MY BROTHER’S REAPER

I

The Last Stand Cafe

4:30pm

It’s 1986 and I’m being interviewed by Sheri Feldspar in her new restaurant on Restaurant Row. Sheri once owned and ran a lively cafe on the Upper West Side, called Café Celebré. Wall-to-wall celebrities, you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting an Oscar nominee. The place made Page Six practically every day. I stopped in once and saw Bruce Willis, Sam Shepard, and Ruth Buzzi…at the same table. I would have stayed for dinner, but the hostess told me I had to leave, because I was a Nobody and Nobodies made Sheri nervous.

Sheri inexplicably closed Café Celebré and opened this new joint, calling it, The Last Stand Cafe. The dining room is cavernous, a tad musty, and bleak. Except for bright Day-Glo handprints slapped on every table, Sheri wasted little thought on décor. The handprints are the handprints of retired television stars. Sheri and I sit at the “Arlene Golonka” table. I place my hand on top of Arlene’s. In a slap-fight I’d surely beat the crap out of her.

“We have rules,” Sheri says, “Strict rules. We get a lot of celebrities in here. You may not talk to them. You’re not here to be their friend. They have enough friends. They, of course, are my friends, and they are here to eat. So let them eat. Do not engage them in any way. Clear?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a nuisance, but if I can’t talk to them, how will I get their order?”

She rolls her eyes, “Okay, let’s try this again. You can talk to them, but just enough to get their order. You may say, “Good evening so-and-so, are you ready to order? Stuff like that.”

“Good evening so-and-so?”

“Exactly. You may say that, but you may not say, “Good evening so-and-so, will you read my screenplay?”

“How did you know I’m writing a screenplay?”

“Everyone on the planet is a writing a screenplay. What’s yours called?”

“I Was a Teenage Bride of Christ.”

“Trust me. It will never sell.”

I heartily agree with her, and get hired on the spot.

II

Two Weeks Later

Business is slow. Sheri’s celebrities are mostly no-shows. Sheri can’t explain it. I can. The joint isn’t sexy enough. Celebrities need to eat and drink in places where they can also freely have sex. I’m in the kitchen, getting to know Spence, the chef. Spence is a Brit from Bournemouth. He has crooked teeth, thatched hair, a flat tummy, and he’s unbearably cool. He likes me. I make him laugh. His accent gives me shivers.

Sheri rushes in. Her face flushed.

“Randy’s here,” she says in a panic, “When he called earlier, I thought he was his brother. I came this close to calling him Dennis. He’s weird about that. He knows people prefer his brother.”

“Where is he?”

“Bar table.”

“That’s my section, right?”

“You have the whole restaurant.” she says, “I sent everyone home.”

“Everyone? It’s only six o’clock.”

“No reservations. Except for Dennis, I mean, Randy,” – her face in her hands — “Oh, why couldn’t he be Dennis. Hurry, Randy doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“On my way.”

I check my apron, and dash out of the kitchen. The restaurant is devoid of people, except for an unkempt chubby man sitting at a bar table, playing with his eyebrows, reading the paper. I smell trouble; my survival instincts kick in. I approach stealthily. “Good evening, Dennis, would you care for–”

Newspaper down, he stiffens, quite alarmed.

“What did you call me?”

“I’m sorry, did I get your name wrong–”

“Sheri!!!!”

Sheri five feet behind me, runs up to the table.

“Yes, Randy?”

“This guy…this son of a bitch…called me Dennis.”

“Oh, god,” says Sheri, face in hands.

“Oh,” I say, “that’s my fault. We were in the kitchen talking about your brother, and his name was just sitting there on the tip of my–”

“Damn fool called me Dennis, dammit.”

“It was an accident–” I say.

“Now he’s arguing with me?”

“I’m sorry, Randy. He’s new–”

“No need for you to apologize.” He pauses, smiles. “Make him do it.”

They wait. I swallow bile. Sheri crosses her arms.

“I’m sorry I called you Dennis, Randy.”

“You’re forgiven. Maybe. I’ll have to think about it. I’ll talk to you later, Sheri.”

“If you say so, Randy.”

Sheri nods, and is off. I resume being a waiter.

“May I get you a cocktail…sir?”

“I’ll have my usual.”

“Yes, sir. Um, what’s your usual?”

“Sheri!!!!”