by Edward Lee
She was also, to herself, embarrassed, but not for any reason that anyone could know.
The hands, she thought now. Suddenly the dining room blurred in her eyes. Yes, the hands, the fantasy. I must be more sex-starved than I think. Every night was the same. After work, she’d retire to her room, have a short Grand Marnier or two, take a hot bubble bath, and go to bed. And in bed, as sleep encroached, the fantasy would return. In her mind, the hands would lay her out, on her belly, and begin their slow, meticulous caress. Eventually, the image would wind her up so intensely that she’d further the fantasy in her mind, to intercourse with Kyle, on her hands and knees. It infuriated her. Vera wasn’t a dreamer, she was a realist. She had no use for fantasies, especially masturbatory ones. Yet the more determined she became to resist it, the fantasy also came to her. Hot, tactile, erotic. Every night.
And every night, afterward, she fell into a sated sleep and she dreamed.…
Goddamn! What is wrong with you! She gritted her teeth and blinked hard; the recollections vanished. I’m standing at the hostess section of my restaurant, on opening night, and all I can think about are dirty dreams.
And dirty they were, like none she’d ever had in her life. She blushed just thinking about them—she felt tingly and hot, even now. Her panties dampened.
“I’d just like to say,” a voice asserted, “we think your restaurant is outstanding.”
Vera snapped out of the lewd daze. It was the mayor who was passing the hostess station—a corpulent, red-nosed man in a disheveled suit—and his wife. He complimented further, “I can’t remember the last time we’ve dined so well. Give our compliments to the chef. Lobster cakes! What a simply ingenious idea!”
“Thank you for the kind words,” Vera replied.
“It’s about time someone opened a good restaurant in our town,” the over-made-up wife contributed. “I can’t wait to tell all my friends.”
Oh, please, Vera thought. Tell them all. Even tell people who aren’t your friends. We need some receipts! “It’s been a pleasure being able to serve you. Please come again soon.”
She received several more such compliments as some of the other diners left. At eight-thirty three more couples came in, but that was it for the night. Vera meandered back into the kitchen. Lee and Dan B. were playing blackjack on the butcher block. “Hey, Dan B.,” Vera motioned. “You Lobster Cakes in Lemon Butter are a big hit.”
Dan B.’s face screwed up over his hand. “A big hit? I’ve only done one order all night. We prepped enough for a dozen.”
“I prepped enough for a dozen,” Lee corrected, “while you read the funny papers in the can.”
“Yeah, the funny papers, your last report card from high school.”
“I never had time to study—I was too busy shagging your mom,” Lee said. “She pays.”
“No, you pay, porkface.” Dan B. laid down his hand. “Twenty-one. Blow me.” Then he looked up. “Hey, Vera, you wanna know the real kick in the tail? Go listen.” He pointed down the line.
“What?”
“Just go listen.”
Vera walked to the end of the washline. She pressed her ear to the door which led to the room-service kitchen. And flinched.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “They’re slammed in there.”
What she heard was an absolute cacophony. It was a familiar sound, from the old days. The sound of a very busy kitchen.
It infuriated her.
“Your man Kyle says all of his rooms are full for the whole weekend. He must not be lying,” Dan B. mentioned.
“I’ve got to check this out,” Vera said. “I’m going over there.”
“Good luck,” Lee said.
“Goddamn!’’ she nearly shouted when she tried he door. It was locked.
“There’s no reason for this door to be locked,” she exclaimed. “What is that guy’s problem?”
“His problem? He’s an asshole.”
You got that right. Vera left the kitchen, recrossed the dining room, and entered the atrium, which stood vacant. It was dead quiet, and the reception desk remained untended. She went in through the back way, down the cramped corridor, passing several maids pushing carts. None of them spoke to her. The first thing she saw when she entered the room-service kitchen was the same pasty, stooped woman she’d seen her first day on the job, who was wheeling a full twenty-shelf Metro transport cabinet into the room-service elevator. The door slid shut in Vera’s face. Beyond, the RS kitchen extended as a warren of hustling figures which weaved this way and that, loading dirty plates into the dish-racks, or covering the orders to go up. They were all more staff Vera had never seen before; none acknowledged her.
“Hi, Vera,” a voice called out.
Kyle stood before a long Wolf Range grill, tunicked, with spatula in hand, tending to a half-dozen ribeyes. The steaks sizzled.
“How come you locked the door between the kitchens?” she immediately asked, glaring at him.
Kyle shrugged. “No reason for it to be unlocked.”
“No reason?” Vera rolled her eyes. “What if the restaurant needs something over here?’’
Kyle gave a hearty laugh. “Looks to me like the only thing the restaurant needs that we got is business. What did you pull tonight, about five dinners?”
“No, Kyle, we did fifteen—”
“Hey, fifteen, that’s really socking them in.”
You DICK! She wanted to kick him. “And that’s not the point, Kyle. You might need something from us, too—”
“Not likely, and what the point really is, Vera,” he said, “is I’m in charge over here, you’re in charge over there. There shouldn’t be any cross-mingling of staff.”
Vera stood hand on hips, tapping her foot. “Why?”
“Ever heard of pilfering? Ever heard of theft?”
“What, you think my people are going to sneak over here to steal your ribeyes?” she close to yelled. “Which, by the way, you’re overcooking.”
Kyle flipped a few steaks with his spatula. “As managers, it’s our responsibility to keep our own areas secure. Room service is separate from the restaurant. It’s supposed to be. How do you know one of my people won’t go over to your end and pinch something? You don’t even lock your walk-ins during the day. ”
“Nobody ever gave me any locks, but I couldn’t help but notice that you have all you need.”
“If you need locks, go get some. You’re on the account. You need somebody to tell you everything?”
Vera was getting pissed in increments. You got balls, was all she could think, saying something like that to me. The kitchen clamor shredded her nerves, along with Kyle’s subdued-egomanic, self-centered grin. “But you can send the fat kid over here if you want,” he next had the gall to suggest. “Seeing how we’re so slammed over here, my dishwasher could use a hand…”
“Sorry, Kyle. No cross-mingling of staff, remember?”
Kyle chuckled as he flipped the top row of steaks.
“Jealousy isn’t what I’d call the sign of a good restaurant manager.’’
“What do I have to be jealous of?” she objected.
“I mean, look at you, you’re pissed. It’s not my fault your restaurant only does fifteen dinners all night while I do fifteen per half-hour.”
Vera stormed out. Kyle even had the further audacity to laugh after her. She wanted to shriek.
“What’s the matter?” Dan B. asked when she came back to her own kitchen.
“Nothing,” she snapped. Her heels clicked hotly straight to the service bar, where she poured herself a shot of Crown Royal. She could barely hold the little glass steady enough to pour the liquor. Donna stared at her, setting down a bus bin. One thing Vera never did was drink during hours.
“Listen, Vera,” Dan B. offered. “It’s only our first night. We can’t expect to do business like The Emerald Room right off. Gotta give people time to find out about us.”
Vera knew this, she even anticipated it. So why was she shaking?
“Business’ll pick up,” Donna added.
Vera leaned back and sighed. “Sorry, gang,” she apologized. She’d felt close to bugging out; it didn’t make sense. A slow night was nothing to get bent about, nor was the scrap with Kyle. Competition between managers was a reality in this business, and one she’d dealt with often. Her sudden fervor had nothing to do with any of that. So what was it? For a moment, she felt like she was going to fall to pieces. And how would that look in front of her staff? Vera was their boss, their leader. She was the one who’d convinced them to come here in the first place.
Look at me now, she reflected.
Donna put her arm around her, steered her away.
“Why don’t you just go upstairs and get to bed? You need some rest, that’s all.”
“Yeah, Vera,” Dan B. said. “Hit the sack. We’ll finish up down here. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Okay,” Vera said. She was tired, as a matter of fact. Maybe it was all just too much commotion, fretting over every little detail before the opening. “I’ll see you all in the morning.”
Vera could imagine the looks they exchanged as she left. One thing she couldn’t afford was to lose the confidence of her employees. They’d been such a great team together at The Emerald Room; if they thought she was flipping out, they’d fall apart. Get your shit together, girl, she thought, and crossed the atrium for the stairs. She frowned yet again at the untenanted reception desk. She doubted that she’d seen a single guest sign in today, yet all the suites were booked. Select clientele, she remembered both Feldspar and Kyle saying. Then it dawned on her. The VIP entrance behind the east wing—that’s where the guests were coming in from. It seemed almost as though Feldspar was ashamed of the atrium, that he was deliberately keeping this “select clientele” of his from seeing it. But the atrium was beautiful, as was the rest of The Inn. Why hide it?
She could hear the room-service elevators running full tilt behind the walls. She trudged up the stairs, toward her bedroom, taking each step as if in dread. And it was dread. Though she could admit that to no one else, she easily admitted it to herself.
It was sleep that she dreaded.
She closed her door, poured herself a Grand Marnier, and ran a bubble bath—her nightly ritual. A glance in the mirror affirmed Donna’s observation. Vera was run down, tired out. She assessed her reflection as she took off her clothes. The dark circles under her eyes told all.
Not enough sleep. And it was more than just worrying over the opening, she knew.
It was the dreams.
The lewd dreams seated in her inexplicable sexual fantasy. The hands, she thought, and hung up her tulip wrap-dress. The hands slowly caressing her into a frenzy. The fantasy lover was Kyle, or at least she guessed it was, and that made even less sense. Why fantasize about someone you can’t stand? she wondered. Perhaps it was all Freudian. Nevertheless, each night the fantasy seduced her to the point of touching herself. Then she’d fall asleep, and the dreams would begin…
She slipped out of her panties, unclasped her bra. Her amethyst necklace sparkled against her bosom. She lay it on the marble counter and eased into the warm tub.
She dreaded the dreams because they made her feel ashamed, and she felt ashamed because…she enjoyed them. They reduced her to a slut. Maybe I’m a slut and don’t know it, she attempted to make a joke of it. She could not believe the things that happened in the nightly dream. She couldn’t even believe how her subconscious could conjure such things…
The dream was always the same, just blurred in certain details. The hands, somehow, were the catalyst. They’d repeat their ministration of the fantasy, goading her, setting her off. Then they’d urge her to her hands and knees. Doggie style, she thought now. She’d never even liked it that way. It seemed insincere, whory, indulgent. When she made love for real, she liked to be face to face with her lover, not just a back and buttocks. It turned lovemaking into a faceless antic, a joining of bodies with no identities. Was the dream orchestrating her aversions, playing out acts she didn’t consciously condone? If so, why? Why was her mind not only including a person she didn’t like but also a sexual position she didn’t enjoy?
She enjoyed it in the dream, however. It brought tumultuous orgasms, and sensations so erotic it dizzied her to think of them now. It seemed to go on all night. Her sex would be plumbed from behind, while the hands reached around and plied her clitoris. The penis felt huge; she could scarcely take it all. Eventually it would withdraw and release its ejaculation onto her back. The dream-lover would then push her back down onto her belly, straddle her, and massage her back and shoulders as though the long gouts of seed were body lotion. And next, the hands would urge her up, gently position her to sit at the edge of the bed. No words were spoken, none needed to be. The figure would merely stand before, with hands on hips as if in wait. What it awaited was clear. Without reservation, Vera would eagerly lean forward to admit the massive organ into her mouth.
And that was only the beginning…
I should see a shrink, she considered now. My mind has become a garbage can. She lay inert in the tub, staring up not so much at the ceiling as at the confusing images of herself that had never presented themselves until now.
Why? she thought. Her toes diddled with drips from the faucet. And why now? How come I’m not sleeping well? How come I feel like I’m falling apart? And why the hell am I all of a sudden having these gross dreams?
She had no idea.
Nor did she have any idea whatsoever that all of these things had one very specific common denominator:
The Inn.
««—»»
Lee popped the Gun Club tape into his boom box and boogied. He always worked better with good music. The Gun Club was kick-out-the-jambs rock. He also worked better with a beer. He’d conned Donna into copping him a few bottles of EKU Maibock before she’d locked the service cage for the night. What was the big deal anyway? A few beers, aw so what? Dishwasher was always the last man out and it was the groatiest job, so why shouldn’t he be allowed to toss a few while wrapping the kitchen up?
He jammed to the tunes, a song about Elvis from hell, as he off-loaded the last rack of plates from the Hobart. Dishwasher was an erroneous job title—you didn’t just wash dishes, you cleaned everything in the kitchen so it was spic ’n span for tomorrow. Of course, he wasn’t exactly busting his ass tonight. A kitchen didn’t get that dirty after only serving fifteen dinners. All he had left was the floor to mop, and he could call it a night.
Lee was enthused; he was making righteous money now, and he wasn’t discouraged by opening night’s low draw. Things would pick up, he was sure. With Dan B. at the range and Vera running the show, word would get around fast that the best place in town to eat was The Carriage House. He didn’t understand why Vera was so bent out of shape tonight, though. She knew these things. In fact, she’d been acting funny for a while. Frazzled, off-the-mark, and a little bitchy. That made sense though, what with Paul Whatshisface cheating on her. What a scumbag. Vera was a nice lady, she didn’t deserve to be duped like that. For all that time she’d had her hopes up for marrying the guy, and then the guy puts her through the wringer. I wish he was here right now, Lee thought and polished off the first Maibock. I’d run his dog ass through the Hobart a few times, see if that doesn’t clean up his act a bit. Poor Vera. No wonder she hadn’t been herself lately.
That and that Kyle motherfucker giving her the extra headache. That’s the last thing she needed on top of the shit she had to take from Paul. One thing Lee knew from the word go: that Kyle motherfucker was bad news. He’d been on all their asses.
Speaking of motherfuckers…
Suddenly the door to the room-service kitchen was unlocked and open. Standing within, and sneering big-time, was Kyle. “Hey, fatboy,” he said.
Lee shot the dude a scowl. “You talkin’ to me?”
“No, I’m talking to the ten other fat shits standing behind you. Who do you think I’m talking
to?”
“What do you want, man?”
“I want you to get your fat can over here and finish up the RS dishes. We got slammed tonight, and my dish-man’s ragged out.”
Lee, at once, was tempted to suggest that Kyle dine on his Fruit of the Looms. Instead, he said, “I don’t take orders from you. Vera’s my boss.”
“Bullshit. We’re both your bosses, and right now I’m telling you to do something, so how come you’re not doing it, fatboy?”
Lee sputtered. Sure, he knew he was fat, but he didn’t need to be reminded of that fact, especially from a cocksure, snide motherfucker like Kyle. This was a tough call. Kyle, after all, was staff management. Lee didn’t revel in the idea of cleaning up room service’s mess. But there was another thing he didn’t revel in the idea of: a reprimand.
“What’s that there?” Now Kyle was squinting, his grin sharpening. “Is that beer you’re drinking?”
Fuck! Lee thought. The second bottle of Maibock was sitting there big as day next to the dressing mixer. “Uh, yeah,” he answered up. What could he say? No, it’s milk, it just looks like beer.
“Drinkin’ on the job’ll get you fired around here, fatboy. Dump it out.”
“Aw, come on, man. It’s just a beer, it’s not a federal fucking offense.”
Kyle cocked his head. “You got a hearing problem to go along with the weight problem, fatboy? I said dump it out. Pick up the fuckin’ bottle in your fat little hand, walk over to the sink, and dump it the fuck out. That, or you can pack your bags and head back to Fatboy City right this second.”
Lee dumped the beer out, his lips pursed as the precious pale liquid bubbled down the drain.
