The Levitational Device

The last thing Giuseppe, the boss whom I adore, said last Sunday night was, "Stay off the computer, okay?"

Okay.

What the hell did that mean?

We have a Mac set up in the "office" located in the back of the restaurant. As it's a converted bank building this office I speak of is a 1970's cubicle that measures 2'x3'. The computer is perched on a 4 drawer filing cabinet. One has to run the mouse either across a food spattered wall and/or your chest to move the cursor down to the dock that hides all the applications. It's used primarily to print off lists of specials, new menus, shit like that. It can also retrieve emails, which means:

It's connected to the internet.

So it only has a built-in 56kbps modem, not high speed. That's okay. It still loads.

Days before John Q., or anyone else for that matter, read the post I had sent the link to Giuseppe's private email. I'd talked endlessly about blogging to him and anyone with ears, really. Guiseppe's of the Post-50 Luddite Sect. As much as I explained what it was I was doing, he didn't fully understand. He kept saying, "Please... Why don't you just email it to me?" He was joking, but I sent one anyway, expecting him to launch my site whilst sitting on the throne. My words co-mingling with the stench of the inevitable release of 2 days worth of "Mangia, Mangia!"

I didn't proof-read nor edit it before I sent it. Most of the story was about the Evangelical one. That was the title, anyway. As I have a lovely relationship with Guiseppe, I feel I can say anything to him. He's stomachs what I say well, 98% of the time.

Ooh, but then there's the 2%.

I work with one of the kindest, sweetest, most loving creatures graced on this planet. Her name is Kissy. That's not her real name, but the name I gave her after working my very first night, around this time last year.

We have a lovely little policy in place where staff drinks are deeply discounted. We're all much calmer with the knowledge that pushing a button on the touch screen computer sends a little piece of paper to the bartender stating what we'd like to drink... now.

At the end of a typical night much of the staff tend to debrief over several cocktails. Giuseppe is a usual suspect around the long bar. We dim the lights, pour our drinks, hold our heads, wax philosophical, laugh about what someone did, said or wore earlier and just generally bond.

Kissy likes to drink wine. Or beer. Or whatever's going. She's really not picky. Kissy's also really good with the compliments. So, she's telling me how "wicked" I am; how she could never do the things I do; how she admires the style in which I serve, but could never emulate it. Well, of course not! No one goes around telling me I'm the sweetest, nicest, kindest person they've ever met.

[sob]

She did tell me I am kind and good.

[dries her tears]

So after our first night together we sat at the bar, I nursed a Nastro Azzuro Peroni (a delightful little pilsner from Italy- so much better than Moretti), while she drank 2 bottles of Pinot Grigio.

By herself.

Then she started rubbing my back.
And kissing my cheek.
Kissing my neck.
And I think she came dangerously close to my mouth when I had to physically pull her off me and put her back in her seat.

When I came in the next day I greeted her by saying, "Kissy!"

Everyone calls her that now.

I received my first invitation to her house after work the other night. She and Matty, the bartender whom I had great difficulties with last year, whom this year quite endeared himself to me, live together. They affectionately refer to each other as husband and wife. They are as much husband and wife as any contractionally signed couple I've ever known. Just no sex. So, as I say, just like any other married couple.

They have a charming apartment on the second floor of a house very close to work. Matty had the night off and decided to clean. She's such a good wife! He also made their home quite festive. T'is the season! Christmas ornaments were put up, a log was placed on the fire, a rolling boil of mulled cider was on the stove, lots of rum was poured in my glass. Repeatedly. I ate delicious shortbread cookies with orange zest worked in. It felt like a chalet replete with dark stained ceiling beams. It also felt like a surrealist menagerie because of the creatures.

1. Gay Mensa-smart male.
2. A lovely creature named Kissy who thinks hugs can change minds and solve the world's problems. Admittedly, I'm kind of with her on this one.
3. Sir Hops A Lot. A wild hare. Bunny!!!! Can I tell you how fucking amazing it is to simultaneously feed and pet a rabbit? My life, at that instant, was complete.
4.The Major. A black 6 month old kitten, whom I trained the "parents" how to interact with.

True: New-to-the-cat-world-parents think cats are delicate little creatures that should be handled gently and lovingly.

False.

They are wild animals that just happen to be smart enough to know that being inside a cozy chalet style home is much kinder and gentler than fending for oneself out in the cold. Oh, and there's plenty of food. Suckers!

The Comrade's List on Demystifying the Handling of Cats:
1. Prefacing first with one has to start early to achieve the desire effects (of not having a cat totally freak out on you): Pick the creature up by the scruff of the neck. Their Mommys did it. Welcome. You're the new Mommy.
2. In need of a relaxation technique for the little monster? Place cat on your lap and knead the crap out of its shoulders. It will instantly turn to furry mush.
3. Biting and scratching your hands too much? Give it a Kitty Time Out. Pick cat up, scooping both hands under each armpit (?), cat facing away from you. Suspend it, arms length away from your body for 30 seconds, all the while saying, "Are you done yet? Now are you done? Are you going to behave now? Hmm? Now?" Then put it down gingerly and run away.
4. Chase the cat around the house. They LOVE it!
5. Do not buy expensive gifts for the cat. They don't understand bling. Chicken loves elastic hair bands, twist ties, shopping bags, my hair.
6. When you pet the cat, smear your fingers along the sides of its mouth. You're spreading its scent all over you. Which means you're his. Or hers.
7. Get it fixed as soon as 6 months of age. Trust me.
8. When it's purring madly, you have its trust. Pick it up, turn it over, cradling its shoulders and hind quarters and chew on its belly. Chicken's full name is Chicken Sandwich for a reason.
9. Kiss it! Kiss it on the head, the eyes, the cheeks, loudly in the ear. Kiss it and kiss it often.
10. Play and play hard with it. They love a good wrestle. Though wear protective clothing.
11. If they bring home something dead/decapitated, treat it as a compliment.
12. When you give it "treats", whip and/or slide them along the longest length of floor you've got. They love chasing anything.

Preambling the showing and the telling the real John Q. Muse, and the emailing of my boss, Kissy wanted to read it. She liked it so much that she wanted me to print off a copy so Matty could read it. I had friends at the bar who also wanted a peek. All in all, by my count, there were five sets of eyes laid on 4 printed pages. Matty intended on bringing the piece home for posterity. He accidentally left it behind the bar.

The Police Man came in early for duty the next day, wanting something to read with his coffee.

I am so busted.

Apparenty Giuseppe, who was enjoying a rare and lovely fight-free day with his wife, walked into the restaurant to find a Fuming Officer. Giuseppe had to leave the restaurant because he was laughing so hard at the cop's reaction.

I was shitting my pants, trying to figure out A) how to not get my skank ass fired and B) how to deal with the inevitable confrontation. All the while thinking: In every sense of the word I have a big fucking mouth that always gets me in trouble.

Last seen, Guiseppe was still laughing. This time at me.
"This is payback for the 45 minutes spent laughing at me for hiring the Born Again," he said.

Asshole. (Whom I still adore, as he has this url and is probably monitoring my every word)

Back to Kissy. A much nicer topic. She used to serve the Police Man years ago at a west end bar, at least 2 nights a week, every week, for 2 years. When she and Giuseppe walked into the restaurant the Police Man had owned several months ago, he said she looked familiar.

"I look familiar?! I only served you at least twice a week for the last 2 years," spake my Miss Kiss.
"Oh... [looking down at her rack] Are those real?"

Evidence that I'm justified.

There were so many people willing to take the fall for this, but I didn't want that. I wrote it. I have to stand by my words. It wasn't a joke, but maybe it could be spun into one. I speak truths. That's what I do. Sometimes it's good, though sometimes it's a bitter pill to swallow, but one I aid down throats with a hearty laugh and nudge to the ribs... or a good headlock and noogie combo.

After spending hours worrying how I'm going to deal with the confrontation, if there will be a confrontation, I figured it out.

Levity. It's the only way. "Well, yes! Of course, you're a disgusting pig of man! I've always said that!"
Second option: Feets don't fails me now.