DRY DOCK
Luciano sits at the bar—he always sits at the bar—watching over his crew like a ship’s captain. The bartender, Ian, has already placed a glass of Chianti at his right hand.
Tonight, from his wheelhouse, Luciano sips his red wine as he watches the cooks in the back, especially Alonzo, who’s lately been sloughing off, as well as the waiters moving about the two dining rooms. On the TV above the bar, a muted soccer match. Though he doesn’t enjoy soccer, whenever A.C. Milan or Inter Milan plays he feels as though he’s back in Italy again.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sultan talking to the patrons. Sultan seems to be doing a lot of talking lately, and not just with the pretty ladies. He talks to everyone. While Sultan talks, other patrons stretch their necks looking for refills of water, and the waiters impatiently huff for him to bus tables.
He’ll have to speak to the boy.
Sultan’s from Kyrgyzstan. Servers Olga and Sasha, from Russia. Fabiola, his best waitress, is from Haiti. She runs circles around Jill and Heather, who whisper and stare at their cell phones during slow times instead of dusting and folding cloth napkins. He’s told them no phones, but they don’t listen. They’re soft, spoiled, local.
Fabiola doesn’t seem to mind putting in a little back-breaking effort—and everyone knows hard work develops a sturdy spine. Luciano’s not the only one who’s had to hire help from overseas. Even his nieces and nephews don’t want to bother waiting tables, cleaning motels, or picking up tourist trash on the beaches.
No, they want a job without having to work. They want money without having to earn it. They want too much, he thinks, and that’s their problem—wanting.
His eyes scan the doorways, the windows, the floor. As of late, Luciano’s Italian Eatery has fallen into disrepair. It needs a new paint job inside and out. The old-world artwork on the walls begs for a good dusting. The giant urns are dull and tacky.
He sips his wine, forever eyeing Fabiola, the dark beauty.
Sonia stopped working after their son was grown. Now she’s ready for new adventures and begs him to sell the restaurant, saying it’s nothing but an anchor. But Luciano knows that it’s sailed them to their dreams, and they can’t let go now. She laughs. “Then maybe you should knock the barnacles off the hull!” At night, in bed, she wrinkles her nose, says he smells of garlic and oregano. What’s so wrong with that? he wants to know. Doesn’t it remind her of Italy? No, she says, Italy reminds her of Italy.
Fabiola darts around the restaurant like a cormorant—here, then gone, then popping up across the room. She’s always the first to arrive, last to leave. It won’t be long before she has to go back to her country. Luciano tries not to think about that day. So lovely, black hair shiny as obsidian.
Before then, he wonders if she would spare him a few moments to listen to an old man’s woes. After locking up for the night, just the two of them, would he be sailing too close to the wind if he asked her to take off her apron and join him for a glass of wine?
