A Night to Remember

I was waiting tables on a not-so-busy evening at the Old Mill restaurant the summer before my final year of actuarial science, a discipline all about probability and death.

Although cycling to work was more dangerous, and Jenna argued I shouldn’t do it, I spent less time doing it, so in fact it was safer than riding a bus. Moreover, cycling took my mind off the new state of relationship limbo we had entered. A week earlier Jenna had been offered a scholarship abroad. Our summer fling was about to end—or enter a new phase, I wasn’t sure which. I knew I had to stand back and let her make the decision “away from the bedroom,” in her words. Whatever she decided, I would stand by it. Be supportive. Be a gentleman.

I had to wait it out. But I wasn’t used to being passive. It was killing me.

That evening at the Old Mill I had loads of time, too much time, to fret about the future. Then the party of eight swooped in and rescued me: a scrum of attractive, well-dressed bodies made the Old Mill come alive. Voices babbling, purses swinging, eyeglasses glinting under the decorative lights, they slowly paraded to the reserved table. I eavesdropped like mad, as any properly attentive waiter should do.

The reservation had been called in by Robert Benchley the day before. In a gloomy state due to the shadow of indecision, I’d been struck by how jolly he sounded. “Will this be a special occasion requiring a cake or special set-up?” I asked, curious to learn the cause of his joviality. He hesitated. Here it comes, I thought, my resentment like a small blue pilot light ready to flare up. Birthday. Promotion. Announcement of an engagement. For a blind moment I hated Robert Benchley and the entire spectrum of possible happy occasions he might be booking a table for.

“No… not for tomorrow,” he’d said. So Robert Benchley was in a great mood over something—and apparently would soon have an even better reason to celebrate. How greedy of him, I thought, aware that I was being childish and irrational. Yes, definitely irrational, because happy occasions are correlated with bigger tips, so I ought to have wished him a dozen joyous occasions at the Old Mill that summer. But no, I was under a shadow.

The party of eight were people my parents’ age, except for two younger wives, Vanessa and Natasha, who were blonde and impeccably groomed, like two ornate golden trophies. Robert Benchley seated himself at the head of the table and with great largesse invited a drab couple to sit next to him and his wife, Vanessa. Jim and Mary trembled like two sparrows in a flock of parakeets. They were sturdy, shapeless folk who wore modest brown clothes. Mary’s thin mousy hair was scraped into a tiny bun and Jim’s gray hair was matted around his shiny dome in a tonsure. The other two couples appeared to know the Benchleys and each other very well. Jim and Mary were from out of town, which became evident from the many exhortations around the table about sights they absolutely must see while in the big smoke.

I took orders for the round of starter drinks and appetizers. Jim and Mary declined immediately, by reflex. After hearing everyone else order, Jim partially recanted and asked me about the non-alcoholic drink options. I rattled them off, and he said, “Reckon I’ll have a coke.” He stared hard at Mary, who shook her head no.

When it came time to order food, I had to go through my spiel. I usually introduced myself right away, before taking orders for drinks, but in the fuss of getting everyone seated, I had forgotten. Fun fact: tips are higher if the waiter introduces himself by name. So I leapt to it.

“Hello, my name is Chad and I’ll be your server to—t—t…tonight,” I began. To my horror, I began to choke. I could not complete my first sentence. I’d said it hundreds of times this summer, but at that moment in front of Robert Benchley’s entourage, I’d experienced a visceral memory. I’d suddenly remembered Jenna making me rehearse my two-minute spiel time and again before my first day. After I had mastered it, she became flirtatious with her “naughty waiter / naughty customer” role play and we had fervently, urgently made love as if sealing a pact. I would work hard at my joe-job here; she would work hard at her joe-job at the shoe factory—and we’d save up for our future together. It was an unspoken pact. And now its very existence seemed shaky.

After a suspenseful moment—eight pairs of eyes staring at me as I coughed and gurgled—I regained my composure and recited the menu flawlessly. New York strip loin grilled to perfection, flame-kissed Atlantic Salmon, delectable wild mushroom ravioli… you get the idea. I had to keep the adjectives straight but also understand what each dish was really about.

Everyone, except Jim and Mary, knew what they wanted. Robert Benchley asked me to clarify a couple of options I’d glossed over: “Tilapia—what kind of fish is that?” and “Could you refresh me on what celeriac is?” I could tell he was asking on behalf of Jim and Mary, trying to demystify a fancy menu through questioning the server. I played along.

The wine card was much discussed among six of the eight, who agreed on an Uruguayan tannat to pair with the steaks. When I inadvertently placed an empty wine glass in front of Mary, the corners of her mouth turned down with disgust. “Loosen up a little,” Jim said softly to her. “You know this means the world to Felicity.”

Meanwhile, Robert Benchley was orchestrating the gathering in a remarkably warm, fluid style. He did not monopolize or interrogate; he drew everyone into the conversation with questions geared to them and their interests, especially Jim, who contributed to the hubbub with shy disclosures about aggressive geese and the price of barley.

Four additional people arrived, and this electrified the table of eight. I had to rush about rejigging tables, finding narrow chairs, and distributing new place settings to accommodate them all. The newcomers were about my age. Brandon was Robert Benchley’s son; Felicity was Jim and Mary’s daughter and Brandon’s fiancée. She warmly greeted her parents but without physical touching. Reticent: that was the family style.

Mary’s eyes darted between Brandon and Vanessa, who clearly was not Brandon’s mother. Mary was taking it all in: young, lovely women were given “wife” status in the Benchley world whereas older women whose use had expired were not welcome on the yacht. Mary reminded me of those Brazilian toads that can shoot venom from their heads.

I imagined the story I would tell Jenna about this family, where Robert’s kingdom would in due time be passed along to Brandon. She was amused to hear my stories about squabbling families or solitary widows—diners at the Old Mill during my shift—but then it hit me: she still had to decide: go with scholarship or stay with Chad. It seemed unfair to sway her with silly made-up stories.

After the foursome settled themselves at the far end of the table, I noticed the silken ease of Felicity moving close to Brandon, who gave the impression he had an arm around her—without actually doing so. How I envied Brandon. Oblivious to the real world. Cushioned by every convenience. From a well-off family, with no unexpected good news for his girlfriend throwing panic into their world.

“Hello, my name is Chad,” I said to the four, and I recited the menu, this time without choking. I hurried to take the new round of orders because patrons always expect twelve orders will arrive simultaneously, no matter if the last order was placed forty minutes after the first.

I hustled the order to the kitchen and returned. “Your daughter is absolutely gorgeous,” I overheard Robert say to Jim and Mary, who frowned and waved his words away like a toxic vapor. They were the Amish among us, these two who feared compliments would spoil a child and should be categorically denied lest the sin of pridefulness occur.

Despite the differences, a warm conviviality enveloped the gathering. Cutlery clinked on plates; toasts were proposed to the young couple and their upcoming nuptials and their adorable future children, blah blah blah. Robert Benchley leaned back, visibly relieved, like a conductor who steps away from the podium and watches his ensemble playing together.

I caught his eye, and we exchanged the briefest smile. I tried to picture myself as Robert Benchley. I wanted to be the spark bringing family and friends together, enjoying social occasions in harmony and good cheer. People would hasten to accept my invitations to share a meal, knowing it would be such a delightful evening together. I leaned forward to refill Robert Benchley’s wine. Today I was his attentive server but ten, twenty years from now, I, Chad, would be playing his role: the family man, the genial host, the celebrant of significant milestones. The one showing magnanimity toward the awkward outsiders, the bumbling peasant and his disapproving wife, who were so clearly stuck in times of austerity,

I watched Mary with detached bemusement. My own parents were like these: Mother, who was insecure and thus constantly demanding, and loyal Father, humble and appeasing, his soul pinched and battered to fit the niche his wife designed for him.

*       *       *

Robert Benchley touched the edges of his plate heaped with delicately browned rösti, a medium-rare steak au jus, a flourish of vivid red and green vegetables, the aroma wafting upward in a haze. Vanessa ensured he had time to eat while she recounted a humorous anecdote of skunks that were vacationing in their backyard. This spurred other diners to share their raccoon and fox stories. “And how about you, Mary, any recent encounters with wildlife?” Vanessa bravely asked.

Mary’s stare froze her out. I finished loading my tray, first pass at dirty dishes—salad and soup bowls—and I heard Robert Benchley prompt her, “How about it, Mary? Do you have deer that wander into your yard? I’ve heard they’re like pests…” He broke off, chewing a morsel of steak.

I brought the tray to the kitchen, was interrupted by a text from Jenna, that said she’d gone to stay with her sister and would be back in two days, and then the chef told me to push the crème caramel tonight. “Why two days? Why not tomorrow?” I texted Jenna. I missed her but did not want to appear weak. I already had an inkling what her decision would be.

When I returned to the table thirteen minutes later, Robert Benchley’s chair was empty. For a table of twelve, there’s a 95 per cent probability at least one chair will be empty at any given time. I noticed that Robert Benchley had dropped his fork and napkin on the floor, which seemed a little untidy, a little un-Benchley-esque. I stooped, picked them up, and put them on the clean-up tray.

I recited the dessert menu, emphasizing the crème caramel, and took orders. Mary demanded to know the pie menu. Out of the blue, Jim said, “Robert’s been gone a while.”

“What are you, the bathroom monitor?” Mary scoffed.

Jim said softly, “Oh my, you are funny.”

Mary chose lemon pie, and another minute went by.

“It’s just that he left so… abruptly,” Jim tried again, causing Mary to snort. Another minute passed and Jim excused himself from the table.

I repeated the eleven dessert orders, along with the beverages. As if on cue, all heads looked up—and toward the men’s washroom where Jim was bellowing for help.

“Oh heavens, what is it now?” hissed Mary, squinting at Jim.

The biggest man at the far end heaved himself up from the table. Brandon leapt up and ran to the washroom. Seconds later, he re-appeared, crying out, “It’s Dad. Does anyone know CPR?”

*       *       *

An actuary’s entire mindset resolves around the probability of death. I knew statistics on choking in an abstract, sanitized form. Even as I marched to the kitchen and clipped my dessert order to the order wheel, I assumed the situation was under control. The EMTs would resuscitate him. Would set the world back fifteen minutes in time.

And now, as I wait for Jenna’s text, I brood on this. Robert Benchley had an enviable life. A self-made man. A man destined to be head of his table. Welcoming guests even when they are from different walks of life. Making the stranger feel at ease. It is this life I aspire to. Or, I thought I did.

In his moment of extremity, Robert Benchley did not reach out to anyone. He chose to handle his “momentary” discomfort, his potential embarrassment, alone—away from the revelry. Away from friends and family. Away from his guests. He went off-stage as it were, to a dimly lit washroom. He was not discovered before hypoxia destroyed his brain.

He was a self-made man.

And he unmade himself.

I stare at my phone, waiting things out.

The End