Chapter 2: Same but Different

            The customer points at the food on his plate, his hand moving so quickly he nearly plunges his finger into the tuna. He points emphatically toward the kitchen, then follows with an accusatory finger toward Duncan, who flinches noticeably, fearing a stiff jab in the stomach.  The two women and the little girl seated with the man practically cower, leaning hard into the backs and corners of their chairs, eyes cast down. Duncan tries to interject, hands in the small of his back, right hand choking his left wrist, fingers turning white. 

            "Sir I . . . " 

            "Yes but . . . "

            "I know that . . . "

            "What can . . .?"

            A loud, “hello” floats across the dining room and Duncan is distracted by a glimpse of the little man with the big voice entering the restaurant. Duncan doesn’t dare turn away from the angry customer with the unsatisfactory fish. Though he has never met the owner, Duncan recognizes him from his picture in the back office where the restaurant’s lone manager, Glenn, had interviewed Duncan five days earlier. It’s a family portrait, the kind taken at “studios” in the back of Wal-Mart, or maybe Sears. In the soft-focus photo Alfredo Bonini’s happy round face smiles atop his round body, his hair thick and black as polish. Next to him, his wife looks like his twin sister; same frame, same smile, same thick black mess of hair. Two daughters stand in front, both younger versions of their parents.

A loud bang, fist against Formica, precedes the sound of glass shattering against Italian ceramic. Shards of wine glass sparkle in the expanding puddle of Chianti like razor-edged diamonds someone has used to slash their wrists.   

            Duncan hears syllables but few words. "…lous…" His ears feel clogged, the words muffled, like a voice through a pillow. "…stup…"The urge to utilize his newly found sense of self-respect is almost irrepressible. He wants to scream ‘fuck you’ in the man’s face, but two other words run through his head - June rent.

            Duncan looks to Glenn at the host stand but sees only the back of his head, hair graying in patches. Mr. Bonini approaches along the center aisle, smiling at the couple at table twenty-six, nodding a greeting to the three men sipping espresso on twenty-nine, eyeing the bottle of Barolo on thirty-one and smiling approvingly.

            Reaching table thirty-five he slides behind Duncan, still standing with his hands clasped behind his back. The customer's gaze shifts away and settles on Alfredo, who flashes Duncan a reassuring smile. 

"My name is Alfredo. What can I help you with?" the owner says, stepping forward, hands similarly behind his back; a submissive posture all restaurant employees and military personnel seem to fall into instinctively. Alfredo smiles at the couple’s daughter, the man’s wife, and the elderly woman who must be her mother. 

            "It's about fuckin' time I got to speak to someone around here who knows what the hell is going on." 

The smile melts from Alfredo's face, and Duncan takes one cautious and subtle step back.  Alfredo’s hands glide from his back to his sides then over his belly, fingers linking under the small triangle his thumbs make as they touch. "What, exactly, is the problem?" The man stands abruptly, hitting his chair with the back of his legs and sending it skidding into table thirty-six.  The man at thirty-six silently asks his wife for advice. She rewards his restraint with a smile.

            "This," the customer points at his plate, "is one of the worst meals I've ever had the displeasure of eating." Looming eight inches over Alfredo the man assumes the posture of someone who has used his height to intimidate,

            Alfredo, unfazed, scans the man's table. Duncan follows his eyes over a nearly empty bottle of inexpensive Chianti, the only wine glass shattered on the floor. The remains of a mostly-eaten tuna steak sit on the man’s plate. Alfredo eyes the man’s suit and Duncan reads the disgust in the lines of the owner’s face. The suit screams designer knock-off, a cotton-poly blend, the collar too narrow, buttons plastic. Two hundred dollars, max, and overpriced at that. 

            "What is wrong with it?" Alfredo struggles to keep what little patience he has left. 

            "What's wrong with it?” He looks around, stunned. “What's wrong with it?” the man repeats, incredulous. "The fuckin' thing's not even cooked." He points at the fish on his plate.  "It's still flopping.”

            "So this was awful, eh?"

            "Fuckin' A right."

            "I guess that’s why you ate most of it?" Alfredo nods toward the plate, three bites of tuna left of what Alfredo knows was once an admirably large piece of fish.

            "That's not the point," the man yells. "And this kid,” the man points at Duncan, "Where did you get him from, Burger King? If I owned this place he wouldn't work here, I can tell you that." As the man’s mouth moves Duncan think he can see rows of incisors, one in front of the other, layered into the back of the man’s throat, like a crossbred half human/half shark.

            "What are you saying? Because of...” Alfredo places his hands on his hips. He looks around the room as if hoping to find the words he is searching for written on a wall. "...A small misunderstanding, you think this young man should lose his job?" Alfredo points at Duncan, “That would make you feel better.” It is not a question.

            "That will work for starters." The man looks down at his plate. "And not having to pay for this." 

The owner takes a deep breath, his padded shoulder's rising under his tailored jacket, his chest expanding and his chin rising the tiniest degree.

            The customer raises his hand and extends his index finger to within inches of Alfredo’s face.  Alfredo watches the finger bobbing back and forth, dancing like a worm on a hook.

            Neither man hears what the other says as they talk in interweaved layers of volume. You better put your finger down...have your license revoked...acting like you own this place...you serve this shit to...insult my food and employees...I've been to every restaurant....        

            Alfredo looks up, into the man's eyes. The man stops moving. In a voice intense without being loud Alfredo breaks the silence. "If you don’t get your finger out of my face,” Alfredo nods toward the man's hand, never taking his eyes off the customer's eyes, "I'm gonna bite it off of your hand."

            The man slowly curls his extended finger back into his fist, then lowers his arm to his side, the threat of having it chewed off being more than enough to lower the man's voice, along with his temper and his hand.

            "You don’t want to pay for the food? Fiiiiiiiine,” Alfredo yells. He steps forward, wedging himself between the customer and the table. The customer stumbles backwards, bumping into the chair he had previously knocked behind him, and folds comically at the knees as he falls into the chair. Alfredo grabs the plate of tuna with his sausage-like fingers. He lunges, extending his short arms across the table, and grabs the wife's plate, spaghetti Carbonara half eaten, as she leans back to keep from getting elbowed in the mouth.

The grandmother’s lasagna gets smashed under the two other plates, sending marinara, along with other sauces, splattering onto the table, leaving dots of white, red and shades of pink sprinkled across the table cloth like paint dripped onto a canvas. Finally, he reaches for the plate in front of the little girl, a half-order of plain spaghetti. The girl looks up from under the edge of a wide-brimmed burgundy hat, round on top with a wide, pleated hatband. In her right hand she holds a fork almost as long as her arm.

            Alfredo curls his fingers around the rim of the girl's plate and smiles at her. He nods once, wordlessly asking for her permission to remove it. The girl's face lights up a split-second before the smile appears across it, her eyes brightening, cheeks blushing. Alfredo lifts the girl's plate and winks at her like a demented, beardless Santa Claus.

            Alfredo's face transforms from the smile the little girl sees to the scowl her father sees, as he towers above the still-seated man, like a teacher over the desk of a student.

            "You take your family, and you get out of my place!"

            The man opens his mouth, about to say something in protest. Alfredo slams the plates back onto the table, miraculously not breaking them. He shakes his head then opens his hand, his palm inches from the man's face. "I don’t wanna hear it. You come into my place,” Alfredo crosses his arms against his chest, "Insult my employees,” points at the smiling Duncan, "Then you don’t wanna pay for the food you ate? You get the hell out of here!" 

            Alfredo takes hold of the man's elbow, lifting him out of the chair. He escorts the man down the aisle between the tables, the man mumbling and protesting, Alfredo shooshing him at every complaint.

            The grandmother stares at the stained tablecloth where her plate of lasagna had sat, then looks at her daughter. The wife, frozen, watches Alfredo escort her husband out of the restaurant.  The little girl stands in her chair and watches the short man take her father out of the room. She smiles and Duncan can’t help himself, beaming behind a my-hero grin. They turn simultaneously to Duncan who stands with his hands in his pockets. He shrugs, smiles apologetically, then walks away, looking into the kitchen to see if the order for table thirty-three is ready.

            The women gather their coats quietly. They walk to the front of the restaurant attempting to be inconspicuous by avoiding eye contact, mother holding her daughter’s hand. The girl smiles at the customers she passes, hopping as her mother pulls her along. When they arrive at the front door Alicia smiles at them sincerely. "Have a good evening."  Glenn hides his face behind his hand.

            When they get to the door Alfredo is standing in the doorway like a protective butcher warding off a stray dog. The man yells from the curb, "You'll hear from my lawyer. I've never been treated this way in my life."

            Alfredo shakes his fist at the man, "You come back and you'll get it again. And then some." Alfredo steps politely aside. “I know people. I know…the mayor of Milwaukee.” The grandmother exits, followed by the wife, and lastly, the daughter. Alfredo smiles at the girl. She props her chin up strongly as she passes him, trying vainly to suppress a smile. Alfredo lets the door close slowly, the man's voice disappearing as the door shuts.

            Duncan exits the kitchen with a salad in one hand and a bowl of minestrone in the other, both for table thirty-three. As he passes thirty-five he spies a twenty-dollar bill folded amid the splatter of sauces and spilled wine. He places the soup and salad onto table thirty-three and asks the couple if they need anything else. They say no. 

            Hernando begins clearing thirty-five as Duncan reaches around the busboy and grabs the twenty dollars. “Did you see who put this here?”

            Hernando shakes his head.

            Duncan folds the bill in half and places it into his pocket. 

Kilee, who Duncan had internally classified her with the single word ‘angry’ upon first meeting her four days previous, pushes through the swinging door from the kitchen, a tray of food on her shoulder. 

"Welcome to it," she says without looking at him.