Rusty’s Restaurant – 2016

5:07 pm

Jack and Genevieve at their usual table. Both are late-middle-aged, happily married and more than happily retired. Every Saturday it’s mass at the ICC, then a quiet dinner here at Rusty’s. Jack always starts off with a joke.

“Hello there, Teddy. Say, did you hear the one about the Priest the Rabbi and the Gay Anesthesiologist?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Neither did I. If you hear it, make sure you tell it to me.”

I bring Jack lemons for his water and a glass of white wine for Genevieve. Jack’s eyes are glassy, like he’s been crying. I wonder if it’s religious.

“How was mass?” I ask.

“Tiresome.”

Genevieve orders her usual Sole Meunière. Jack orders his usual Shrimp Scampi. Every time he orders it, he reminds me that it comes with a salad.

“That comes with a salad, you know.”

“It does?”

“Don’t get funny with me.”

“Sorry.”

“No tomatoes. They’re too acidic and they mess with my diabetes.”

“No tomatoes.”

“Dressing on the side tonight. It’s been too tart lately.”

“Will do.”

“And tell Rusty not to load me up with that designer lettuce. Gimme iceberg. It’s more American than that leafy crap he’s been serving.”

“You bet.”

I don’t place the order because it’s already in the kitchen. I placed it the moment I saw them enter the restaurant. It’s always the same, never wavers, and Jack doesn’t like waiting for his food.

5:41 pm

Checking in with Jack and Genevieve. Her plate is empty; except for the butter sauce she’s sopping up with a roll. Jack’s Shrimp Scampi hasn’t been touched and he hasn’t smiled for a while. Arms folded, chin down, he stares at his plate.

“How was everything, Jack?

“Something’s not right,” he mutters. “Something’s not right.”

Genevieve reaches across the table with her fork and stabs a shrimp. Eats it.

“Tastes fine to me, Jack.”

“Yeah…sure it does. To you. Bring the check, will ‘ya, Teddy?”

I bring the check, wrap up his food. They pay. They go.

7:40 pm

DeeDee’s on the phone; she hangs up; approaches me.

“That was Genevieve.”

“Genevieve of ‘Jack and Genevieve?’”

“Yes.”

“Did she call to complain about the food?”

“No. She called to tell me that Jack died on the way home.”

“Omigod.”

“What did he order?”

“Shrimp scampi.”

“Think it was the shrimp?”

“No. He didn’t touch it.”

“Then he probably died of hunger. Oh, well. I sat you a table on the patio.”