It smells like garlic and a waitress’s voice sounds like she smokes a pack a day—deep, sexy. The place is mostly quiet though, dimly lit, posters on the walls, green paint with wooden stools and tables as a chorus of muffled conversations and background music flow together. The bar has some brass accents on the other side of the restaurant and a wall of aperitifs and liquor is rising in front of a mirror amidst lights hanging like grapevines. Paper placemats with kitschy branding and a menu adorn each table as Mina’s Parole echoes hypnotically, “Parole, Parole, Parole…” Meanwhile, a waiter with trim dark hair and a beard is serving a table of Swedes near a poster of Fellini’s 8 ½. With sullen eyes, a groan here and there, he is obviously nursing a hangover, and the guests are concerned, but he is chugging along, passing, somewhere beyond acceptable, but no one has said anything yet.
Meanwhile, a more composed man is seated at another table below a vintage Fernet poster. A tuft of greying chest hair emerging from his burgundy plaid dress shirt might seem aggressive to some. His glasses have thick frames and the watch on his wrist adds a timeless hint of gold to the earthy color palate. He is probably forty-eight, maybe married, but there is no ring on his finger, and he is not alone.
“It is not like the other pizza here, the big fluffy ones with an olive and too much cheese. This is a real pizzeria”, he proudly explains to a teenage Argentine escort wearing a skintight black shirt. “They have a Neapolitan certification and a wood-fired oven, and all they make is pizza!”
The significantly younger man is confused and looks at the menu, his finger gravitating toward the not-pizza items he vividly remembers seeing earlier. “Yes”, the man interjects with a sigh of frustration, rolling his eyes. “They have salad and antipasti too, but their specialty is pizza”, he mutters before leaning forward and more quietly emphasizing, “pizza made the right way.”
The young man nods, the man’s disconcerting, probing eye contact still bearing down upon him, growing harsher, and he just sits there silently, too nervous to speak until the American eventually leans back and looks at the menu. He is new at this. It is his first time. He just downloaded some gay app, saw another guy doing it nearby, posted “looking older generous gentlemen, American and European, money”, and a few days later he was out of the villa and seated across from this stranger, uncomfortably, and yet oh so excitedly. The boy is only sixteen. He told the American he was eighteen though. He looks old for his age. Some woman seated at the bar watching them is gossiping to the bartender about how he is definitely too young for the man with the username “gringo guapo.”
The silence is interrupted when the hungover waiter approaches with a bottle of Malbec, almost dropping a glass as he sets the first one in front of the American whose eyes glisten at the sight. The bottle is a reserve from a year when the young Argentine was six, and the guy is describing it in Spanish with a feigned Porteño accent, but the words mean absolutely nothing to him. “It is all very characteristic of the varietal, straightforward: dry, full-bodied, fruit-forward, elegant tannins, though this one is aged in oak barrels”, the server explains, belabouredly, his eyes sunken. The guy keeps rambling on though, and the American is absolutely fascinated as he continues droning on about a particularly notable year, and the guy is twitching a little bit while his speech hastens. Then there’s this foreign word: terroir. The boy is afraid to ask what it means, so he remains silent, and in the end, the server mentions “a subtle complexity: leather and the bark of an indigenous tree species.” It all feels very pompous and impressive at the same time, so he decides to be astounded. He knows that he is supposed to be enthralled, and he smiles gleefully as the waiter pours him a glass. The wine is darker than the bonaerense night when the power goes out and the boy watches as the ripples upon the surface congeal into a smooth mirror reflecting his desire.
Looking up at the man seated across from him, he raises his glass for the toast, a cin cin, something, anything. That is what happens in the television shows and films that he has seen. The people smile, clink their glasses, and they sip the drink while making small talk that eventually leads to passionate embraces. He had even practiced with his pillow the prior evening, preparing himself to be impressive. “Tonight will not be like the times I have messed around with guys in the neighborhood. Tonight will be special”, he thinks to himself.
However, the American’s gaze is fixed upon the trashy waiter as he walks away and approaches the table of Swedes to clear their first course, pausing to make small talk as everyone laughs for some unknown reason. The boy’s glass is still raised as the American’s gaze lingers upon the waiter, and his delight quietly transforms into despair. The wine becomes bitter as he lowers his glass into a scowl, and he is rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth as it grows drier. The young man suddenly feels invisible, small, and hurt. He feels ugly and ashamed. He feels stupid. He should have known about the pizza, the neaitalian style, whatever it is called, and he should have come with stories to tell. He should have been leading the conversation. None of this should have been happening. The man is supposed to be looking at him, undressing him, complementing him, desiring him, tasting him, here in this place for him and him alone.
Yet there he is, staring at a waiter who looks like he’s been snorting coke in the bathroom and probably lives in one of the same shitty little shanty towns the kid grew up in and has not told the American about. Suddenly it dawns upon him: all that is missing is a little bit of drool. The man is the problem, he realizes, and his shame instantly evaporates to become disgust. A wave of relief surges, and he sips the wine coolly, as if it is a prize that he has won. It tastes foul to him, the touch of tannins in his puckering mouth, but the setting makes it feel special—this is what he is supposed to be doing—and he continues sipping elegantly until he looks over to the woman at the bar, a foreign-looking blonde in a platinum dress. Their eyes lock. She is enthralled. He imagines himself being like her, seated in bars in places like New York City, dressed elegantly, like the mannequins he has seen in the windows in Palermo Hollywood, drawing men’s attention until they buy him drinks. He can taste it.
However, his sweet vision is rudely interrupted as the American clears his throat and proposes a toast, as if nothing has happened. His attention drawn for a split second, the young man scoffs and looks away, refusing eye contact, and he notices that the server has disappeared. So, he sips his wine knowingly and the path forward becomes clear to him. He has no intention of leaving. He is not going to make a scene. He is going to sit here, drink the man’s wine, eat the food, learn the ropes, recapture the man’s attention, and leave the man wanting more, just so that he can deny it to him.
The crystallized vision becomes the night’s new purpose, and the young man is invigorated; he feels the way one upon a tightrope does after regaining balance in the wake of a significant disturbance. Then, as he looks to the bar again, still having held his tongue, he sees the woman looking at him still, a gleam in her eye strikes his and sudden smirks spread across their faces.
Thus, he turns to face the American with a renewed zeal. “The wine is drier than I like it”, he finally tells the man assertively, swirling his glass with the stem between his fingers upon the table like he saw the American doing earlier.
“Yes, it is a little bit dry for my taste too”, the American responds, “but the faint smokiness in this one is nice and unexpected.” Then, holding the glass up to the light, admiring the opaque liquid, he adds, “I appreciate the finer details, and to be honest, most Malbec I find at the stores back in the states these days tastes cheap.”
The young man leans back now, crosses his arms, narrows his gaze, and smiles smugly. “Maybe you’re just looking at the wrong shelf”, he responds with ease, feeling as if he has just landed an Olympic gymnastics feat. To his mind, there is literally nothing to care about anymore—his heart feels light—and he watches the American’s face, studies it like a grotesque portrait.
He hadn’t given much attention to the man’s features before. All that mattered was American, money, handsome in the photos, wants me, but suddenly the details start to shine through; it all hits him like a flood, in a flash, and he cannot unsee it. He winces as he begins to perceive the man with new eyes. The American’s eyelids are abnormally droopy, casting these deep shadows, and he has this scar under his right eye that causes an annoying asymmetry to his face, like one eye can never open as much as the other, the one above the scar; it is only a centimeter or two, but his nose is crooked too, slightly, though you wouldn’t notice unless you really started to pay attention, and his beard looks like he went too far on the left while shaving, so it is all uneven, ever so subtly, and he finds it irksome. The American’s lips are also slightly wine-stained from the night before, a faint echo, and they are dry, flaky, which is significantly more pronounced where he has been biting it throughout the day, and now, the boy has clearly struck a nerve, because the man is biting them and the boy can see a drop of blood, simultaneously brighter and darker than the American’s lips, a glint of light striking the boy’s eye before the sudden eclipse of the pizza’s arrival.
The haggard waiter places a metal stand haphazardly and the pizza itself follows, steam rising as the American’s eyes swell with delight. He’s not looking at the pizza though, the young man notices yet again, and his eyes begin to roll. Words are spilling out like slobber, amongst them, “by the way, your beard looks great tonight”, as the hungover man more carefully serves each of them a slice, hands trembling in struggle. Nonetheless, the waiter ignores it all, completes his task, and leaves with a quick buen provecho and a nod. Slighted, the American’s intrigued eyes follow him in silence as he approaches a nearby table to take their order, and the young man contemplates leaving immediately.
He is unsure of what would be more pathetic though, leaving amidst this humiliation or lingering in his own desperation to extract some form of revenge. Then, amidst the compressed moment, pondering what to do, he catches sight of the blonde woman in his peripheral vision. Her melancholic expression calls to him, he feels some form of understanding, empathy in the way her eyes peer into his, and his muscles relax. Thus, he decides to stay, uncertain of what might come, but aware that leaving now would be a defeat.
The American’s grubby hands disgust him as he watches, a thin film of grease glowing upon the tips after he hurriedly shoves a first slice deep into his jowls. Meanwhile, the American scowls curiously amidst his belabored chewing when the young man requests something in Spanish from a passing waitress. Unsure of what he just heard, the American takes another bite while the young man leans backward with a resigned smile, waiting patiently. At the very least, the pizza does look delicious. He imagines the first bite, how it looks crispier, and how the cheese is more expensive, and how he will eat it gracefully with his fork, with elegance. Suddenly he realizes he is salivating ever so slightly, and he emits a gentle “Mmmmmm.”
Then, to the American’s horror, the waitress returns to place a bright red plastic bottle of ketchup upon the table and the man is compelled to set down his pizza before speaking sternly, with exaggerated enunciation, “You cannot put ketchup on this pizza.” His eyes narrow in the wake of his statement, and he pauses for a moment, expecting to be understood as the boy remains silent. Their eyes locked, he repeats himself, “You are not going to put ketchup on that pizza.” Yet a vibrant smile spreads across the young man’s face. He leans forward to grasp the bottle as tightly and firmly as he had previously imagined he would be clutching the American’s cock later that night. He lifts it up, watches the man gasp indignantly at his defiance, a joy swelling within him, and he squeezes, not because he wants ketchup at this point or cares about the food at all, but just for the sheer happiness of seeing the American deflate at the realization his words are flaccid. He is careful to keep it natural, but a laugh escapes him, and he gives in to it, a tear in his eye as he sets the bottle down and looks back into the American’s cold gaze.
The words hit him like spit in the face, “You disrespectful little fucking twat”, and the boy is petrified. The whole restaurant is watching now too as the man leans forward aggressively to speak more quietly, “I invite you on a nice fucking dinner, nicest one you’ve ever been on from the looks of you, and you have the fucking gall to treat me this way! You’re trash. You know that? You’re fucking trash. I should have known. I… I want you to leave. Get the fuck out… get out of my face right now.” And the boy remains speechless, on the verge of weeping as the American leans forward and speaks again, “I told you to get the fuck ou…”
The sound causes the boy to flinch, unknowing of what had just happened, and he suddenly feels hands tugging at his right arm. Everything is a panicked blur until he sees the blonde woman’s assuring eyes. She is the one pulling him upward and toward her, away from the table, and as he looks back, the American’s face is glowing cherry red, as if a cheek were swelling. His thick frames are on the table now too, one of the lenses having cracked into shards on his pizza slice, and people are shouting from all directions as the boy is being whisked away. Yet the woman pauses near the exit, the boy now securely under her wing, and she turns around to shout back at the man with a thick accent, “You are a filthy pervert!”, before disappearing into the night.
Thus, the restaurant returns to a gentle hum of admonishing whispers and some indistinguishable kitsch as the eyes of the guests and staff glare into the American. He ignores it though, regains his composure, and walks calmly to the restroom while muttering to himself about the boy’s insolence. He had been drinking before encountering the boy, before drinking the wine here, and the need to pee feels urgent now. There is only one stall though, no urinal, and it is occupied, so he jostles the door aggressively and shouts “anyone there?”
The voice in return is familiar, but it is in English now, “Yea, just a moment, sorry.”
“Oh…”, the man responds, perking up, “you’re the waiter, right?”
“Yea, sorry, like I said, I’ll be done in a second, sir.”
“How much?”
“What?”
“How much for me to come in there right now?”
The American presses his body against the door and the waiter sees a silhouette blocking the light that was shining through the cracks.
“Sir, I’ll be done in a second.”
“No, I want to come in there with you. I’ve been fantasizing about you all night. I want you to suck my cock.”
“Oh, fuck no! Dude, hard pass, what the fuck.”
“Are you American?”
“Yea, I grew up there, but seriously dude, you can’t go around doing that here. You’re going to get fucked up.”
“Between us, I can really make it worth your while, anything you want.”
“Dude, seriously, fuck off.”
“Oh, well, your loss”, the man sighs, pulling away from the door, “here’s my hotel room number for when you change your mind.”
Then the door shuts, the light shines through again, and a business card with the hotel information scrawled onto it sits there on the tile floor. He watches as it settles in alongside a wet piece of toilet paper, soaking up whatever liquid had been there before he arrived. Resolutely seeing no reason to pick it up though, he peers through the cracks to make sure he is alone and confirms the man is gone before washing his hands. He pauses a moment later to stare into the mirror before opening the door, preparing himself to escort the man out the building with force if need be. However, when he returns to the dining room, the man is nowhere to be seen, and a thousand dollars is sitting on the table. His colleagues interpret the gesture as an apology for the outburst, but he has a clear alternative understanding. Regardless, as the night dwindles into last call, the card remains on the floor, disintegrating into pulp, trampled upon, and is eventually swept away.
[Blackout]
* * *
Imagining a Stage Adaptation: The men exit the stage into the restroom beyond the view of the audience, one after the other as in the story. Suddenly the husky American returns to the table before exiting, his true emotional state masked in discretion and ambiguity, and the readers know what unfolded, but the rest of the audience is left to ponder what exactly took place. Then, after his own return, the waiter shares some dialogue with coworkers, other guests question what happened, and the table is cleared. Thus, another couple is seated and service continues—uninterrupted, steady, and sure.
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