Drop #115: Plans

‘You want some dessert?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Waffles? Ice-cream? Before they take it all away.’

‘Thanks, Mom, but I think I’ll pass.’

The lunch buffet is winding down. A short woman in a neat white uniform wheels a trolley around, clearing the large, half-empty platters of food.

‘Honestly, David, you never want anything. And I suppose you don’t want to come on the museum tour with us this afternoon either?’

‘Yeah. No.’

‘Really? Cause tonight you’re on your own. Your dad and I have the gala dinner, and cocktail party afterwards.’

‘I know, Mom. You guys have a good time.’

‘Well, at least go and out and have some fun tonight too. You could see the night show at the zoo, or go to Aquaworld. It’s open till ten.’

There is a loud clatter, and his mother turns to see what has fallen, and who has dropped it before continuing: ‘You might still get tickets for that circus down the street, or see that motorbike movie on the iMac screen.’

‘IMAX, Ma.’ David laughs.

‘You could see if that girl across the hall is in, and take her. She’s a little chubby, but she seems nice.’

‘I think I’ll just stay in tonight, Mom, thanks. Maybe watch a movie or read my book.’

‘You want me to talk to Jerry? His kids are a little younger, but I’m sure they’ll play—they’ll hang out with you if I ask.’

A man walks briskly by with a mop and bucket.

‘Really, Mom, that won’t be necessary. I think I’ll just go to the gym, or have a swim, watch a movie in my room and go sleep. Maybe I’ll order in.’

‘For goodness sake, David. You’re sixteen. It’s not natural to sit in your room all night. You’re on holiday. You should be out meeting people, meeting girls. You’re so tall and slim and handsome; you should take advantage. I saw a flyer for a young person’s social in one of the auditorium’s downstairs with a Hawaiian band and punch. That sounds fun, doesn’t it?’

‘I appreciate it, but I’m exhausted from cramming for exams last week.’

‘OK. Up to you. You want some money, in case you change your mind?’ She digs in her handbag.

‘I have money, Ma.’

‘Here’s 40 anyway.’ She puts two crumpled bills on the cream tablecloth.

‘Thanks.’ He straightens the messy bills, neatly folds them, and gives them back, ‘but I have enough money to do whatever I like with, you know.’

‘I imagine you do.’ She puts the cash back in her purse. ‘Both your aunts have been spoiling you rotten for years. Those birthday cards get thicker and thicker every time and I can’t remember you ever using any of the money, not even from your Bar Mitzvah, years ago. It must be adding up.’

‘So why are you trying to give me forty dollars.’ David smiled affectionately.

‘Cause I’m your mother, and you’re my Bunny Bear.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ David says, putting his hand on hers.

‘So why don’t you spend some of it, or are you going to be like that Warren Buffet, and just keep hoarding it?’

‘I’ll spend it, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll do something special with it.’

‘I do worry, David. You never want to do anything. You’re not interested in anything. Make some plans. Do something. Take a risk. Take charge. You won’t be young forever.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ He squeezes her hand. It feels boney.

‘Eh,’ she says, ‘you just don’t know what you like yet.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘It will come.’

David’s mother drinks a coffee and steals two profiteroles off the clearing trolley as it heads past them for the kitchen. With a full mouth, she tells her son that the event that will go on till after midnight, and he’ll probably be sleeping when she and his father get back, so it’s best if they catch up in the morning. He has his own room, which is convenient, even though his mother doesn’t understand why they put him on a separate floor entirely when she’d specifically asked for adjoining rooms. David assures her he’ll be fine, but that he won’t wait up, and suggests they meet at the pool for a late breakfast, say at 10.30 the next morning.

‘Perfect,’ she says, getting up.

‘But I’ll check in before you guys leave for the dinner anyway. What time are will that be, exactly, by the way?’

‘Seven sharp.’

‘Good. I’ll make sure to be around.’

‘You’re a sweet boy. Now, I have to hurry. Your father is probably waiting.’

 

David walks her to her room. She kisses him on the forehead and he leaves. He makes a quick stop at his  to put on some slacks, a clean T, some proper shoes, and fetch his sunglasses. He takes the lift to the lobby, walks left out the main door, and carries on for ten blocks till he sees the Royal Blue. The bar on the second floor is deserted.

‘You Fred?’ he asks the barkeep, a short man with ginger hair gone gray, and a mouth that slants downwards.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘You can call me Mr. Leon–you him or not?

‘Yeah, I’m Fred.’

‘Heard you can set things up.’

‘Depends.’

David gently places a crisp 50 on the bar.

‘What you looking for?’

‘You can start me with a Saphire Martini, twist. You do know how to make a decent one, I’m sure.’

‘How old are you, kid?’

‘Old enough.’ David floats another fifty onto the copper bar top.

‘Whatever you say, Mr. Leon.’ Fred starts making the drink. ‘I guess the drink won’t be all, though’ he smirks.

‘You’re a good guesser, Fred, but I need precision from you, you hear? Not speculations, but results.’

David waits till he’s tasted the drink before carrying on. ‘I want three girls, for four hours. One blonde, but pale Swedish blonde, not tanned California blonde. None of those wide toothy smiles please. The second must be black with short hair, or an Afro. No braids; no extensions. The third, a natural red-head with freckles, and I mean they must be everywhere, not just on her face. The girls should all be thin, with real breasts, and bald below. Nothing older than 26 or younger than 20, please. Seriously, I’ll be able to tell.’

David takes a gulp of his Martini. ‘Good; he says, ‘that takes care of the talent.’

‘Not cheap, what you’re asking for, Mr. Leon.’

‘The better things in life seldom are, my good man. Take this twenty-dollar drink, for instance. Not cheap, but worth it. Moving on. I’ll need champagne. I don’t want to get it where I’m staying. Four bottles will do. It doesn’t have to be high end—I can’t tell the difference between the 200 and 40 dollar stuff–but it has to be champagne. No cava. No prosecco, and for God’s sake, none of that Australian sparkling bullshit. Everything well chilled, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Please. Temperature is key. Then I’ll need two grams of good coke, and another of MDMA. Both pure. I mean, like a Swiss mountain stream. Here, I can tell the difference. Go the extra mile and do me good.’

‘Expensive menu. Not to be a drag, Mr. Leon, but do you have the cash for all this?’

‘It would be preposterous,’ David pulls a tight roll from his pocket and stands it on the bar, ‘if I didn’t.’ He wriggles off the elastic, removes the outer C-note, and gives it to Fred. Below is another. ‘It’s no false roll, Fred.’

‘Oh, I can tell, Mr. Leon. I can tell. So, what else can I do you for? Another drink, on me, while we chat?’

‘No, thanks. But I will need some threads. I had to pack light, and I’ll need to rent a suit. No time to buy anything for the permanent collection, I’m afraid.. These are my sizes.’ David hands Fred a small white card. ‘I’ll need a slate gray suit, two button, center vent, peaked lapel, tapered leg. Clean. No stripes or patterns. I’ll need two shirts, one gray, one blood red, and I could do with a better pair of shoes. Something Italian, leather, black, sleek. Everything immaculately pressed and shined. I don’t want to see a spot or a wrinkle.’

‘How about a tie, Mr. Leon?’

‘I brought my own. I have my own socks and underwear too, in case you were wondering.’ David looks at his watch. ‘I’d love to stay and chat all day, Fred, but I think we need to wrap this up. Anyway, that’s the lot as far as items go. You got it all?’

‘I got it.’

‘No need to recap?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’ David finishes his Martini. ‘This is the thing, Fred; I want this done right. I want it like I want it, if you understand.’

‘Of course, Mr. Leon.’

‘This is how it’s going to happen: on this paper are my hotel details.’ He hands it to Fred. ‘I want the clothes at my door at 8pm, no later but certainly no sooner. I want the drugs in the jacket’s inside pocket. I want the champagne at 9 and the girls at 9.30. I’ll pay them directly, and leave you to handle the rest. I will leave you with this.’ David peels several notes off the roll. ‘I know how much this is, and how much recreational items cost. I know I can trust you.’

‘Oh, you can., Mr. Leon.’

David peels a couple more notes off the top and puts them in Fred’s shirt pocket. ‘This is for you. There will be a greater reward for you tomorrow, if it all comes off.’ He stands up.

‘Oh, it will.’ Fred extends a hand. ‘Pleasure doing business, Mr. Leon.’

‘You know what, Fred? So far, I can honestly say the same.’

‘You have great night, Mr. Leon.’

‘Oh, I intend to.’

By E.M. Vireo

Drop #114: Cool Friends

‘Hey there, neighbor.’

‘Hi. Say, I noticed you had friends over for dinner last night.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So why did you invite me to dinner on Saturday and then cancel, and not invite me again last night? That’s kind of rude, don’t you think?’

‘Well, yesterday I wasn’t hanging out with my cool friends; I was hanging out with my boring friends, and I’d tentatively put you in the cool category, so I figured you wouldn’t have mixed. The friends that canceled on Saturday were also in the cool category so next time I have them, or other cool people over, I’ll invite you too.’

‘Oh.’

‘Unless you think you belong in the uncool category. I could always move you over. I was a bit hasty with your placement and might have got it wrong. Happens sometimes. Not much evidence to go on really. More of a hunch.’

‘No, no, that’s okay.’

‘Are you sure? An honest mistake, perhaps. No harm, no foul. I’m having some rather boring people for dinner on Wednesday. A sweet couple. Really nice folk. Both vegans with matching gluten allergies. He’s a tax attorney and she’s a paralegal secretary. They’ll bring their one-year-old twins, Luther and Timotei. We’ll probably have a hearty discussion about third world inflation or mortgage rate projections before playing Trivial Pursuit, though Sandra has a rare blood disease and bad asthma and often feels too tired to finish the game. Let me know if you’re interested. There’s definitely room for one more, though I should warn you, it might be hard for you to get back into the cool crowd once transposed. There have only ever been two switchovers, and they were both from cool to uncool, like you might be doing and not the other way round. Some of the cool crowd is coming over on Friday – about six of them, though that number could balloon. We’ll have pasta or something, probably smoke a chillum or two, listen to music, watch a movie, maybe go for a drink. Rodrigo sometimes pulls out the guitar and gives us a live show—he’s a wizard with the whammy bar.  He’s in a punk band that just signed to a pretty major label and he’s bringing two of his girlfriends. The other guy, a friend I know from high school is a licensed shaman and grows his own peyote. The other two are a couple of skinny polyamorous tattoo artists who split time between New York and Austin. Really funny chicks. They can never keep their hands off each other, even in public – off all the rest of us too, now that I think of it. We usually end up having a pretty wild time.’

‘Yeah. I think I’ll wait for that.’

‘You sure? As I said, it’s not too late to join on Wednesday. I can buy another couple of heads of lettuce, and you can help keep an eye on the babies when Don plays his usual hour of Chopin scherzos on the piano, though you shouldn’t touch them because of the skin rash, of course.’

‘No, really. I’ll wait. Thanks.’

‘Sure? It’s really no bother to scoot you over, hardly any logistics to it at all.’

‘Absolutely. I’ll wait for Friday.’

‘Suit yourself. We’ll start around nine. Oh, and let me know if we disturb you Wednesday night, though I doubt it. It’s usually a quiet affair.’

‘Okay. No problem.’

‘Great, by the way, I love those shoes.’

‘Thanks, neighbor.’

By E.M. Vireo

Drop #113: Blog Gone

A year ago today I posted my first drop. Here is number 113:

-

When I got home in the evening I went to my laptop to post something, but I couldn’t find my blog online. All I got was an error message saying it was no longer there. I was upset cause I’d made a big effort building a following and had some really good ideas for future posts; in fact, I was just about to post something fascinating on sub tropical pod fruit varieties, so you can imagine how bummed I was. There was nothing I could do about it, though, so I just went on about my day, deciding to take a shower and maybe go out on the town.

But when I pulled back the shower curtain, my blog jumped out at me, knocking me to the ground. It was smaller than me but very strong. It had taken the form of a skinny, mustard-colored, hominid, with bulbous dragonfly eyes and elephant tusks that almost reached the ground. If I hadn’t jumped away with the reflexes of a street market cat, he would surely have impaled me. Imagine that, being murdered by your own blog!

‘Why are you attacking me, Blog?’ I asked, holding it at bay with the pink stepping stool I keep in the bathroom to reach the stuff at the back of my oversized cabinet – you know, stuff like electric toothbrush manuals and full body bandages. ‘What have I done to you?’

‘You’ve neglected me,’ it said. ‘You’ve left me on the same post for weeks.’

‘I’ve been writing another, ‘I said. ‘About tropical pod fruit. It’s a complicated one and it’s taking some time.’

‘Not good enough!’ It lunged at me again with those tusks. ‘I demand attention!’

‘You try categorizing flowering sub species of arboreal pomegranates!’ was my come back, as I pushed him away and reached for the bulk size toothpaste tube on the sink. I popped the cap and squeezed with all my power, aiming for those monstrous eyes. He spat a bizarre yellow gunk at me, scratched at the air with his saber-like claws.

As you can see, I’m back online, so you know who won that fight. Yeah, baby. That’s right.

E.M. Vireo

Drop#112: Over Hot Chocolate

Jake is visiting his folks for the weekend. He hasn’t seen them in three months. Having gotten up to fetch a glass of water at 2 am, he finds his father, 73, in the kitchen, sitting over a mug of hot chocolate.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’

‘Nah.’

‘Make you a cup?’ Dad asks all smile and brow.

‘Sure.’

They sit with their steaming mugs for two minutes in silence till Jake says, without looking at his father: ‘Why have we never talked about anything interesting?’

‘What’s that?’

‘One day you’ll be dead, or I’ll be dead, and the line of communication between us, between these two people on this planet will be cut forever, and we will never be able to share anything interesting again.’ Jake keeps his eyes down. ‘But you know what? It won’t be very different from now, cause we never discuss anything interesting anyway.’

His dad asks what exactly he wants to discuss.

‘I don’t know. Anything. Like whether you ever slept with other women while you were with mom, and if not, why, and did you want to? Like whether you still love her. Like whether you are into prostitutes, black chicks, friends’ wives, obese women.’

‘Obese women! No!’

‘Oh, forget the fat women, Dad! I’m just saying, I’m 39 and I’ve never known anything about you- nothing interesting. What’s your drug of choice?—I know mom’s is booze, but what about you? Did you ever smoke weed, take acid, cocaine, morphine? Did you ever kill someone, beat someone up, suck someone’s cock?’

‘Heavens, no!’

‘Do you fear God? Or something else? I have no idea what you fear, what you regret, if you are happy with your accomplishments, your children, your imprint on life.’

Dad shrugs and says he is happy enough, and Jake repeats that isn’t what he’s after.

‘I want the shit, the details, the vicious truths that taint the blood.’

‘Have you been drinking, son?’

‘No. No more than usual. Come on, Dad. Give me something!’

‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

‘And you’ve never asked me any of this stuff. Why?’

‘It never struck me to ask you if you’re into obese women or if you’ve beaten somebody up.’

‘Oh, let that go, now, will you? I want to hear something real cause all this holiday crap is one big act. One badly acted scene. Give me something, old man, for Christ’s sake! I can take it! Did you resent me when I was a child? I know I must have annoyed you, I remember you were often in a bad mood. Did you hate Roy Smith for taking your job? Did you ever fantasize about hurting him?’

‘Why on earth?’

‘Did you ever contemplate suicide?’

‘No. Never. There’s nothing to tell, Jake. My life has always been what it is, what you and everyone else has seen. I’ve loved my children and my wife and never strayed from her. I never was one for drugs. Your mom likes her wine but she handles it fine. My job was never a great reward but that’s most of the world, now isn’t it?’

‘Fuck, man. Can’t you even give me one measly thing?’

‘Well,’ his dad says, pausing to validate his intent.

‘Yes?’

‘There is one thing.’

‘Good.’

‘In fact, it is a terrible thing. A thing so heinous I have never mentioned it to anyone, not even myself, since I did it. I think I forced myself to shut it out. But this feeling in my throat, full of guilt and regret, doesn’t lie. I know very well what I did, even if I haven’t looked it in the eye for 56 years.’

‘What did you do, Dad?’

‘This won’t do anymore,’ his father says, sliding his mug away with the back of his hand. His green eyes seem three shades darker, creeping towards an opaque black. ‘This calls for the single malt I hid. If I’m going to tell this tale, I’ll need the devil holding my hand, and you will too.’ He gets up and walks swiftly to the cupboard by the fridge. Jake hasn’t seen him as spry in years. His shoulders are broad and upright, his arms carved up by sinew and explicit vein. ‘Here we go,’ he smiles another man’s smile, and pours two large straight drinks. ‘To the telling of tales. To vicious truths that taint the blood.’ Those veins seem to throb with the delivery. He drinks the drink down and fills it up again. ‘I hope you are ready.’

Jake mumbles that he is.

‘Then let us summon old ghosts,’ father stands and states in a voice like falling timber, ‘and tear this night in twain.’

Jake gulps as his towering father begins lashing the air with words: ‘I was seventeen when Guthro Gore bought the old Parsons ranch down the road. I seen him the very first night, sitting on the stoop, drinking yellow moonshine and biting the heads off field mice, his gray teeth perfect little guillotines. I was drawn to everything overtly sinister about the man. I was destined to have him fill me with ill will…’

 

*Writer’s note: Sometimes, I just write myself into a corner I have no intention of getting out of. This is obviously one of those times.

Drop #111: Confidence

When they were done with lunch, Frank asked Jack what he was doing later.

‘Meeting Tim for a drink.’

‘Tim? That guy is such a cheapo.’

‘Is he?’

‘Yeah,’ said Frank. We had cocktails last week and when I asked to taste his he refused, said it was too expensive and I should get my own—can you believe it? What a tightwad! A single sip too precious to share.’

 

Later that evening Jack told Tim that he’d had lunch with Frank that afternoon.

‘Oh, I had drinks with him last week.’

‘Yes, he mentioned it.’

‘Funny story, actually, between me and you,’ Tim said. ‘We ordered cocktails and Frank suddenly asked if he could have a sip of mine, caught me totally off guard. I had to quickly make something up before he put his lips on it – that guy fucks everything that crawls and I didn’t want to get something nasty from him. So I told him it was too expensive to share. Kind of lame, but it worked.’

‘Hm. That is funny.’

 

Tim asked Frank if he’d seen Jack lately, when the two of them had met for drinks the previous week.

‘No, but I’m having lunch with him Saturday.’

‘Yeah, we have tentative plans for that evening. You around?’

‘No, have a work thing.’

‘Pity,’ said Tim and Frank agreed it was a shame.

‘You know,’ Tim said after a pause, ‘I never really trusted Jack.’

‘Yeah, I get where you’re coming from.’

‘I just wouldn’t tell him anything in confidence is all I’m saying, unless you want it blurted all around town.’

‘I totally agree,’ said Frank; then he asked if he could taste Tim’s cocktail.

by E.M. ‘Sweetshanks‘ Vireo

 

Drop #110: Visions of the Legless

Pretoria, South Africa, 1976:

Gert Grobbelaar, a successful young accountant, was sitting in his living room on a Sunday afternoon. His servant brought him a cup of tea.

‘Thandiwe,’ he said to her, when she was leaving.

‘Yes, Baas.’

‘Did you polish the silverware?’

‘Yes, Baas.’

‘Did you do it thoroughly? The Dominee is coming tonight and I don’t want to make a bad impression.’

‘Yes, Baas.’

‘Cause last time, I found a fork with a nasty smudge on it.’

‘It is spick-and-span, Baas.’

‘Good. Good. Oh, and Thandiwe?’

‘Yes, Baas.’

‘The Missus told me your husband was here again yesterday night and he was drunk. If I catch him here one more time I will have him arrested and I will throw you out, do you understand.’

‘My son, he is sick, Baas.’

‘I don’t care about that, you hear? I want no more trouble from you.’

‘Yes, Baas.’

Gert drank his tea; then walked over to his study to read the paper. The blerrie blacks were revolting at the mines again and there was all this nonsense happening in Soweto. What crazy times, Gert thought. What the hell is next? Black teachers at white schools?

As Gert sat there, reading, a freak accident occurred. The heavy framed portrait of his grandmother, Wilhelmina Geldenhuys, dislodged from the wall, falling downwards and outwards, its edge catching Gert cleanly on the head. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

Thandiwe, having heard the crash while working in the kitchen, came running. Seeing the Baas on the ground she hurried to find the Missus, who rushed into Gert’s study with a head full of curlers.

‘Oh my Liefie!’ she said urgently, kneeling beside him. ‘What has happened to you?’

She lifted his head into her ample lap and gently patted his cheek till he awoke.

‘Jissus,’ he said, looking around, startled. ‘What the hell is happening here?’

‘You were passed out, my love. How are you feeling?’

‘I had the strangest dream just now,’ he answered. ‘The strangest vision, but clear as blerrie day.’

‘Of what, my skat?’

‘It was thirty or forty years from now,’ Gert said groggily, ‘and two black policemen.’

‘Black policemen?”

‘Yes, two black police officers, without any white supervisor, if I remember right, had arrested a young white man, an athlete with no legs–’

‘An athlete with no legs?’

‘Yes, and a runner, nogal! He was accused of murdering his girlfriend, and they were leading him out of his house in handcuffs.’

‘Jissus, Gert, but you must have taken a nasty knock. That’s the most impossible thing I’ve ever heard!’

‘I know.’ Gert chuckled. ‘Isn’t it just blerrie ridiculous?’

Glossary: Baas: Master;  Dominee: Pastor;  Blerrie: Bloody;  Liefie: Love;  Jissus: Jesus;  Skat: Term of endearment, Dear or Treasure;  Nogal:  In this case, just a word added for emphasis – something like Too! or Can you believe it?

by E.M. Vireo

Drop #109: Swimming

I go swimming Tuesday afternoons. It’s almost empty, as usual. Only the one other man and I are there. We own the pool.

I do twenty lengths of crawl and twenty of breaststroke, leisurely. He does something similar in the lane next door. We repeatedly pass each other, his orange trunks approaching like a tiny ember, growing brighter, then moving by.

Maybe he swims a little faster, or slower, cause when my fingertips touch the edge for the final time he is also at my end. I take off my goggles and pull myself up and out, and as I’m standing there, dripping, he says: ‘Great pool isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Great place to get some exercise, isn’t it?’ he says, smiling.

‘Sure is,’ I say. ‘Sure is.’

Driving home I am distracted. I almost run a stop sign. I just can’t stop asking the question: why now? Why strike up a conversation now, after we’d been swimming past each other silently every Tuesday afternoon for the last fifteen years?

By E.M. Vireo

Drop #108: On the Bus

He shifts in his seat and bumps me with his knee. He’s all sweat and muscles and looks tough in his sleeveless T. (some call them wife beaters.)

‘Sorry,’ he says.

I just smile to show it doesn’t matter and straighten my skirt.

We are near the front of the bus, in the second row. I’ve got the window. There’s about an hour to go before we get to Budapest Center.

The skinny man across the aisle to his right suddenly makes conversation: ‘I remember you from the main stage.’  He’s eating popcorn out of a party size black and gold bag. ‘You were dancing like crazy.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m Mikael,’ the guy says, offering a hand he first wipes on his jeans.

‘Jack.’

‘Nice meeting you. You want some popcorn?’

‘No. Thanks,’ Jack says, getting up to close the tinted plastic sun roof. ‘Shit is shining right on my head,’ he says to me, sitting back down and I smile again.

Not a minute later, an older hippie type, maybe late fifties, thin gray hair to his shoulders, has come up front, and proceeds to open the sun roof back up. Jack looks at him, stone faced and asks him what he’s doing.

‘We need air in the back,’ the guy says. ‘There’s no ventilation in this bus.’

Jack gets up and closes it again. ‘It’s landing right on my head,’ he says.

But the old man is undeterred, sliding it aggressively open once more. ‘I don’t care; it stays open,’ he says, before wobbling back down the aisle, supporting himself on the headrests.

Jack lets him go. He wipes the corner of his mouth with a broad, nail bitten thumb, then looks straight ahead again, his forehead and short brown hair illumined by the strong rays pouring through the roof’s fresh wound. And two minutes later, when the old man is back in his seat, Jack gets up slowly, and closes it again. He sits and bounces his eyebrows when he sees me looking.

I don’t hear the older man coming but he’s soon back up front. ‘I thought I told you that this thing stays open,’ he says firmly, the frustration quite clear in his voice.

‘It’s shining on my head,’ Jack says. ‘It stays closed.’

‘I can’t breathe back there—none of us can breathe.’

‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’

‘It is!’ the old hippie insists. He reaches up and slides the hatch wide open. Sun beats down on us.

Jack tries to compromise, sliding it back so that it’s only a quarter of the way open. ‘How’s that?’

‘Not good enough.’ The old guy pushes it all the way open again. ‘It stays open! I have a heart condition. I need all the air I can get.’

Jack turns to face his older, shorter antagonist. Slowly, he reaches up, and slowly, he slides the roof closed. When the man tries to open it again, Jack grabs his wrist. ‘You want to make this physical?’

‘I have a heart condition!’

‘Don’t use that as an excuse. I figure only about ten percent of living humans are worth the life they’re given and I’d bet my house you fall in the other 90. Now, go sit back down before I forget how to stay calm.’

I catch Mikael’s eye as the old guy waddles back to his seat in a huff. Mikael looks scared, even though he’s not involved. He’s eating popcorn like he’s at a horror movie. When Jack looks at him he thrusts the bag forward mechanically, and this time Jack takes a hand full. I do too. It’s cheese flavored.

Jack and I get off in central Budapest, near the bus terminal. It’s all concrete and gray ramps, but I know we’ll find a beautiful city over the next few days.

I can’t wait to get him back to the hotel. Jack doesn’t assert his will as much as he used to, and I don’t want to waste it. Confrontation is such a turn on.

By E.M. Vireo

Drop #107: Insane Food Weekend, Part 2

Click here for Part 1

‘He was buying?’

‘Sure. So I show up and it looks like nothing’s there. But I ring a bell and this Japanese guy lets me in and takes me through to the back, where Al is waiting in this modest, dimly lit room with one low table in the middle and cushions around it. I take off my shoes and join him on the floor. I ask him about the place and he says it’s a Japanese private kitchen. They serve a maximum of three tables a night and it’s a set menu.’

‘Omakase.’

‘If you say so. The chef doesn’t speak much English. Al told me he was one of the best sushi chefs in Japan when he lived there but just wanted to create something perfect without worrying about a restaurant and its problems. The place was super underground.’

‘That sounds amazing! Japanese is my favorite cuisine, especially when it’s kaiseki style, like that.’

‘Yeah. I think Al must have had someone else in mind to eat with when he set it up but now I was there. Go figure. So the food started coming and it didn’t stop for three hours. The presentation was clean and detailed, each dish more delicate than the next: sashimi, sushi, all incredibly fresh and seasonal—I swear, I’d never heard of half the fish. Then there was tartar of kobe beef with quail egg; intense fish broth with shrimp heads, cold cured eggplant cut so thin you could hardly see it; snow crab and sea urchin tempura; sea eel wrapped asparagus with fatty tuna dipping sauce; miso crusted pork chops. It just kept coming!’

‘Wow. That’s insane.’

‘I told you it was an insane food weekend! And that was only Saturday.’

‘There’s more?’

‘Sure. Sunday was the craziest of all.’

‘I’m not near done with Saturday, but tell me about Sunday?’

He asked if I wanted another beer and I said maybe later, but accepted, when he told me he was buying. He ordered, then said he’d got a call Sunday afternoon from a man called Hal Freely, who he’d met at the Italian joint Friday. He’d hardly even remembered talking to the guy, being a bit drunk on all the good wine.

‘Hal Freely!’

‘You know him?’

Of course I didn’t know him, but I knew of him. He was voted best up and coming young chef last year by Food and Wine Magazine and represented the US at the Bocuse D’or two years ago.’

‘He’s a nice guy,’ Bill said, casually. ‘Apparently I’d convinced him I was a web design genius and he wanted to talk to me about doing some work for him, so he invites me to dinner too, with some of his business partners I’d also be working with if we struck a deal. Turns out most of them are chefs or restaurant owners.’

I asked where they went.

‘To this place, Honeyrose.’

‘Oh, man. It’s supposed to be amazing.’

‘Yeah, but we didn’t eat downstairs in the main dining area. We went upstairs to this private room.’

‘You’re shitting me!’

He assured me he wasn’t. They’d dined in this cozy, separate room where a table was set up for six.

‘Who were the other four?’ The beers came and we both drank before he answered.

‘One was Sergio, Honeyrose’s owner.’

‘Sergio King, himself! Incredible!’

‘The other three were called Cynthia, Jacob and Marlene.’

‘Oh my God. Cynthia Carr, Jacob Lutz and Marlene Estefano.’

‘Sounds about right.’

‘Dude, there’s like five Michelin stars between those three alone. I only ate at Marlene’s restaurant, The Top Hat once and it was awesome. And you ate up there?’

‘Yup. After a few cocktails all sorts of food just started appearing.’

‘Probably all the stuff those great chefs love eating and don’t even serve regularly.’

‘Probably.’

And when I pressed for details he started listing dishes: whole goat’s head, eyeball and all; bone marrow; squid ink and sea urchin linguini, stopping to note how everyone was real chatty, talking about the food, what they liked about it and whether the wine went well with it.’

‘It’s a friggin wet dream!’

‘There was pork belly, and crayfish pancakes, and tuna cheek and baby octopus and double braised lamb shank. It was really too much food.’

‘Amazing. That’s the real deal. The behind-the-scenes, top-shelf stuff. Nobody get’s to eat like that!’

‘Well, I did, right? All we did was eat, really. We hardly even discussed the project.’

I asked if he was going to work with them and he said it didn’t look likely, after all.

‘Oh. Well, at last you got to eat a ridiculously good meal with them.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘And after everything else on Friday and Saturday too!’

He nodded.

I had fantasized about a food weekend like that many times but even in my fantasies I’d never come close to attending the opening of a place like Il Sorriso, eating the best Japanese omakase in a private kitchen for two, and certainly not sharing a meal in an exclusive upstairs room at Honeyrose with five of the countries best chefs, getting to know them, hearing their opinions, eating what they eat – being on the inside. Nothing had come close to what Bill had experienced for real.

‘It must have been your best food weekend ever,’ I said.

‘Maybe.’

‘I don’t see how anything could beat it. In fact, it must have been one of your best weekends ever, period!’

‘Nah. I mean, it was all right, but I’m not that into food, really. Eating isn’t something that excites me much.’

By E.M. Vireo

Drop #107: Insane Food Weekend, Part 1

I didn’t need to give him the keys till Thursday, but I pushed to meet him tonight. He had mentioned on the phone that he’d had an insane food weekend and I wanted to hear about it. I am really into food and kind of follow what’s happening in the culinary world. I know who the main players, the superstar chefs and sommeliers are, keep up with restaurant openings and closings, and with exciting food trends. But I seldom have the time or money to pursue fine dining as a pastime. I save up sometimes to eat at a Michelin starred restaurant, and people treat me to a good meal once in a while, but even though I like it more than anything, I rarely have truly great food. So I’ve developed the habit of living vicariously through the eating exploits of others, and the stories they share.

‘You didn’t need to come all the way over here today,’ he said, half pulling out a chair at the bar as he stayed sitting. ‘I could have got the keys later in the week when we we’re both in city for work, or you could have even given them to Julie.’

‘No bother,’ I said, sitting down, then ordered a bottle of Bud.

We chatted for a while and he wouldn’t bring it up on his own, so I finally said: ‘so, you mentioned you had an insane food weekend.’

‘Um, yeah,’ he answered, with the beer glass in his mouth. ‘It was ridiculous.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Where to begin? Jesus.’

‘How about starting at the beginning and working your way through to the end?’

‘Dude, there were so many meals and drinks and dishes. I might bore you.’

‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘So, what was first?’

‘Friday. I’d just got out of the shower, and was planning a simple night at home with a few DVDs, right, but I get a call from this girl I know who tells me she’s on the list plus one for some restaurant opening and her date stood her up, and did I want to come. She’s really cute so I told her sure.’

‘Details. I need details. What was the restaurant called?’

‘Um.’ He scrunched up his face like a chipmunk. ‘Solosi, or something. It was an Italian joint.’

‘Solosi?’

‘Wait, Il Soroso, I think it was.’

‘You went to the opening of Il Sorriso?’

‘Yeah, that’s it.’

‘It’s Italian for smile, by the way.’

‘Oh, is it?’ He held the bowl up for more nuts. They were mixed, roasted and salted. ‘Makes sense. It was an Italian joint, as I said.’

‘It’s only like one of the most anticipated restaurants openings in ages. The chef, Mauro Gavizzi, left Pane e Sale to run his own place. He’s amazing, that guy.’

‘Yeah, the food was good and there was plenty of it. They brought out trays of tasty little morsels all night and there was a full buffet.’

‘Geez!’

‘They had this special mozzarella that was all gooey inside–’

‘That would be burrata.’

‘Yeah. It was made in-house, apparently.’

‘What else?’

‘They made a big deal about this salty type of dried fish roe. It was kind of dark red and really intense. They cured it themselves, of course.’

‘Bottarga. Salt cured mullet roe. I love that stuff. I only ever tried it once though.’

‘They had trays of the shit.’

‘What else was in the buffet?’

‘Loads of different pastas I’ve never seen before with all sorts of sauces like rabbit ragu, sage butter, white truffle, and clam; plates of Italian cold cuts and cheeses; flat breads; some crazy snail dish; stuffed trout; these huge fat steaks that got carved up; sausages, and get this: a whole suckling pig.’

‘Wow. They must have had some innards too?’

‘They had a big old pot of tripe in a red sauce—oh yeah—and sweetbreads too.’

‘Drinks? Wine?’

‘There were bottles all over the show. Chianti, Baroli—’

‘Barolo.’

‘Pino Grigio, Barbaresco, Brunella—’

‘Brunello.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘and insane desserts, cakes, pastries, and elaborate ice cream creations. It was all pretty impressive, and that was only Friday!’

‘I want to get back to Friday, but tell me about Saturday. What happened?’

‘Two things happened Saturday, both related to this project I’m working on. I am designing a website for this guy, Al, and had a meeting scheduled with him around noon. He’s an importer of Mediterranean products, mostly French and Spanish, and he suggested we meet at his place cause some one was coming over with a bunch of samples and it would give me the chance to see what his business was about first hand, and so on. So I get there and it’s hardly a few samples: the place is full of boxes and these two ladies are opening cans and cartons and bottles. We sampled everything: foie gras, jamón ibérico, serrano, lomo, olives, cava, champagne, olive oils, pâtés, truffle and olive spreads, pickled onions, marinated sardines, breads, crackers, cheeses.’

‘Wow! And the stuff was good, I guess.’

‘Al said it was some of the best product he’d ever tasted. Anyway, it went on for hours. It was crazy. We didn’t even get to talk about the website we were so busy stuffing our faces, so the guy invites me for dinner later so we can get down to business, and gives me an address and time.’

…Conclusion coming soon

by E.M. Vireo