raine spoke. "Just to set the record straight, John's married," she said, cutting into the last fig. "He has two kids and his wife's a nurse."

John returned to collect the remains of the appetizers and lay down the salads.

Charlie now had way too much information about John. His mental image picture of John was getting fuzzier as his bio became more articulated. John was tugged into multi-dimensions and Charlie didn't like that man-behind-the-curtain type of revelation. He liked his waiters to be waiters, his whores to be whores and his employees to be employees. This was all a terrible mistake. He needed some real food, not appetizers. He needed some stick to your ribs fare to get straight enough to go home.

"He's a musician. He waits tables for money," Raine continued.

"Well," said Danny, "we all do something for money. Doesn't mean that's what we are."

With a sharp inhalation, the dining room suddenly popped into focus for Charlie. His buzz was miraculously gone. Now he could hear other diners laughing and talking and the clinking of cutlery and dishes being ordered, served and bussed. He could even hear the swinging kitchen door being butted open and swishing closed. He could hear food sizzling and the whoosh of the industrial dishwasher and the banter of the kitchen staff. He could hear the hostess greeting guests and cars pulling into the parking lot and traffic lights changing at the intersection. The faces around his table snapped into clarity, dragging with them complete family histories, thoughts, dreams, desires, fears. He could see their pores leak sweat and oil. Charlie realized someone was talking and he hadn't heard. This made him think that his sudden lucidity was just another permutation of his pernicious drunk.

"Sorry," he said to the speaker, whoever it was.

"You were a hippie?" asked Raine. "Danny said you were a hippie. Were you at Woodstock?"

"No. Too young."

"My parents were at Woodstock. My parents met at Woodstock. How archetypical is that?" Raine smiled.

"Oh, right," Charlie remembered. "Rain-Raine with an E. You're parents were hippies."

"Actually, my full name is, ready…..Light Rain Zimmerman."

The laughter started politely and then grew. Danny snorted and choked. Charlie, spewing croutons, had to put down his fork into what he realized was a Caesar salad and cover his mouth with his napkin. Laugher rose and fell around the table like a wave at a football game. Just when they thought it was over, a fresh round would begin.

"Zimmerman," said Danny. "Does that mean you're Jewish?"

"No, maaaan, there are no religions, man, no doctrine, no dogma…only love, man." This set the table in another round of laughter. "My parents met at Woodstock, they shacked up, man, and I was born and raised on a commune in Arizona."

"Far Out!" said Danny, hitting the table. "Arizona?"

"Liberal drug laws," Raine explained.

"Got it," said Danny.

"People have a lot of misconceptions about communes. It's not unlike the Israeli kibbutz or even college dormitory life."

"So, when did you leave?" asked Danny.

"I left with my dad when I was eleven."

"Why did you leave?" asked Charlie.

"The times, they a-changed. My dad got a teaching job after my mom died and we moved. Got a ranch house on a cul-de-sac, got a step-mom, got some step-brothers."

"I followed the Greatful Dead," said Natalie. Neither Danny nor Charlie knew to do with that information. Their expressions must have said so. "I went from concert to concert around the country."

"You were a groupie?" asked Danny.

"No," said Natalie, slightly offended. "I was a Dead Head. I would get the Dead's concert itinerary and plan where I had to be at what time and then be there, see the show and then find someone to travel with to the next show. I met a lot of people and saw a lot of the country."

"That doesn't sound like something you can do for any length of time," said Charlie.

"How old were you?" asked Danny.

"I was sixteen."

"What happened to high school?"

"Postponed."

"What did your parents think of this?" asked Charlie.

"Foster-mother," replied Natalie. "I was a ward of the state. She didn't think much of it at all but she had four other foster kids, two with disabilities. She didn't have time to miss me."

"Wow. I feel so ordinary," Danny confessed. "Let's see, I went to college, I graduated, I got a job."

"Careful," said Charlie. "Keep going like that you're going to get married, buy a house, have some kids, retire and die. That life-style will eventually kill you."

"Can you do anything unusual?" asked Raine asked Danny.

"You mean, do I have a special talent?" Danny thought while chewing half a hard boiled egg from his Cobb salad. "I can curl my tongue backwards."

"Let's see," Raine said.

Danny let peak the tip of his tongue curled in an upside-down U. The women squirmed with heebie-jeebies.

"Jeeze, you could have swallowed first," laughed Natalie.

"And I have no spleen," Danny added. "Horseback riding accident when I was nine, ruptured my spleen, had to come out. You want to see the scar?"

"Ee-yew," said Natalie with mock aversion. Danny taunted her with pretending to lift his shirttail.

"How about you, Charlie. Any special talent?" asked Raine.

Charlie did the severed thumb hand trick.

"I can sleep standing up," said Natalie.

"Get out!" said Danny.

"I can sleep anywhere, anytime," Natalie insisted.

After some scrutiny of Natalie's face, Danny asked, "Are you asleep now?"

John came to lay the entrees. He held the tray full-arm aloft on a rack of five fingers then lowered it to rest on the tray stand he'd opened tableside, as he'd done with the appetizers. Starting with the women, he removed the salad plates and served the entrees, women first, circling the table again, removing from the left, serving to the right, resembling a multi-armed Hindu god.

Charlie was grateful to see food. His plate, finally in front of him, was packed with a porterhouse steak in au jus and baked potato pinched open with a puddle of melted butter in the crater. He could barely wait for Danny to be served so he could begin eating.

"Oh, man, now that's what I'm talking about," Danny said, admiring Charlie's meal.

"Sir," John said to Charlie, "would you mind checking your steak to see if it's done the way you wanted it." He detected no sarcasm in John's demeanor. Charlie never shook the notion that wait staff spit in your food, rubbed their dicks in your bar glasses and failed to wash their hands after visiting the lavatory.

With the surgical steak knife John had provided, Charlie incised the thick filet portion of his porterhouse and opened the lips of the cut to appreciate the subtle gradation of color from caramel brown to pulpy pink to meaty red only in the very center, perfectly medium rare. Steaming au jus oozed from the cut and Charlie tried to pinch it closed with his knife and fork. "This is perfect, thanks," said Charlie.

Meanwhile, Danny had been served and was poised with knife and fork at attention on either side of his plate, hungry-man style. John prepared to leave the table but paused to ask if they needed more wine.

"A red, please," replied Raine.

"Would you like to see the list again?" asked John.

"No, pick out something nice. A Burgundy or a Cotes du Rhone," replied Raine.

"I'll see if I can find something nice for you," said John.

"Are you going to the cellar?" Natalie asked.

John smiled, "Probably not," he answered but looked at Raine, "Not unless you want me to."

"Why, what's the cellar?" Danny asked with a full mouth. He briefly looked up and smoothed down his tie to keep in out of his plate.

"It's where they keep the good stuff," answered Natalie.

John elaborated, "We have a wine cellar below the restaurant where the finer wines are stored. There's some expensive inventory down there, not your average fair."

"So what are we talking about? What's the average price of a bottle from the cellar," asked Danny.

"Honestly, I don't know. It's actually the restaurant owner's private collection. His, and a few special patrons store their collections here. I've never actually sold a bottle," John explained.

"Can you show it to us?" Danny asked.

John seemed uncomfortable with the request. He looked to Raine for advice.

"You can arrange it, can't you?" Raine answered his mute inquiry while rearranging the folds of the napkin in her lap.

"No problem," answered John.

"We'll go down after dinner," said Raine.

After John left to fetch the bottle of red, the women and Danny ate with concentration. Charlie mashed butter into his potato, curious how Raine was able to quickly, yet subtly, seal the deal on a tour of the cellars, obviously off limits to the general public. His plate swam in and out of focus and he only managed to manipulate its contents rather than acutally eat. As much as he needed food, he couldn't actually take a bite. His anorexia annoyed him and he covered it with conversation.

"You've seen the cellars?" he asked Raine.

"I keep some wine there," she replied.

"Really," asked Danny, impressed. "You have a collection?"

"I inherited some bottles from my dad. He had a collection. It passed down to us."

"So what have you got," Danny asked.

"I can show you later. The appellations and vintages won't mean much unless you know wines. But the bottles are nice to look at."

"You're dad. The hippie teacher had a wine collection," Charlie asked.

"Dad didn't believe in investing in things you couldn't touch or use or appreciate. He had an inherent distrust of banking and bankers. So he invested in wine and art and real estate. Things he could see, places he could visit."

"Was he a shrewd investor?" asked Charlie.

"I don't know how to answer that. He bought what he liked. He bought what he thought would appreciate over time like memorabilia."

"Cool, like what?" Danny asked.

"Toys, comic books, first editions, rare albums, bootleg stuff," Raine replied.

"And did they appreciate?" Charlie asked.

"Some did and some will and some won't," Raine smiled. "And some may."

"You're stinking rich, aren't you?" said Charlie. Raine made no reply. Concentrating on her plate, she sawed a mushroom into quadrants and lifted only a half smile at Charlie.

"So what comics do you have?" Danny asked.

"You are. You're stinking rich. Admit it," Charlie continued. "Oh, well. You won't, will you? Stinking rich people never admit it. I bet you object to the qualifer, stinking."

"I have a first edition Batman," Danny interjected.

"I bet if I asked, How's your portfolio, you'd answer." Charlie paused. "How's your portfolio?"

Raine answered with a breathy sigh and a straight look, "Stable, thanks."

"Not growing?" Charlie asked.

"Is anyone's right now? How's yours?" Raine countered.

"I don’t have a portfolifo," Charlie said. "I have an ex-wife who got everything in the divorce and a daughter who'll be in college in a few years."

"Oh. Scorched earth," said Raine. "I should have guessed. You seem a little crusty."

Charlie smiled, "That's just my outer shell." Charlie was pleased with his come-back especially since it seemed to have amused Raine.

"My dad inherited his wealth. He provided for me in trusts and investments. When my mom died, I inherited the wealth her parents left her. So, I'm comfortable," Raine tipped a charming smile to Charlie.

He knew it. Besides being obvious, Raine had the candor and nonchalance of the wealthy. What he could not place was why she was working as a hostess. So he had to ask.

"So, can I ask? If you are comfortable why are you working?"

"It's work," she replied.

"But you don't have to," Charlie said.

"Yes. I do. Eventually, something will open up in my field and I want to stay in the habit of working."

"You're not going to feed me some horse shit like, Work enobles the soul, are you?" Charlie asked.

"No. Work occupies the hands," Raine replied.

"Idle hands/Devils workshop?"

"That’s right," Raine smiled. "I'm afraid of the devil. And I'm drawn to those ones who ain't afraid."

That was a lyric from a Joni Mitchell song. Charlie recognized it immediately but didn't want to admit he listened to Joni Mitchell. He scanned Raine's perfectly proportioned face. The high aristocratic cheek bones, smooth brow, her full lips pursed around a fork and his mind reached to see it pursed around his dick.

"Did the devil make you pierce your nipple?"

"Did the Devil make you pay to see it?'

"Hey, I didn't," Charlie replied, poking a fork in Danny's direction. "That's the guy you need to be talking to."

Raine laughed, "So you're just along for the ride?"

"Tell me something," Charlie said, chewing. "How much of this is flirting and how much is, what do you call it, commerce?"

"Can't it be both?"

"Not unless you're a whore." He regretted it the minute he said it but it was like the bullet that shot while cleaning his gun.

Raine calmly set down her knife and fork on either side of her plate and squared off.

"Of course, I didn't mean that the way it sounded," Charlie explained.

"You just can't help being provocative?" Raine countered.

"Provocative? Me? I don't wear a nipple ring. Or take commissions to show it off."

"My parents, being hippies, were very concerned that their children understand the implications of wealth in a polarized economic construct. They were insistent that the children understand the difference between creating a product and merely creating wealth. We were raised to understand the moral implications of earning a living."

"And when you say moral you mean ethical. Because the morality of your most recent enterprise is, you have to admit, suspect."

"I mean moral as it applies to personal characture or behavior and not in a religious sence as you seem to imply."

"I'm assuming you're 'spiritual but not religious'".

"You know, that concept used to be deep before it was marketed as demographic category by Match.com."

"You consider yourself a product?"

"I am an amalgamation, but I own the rights. So, yes, I'd say I'm my own product."

"And you've marketed yourself. How is that not prostitution?"

"Define your terms. Is that the act of performing sex for hire or the act of devoting one's talent to an unworthy cause. If the former, I'll conceed. If the latter, I'd say, aren't you doing the same? Everyday you walk into work?"

"You're such a fucking hippie."

"I don’t see the moral dilmema in the first definition. I do in the second."

"So, I'm a whore for going to work everyday?" Charlie asked.

"It's just a conversation, Charlie," Raine smiled in apparent victory.

Charlie realized their table companions had fallen silent, absorbed by the confrontation. Danny looked dazed, the topic obviously over his head. Natlalie looked bored and a little drunk.

"You're a man-whore?" Danny asked Charlie.

"It's an old counter-culture dialectic," Charlie explained. "'Stick it to the man.'"

"Sooooooo," Danny puzzled. "You're a gay man-whore? I don't think I can work for you."

"You couldn't work for him if he was gay?" Natalie asked. "That's prejudiced."

"No, I could," Danny retracted. "I don't really have anything against gays. I was just joking."

"You embrace diversity," Raine toasted Danny.

"I wouldn't say 'embraced'," Danny demurred.

"Do you have any gay friends?" Natalie asked.

"I don't really ask," Danny replied, "and, you know, these days, it's really not obvious. I mean, I've known some guys, years later you find out they're gay, you never knew."

"What constitutes gay?" Raine asked.

"Uhmmm…" Danny puzzled again. "Fucking other guys? I don’t know."

"Well, for example," Raine explained. "Natalie and I have had sex with women. And I don’t consider myself gay. Natalie, do you consider yourself gay?"

"No," Natalie replied.

Danny visually swiveled between the two women who were smiling at each other. He turned bodily to Charlie and leaned in to whisper.

"Dude, get in on this," Danny pleaded.

"You're being played," Charlie replied. He shook his head and wiped his mouth. Somewhere during the conversation, a meal was consumed. He barely remembered. He threw his napkin into his plate and relaxed back, shoving part way from the table, he crossed his legs and reached to loosen his belt and realized he didn't have one. Charlie tried to perform an internal drunk evaluation but the results were skewed by anger and sexual arousal and confusion over his missing belt. His gaze ricocheted from the women to a room scan for the waiter. John responded promptly to Charlie's sonic head swivel.

The carcasses of the meal were cleared. John returned to recite the dessert menu. Charlie tried to imagine John playing, whatever instrument he played, to a crowd of adoring groupies like Natalie. He imagined John and Natalie together in some dim back employees only room in the Congo, fucking on a table covered with a cloth crawling with geckos. Natalie's legs in the air, coming in less than fifteen minutes, John's used condom discarded to be found by the next restaurant employee on a fifteen-minute break.

"John," Charlie interrupted. "I'm going to have a glass of Macallan Millennium."

The table was galvanized. John, however, didn't blink.

"Yes, sir," He acknowledged and very precisely said, "The fifty year old Macallan Millennium. And what else?" he inquired, scanning the other patrons. Charlie brushed imaginary crumbs from his pants leg. Danny stared dumbly at his new boss. Natalie gasped and held the sides of her face. Raine leveled a narrow stare at Charlie, forming an almost visible bead. He raised his gaze to hers.

"You get my point, I think," Charlie said, addressing her squarely. Raine took a beat and then laughed in a full throaty cackle, the opposite of coy.

"We'll wait, John," Raine answered. "We'll take that scotch in the cellar, if you would arrange that, please."

"Sure," John replied.

"Oh, cool. We're going to the wine cellar? Cool," Danny gushed, still off-center.

"I'm going to potty," said Natalie.

"I'll join you," said Raine.

A palpable vacuum sucked at the space the women left. Danny moved in for a debriefing.

"Dude, what was that about? Man, I'm lost," admitted Danny. "You won't pitch in for titty. You won't pitch in to see a clit ring demo, first ever in my real life experience. Girl-on-girl action got put on the table. But you'd blow a (president) on a drink. Dude. You are so gay."

"What's your definition of leadership?" Charlie asked.

Danny paused. "What the fuck?" he replied.

"Here's where we are now. Lunch was, what?"

"Uhm, …good?" answered Danny.

"No, the price," Charlie clarified.

"I dunno. With the hot sauce, about two."

"Titty was offered, accepted and paid for, awaiting future delivery. Price; five hundred. I figure that was a loss leader. Cocktails, cigars, dinner, wine, we're up to maybe a thou . Clit ring demo, offered and under consideration for an additional seven hundred. Girl-on-girl could be an offer. You don't know yet. My guess, it's got a price tag, perceived value at maybe, what?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe another thou," Danny replied.

"More."

"Hell, Charlie. It's only money."

"Remember the dissertation on pricing strategies, grasshopper. You just got it from a Duke University graduate."

"So. Why are you so pissed?"

"I'm not pissed. Here are my points, Danny. I have two. Playing futures is a game of risk tolerance. Well, investment of any sort is a game of risk. What's your risk tolerance, what's your expected return and where do you draw the line? And future delivery of tangible goods or services is a matter of trust and ethical agreement. Pricing strategies, as described by our marketing director here, is a game of value propositions and perceived values that are largely set by a marketing strategies which are just psycho-social or economic manipulations."

"Was that three points? You are so stoned."

"Well, here's my real point," Charlie concluded, pointing a stiff finger in the direction of the women's egress, "that's a smart-ass cunt and I'd love to whip her ass."

"Damn," Danny sighed.

"I just mentored you," Charlie concluded.

"Okay. Thanks….and I'm feeling you. You like girls though, right?"

"I like some girls. And I like some scotch. I just told this girl that I like good scotch better than I like her and I'm willing to pay for it because I know I'm going to get it. John is going to bring it to me in the not so distant future, I feel confident about that."

"Why don't you like her. She's good looking, she's funny, she's smart…she's sexy, man."

"Okay, lesson number two. I ordered the scotch. She knows I'm going to pay for it. Now she knows that I have the capital. Now her marketing strategy will have to change because she knows I'm a customer and a hard sell. And up to now, I've let her think you're the only player and she knows you're a mark…."

"Nice."

"…okay, eager, willing…in the market. Now she knows that in order to continue to up the price or offer any more merchandise for sale, she's going to have to deliver something in order to keep my interest."

"Oh, yes! Cool. Okay…have they been gone a really long time?" Danny asked, suddenly paranoid. The thought hit Charlie harder than he expected. They had been gone a long time.

"Perfect," he answered with disgust.

"You think they ditched us?" Danny asked.

John approached the table and gathered a bouquet of empty wine glasses.

"If you're ready, I'll take you to the cellar. Your scotch is served there. Raine and Natalie are waiting."

"Oh, great!" said Danny with relief. "Listen, can you bring me a gin and tonic?"

"Absolutely. On a separate check, sir? Raine has settled your dinner check."

Charlie felt that news like a gut punch, difficult to fully recover from. Difficult to completely understand, get his arms around. He almost physically reached for a ball search with a head scratch but stopped himself. Was that a smirk from John? No, trick of the Congo lighting.

"What does that mean?" asked Danny. "She picked up the tab? For everything? For the scotch?"

"Yes, sir. The check is closed out. Did you want to start another?"

"For the Macallan? She paid for that?" Danny giggled in that unnerving pitch that annoyed Charlie to the point of wanting to slap him like an hysterical girl.

"Yes, sir," John replied. "The cellar is this way." John led the male half of the party through the dining room. Always surprising to Charlie and Danny that there were other diners there. They passed romantic couples, celebrating families, and convivial friends in tableau like portraits on a gallery wall. Flat somehow in dimension compared the depth and complexity of their experience. Charlie recalled the eerie episode of clarity during the apex of his drunk when he felt hyper-conscious of the environment. He chalked it up to hallucinatory flashback brought on my alcohol and hot sauce. Now was the perfect moment to call it a night. The bill was paid. He was full and only half as high, so not too bad to drive. He did drive. But not his own car.

"You want to just go?" Charlie asked Danny.

"Go home? Now?" Danny answered. "You want to split now? Why?"

"Never mind," Charlie replied. Maybe he'd get a second wind. He hoped so. What was so different about today?

Lunch
Alcohol
Hot sauce
Police
More alcohol
From the Marina
To the Congo
To the cellar
The fencing of wits with a complex woman he may despise but certainly desired
The incomprehensible lesson to a young protégé
The need to win, the need to win at all costs.
Had he always been this way?

"Hey," Charlie said as they walked, "Sauce me." Danny grinned and brought the bottle from his inside jacket pocket. They each knocked back a drop and followed John down the cool brick built corridor to the cellar wearing a death grin they couldn't feel, seeing though a rain of tears.

John led them down the cellar stairs. The drop in temperature was welcome. Charlie had a touch of vertigo on the stairs and paused with one stabilizing hand outreached.

"You okay, man?" Danny asked.

"I'm good. Tired."

"No. You can't be tired now! I think it's finally party time, dude."

The acoustics approaching the cellar were as great as any recording studio. Charlie heard the timbre of his own voice intimately. Getting closer, they could hear the conversation of the women only in a sweet blur, indistinct but feminine in tone like a sea spray of soft long hair perfumed on a pillow, blowing in a breeze, rolled out on a blanket in the grass, flowing from an open car window driving on a summer night with autumn around the corner. Conversation punctuated with a laugh, murmur and sigh but words just out of focus. It was a siren song, mysterious and enchanting. Charlie paused again, bracing himself against the brick wall and smiling to himself.

When he was between five and six, Charlie had night terrors. His parents had no pity for it. They let him lay in bed and scream in fear of the giants and the monsters and approaching behemoth who would eventually grab him, grab the back of his shirt as he ran, ran for his life. Ran until his legs went numb and his lungs burst and he felt the shredding, the incremental shredding of his back through his shirt as the giant monster grabbed at him and he slipped away and it grabbed at him and he slipped away. One night, it occurred to him, as he was running, running, running, ripped down to a bloody nub, that he could end the torment. He could stop the progress of failure to survive the monster. He had a brilliant idea. He could just surrender. He could just lay down. That way, he could just be sweetly enveloped and devoured, quickly, in one bite.

No reason he should remember that just now but he did. The memory made him feel a little tender about himself. He didn't know why. It just did.

The cellar itself was deceptive; its dimensions not easily gauged. It was dim, so the corners of the room were obscured. A single light source glanced off the glass of hundreds of bottles resting on their backs in their racks and created the prismatic effect of hundreds of sleepy, wise old eyed surveying the scene. The only sound now was the click of their heels on cobblestone floor, like a tap dance in a minstrel show and the clink of glass as Natalie and Raine toasted.

"Can you hear me?" Raine whispered. Charlie could hear her from twenty feet away as if she whispered directly in his ear. The trick of the acoustics was like that of the Roman amphitheater. Charlie and Danny smiled, good trick.

There was a small bistro table in the middle of the room, layed with a white linen tablecloth. On the table, was an open bottle of red Bordeaux. Four glasses were set. Two filled and two empty. At one setting sat the small tumbler of neat scotch.

"Oh, crap," Danny lamented. "I didn't know you were going to open something. I ordered a gin and tonic."

"That's fine," said Raine. "You can join us. Or not. Your choice."

"What is it?" Charlie asked.

"This is a Lafite Rothschild 1962. Is that gaudy of me?" Raine smiled. She had recovered her coy.

"How much would a bottle of this cost?" Charlie asked examining the label.

"Depends. Today about three hundred", Danny whistled. Raine explained, "The condition of the label and the provenance can effect the value. If I wanted to sell this one, I'd probably ask that much. The label is impeccable and it's been stored properly and I can prove it. But you really have to taste it. Please. Just a sip. Then you can have your scotch." Raine poured a stream into the belly of the glass. Charlie cradled it and held it up to the light. The color was deep ruby, tinged brown. The fragrance was an earthy alchemy of cedar and current. He set it down untried.

"It would be wasted on me," he said.

"Please," she insisted.

"No, really. I wouldn't know how to appreciate it."

"You just drink it, dude. I think. Right?" Danny asked Raine.

"That's right. You just drink it," Raine laughed.

John returned with a tray of assorted cheeses and fruit. From somewhere in the shadows he produced four wooden folding chairs and placed them around the table. From his pocket he produced a lighter and lit a candle lantern in the center of the table. Now the table array, wine filled glasses, the varied hues of yellow and orange and white cheese, grapes and melon, flickered in the candle glow.

"Thank you, John," Raine said.

"What else can I get you?" John asked.

"Oh, that gin and tonic," Danny said. "Can you cancel that?"

"Yes, I was thinking you might so I waited to order it," John replied and turned to leave.

"What instrument do you play?" Charlie asked.

John turned back and smiled, "Clarinet."

"I wouldn't have thought that," Charlie remarked.

The party sat down again around the smaller table, boy girl boy girl. Charlie, Raine, Danny, Natalie. They were quiet for several moments with an atmosphere of anticipation. If it were a symphony, this would be an extended string moment of intense duration. Finally, Danny broke the silence.

"Thanks for dinner. Why'd you do that, anyway?"

"I came into some extra cash tonight and splurged. My pleasure," Raine answered.

"About that," Danny started.

"About that," Raine interrupted.

"Is this it?" Danny asked.

"You mean, time to deliver the goods?" Raine replied.

Danny giggled, "….yeah, I guess."

"How does that work exactly?" Charlie asked without looking at her. "We pay to see your tits. You use the cash to pick up our tab."

"Well, my profit only covered your scotch….actually."

"Yes. I've done the math. Then you pop a three hundred dollar bottle of wine."

"Are you asking a question?" Raine said.

"Just wondering," Charlie said.

"Uhm…you know," Danny interrupted. "I love a philosophical debate as much as the next village idiot but….is it, you know, time to deliver?"

"Yes." Raine stood from the table and breathed in the last of the wine in her in her glass. Charlie stared down at the scotch in front of him.

"Oh, jeeze," Danny squealed and rubbed his wet palms on this thighs. Natalie reached over and squeezed just above his knee. Danny leaned to her, brushed her hair aside, cupped her jaw and sunk an open rolling kiss on her mouth. Charlie sensed it happening next to him but never looked up from his scotch. He heard the rustle of silk as Raine undid the buttons on the high collar of her dress. He heard deep, muffled breathing and felt roiling body movement next to him but didn't look up. He could smell Danny's cologne activated by his body heat. He heard the fabric of Raine's dress runch as it was lowered and Danny's sigh and moan of appreciation and then the wet suck of more kissing. But he didn't look up.

"Charlie?" He heard Raine whisper. Charlie reached for his glass. His fingers arced around it.

"Charlie?" She asked again.

"You're missing the show. What's up with you?" Danny asked.

In the periphery of his vision, Charlie could see only that Danny was turned toward him with his hands spread out in an inquisitive gesture. He could see the bulge of Danny's erection. He could see Raine, across the table in front of him, from the hips down. He could see over as far as Natalie, sitting next to Danny, open legged and facing him. He could see up her dress, he could see her crotch and a triangle of red panties, wet and creased down the center, a tuft of dark pubic hair around the triangle and a few strands on her thighs. He smiled to himself.

"Dude," Danny chuckled. "Whatever."

"Thanks for the scotch," Charlie said and raised the glass and drank.