Fiction: Misjudged
By Rebecca L. Monroe
arttimesjournal July 28, 2018
Rod eyed the outside of the Elegance restaurant. He didn’t like it. It was too fancy but it was where his mother had made reservations so he had no choice. He fingered his earring. A nervous habit he mildly wished he would break.
He opened the front door. It was as he’d thought it would be, dark paneling, maroon leather couch with mahogany end tables. A soft light illuminated the podium where the reservation book sat to the left of the door. Beyond it was the interior of the restaurant. A leather fronted counter to the right held the cash register, a bowl of mints, and a toothpick dispenser. After a moment of waiting, a maître d’ appeared, giving Rod a look confirming what he’d guessed. The restaurant frowned on young men who wore black leather and had interesting patterns shaved in their hair. The maître d’ moved in front of him, blocking his entrance.
“Can I help you?”
Rod smiled. “You should have a reservation for Talbertson.”
The maître d’, who resembled a small vampire to Rod, went to his book, managing to read it while keeping an eye on Rod. “The reservation is there – for two.”
“I’m early. Which table is mine? Or should I just wander around and see if I can find it myself?”
“I’ll show you. One moment, please, while I check to be sure it is cleared.”
And alert the other staff someone undesirable has arrived. Rod inwardly shook his head.
The maître d’ disappeared and Rod waited what he considered a polite amount of time before he wandered over to the doorway by the cash register. Sure enough, the maître d’ reappeared.
“Your table is ready.”
Rod followed the man through the dusk, their footsteps silent in the deep carpeting. Two tables were occupied; an older couple and two women in business suits. Their gazes followed him to his table. It was in a corner and the lighting was poor. Rod sighed. The maître d’ was trying to insult him though he’d really done him a favor.
“I’ll have a cup of coffee while I’m waiting.” Rod said before the maître d’ disappeared.
“I’ll tell your waiter.”
* * *
The maître d’ went to the kitchen. “George, we’ve got a punk out there who wants coffee.”
“A punk?” The waiter pulled his large bulk out of the chair.
“Yes. He says he’s meeting someone. Let’s get them served and out. The early dinner rush starts in an hour. If he gives you any trouble…”
“I’ll handle it. Which table?”
“The corner.”
George looked out and saw him; dark hair shaved in weird designs, earrings, the kid's face wasn’t bad, square jaw, high cheekbones. He looked to be physically fit, not soft like some. George poured coffee into the pitcher they always used.
“Don’t leave it on the table. We don’t want them lingering,”
George nodded.
Rod watched the waiter approach. Actually, he looked more like a bouncer. “You aren’t going to throw me out, are you?” He smiled to take the sting out of his words.
The waiter cocked an eyebrow at him, silently pouring his coffee.
Rod felt suddenly sad. These people were so ready to judge him. Yes, he could dress normally but he wasn’t going to let narrow-minded idiots decide that for him.
* * *
George went back to the kitchen. “Smart mouthed little…”
The maître d’ signaled for him to lower his voice. “We have other customers. Did he say when his companion would arrive?”
“We didn’t exactly have a conversation.”
The maître d’ hurried out when he heard the entrance door open. George followed because he had to return a stack of menus to the front. A middle-aged woman, rich from the cut of her sweater and skirt, and an old man had entered. The old man, too, was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, gray hair carefully combed. “Table for two?”
“Yes. We have a reservation. Talbertson.” The woman held the older gentleman’s arm.
George saw the maître d’s face go red. The kid must have looked at the reservation book. He might end up playing bouncer yet. The maître d’ recovered and said, “This way, please.”
George followed so he could assist if necessary.
* * *
Rod saw them enter. Grandpa looked like the distinguished gentleman he’d once been with his shoulders square and firm brow. Only his eyes betrayed him. His mother looked elegant as always. Rod rose so they could see him.
“Rod. I didn’t realize you were already here,” his mother gave the maître d’ a dirty look. “Dad, here’s Rod. He’s going to have lunch with you,” she carefully guided her father to the chair Rod had pulled out for him.
George faded into the background to wait for them to get settled. The maître d’ had gone back to the kitchen, casting George a narrow eyed ‘don’t say a word’ look.
“Hi, Grandpa, how are you?”
“The merger went through without a hitch, Joseph.”
Rod smiled gently. It was always interesting to try and keep up with his grandfather’s ever-changing, senile mind. “I’m glad. Are we going to make a lot of money?” Rod sat down pulling his chair closer.
“Tons. Absolutely tons.”
“Are you going to be all right, Rod?” His mother’s forehead creased as she fidgeted with her purse clasp.
“Great, Mom. Go shopping. Get your hair done. You need some time alone,”
“You’re wonderful. As always.” She came around and kissed Rod on the cheek.
“It’s all in my upbringing. Go.”
After she left, Rod helped his grandfather tuck his napkin into his collar. “What sounds good for lunch today, Grandpa?”
“Soup,” the old man’s brown eyes widened as fear flashed through them. It only lasted for a second.
Rod hated that part. It was the brief moment when his grandfather’s mind cleared enough to know he was helpless, caught in something he couldn’t control. “Would you like anything to drink?”
“No. Never drink at lunch. I’ve seen a lot of good fellows get into the habit. Before they knew it, they were out of a job – out of a family. Besides,” Grandpa winked. “If the wife caught me drinking at noon, I wouldn’t have any hide left. She’s a feisty one,”
Rod smiled. Grandma had been strong. So had Grandpa, until Grandma died. Then he’d just sort of folded into himself. Rod wiped a bit of drool from his grandfather’s mouth.
George stepped forward when Rod was done. “Are you ready to order?”
“Yes. My grandfather will have a bowl of soup and I’ll have a hamburger.” Rod replied.
“Of course, sir. Something to drink other than coffee?”
Grandpa grinned. “I was telling my friend here what my wife would do if she caught me drinking so early. So, Joseph how are the kids?”
“Growing like weeds. Keep me on my toes.”
“I know what you mean! My little grandson, Rod, is a hellion. Smart. My god that kid can talk me into something before I even say hello.”
* * *
“Try to hurry those two along, if you can, politely. I’d rather not have them linger, if you get my drift,” the little man moved on, not bothering to wait for George’s reply.
George waited for the meal to be prepared, watching the maître d’ in distaste. What a stuck up little fool. Then he shook his head at himself. He was no better. Worse, really, because he’d been acting on someone else’s opinion rather than his own. At least the maître d’ owned his prejudices. George thought of his son, thirteen, starting to dress strangely, talk strangely. Maybe if he did something, just a little something, it would help him remember to look for the person in his son the next time another earring appeared.
George picked up the orders and carried them out.
* * *
The waiter placed their meals before them.
“I see Joseph has kept this restaurant top notch.” Grandpa beamed at the waiter. “I helped him buy it, you know,”
Rod looked up. All he could do was field any confusion the waiter’s response caused Grandpa. Sometimes the older man heard what he wanted but sometimes he heard reality and it was upsetting when it collided with his own.
“He’s told us many times, sir.” The waiter’s tone was somber. “It’s an honor to work for him.” The waiter looked at Rod. “He is a fine man.”
Rod nodded once and relaxed inside.
“I deeply apologize for the seating arrangement.” George continued to Rod. “And any, inconvenience, I may have caused you.” He set the pitcher of coffee on the table.
“It’s quite fine, actually,” Grandpa said, looking around. “It lets us talk undisturbed.”
“He’s right,” Rod added. “And that’s important to us now. Thank you.”
“My name is George. Please signal me if you need anything else.”
Rod watched the waiter leave. Perhaps he, too, misjudged people.
(Rebecca L. Monroe lives in Troy, MT)