Free Monkey Suits by Jim Provenzano Page A

he’d been not to bump into any of his clients, at least the ones he’d remembered. Sometimes, at the oddest moments, when he cut a finger, watched a violent movie, or leaned over the shoulder of a seated party guest, he’d try not to wonder who that man might have been.

    He would soon discover that Manhattan could sometimes be a very small island.

10 “Don’t play with the pumpkins!” commanded Craig, his white paper hat jutting up from his flushed face. He seemed like a life-size puppet behind the lengthy steel counter. Despite the complete kitchen MOMA offered, the meal was completely new, with recipes he’d only recently perfected. He wanted to scream at the waiters, their attitude and lax behavior infuriating him. They chattered like monkeys.

    Craig took another gulp of Sprite. It was tepid. He wanted to yell at the waiters again, but he knew the doors, perilously close to the dining room, disguised no kitchen noises. Lenny had twice warned him to keep them quiet.

    The line of waiters stood whispering among themselves.

    “Of course he’s going to win.”

    “Don’t remind me.”

    “You have to accept the inevitable.”

    “The inevitable holocaust.”

    “The Republican Party isn’t out to get every gay person in the country ...” John Kent paused a moment to consider his thoughts. A quite tall blond with somewhat gaunt English features, he was quietly arguing with Kevin Rook, whose patience was wearing thin as they stood in line.

    “Really?” Kevin countered. “Which ones? Just the bad ones? The drag queens? Straight-acting only need apply?”

    “Quiet down,” Lenny hissed.

    “Now, John, don’t get Kevin’s blood up.” Billy Heath, a short veteran waiter known for his impeccable Katherine Hepburn imitations, stepped between them. “He might inspire us all to riot if we’re not careful.” Billy patted Kevin’s shoulder as the flushed color faded from his cheeks. Kevin glared at John in a silent truce and focused on his balancing act with the soup. He turned back for a last stab.

    “You creatures make me sick, so desperate to please the people that would rather see you dead. Do you think they give a fuck whether you die? You’re like a pig eating bacon.”

    “Well, I don’t think America needs to see us screaming and yelling and throwing blood all over buildings to get what we want.”

    “And what is it you want? Real estate?”

    Billy cut in again. “C’mon boys. Let’s keep our heads.” Kevin turned his back, seething. Lee, who stood near him, caught his eye and offered a silent shrug of support. “I thought you looked great on CNN,” he added.

    Each waiter held a tray with a carved open pumpkin the size of a basketball. The holiday theme was further accented by garni of autumn leaves, which also matched the centerpieces. They were supposed to be simply plucked from nearby Central Park trees.

    However, the warm autumn weather had yet to bleed the green from the foliage, and a bag of artificial autumnal leaves had been bought from a prop store on the West Side for three hundred dollars.

    As they approached the huge steaming tureen, a second chef poured the smooth ochre soup into the row of severed pumpkin heads. A third chef wiped away any drips.

    “Do we get to make jack o’lanterns after dinner?” quizzed Billy Heath. Having worked for Fabulous for six years, he got away with such remarks.

    “Of course,” answered Craig quietly. “And we’ll use your head as a model.” Shushing commands immediately followed low laughter.

    What could have been an audacious and tacky appetizer was swiftly elevated to the stature of genius through Philipe’s careful and strict rule: Presentation is everything. The waiters swirled out in a careful trail, going from the center host table and spiraling outward to the lesser important tables. The guests applauded in patters of appreciation.

    Lee arrived at his table to find two seats empty, and a man who could only politely