The Waiter part2

[Leslie]

THE WAITER
Part2

He chose a restaurant well away from both’ The Silver Spoon’ and’ The Golden Apple’. So far, the other waiters at The Silver Spoon knew nothing of Michael’s dangerous living and, at least at this stage, he intended to give them no hint. As for ‘The Golden Apple’, he was sure the staff there would remember Maureen and her laugh, and consequently remember him. Personally, he preferred to forget that evening out and hoped that everyone else would.

Sandy was to be met at ‘The Baron of Beef’, but this time the acquaintance would be made inside the building as there was a bar. Sandy would wear a coat of imitation beaver skin, which Michael thought was rather brave of her considering the current Animal Rights activity. He would repeat his Secret Agent performance with a rolled up paper; holding it seemed to give him confidence, maybe because it felt like a club, a weapon for defence.
Sandy was there before him and was sitting alone at a small table in the bar area, a wine-glass in front of her. She did not appear the least bit uncomfortable being a woman alone in the bar; Michael noticed her as soon as he entered, before she was aware of him. Though she was seated, he could see that she was tall, slim build, her face long rather than round, with the high cheek bones that gave a suggestion of aristocracy. The fur coat rested on her shoulders; imitation fur it might be, but Michael’s experience told him that it certainly was not cheap, neither was the cashmere shirt beneath it. She was clearly relaxed, her situation entirely within her own control. Michael was impressed. She looked toward him so he gave a brief wave with the paper. She smiled and nodded.
He made his way to her and sat at the table.
Although the fact seemed obvious, he said, “Sandy?”
She answered, “Yes. Michael, I presume,” with an accent that Michael guessed had cost money.
He answered, “Yes,” and added quickly, conscious of the ridiculousness of these introductions, “can I get you a drink?”
She asked for white wine. Michael took the same; in truth he was not a beer drinker.
They sat facing each other, Michael tongue-tied, unpractised in chatting up women, held like a transfixed rabbit by the steel blue eyes that locked his. She seeming as cool as her eyes.
At last he said, “Thank you for coming.”
“That was the agreement,” she replied through a slight smile. “You kept your part, I kept mine. No need for thanks.”
A pause. He asked, “Do you know this place?” looking around.
She cast the briefest glance at the room, “No. This is not my part of the city.” Her accent didn’t belong there either.
“Nor mine. But I’ve heard that the food is good.”
She nodded and as if he had given her a cue asked, “Do you eat out often?”
“No. I don’t get the opportunity.”
“Why is that?” The slight smile. The cool steel eyes holding him.
“Oh, my work. It’s mostly evenings.”
“I see,” as if the answer had been good enough. But it had not, “What work would that be, then?”
Michael had realised that the question of his work was bound to come up at some time if he kept having these chancy encounters; he had considered it.
“I’m in catering,” he offered vaguely.
“I see,” she said again.
Michael wondered if that had satisfied her or if she realised he was something in catering rather less than he wanted her to think.
He should have asked her what her own line of work might be, but she took the chance away from him.
“It is obviously a problem,” she began. “ Catering or any other occupation where you are providing for the public when the public is in socialising mode rules out the opportunity for the provider to socialise.”
Michael nodded and considered his answer. He did not need one as she continued.
“I know a couple of chefs. It’s much the same with them. Hardly have any social life. Evenings always tied up. Sometimes I wonder if they regret being in their line of work, but they’re good at it, positively fanatical, so I think they must love it so much the lack of other life doesn’t bother them.” All this spoken in a slow, cultured drawl.
Then, directly at Michael, “Do you ever regret being in the catering business, wish you were doing something else?”
He pursed his lips, nodded and began, “Well yes, sometimes I ....”
She had received all the answer she required and continued, “ But it’s not a simple matter to change occupation, not once one has taken on responsibilities, mortgage, buying things on the never-never. You can’t just stop paying, can you?” (Answer not required, of course.) “You read about these poor people whose homes are repossessed. The man loses his job, no income, mortgage not paid, mortgage company takes the house and sells it. I mean, where is the family supposed to go? “ (Answer not required) “It’s ridiculous. I come across it in my work too often.”

Suddenly Michael had the opportunity and managed to get in quickly, “What is your work?”

She seemed a little surprised that he had asked, surprised even that he had spoken, but smoothly, almost as a throw-away line she said, “ Research. I’m a researcher.”

Michael had a vision of Sandy hanging about in a street, holding a clip-board and stopping people to ask them questions that most of them didn’t want to spend the time answering. Somehow that didn’t fit the Sandy who was talking to him here. He imagined her again wearing a white coat, experimenting amongst scientific instruments in a laboratory, an image that suited her much better, but he couldn’t deceive himself that she would meet many homeless families that way.
But ‘a Researcher’ certainly sounded impressive. And Sandy was impressive.

Her flow of words having been paused, she picked up the wine glass and finished off the contents. Michael thought it a good moment to suggest that they moved into the restaurant area.

During the transfer from bar to restaurant her mind had obviously been meditating on the earlier talk.
“ The most important thing is Job Satisfaction,” she pronounced when they were seated. “ One can endure the dullest of jobs if there is satisfaction to be found in it. That may mean that the worker is rather dull witted or has low aspirations, but that probably means the employment is suited to the person’s abilities. Repetitive work, you know, doing the same thing hour after hour, day after day. I couldn’t endure it. But it suits some people. Probably doesn’t require much initiative or intelligence.
“No. Intelligence and initiative demand a challenge. Challenge isn’t there in repetitive work; it needs situations that are always changing, where decisions have to be made and responsibility taken. That’s why society is the way it is, with the Few at the top making the decisions and deciding the direction with the Masses following instructions.”

Michael got a feeling that Sandy was sure that her place was among the Few, and he was quite convinced that truly she did belong there. Yes, she was impressive. She continued on the theme of the hierarchical structure of society and somehow managed to order food between pronouncements.
By the time the food arrived she was explaining how the great European Empires had been established by the will of the Few and the cheap lives of the Masses willing to march, fight and die for a few pennies.
Michael began to feel that Sandy left him amongst the ignorant and unambitious masses; surely she had great knowledge of subjects that had never disturbed his thoughts.
Her hands moving to the languid tempo of her speech, she picked up knife and fork; Michael noted, even in his transfixed condition, that her manicured fingers employed the cutlery in a fashion of which he approved.
In the same unhurried manner she speared a portion of meat and dissected it as she began an exposition on the rise of Eastern nations following the pattern of the Few leading the impoverished masses. An off-cut of meat rose on the tines of her fork and entered her mouth, without interrupting the sibylline warning that such nations could also follow the paths of Imperial aggrandizement. Wonderfully, she did not chew her flowing words as she chewed the meat. Unfortunately, Michael was still in the hypnotized state of a rabbit, facing her across the intimate table and he was unable to avoid observing the macerated mush of meat that moved about within the mobile jaws meeting and parting as words formed and fell out. The sight quite spoiled his appetite. He wished not to see, but was afraid that if he were not looking her in the face she would think he was ignoring her words of wisdom, being rude, insulting her. So it continued during the political demise of the Old World. Sandy chewed on and talked on seeming not to notice how little her audience ate.
They had macro-economics during desert, which Michael ordered out of politeness and did manage to do some justice as the ice-cream concoction required little or no chewing.
By the time they had rounded off with coffee Michael had lost all desire to say anything – not that many chances had come his way.
They sat with the empty cups between them for the briefest of whiles and momentary peace. Brusquely, Sandy said, “We may as well go.” Without waiting for a reply she rose and headed for the exit. At the door she stopped and handed her fur coat to Michael who accepted the implicit command and assisted her to put it on.
Outside they stood in unusual silence for a moment, then she hailed a passing taxi. It stopped beside them. She turned to face Michael.
“Not much of a talker, are you!” she said. It was a statement , not a question. “I’m afraid I found you rather boring. There’s no point in meeting again. Goodbye.”
She got into the taxi, pulled the door closed and was transported away into the night.
Michael breathed out and realized that it was a sigh of relief. Earlier in their time together he had wondered why an attractive and cultured woman like Sandy had needed to make dates through a ‘lonely hearts’ column, now he believed he had experienced the reason.
He went for a stiff drink or two before returning to his bachelor pad and bed. Lying staring at the ceiling, he pondered whether to chance yet another foray into the risky regions of romance.