by Tyler Keevil
The actor was sitting at one of the central tables. Seb knew César was watching through the window, so he did everything as they’d been trained: he strode over with the napkin draped on his left forearm, which was braced against his abdomen, and asked the actor if they could get him anything else. The actor gazed at him dopily. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair tousled, his collar crumpled.
‘Another drink, perhaps?’
The actor looked down into his highball glass, as if considering it, then back up.
‘Are you a socialist?’ the actor asked.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You either are or you aren’t.’
‘I guess I’m not, then.’
‘I’m thinking of moving up here. Too many damn socialists in America, these days. Socialists and communists and liberal queers. Pretty soon they’ll be painting the place red.’
‘Canada’s pretty liberal, too.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Get me another goddamned drink, then.’
‘Do you have a particular preference, sir?’
‘Do you have a particular preference, sir?’ the actor repeated, mimicking his tone. Then he made a face and laughed. ‘You’ll never get anywhere acting so diplomatic, kid.’
‘I’m just doing my job.’
‘Well, do your job.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘I’m just messing with you, kid. Get me a bourbon. And nothing cheap.’
Seb nodded and turned and went back inside, still holding his arm across his stomach like a marching soldier. César had waited to hear the outcome. When Seb told them that the actor wanted a bourbon, something expensive, César snapped his fingers and pointed at Hamed. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘The man wants a drink.’
‘He’ll drink in here till dawn, if we let him.’
‘And if that’s the case, you’ll serve him till dawn.’ César pinched all the fingers of his right hand together, holding them up as if displaying a gem. ‘That’s what you do. You serve. You’re servants. Comprenez-vous?’
Hamed didn’t answer. He didn’t look away, either.
‘Now get him some bourbon.’
César stood and glared until Hamed took down a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s and measured out two ounces in one of the stainless steel shot glasses. He dumped it neat into a tumbler, the amber liquid sloshing smoothly, and placed the glass on a tray for Seb to carry out. César grunted, satisfied, and turned to go. As he walked off, he called back, ‘And bring one to me while you’re at it.’
Hamed got down another tumbler. ‘Goddamn César.’
‘He’s too sober tonight. Stiffen that up.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
‘I just meant he’s more likely to make nice when he’s got his drink on.’
‘Take that out to Hollywood, why don’t you?’
Seb shrugged and palmed the tray and returned to the patio. The actor was leaning back in his chair, smoking another cigar. Seeing Seb, the actor grinned and blew a smoke-ring towards him. To Seb it smelled rich and foreign and exotic, something that he didn’t have access to and probably never would.
‘It’s the diplomat.’
‘I’ve got a diploma, all right.’
The actor guffawed. ‘You bring my drink, diplomat?’
Seb put the whiskey on the table.
‘What is it?’
‘Pappy Van Winkle’s. It’s good stuff.’
‘I know what Pappy is. Tell me something, kid – whose side are you on?’
Seb said that he didn’t know. He didn’t know what the actor was talking about.
‘There’s a war coming, sooner or later. And everyone will have to pick sides. You’re either with us or against us. America’s got a lot of enemies out there.’ The actor held up his glass, considering it. It was a very rehearsed gesture, and Seb felt as if he had stepped onto the set of one of the actor’s movies, as an extra or walk-on part. ‘And enemies inside, too. They’re the worst. But when it all goes down, you’ll have to choose, kid. Think about it.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘You do that. I want an answer.’
On the actor’s table were a few empty glasses, a cup and saucer, and a coffee press, down to the dregs. Seb cleared those away and carried them back inside. Behind the bar was a glass washer, which he placed the glassware in and then turned on. The conveyor belt slid into motion and the heat and steam started up, smelling faintly of bleach. As he was waiting for the cycle to finish, Hamed came out from the back. He stood beside Seb and said nothing and they both gazed down at the machine. When the cycle finished Seb took out a wine glass and began polishing it with his napkin. Hamed took the other. While the two of them worked, the English couple gathered their things and left, leaving their bill holder folded shut on the table. Seb went to clear it, flipped it open to check the tip, and wandered back with it.
‘How’d we do?’ Hamed asked.
‘Ten bucks and shrapnel.’
‘Typical.’ Hamed took the bill holder from him, and asked, ‘You want a drink?’
‘Did César say we could?’
‘Forget César. I’m the bartender.’
‘I’ll have a beer, then.’
Hamed pulled two sleeves of Cream Ale and handed one to Seb. The glasses were kept in a freezer below the bar, so they were coated in a glaze of frost. Seb took a sip and made a satisfied sound and pressed the glass to his forehead. It felt like an icepack. They carried their drinks down to the busser station, and stood with their backs to the kitchen, in case César came out again. As they sipped their beers, it seemed natural to gaze at the actor.
‘What was Hollywood saying?’ Hamed asked.
‘He kept talking about socialists. He thinks they’re taking over America.’
‘They should.’
‘He says he’s immigrating to Canada.’
‘With his record? Yeah, right.’
‘I thought they dropped the charges.’
‘There was a bunch of other stuff. Drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest.’ Hamed took a swig of beer, smacked his lips, and peered into the froth as if he could taste something a bit off. ‘And didn’t he get busted for shouting racist slurs at some cops?’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘The guy’s lost it.’
‘He’s a good actor, though.’
‘He used to be.’
What Seb didn’t admit to Hamed was that he had admired the actor at one time, and watched all of his films. It hadn’t been all that long ago – when Seb was in his early teens – but back then the actor had been at his peak. He’d made a career out of playing good, honest men: all-American heroes. He had foiled bomb plots and fought terrorists on home soil and flown fighter jets in top-secret operations. Now he was sitting in their restaurant acting like a jackass, and Seb was embarrassed for both the actor and himself, for ever having been a fan.
‘What a poor bastard,’ he said.
‘Poor nothing. He’s rolling in it.’
‘The poor rich bastard, then.’
‘Look at that.’
The actor had reached over to ash out his cigar, and nearly fallen out of his chair. He managed to catch himself, but in doing so dropped his cigar. It lay on the floor, smouldering.
‘I wish he had fallen,’ Hamed said.
‘And knocked himself out.’
‘Then we could go home.’
‘Who’d cover his tab?’
‘We’d charge his credit card, and throw him in a cab.’
The actor seemed to sense their scrutiny. He twisted in his chair and peered at them through the window – as if he was looking out of the screen-world in which he lived. Then he held up his empty glass and waggled it from side to si
de, demanding service.
‘Look at this prick,’ Hamed said.
He reached for the bottle of Pappy, and splashed some in a fresh tumbler. As Seb slid it onto his tray, Hamed said, ‘Tell him it’s the last one. We’re closing up shop.’
‘César will flip.’
‘César’s the one who told me.’
‘When did he tell you that?’
‘When I took him his drink.’
‘If you say so.’
Seb carried the bourbon out. When he put the drink down on the table the actor didn’t even look at it; he was watching Seb’s face.
‘We’re going to be closing up soon, sir,’ Seb said.
‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘It’s last call.’
The actor picked up his bourbon and sipped at it. From the nearby tables Seb began gathering the tealights, which sat in bulb-shaped candle holders. He took each one, blew it out – the wick smouldering with that fragrant, waxy smell – and placed it on his tray.
‘Have you decided?’ the actor said.
Seb looked up, holding a tealight in his hand, still glowing.
‘Decided what?’
‘What side you’re on.’ When Seb didn’t answer, he went on, ‘When it all goes down, and the socialists attack, are you going to be with the good guys, or the bad guys?’
‘The good guys, I guess.’
‘You don’t sound very sure.’
‘I’m not sure who the good guys are.’
‘Who do you think?’
‘America?’
‘We’re always the good guys.’
Seb blew out the tealight, and added it to his tray. ‘Maybe I won’t be on any side. Maybe I’ll just be in the middle, or neutral, or whatever you call it.’
‘There’s no middle ground, here. You’re either with us, or against us.’
‘But I’m neutral.’
‘You goddamned Canadians. Grow some balls, why don’t you? Being neutral is the same as being neutered. It’s no better than being a socialist. Or worse – a communist. Are you a communist? You talk like a little commie. A little commie lefty. A pinko queer.’
‘That’s me. I’m pink as a baby blanket.’
The actor laughed. ‘Pink as a baby blanket. That’s good.’ He patted his palm on the table, as if applauding. ‘I’ll have to remember that. Pink as a baby blanket. Hah! You know something, kid? You’re all right. Now get the hell out of here and let me finish my drink.’
Seb continued gathering the tealights. ‘We’re closing up.’
‘I said screw off!’
Seb left the last three tealights where they were and went inside. Hamed watched him come up. Seb put his tray down on the marble bar. The candle holders rattled together and made a tinkling, wind chime sound.
‘What did he say?’
Seb tried to laugh it off. ‘He called me a pinko queer.’
‘He said that?’
‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying.’
‘He better not say anything like that to me. Goddamn Yank.’
‘It’s just talk.’
‘That’s how it starts.’
Hamed plucked the toothpick from his mouth and studied the end. He’d gnawed it to shreds. He turned it around and started on the other side.
Seb said, ‘I don’t think he’ll leave.’
‘We’ll see.’
They stood and watched the actor through his television-window. The three Korean businessmen got up and gathered their things and left. Then it was just the two of them and the actor and this stand-off. The actor seemed to know it, too. He raised his glass and put it to his lips and tipped it back, slowly and deliberately, draining the bourbon. Afterwards, he held up the empty glass and made that same waggling gesture, without bothering to look at them.
‘There you go,’ Seb said.
‘I got it.’
Hamed took his toothpick and flicked it towards the sink. Then he walked around the bar and out to the patio. He was a short-legged man, and when he was incensed, like now, he moved with a certain waddling swagger, like a wrestler approaching the ring.
Seb stayed at the busser station and watched. Hamed went up to the actor’s table, and stood with his arms crossed and said something. The actor said something back. Seb could hear the muted sound of their voices but not the words. He saw Hamed make a spreading motion with his hands, passing them one across the other, palms down – signalling that it was all done, finished. Then some more words were exchanged, louder this time, and angrier. The actor began shouting, and pointed repeatedly at Hamed with his index finger. Hamed’s expression was fixed and brittle. After a moment, he turned away and came back inside. He was smiling the oddest smile: thin-lipped, compressed, and meaningful.
‘What’s up?’ Seb asked.
‘Wait’ll César hears this.’
‘What?’
‘He just called me a raghead.’
Seb glanced at the actor, who was watching them, and waiting.
‘I guess that does it.’
‘I’ll say.’
Hamed was already headed for the back. Seb hustled after him: past the outer kitchen, with its wood-fired kiln, now dark and silent, and through the swinging metal service door to the inner kitchen, where the bread ovens, sinks, and dishwashing station were all situated, and around the corner to the changing rooms and the manager’s office. The door was ajar. Hamed knocked and pushed it open further and stepped right in. Seb lingered on the threshold.
‘We’ve got a little problem,’ Hamed said.
César looked up. He was sitting at his desk, which was covered in piles of money and till receipts. At his elbow was a tumbler of bourbon, nearly empty, and in his hands he held a stack of twenties that he was in the process of counting – the topmost bill pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He looked like some kind of criminal kingpin.
‘What?’ César said.
‘That Yank just called me a raghead and a sand nigger.’
Seb couldn’t see Hamed’s face – he was looking over his shoulder – but he could see César’s and the way it changed. He pivoted halfway towards them in his swivel chair, and looked at Seb inquisitively. Seb nodded to confirm it, even though he couldn’t be sure. At that point César reached for his bourbon. There were still two cubes of ice in the bottom of the glass. He made a circular motion with his hand, so the cubes spun around inside. César watched their movement, as if trying to read tea leaves. When they came to a stop he put the tumbler down and said, ‘Get that connard out of my restaurant.’
‘He won’t go.’
‘Make him go.’ César swivelled back to his money, and receipts. ‘We’re closed.’
Hamed was smiling even wider, now. He inclined his upper body in a half-bow and back-stepped out of the office, pulling the door shut behind him. Then he snapped for Seb to follow him, which he did. They headed out to the busser station. The actor had lit another cigar and was oblivious to their return. Hamed reached around behind his back to untie his apron, and Seb did the same. They both laid their aprons down on the bar top, carefully folded. Then they undid the cuffs of their shirts and rolled up the sleeves to the elbow. This sort of preparation was all new to Seb. Hamed also undid the top button of his collar, but Seb left his alone.
‘What are we going to do?’ he asked.
‘Just get him by the arms – one of us on each side – and guide him out.’
Seb nodded. He’d seen that kind of thing on TV. ‘What if he puts up a fight?’
‘He won’t. He’s drunk and old.’
Hamed led the way onto the patio, with Seb trailing a little behind. The actor heard their footsteps and looked over as they approached. He grinned at them, the cigar clenched between his teeth. He said, ‘Here comes the cavalry.’
Hamed said, ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave now, sir.’
‘You can ask me whatever you like, Muzzie.’
Hamed grabbed him by the collar and yanked him out of his chair. The actor made a surprised sound and the cigar fell from his mouth, bounced once on the table, and landed on the floor in a sprinkling of sparks. Hamed got hold of one of the actor’s arms and locked it in the crook of his elbow. The actor began to flail and windmill with his other hand.
‘What the fuck is this shit? You can’t touch me. You can’t touch me.’
‘Help me, here,’ Hamed said.
Seb jumped in and caught the other arm, pinning it against his own chest. The actor was helpless, now. As they hauled him through the restaurant, towards the staircase that led down to the entrance, he went limp as a cat, dragging his feet against the stone tiles. He was yelling, too – asking if they knew who the hell he was, and threatening to call the cops. ‘This is assault,’ he kept saying, over and over. ‘This is a felony!’
‘We don’t have felonies in Canada,’ Hamed told him.
At the top of the stairs was a glass door, and Seb had to release the actor to hold it open before they could guide him through. But as soon as Hamed had him at the threshold, the actor went berserk. He began to claw and swing with his free hand, then grabbed at Hamed’s face and pulled it, making the skin stretch like putty, and in return Hamed drew back and punched at him – a quick jab to the side of his jaw. Seb tried to intervene, saying something about taking it easy, but they were scuffling by then, toe-to-toe, the actor’s face focused with real fury, and it actually did look like a fight scene from one of his movies, a climactic struggle, with Hamed cast as the villain, except in this case the actor was all run-down and worn-out and didn’t have it in him to win. And as they tussled the actor threw a haymaker, missed, and lost his footing on the top step; he seemed to teeter there theatrically, the space around him going vertigo. Seb was standing close enough to reach out, to grab him, but didn’t, and then the actor was toppling backwards, falling, tumbling down the staircase in a series of messy somersaults, and eventually coming to rest at the landing, where his head hit the hardwood and made a hollow sound, a very real sound. Not like in a film at all.
