Dinner at Fiorello’s

by Rick R. Reed

  Henry was grateful, absurdly so, for each of his two ten-minute breaks and his half-hour lunch. He took a second to glance behind him and was rewarded with seeing Carmela walking toward him, a stack of menus in her hands.

  “Jesus,” she said. “Is that smile for me?”

  “Uh-huh,” Henry said. He shoved one last load into the dishwasher. “It’s break time, right?”

  “It’s lunchtime. And you’re not smiling at me because you’re happy to see me. You’re smiling because you finally get to sit down.” She laughed. “I know. Believe it or not, I was once in your shoes.”

  “Really?” Henry moved over so that Juan Carlos, the young man who currently bused tables, now promoted out of dishwashing hell, took his place at the big machine.

  “Oh yeah, Rosalie likes her staff to work their way up. Just a couple years ago, I was bubble dancin’ for my life.” She snickered.

  Henry followed her back to a small area where a little porcelain-topped table sat with a couple of ladder-back chairs around it. He slumped into one of the seats.

  “You’re not like a lot of the guys who work here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most of them, soon as they get a break, they shoot out that back door. Smokin’.”

  “Never took up that vice.”

  “You’re young. There’s still time.” Carmela winked at him.

  It felt good to just sit, to let his bones settle, his breathing and heart rate slow a bit. Carmela started away.

  “What’s for family meal?” Family meal, Henry had learned, was what everyone called the dish they prepared each night for the staff to eat. It usually relied on using up products left from specials that week and produce that was still good—but not for long.

  “Vito made some beans and greens. It’s in a pot on the back burner.” She started away again.

  “Carmela?”

  She whirled around. “What? I’m sure they’re already lined up at the hostess desk. I don’t want Rosalie on my ass.” She wiggled her eyebrows, so Henry knew she wasn’t too annoyed. “Antonio’s another story.”

  “You and that bartender. Don’t be a home wrecker. But would you mind bringing me a bowl of the greens and beans?”

  “Tsk. Spoiled rich boy. You want me to serve you?”

  “I do.” Henry tried to put on his most endearing smile. “Would you mind?”

  Carmela shook her head. “You’re gonna get me in trouble. Next time, you get it yourself, okay?”

  She hurried away without waiting for a reassurance.

  It wasn’t that Henry was being lazy. It was that he was afraid of the cook, Vito. Not really afraid, maybe. There was a whole mix of emotions, and Henry was just too tired to deal with them. He knew they’d be brought front and center if Henry leaned over the chef as he worked. Just the nearness of Vito caused Henry’s pulse to accelerate, in a way entirely different from how hard work caused it to jump.

  He had to admit it—he had a little crush on Vito. And never was a man less deserving of his affection! But he couldn’t help it. Vito was everything Henry could imagine wanting in a man. Physically he was all male, rough-edged, dark, and exotic. His body was thick and solid, that of a linebacker, yet there was also something of the teddy bear, cuddly, although Vito’s aloofness worked hard to counteract that impression. Where Henry was smooth, Vito was hairy. Really hairy. In the dictionary, Henry imagined a picture of Vito next to the word “hirsute.” Tufts of coiled black hair poked out of the collar of his shirt. The backs of his hands were thick with coarse black hair. And that face—with its strong jawline heavily shadowed by a beard that must spring back minutes instead of hours after shaving. And the curly, unkempt black hair atop his head just begged for the touch of loving fingers.

  If he could get close enough….

  For all his appeal—and it was not limited to only his hunky looks—Vito was about as approachable as a cactus, as prickly as the outer leaves of an artichoke. Henry wasn’t just drawn to the man because he could make Henry hard just with a glance into those dark chocolate eyes, but also because the man could cook, and Henry wanted to learn from him. He had what Maxine had—magic. He could take the humblest ingredients—a pork chop, some arugula, though here they called it rocket for some reason, a few slices of grapefruit, and a couple of cloves of garlic—and transform it into a symphony of layered flavors, a sum much bigger than its parts. Learning to do that was the real reason Henry was here, busting his ass and perhaps ruining any future he had with his family of birth.

  But over the two weeks Henry had been here, his attempts to befriend Vito—hell, his tries to even extract a couple of friendly words from the man—were met with cold stares and grunted-out one-syllable responses. If Henry attempted to look over his shoulder to see how he was preparing something, Vito would raise that shoulder to block his view. Even something as simple as a hello when Henry arrived for work may or may not be greeted with a response. The best-case scenario was a sort of half smile, but usually all Henry got was a nod, if that.

  His thoughts about the silent chef, as Henry had privately dubbed him, were interrupted by the return of Carmela, who came bearing a steaming bowl. She set it down before him, and Henry gazed down at the medley of cannellini beans, sautéed escarole, tomatoes, onions, and garlic with something akin to passion.

  “Sorry this took so long. It’s crazy tonight. Pazzo! As Rosalie would say.”

  “It’s okay. Thanks for getting this for me.” Henry picked up the spoon she had brought and tucked in. The stew danced on his tongue, savory, a little acidic from the tomatoes, rich from the garlic and basil, and earthy from the greens. It made him feel like home, or what he imagined a real, happy home would be.

  “God, this is good.”

  “I know. Those people out there shelling out thirty bucks for veal marsala don’t know what they’re missing. It’s this peasant stuff that nourishes not only your body, but your soul.”

  “My! Aren’t you profound?”

  “More like full of shit, but thank you.”

  Henry took a few more bites, thinking of Vito’s hands chopping the garlic, tomatoes, onions, escarole, and herbs that went into this. Vito’s hands were large, like shovels, but his fingers were tapered, those of an artist. He looked up at Carmela, who still sat across the table. She was examining the end of one of her coiled red curls.

  “Shouldn’t you be back out there? You said it was swamped.”

  “And I will,” she snapped. “I get a break too, you know.”

  “Sorry. I just thought you took your breaks at the bar, with Antonio.” Henry raised his eyebrows.

  She waved her hand at him dismissively. “Ah! Sitting there looking at that gorgeous face and bod, knowing you can never have it, is like sitting down to a plate of manicotti that you can’t eat, only smell and admire the way the melted cheese looks and the marinara clings. It’s frustrating. You know?”

  Henry thought immediately of Vito. “Oh, I know.” Henry took another bite of the stew. “Hey, can I ask you something in confidence?”

  “If it’s about sex, I’m in.” Carmela grinned.

  “Well, not really.” Or maybe I should say not exactly, or I wish it was. “It’s about someone who works here.”

  Carmela leaned forward. “I’m listening. And whatever you say is just between us, okay?”

  “Thanks.” Henry shrugged and finished his food. His lunch break was almost over, so he knew he should make this fast. “What’s up with Vito?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s just that it seems like he hates me. And I don’t know why. I’ve done nothing but try to be friendly to him, but every word I say to him, every smile, gets turned away like I have some kind of disease.”

  “Do you? Have some kind of disease?” Carmela leaned back, far away from Henry.

  “Shut up. But seriously, do you know what his problem is?”

  Carmela twisted a lock of her hair. She did that a lot. It indica
ted she was thinking, Henry guessed.

  Finally she said, “Don’t take it personally. The man hardly speaks to anyone, unless it’s to bark that an order is up.”

  “Was he always like this?”

  And at that question, Carmela’s green eyes went dark. She looked far away for a moment, and Henry wondered what caused the pain that ruffled her otherwise perky features.

  “No,” she said quietly. “Not always.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  Carmela looked down at the delicate gold watch on her wrist. “Another time, okay, Henry? I got to get back out to the front of the house or Rosalie will have my head on a platter. Yours too, if you don’t get back to the dishes.”

  “But tell me.”

  “Not now.” And Carmela got up and hurried away from him faster than he had ever seen her move.

  LATER THAT night, Henry thought he was alone, cleaning counters and putting stuff away at the end of the night.

  He heard a toilet flush and looked over to see Vito emerge from the employee washroom.

  “Oh, hi,” Henry said, embarrassed at how his surprise and nervousness at seeing the man caused his voice to go higher. He gave a final swipe to the stainless prep counter with a cloth and straightened up. It was time to go home.

  “I said hi,” Henry repeated when Vito didn’t answer but merely moved toward the messenger bag he kept on a hook by the back door. Henry was surprised at himself. Vito was nothing if not intimidating, and Henry couldn’t believe he had the nerve to call out even this tiny slight. “You know, you could speak when spoken to.” Look at me. I’m on a roll.

  Vito slid his knives in their case into his messenger bag and then looked at Henry. The dark-eyed gaze, so enigmatic and brooding, caused something akin to an alarm to go off inside Henry. A rush of endorphins escaped from just that look, that rare meeting of the eyes Vito almost never allowed. He smirked.

  “Hello, Henry. Did you have a good night?”

  Vito said the words as if by rote, and Henry knew he was simply saying them to mollify Henry.

  “I’m beat.”

  “Well, welcome to the restaurant world.”

  Now that Henry had opened the conversational door, he didn’t know what else to add. This paltry chatter probably constituted the most words the two had ever exchanged. Henry found himself desperately wanting to keep the words volleying, even if what they were saying was trivial and meaningless. Of course, wanting to say something, anything, was a pretty sure-fire way to make one’s mind come up blank.

  Vito headed for the door.

  “Going home?”

  “That would be the logical assumption, yes.” Vito opened the door. Unpleasant odors of rotting vegetables and grease rushed in from the dumpster outside. He started out the door.

  “Live around here? Or do you take the ‘L’?”

  Vito stopped in his tracks and turned to regard Henry once more. “I’m a few blocks away. I usually walk.”

  And because Henry was bone-tired but lustful, a state common to someone his age, he was bold. “Want company? I could walk with you.”

  Vito’s gaze darted away from him. He shook his head. “No.”

  “No? That’s all? Just no?”

  Vito smiled, and for a heart-stopping moment, Henry thought maybe he had shamed the guy into giving him a chance. “Yes,” Vito said.

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes. Just no.” And Vito slipped out the door without looking back.

  Damn! He really does hate me. You’d think a coworker would at least take me up on my offer out of politeness, if nothing else. Henry dropped his rag back in the bucket of bleach solution and looked around, making sure he had done everything on his checklist. Satisfied, Henry untied his apron and hung it on a hook.

  He stepped out into the night, double-checking to make sure the door was locked behind him. He had an idea, one he didn’t think was wise, but he was compelled anyway. Following through on the idea was validated by the fact that when he emerged from the alley, he could still see Vito, walking south on Greenview Avenue.

  That big form, kind of lumbering, drew Henry like a beacon. It was fairly late, after eleven, so there weren’t many people out. The moonlight made Vito a gray figure, retreating.

  You shouldn’t do it. Just go home. Do you really think it will make things any better between the two of you if he catches you following him? Henry thought his inner voice was making a very sensible and rational argument. And yet his feet were disagreeing as he started a southward course at a discreet distance, keeping back about a half block.

  Henry shrugged, and the voice that acted on impulse, that did things just because they felt good, urged him on. Go ahead. See what he’s about. See where he goes. You know you want to. Henry shook his head. That last thought was exactly the kind of notion that brought him trouble. It was that thought—You know you want to—that had led him into his experiences with Kade and with taking this very job, alienating both his mom and dad.

  Henry wondered why we couldn’t just listen to our sensible inner voices. I don’t know, maybe because they’re boring? Maybe because they’re safe?

  Henry continued to follow Vito, keeping back, watchful for a patch of shrubbery or an apartment house doorway he could duck into should Vito sense him following.

  I don’t even know why you’re doing this. So you see where he lives. So what? Even if this somehow led to something other than hostility on Vito’s part, what is it you hope to accomplish?

  And Henry knew his own response to himself was lame. Because I want to know him.

  Because you want to fuck him is more like it.

  Henry couldn’t argue. His head told the truth—and his lower head confirmed it. But Vito obviously didn’t want to know Henry; otherwise he’d be friendlier. He wouldn’t rebuff all Henry’s feeble attempts to get him to talk.

  You’re on a fool’s errand.

  And the fucking part? Hey, the guy isn’t even gay.

  Henry wanted to tell himself he didn’t know that for sure, but he did. Vito couldn’t be gay. He was too macho, too butch. There wasn’t one thing about the man that set off Henry’s admittedly new and relatively untested gaydar.

  But I can still dream, Henry’s irrepressible id told him. He continued to follow.

  He stood across the street as he watched Vito enter a door to the side of a dollar store. He could see, when Vito went inside, a small vestibule with mailboxes and, beyond, a flight of wooden stairs. The door closed, and Vito was lost to him. Henry trained his gaze on the upstairs windows and, within a minute or two, saw lights come on. It gave Henry a little thrill to witness Vito moving to one of the windows and lowering the blind.

  Okay, are you happy now? You can go home. The thought of home made Henry sad. Things hadn’t been the same since he’d told his parents he was going to be working at Fiorello’s. In fact, they were so bad that Henry had been banished to the little garage apartment in back of their house. The place was barely finished, as it hadn’t been used for anything other than storage for years, but Henry’s dad had told him he should get a taste of the kind of accommodations he could afford on his “lowlife laborer” wages. His father, to twist the knife, had added that Henry would be kidding himself if he thought he could even afford the garage apartment on what he made.

  He felt shut out. Lost. And wondered when his father would begin demanding rent.

  A string of cars and a city bus passed, leaving in their wake the stench of exhaust. When Henry looked up, Vito was standing across the street with two big dogs on leashes. Vito was staring at him. He was not happy.

  Henry forced his gaze away from Vito’s glaring face. He couldn’t bear to look at those eyes. He could tell, even from across the street, they were fairly blazing with anger. This had been a very bad idea.

  Henry looked at the dogs, which appeared to be some kind of tough street-dog mix. Both of them strained at the leash, wanting to move on, but their master was rooted to his spot, shooting
daggers across the street.

  Henry was also frozen. He thought briefly this moment was akin to two new lovers spying each other across a crowded room, except this was all screwed up, with one of the people actually hating the other.

  Vito crooked his finger at Henry in the classic “come here” gesture. Part of Henry wanted to simply turn and run. Sure, he could do that. But then he’d have to face Vito when he came in for work the next time. Maybe I’ll just quit, Henry thought, and tell Dad I’ve had a change of heart. That notion made him so sick to his stomach that he crossed the street, plastering what he knew was a sheepish grin on his face. He was almost hit by an oncoming Ford pickup, which was heading west on Morse far too fast. Henry had to leap backward to get out of the way. The blare of the horn almost made him scream.

  Finally he stood in front of Vito, who sized him up, shaking his head. The dogs were sniffing his legs and looking at him with appealing eyes that said, “Pet me, or at least pay some attention.” Henry mourned that their owner obviously did not share their feelings.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Henry bit his lower lip and failed at another attempt at a smile. “I was just on my way home. Why?”

  “Evanston is that way.” Vito jerked a thumb over his shoulder, north.

  Henry was surprised Vito would even know where he lived. He had certainly never told him, but Henry supposed he could have overheard what one of the other staff, who spoke to him a bit more, could have said. Henry needed to think fast. “I just wanted to clear my head before going home.”

  Vito nodded slowly, never taking his gaze off him. All these days Henry had wished Vito would look at him, and now he wished he would stop. Henry stared down at the ground and then looked to the dogs, as if they would save him. He squatted beside them and, hoping he wouldn’t get his hand bitten, began scratching them behind their ears. They loved it. One tried to jump on him. The other began licking his face like it was made of raw sirloin.

  Henry looked up at Vito and could tell Vito was charmed in spite of himself. “They like me,” Henry said.

  “They like everybody who pays them the least little bit of attention.”