Free Monkey Suits by Jim Provenzano Page B

be called portly puffing on a rather odorous cigar. The other guests were obviously annoyed by the smoke. Judging from the table arrangement, he surmised that the obnoxious smoker was the host of the table, and above criticism. He wondered if the fat man would continue to smoke throughout the meal. He was about to request that the gentleman extinguish his cigar, as the room was a non-smoking area. He did remember that this was untrue for the evening at least, and that there were five clear glass ashtrays on the table, but he didn’t want to let that stop him.

    What did stop him was the figure of Philipe standing three yards away, silently regarding Lee’s serving technique. He felt simultaneously honored and horrified. As he ladled the soup into the white china bowls, the guests pulled back with a combination of caution and admiration.

    “That looks rather fattening,” commented an elderly woman in a black fur-lined gown. The tint of her hair almost matched the pumpkin.

    “Oh, it’s quite good,” Lee assured.

    “How do you know? Did you stick your finger in it?” She glared at Lee.

    A surge of hate flushed up through him.

    “I remember when they wore gloves,” she said to no one in particular. Sweat rose on Lee’s brow. The tray alone weighed about ten pounds, the soup-filled pumpkin another twenty. His tendonitis, made worse from his latest attempt at the gym, almost made him drop the entire pumpkin, which was already lolling about precariously on the tray.

    “I don’t know if I want any. Ed-gah, how is that stuff?” The woman whined across the table to her husband, who was deeply engaged in a chat with a woman seated near him. Lee glanced at Philipe, who was leaning his ear close to Neil Pynchon. One wrong move and he’d be out of work for a week.

    “Ed-gah!” The spindly woman fluttered her hand. Her fingernails were like claws. A drop of sweat fell from Lee’s forehead onto the tablecloth and sank into the fabric.

    “Ma’am, why don’t you just try some for yourself?” he soothed, retaining a twinge of distaste for the lady unable to make so much as a cuisine decision without the assistance of her husband. The ladle hung over the pumpkin, precariously close to the woman’s head.

    “Does it have cream in it?” She queried. Lee’s shoulder muscles began to spasm.

    “It’s a cream soup, ma’am,” he replied.

    “Oh well, I don’t want any.” She waved him off. He stood, sighing relief. The pumpkin rolled again. A dollop of soup roiled up the side of the gourd and onto the faux-leaf garnish. Lee did what he always did in such situations. He merely went on to the next guest and gestured to his A waiter, who swiftly preceded him with a toast tray. He then imagined the matron naked, constipated and sitting on the john with no toilet paper in sight. The rest of the evening was a breeze until Philipe took him aside, murmuring, “I would like to see you a moment, after you finish wiss dessert.”

    After the waiters had successfully served coffee and dessert, balls of frozen fruit sorbet and fresh raspberries, Philipe sat at his now-quiet private table in a darker corner of the museum. Lenny had eaten, his plate still at the table, a plastic jug of Diet Pepsi beside it, as well as an expensive oversized book on Edward Hopper which he’d bought in the museum shop. Despite his irritating demeanor, Lenny had a taste for art.

    Philipe sat down to his freshly poured club soda and orange juice with a splash of vodka. He always ate and had a nice sit, going over the papers before leaving. He didn’t need to stay for breakdown anymore. The boys were quite well trained. Besides, it was a Tuesday and not a big affair. He would have to remember to call the co-chair and ensure that his next day’s thank you bouquet had a little teddy bear in a leather harness attached. Ten years before, he’d met the co-chair of the museum board of trustees at the Ramrod, on his back in a sling. He took comfort