Part 1 (2/2)

So far, the local press has been kind. There aren't many like Rosellen: a female African American chef. That's another term, ”African American,” that she makes them all use, instead of ”black,” which is how George has always referred to himself. Rosellen is strict about language. Chinese are ”Asians.” Street people are to be called ”the homeless,” never b.u.ms or bag ladies. She herself is a lesbian, and though she doesn't make too much of that with the press or the customers, she sometimes talks with Robin and George about ”the struggle of the lesbian and gay community.” Rosellen is George's cousin, which is why Robin works here, the only reason, because not only is Robin a pale, blue-eyed white boy, he also has no experience beyond busing tables at an Italian restaurant in a New Jersey mall, near where he and George grew up. Rosellen has a soft spot for George; they're the two gay members of the Lincoln family. So she agreed to meet Robin, and after p.r.o.nouncing him ”easy on the eyes,” she threw a few s.h.i.+fts his way. During his first week, he knocked a gla.s.s of wine across a table onto a customer and had to comp the entire dinner.

As Robin leaves her office, George is standing with Malik, the other waiter on duty. ”This sister is fly,” Malik is saying. ”Tonight it's all all going on.” going on.”

”Word,” George answers. ”But keep it safe. Pack a rubber.”

”She's got the contraception. She already told me, one of them diaphragms.”

”Brother, you gotta think about disease.”

”Maybe you you do,” Malik says, taking a step away. do,” Malik says, taking a step away.

Robin feels his face heating up. But George remains calm. ”I'll tell you straight up, everybody has to protect himself.”

”She's no freak,” Malik says, as he heads off to a customer.

Robin scans the dining room. Malik and George have two tables each, but no one has been seated in his own section.

George turns to Robin. ”Did you get a yellin' from Rosellen? She cut you with your captain's knife?”

”She made me fall on it. It's a b.l.o.o.d.y mess back there.” He lowers his voice. ”Maybe I should just go back to Pittsburgh and live with Peter. Save myself rent for the summer.”

”Oh, you've been paying rent?” George asks, arching an eyebrow.

”I will be. You know I will-”

”Kidding,” George says, but Robin can't help but feel bad; George pulled a hundred dollars out of his scholars.h.i.+p money to cover him this month. George shrugs. ”I told you, it was cheaper than paying the dry cleaners to iron my s.h.i.+rts.”

George carries a basket of cornbread to a four-top of pale Germans, two men and two women in their late twenties who stare with open, eager faces as he recites the ingredients in the omelet of the day. Robin sees how George doesn't try to flirt and charm. I'll act like him today, Robin thinks. Won't try to please everyone. Slow and steady. Calm and unemotional. No broken corks. No sweat on my brow. You're on probation, so play it safe. Of course, George, with his Malcolm X gla.s.ses and his two-inch fro pinched into baby dreads at the tips, fits in here in a way Robin never will. If Robin said ”word” or ”brother” to someone like Malik, if he said that the special of the day was ”dope,” as George just did, he'd sound like an actor miscast for his role.

Maybe living in London will suit him better. Maybe it'll even be less expensive than here; he hasn't checked the exchange rate yet. He hasn't thought about the everyday details because it hasn't quite seemed real, this offer. He's read about the program, the courses, the apprentices.h.i.+p at the cavernous, concrete National Theatre. He's studied the photos of this place in the brochure, all cool and silvery. He's placed himself on that dark, modern stage, rehearsing in a pool of light where n.o.body can touch him, where there's nothing to worry about but entering a life someone else has dreamed up. But he hasn't actually called the program back and said, yes, I accept.

Peter's Honda CR-X, a little metallic-blue hatchback, rolls into view on South Street. From the alley behind the restaurant, Robin watches the car slow down, blinker flas.h.i.+ng. Peter's face is in profile through the open driver's side window, his wide jaw and thick neck both covered in dark stubble. His hair looks puffy, slept-on, windblown. He rushed to get here; just the idea of it gives Robin a hard-on, the idea of Peter waking up and without even a shower, getting in the car to be here before the day was old.

Robin stamps out the cigarette he's been smoking and pulls a little tube of Binaca from his pocket. Whoosh Whoosh goes the minty mist into his mouth. He runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to cover up the ”ashtray breath” that Peter always complains about. goes the minty mist into his mouth. He runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to cover up the ”ashtray breath” that Peter always complains about.

Robin waves. Peter sounds the horn, which makes a funny little j.a.panese-model toot, not the resonant honking of a big, American car. Just before Peter kills the engine, Robin hears a snippet of ”Point of No Return,” that Expose song on the dance-mix tape he made for Peter.

He steps to the window and leans in for a kiss. Peter's eyes dart around, as if someone might see them, before he accepts a quick peck. When Peter gets out of the car, he puts some distance between them, as if Robin is planning to pounce on him right there in the open air. Depending on his mood, Robin can find Peter's discomfort adorable or annoying. Right now it just seems like a fact, one of their things: Robin pushes for public affection while Peter cautiously withholds.

”Are you doing okay?” Peter asks. ”Did you get through your s.h.i.+ft?”

”Rosellen put me on probation.”

”What does that mean?”

Robin shrugs. It's not really clear, is it? ”Maybe it would have been easier if she fired me.”

”You don't need her, now that you're going to be a famous actor.”

”Because actors never have to wait tables?” He's thinking now not just about rent money he owes to George, but the expensive tickets he plans to buy for next month's Live Aid concert at JFK Stadium. He had hoped to have them already, a surprise gift for Peter.

Peter's eyes look a bit glazed from the drive. Robin wants to drag him back to the apartment as quickly as possible and throw him into bed. Peter will want a shower first. ”I can't get dirty 'til I get clean,” he likes to say, though Robin's on a campaign to convince him that the smell of sweat during s.e.x is a good thing.

Behind them, the restaurant's kitchen door swings open. It's one of the dishwashers, Cesar, the tall one with the Sacred Heart tattoo on his forearm, the one who tells menacing and vaguely queer stories of reform school in Puerto Rico, where he grew up. He tosses an over-stuffed heavyweight trash bag into the Dumpster, then catches sight of Robin. ”Hey, Blanco, got a smoke?”

Robin nods.

Cesar struts over, pulls a Parliament from Robin's pack, and takes the Bic from Robin's hand. After he lights his own, he holds the flame, and Robin, mesmerized by the way Cesar's dark eyes lock on to his, pulls out a cigarette for himself, too, and lets Cesar light it. They often smoke together on breaks. But as soon as he inhales, Robin wishes he hadn't. He senses Peter shuffling around uncomfortably.

”This is Peter,” Robin says. ”This is Cesar.”

”Hi. Nice to meet you,” Peter says, thrusting out a hand. ”I'm a friend of Robin's.”

Cesar squints through the smoke. ”Another college boy,” he says, taking Peter's hand and giving him what Robin can see is a crus.h.i.+ng grip.

”I was his T.A.,” Peter says, shaking it out.

”What's that, t.i.ts and a.s.s?” Cesar laughs, but Peter just looks confused. ”This one's got the a.s.s,” Cesar adds, reaching out to swat Robin on the b.u.t.t. one's got the a.s.s,” Cesar adds, reaching out to swat Robin on the b.u.t.t.

”Cesar!” Robin protests. He hears the edge of flirtation in his own voice, the subterranean longing he knows he feels toward a lot of the rough-looking guys in the kitchen, especially this one. It's not the first time Cesar's smacked or pinched or grabbed Robin's b.u.t.t, usually with some comment about how much Robin's got going on got going on back there. ”Pretty fresh for a white boy,” Cesar likes to say. back there. ”Pretty fresh for a white boy,” Cesar likes to say.

”Jesus,” Peter grumbles, after Cesar has gone back into the kitchen. ”I think he broke my finger.”

Robin reaches out to take Peter's hand, to rub the offended spot, but Peter pulls away. ”What did he call you?”

”I'm the only white guy,” Robin says. ”So I'm 'Blanco.'”

”He was white, too. Hispanics are white.”

”Puerto Ricans don't consider themselves white.”

”Sure, OK,” Peter says, sounding eager to change the subject. ”Hungry? I'm buying.”

”Anything but soul food.” Robin takes another puff of the cigarette. There's no smoking in Peter's car, a restriction that he is not yet used to, even after eight months of dating. When you're raised in a home where your mother smokes, and where she lets you smoke with her, it's odd to be forbidden your habit. But Peter's grandmother has emphysema, and he talks often, with pity and condemnation, about this hacking, skeletal woman. Robin knows that smoking is not such a good thing, not for someone who's only twenty and has been smoking since he was thirteen. A third of your life, he thinks. At twenty-six it'll be half your life. You're definitely quitting soon.

”Put out that cancer stick and get in the car. We need to talk.”

Peter starts the engine, and the music kicks in again, Latin girls harmonizing, ”Takin' meeeee, to the point of no return, ah-ah-ah.” ”Takin' meeeee, to the point of no return, ah-ah-ah.” He flips on the headlights, though it won't be dark for hours; it's a habit he grew up with in rural Canada, driving twisty back roads. ”Better if they see you coming,” he always says. ”You never know who's out there.” He drives with both hands on the wheel, perfectly placed at 10 and 2. He flips on the headlights, though it won't be dark for hours; it's a habit he grew up with in rural Canada, driving twisty back roads. ”Better if they see you coming,” he always says. ”You never know who's out there.” He drives with both hands on the wheel, perfectly placed at 10 and 2.

As they turn onto South Street, Robin glances one last time through the restaurant's plate-gla.s.s windows and catches sight of George, gliding through the dining room, looking surprisingly adult from this distance, filling out his white s.h.i.+rt like a grown man. He's not the skinny, dorky teenager Robin befriended in New Jersey all those years ago. They've already said a hurried good-bye, with plans to hang out tonight, as they do every night, though it seems unlikely that they'll spend much time together, with Peter here now. George doesn't like Peter. They've only met a couple times. After the first visit, George was evasive. The second time, Robin pushed for an opinion, and George admitted, ”He doesn't seem right for you. Kinda uptight.” Robin tried to defend Peter: yes, he could be a little stiff, but that was a sign of maturity, stability, trustworthiness. George was unconvinced. ”You're just seeing what you want to see.”

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