EZRA
‘ B ABE , I DON ’ T UNDERSTAND YOU AT ALL .’
Mac sounds troubled by this. Seeing as we’ve known each other for less than a week, I’d argue that he needn’t be.
‘Like, you’re rich rich,’ he continues. ‘And don’t even attempt the “my parents are rich, not me” shtick, because that’s bullshit.’
‘Noted.’
‘So explain to me why you’re toting around dirty dishes for minimum wage? I need this job to live – what are you getting out of it?’
A good question. It warrants an honest answer, but I’m not sure what that answer is.
‘Structure, maybe?’ I venture.
Mac snorts. ‘I can think of better things to structure my life around than waiting tables.’
‘Fair point,’ I concede, stubbing the remnants of my cigarette against on the crate I’m sitting on. Mac is perched on another – we’re in the back alley behind the restaurant, and he’s chain-smoked three in the time it’s taken me to finish one. Mac’s deal is as follows – he’s nineteen, he’s been working in the restaurant for six months and he originally moved to New York to attend Juilliard, which he’s informed me is the best performing arts school in the world. The only hitch is that they won’t let him in – not yet, anyway. He recently applied to audition there for the second time, the tenacity of which is more impressive to me than getting in on the first attempt.
‘Romy’s girlfriend is your sister, right? What does she do?’
‘She’s an artist.’
‘Her and half this city. Specifically … ?’
‘Paintings. Oil portraits.’
‘She any good?’
‘Yeah,’ I say honestly. ‘Really good, actually.’
‘Why aren’t you doing something like that, then? Creatively fulfilling but low stakes.’
‘Please don’t labour under the assumption that I possess artistic talent.’
‘God – you know that you sound exactly like that dude from Pride and Prejudice when you say shit like that, right? That accent is something else.’
‘Something other than American, yeah.’
‘I bet girls love it. And boys. You dating anyone?’
‘No,’ I say simply.
‘That’s all I’m getting? Okay. A little mystery is cool.’
He stubs out his own cigarette and stands, then, running a hand over his tight, bleached curls. His tawny skin glows in the midday sun, his septum ring catching the light – Romy has cheerfully informed me that roughly three-quarters of the waiting staff here are in love with Mac, a fact that he seems all too aware of.
‘Hey – what are you doing tonight?’ he asks suddenly, turning back to me.
‘Nothing,’ I reply, realising too late that ‘nothing’ might be a commitment to ‘something’.
‘A friend of mine messaged me about a catering gig tonight,’ he tells me. ‘They’re looking for extra hands, if you wanted to tag along.’
‘Oh. Sure.’
‘You don’t sound sure.’
‘No, I’m up for it. I just thought you were going to suggest going out or something.’
‘There’s always a party afterward. We lift bottles, head back to someone’s apartment. And not that you need it, but these things are always cash in hand.’
‘It’s just holding trays, right?’ I ask. ‘It doesn’t matter that I haven’t been doing this long?’
‘Probably not,’ Mac says after a beat. ‘But I’d lie, if they ask.’
The restaurant is half empty by the time that Mac and I get back from our break, and we set about clearing the post-brunch carnage. I’m tasked with hand-washing the delicate champagne flutes we serve mimosas in, their paper-thin edges smudged with expensive lipstick.
‘Looks like you made a friend.’
I glance up to see Romy leaning against the side of the sink.
‘Don’t you have work to do?’ I ask, carefully rinsing a soapy glass. ‘Potatoes to peel? Onions to chop?’
‘I’m the chef de cuisine, Ezra.’
‘Am I supposed to know what that means?’
‘It means that I’ve done my time peeling potatoes and chopping onions.’ She smiles. ‘You could, though.’
‘Sure thing. Let me just pop to culinary school for a year or so and then I’ll get right on that.’
‘You don’t need to go to culinary school to work in a kitchen. I sure didn’t. As long as you’re eager to learn and willing to work hard—’
‘See, you lost me at “work hard”.’
‘You might be good at it.’
‘Nah. Thanks, but – I don’t think it’s for me.’
‘Then what is?’
‘When I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know,’ I say – a little too curtly. Romy cocks her head and I drop the sponge in the sink, turning towards her.
‘Sorry,’ I say quickly, meeting her eye. ‘Just – my dad grilled me about doing fuck-all with my life yesterday. I’m still a little touchy about it, apparently.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No. Thank you, though.’
Romy nods. I’m grateful that she isn’t the type of person to offer vague, cheering platitudes like, you’ll land on your feet , or, I’m sure he means well. But she’s looking at me like there’s something else she wants to say.
‘What?’ I finally blurt out.
‘Nothing,’ she says smoothly. ‘You’ve got something on your face.’
And then she dips her hand into the washing up and claps a handful of suds into my face. I blink in disbelief, letting out a splutter of laughter as she saunters off.
I’m guessing that that was the point.