Up North
Chapter 1
Christopher was stuck. Oh, not metaphysically of course. Never metaphysically. He had been trying to wrestle a particularly awkward platter onto a shelf and had not noticed the door of the walk in refrigerator slowly close behind him. That the inside latch was broken was typical of Schliemann's and so who could really say how long he would be trapped in with the cold cuts and salad makings. This time though it wasn't long before he was missed by Damien, the manager, who was under the impression that it was a sort of dereliction of duty to be trapped in a fridge, but to be fair Christopher had been looking forward to something of a break from the abject boredom of the dining room.
Of course now that he thought about it, he was probably metaphysically stuck too. During this brief incarceration he contemplated the restaurant. He had been hoping to contemplate something more interesting, but either the chill of the refrigerator or the inadequacies of his imagination presented him with a mass of blankness. Although that was how most of his shifts went anyway.
Schliemann’s wasn’t a particularly nice restaurant, but had pretensions of being so. In the sort of way that your weird uncle once went to Paris and now insists on pronouncing it Paree. The dining rooms were as pleasant to dine in as the budget had allowed, which had apparently been in the low hundreds. Pictures of vaguely old world scenes lined the walls, various ruined acropolis, Mediterranean sunsets and beaches, tall umbrella pines, and salt of the earth fisherman types (clearly posed). There was a small bar around which no one ever drank. A lobster tank with one lobster. And white tablecloths that in better lighting, would be revealed as something of a fraud. Schliemann's was named and themed as vaguely European, but as the owner (who's name was deMarche) was quick to point out, not French. In Boston of all places, Christopher found this silly. Anyway, it was a completely ridiculous thing to be contemplating while locked in a fridge. Which is why he was somewhat relieved to be freed before his thoughts wandered beyond what kind of place he was working, to the reasons he worked there at all.
On returning to the dining room, he wondered what all the fuss had been about. The same five people occupied the same five seats and there didn't seem to be much call for his services right then.
In the corner was Charles. Christopher had never bothered to learn his last name, but he was the only person whom he supposed could be called a regular. He came in everyday at three, and then having consumed four or five cups of coffee, shuffled out again. He had to be around eighty. He was always alone, but carried on conversation anyway. The waiters were careful to seat him as far enough away from the other diners as possible, but otherwise allowed his eccentricity to wander free. At this moment of observation, however he was silently staring into his coffee, watching the cream swirls. Placed on the opposite side of the dining room, were two women, engaged in an intensely quiet conversation, and a couple apparently out for a lunch date. Presumably. Because this is what Christoper prided himself on - not his service, oh no - but being able to observe the customers and work out what their story was, like a 27 year old Harriet the Spy.
As he leaned against the dust covered bar, he took the time to stare indelicately at the women at table three. The older one in the suit was pointing out things on a paper to her younger colleague. It was here where the indelicateness of his stare caught up with him, as the younger woman looked up briefly to meet eyes with a startled Christopher. He quickly looked away, which of course made it obvious that he had been looking all along. He tried to busy himself with the countertop and a nearby damp cloth, but it got no cleaner. When he thought it was safe to resume his observations. The younger woman, blond, pale, with a sharp face was now making notes on the paper with a fountain pen. Some sort of negotiation then. The large bag at her feet suggested some sort of portfolio, so, artist then? No, architect. The notes were the broad strokes of changes demanded by the client, by the older woman. Unreasonable changes it looked like. There was some further discussion and Christopher’s thoughts turned to the other couple in the room, the one on the date.
It was odd to go for a date at three in the afternoon, but there it was. The man leaned across the table, his hand covering hers. She was leaning back, away. But her hand stayed. Under the table, two legs briefly touched. Unhappy moment? Possibly. Christopher went over to top off their water. The hands. Always the hands. You could tell anything about a person through their hands. The wedding ring. Singular. She had one, he didn’t. He pondered this as he walked back to his observatory and came to the conclusion that they were having an affair. Meeting at an almost empty restaurant in the mid-afternoon, holding hands without talking, the atmosphere of tawdry sadness, it all formed a picture of a romantically painful situation.
Christopher leaned back, content in his having Sherlocked out the details of the moments unfolding before him. Of course he had no way of knowing that he was wrong on almost every count. He usually was.
His survey of the dining room complete, Christopher turned his attention to Jeff, the only waiter (and busboy and host) on for the afternoon. Christopher disliked talking to Jeff, because talking to Jeff tended to put Christopher into a foul mood. He wasn’t sure as to wether this was entirely unintentional either. In their very first meeting Jeff had described himself as “conservative, but fair” and Christopher felt that people who felt the need to describe themselves, let alone in such specific terms were probably not worth talking to. But, as there were only five customers in the restaurant and the manager - who had seemed so incensed that Christopher had been trapped in the walk-in - was out back sharing a joint with the chef, there was really nothing else to do to pass the time.
—-
His shift ended at 5:00 and by 5:07, without a single word having been passed between him and Damien, he was standing at the bus stop on Somerville Avenue just down from Union Square and across from the Somerville Community Access Television building and its rather unfortunate sign. He had shouldered his way through the pea soup wind down Washington Street and had only nearly been hit by two cars in order to take his place opposite the converted fire hall that blocked his view of Prospect Hill.
Prospect Hill was Somerville and Union Square’s major claim to fame, having been the first place Washington had raised his new flag. Except that probably wasn’t true either, which left only the invention of marshmallow fluff as the neighbourhood’s contribution to American history, and that was probably more fitting and patriotic anyway.
Christopher noted a large man trying to dodge traffic to reach the bus stop. Case in point, he thought. Fluff. Probably “worked” at community television. Active participant in his community. Ate lots of fluff. Went to the festival. Brains like the stuff.
The two stood awkwardly next to each other for a moment. Christopher knew without even looking that the man wanted to talk. Fortunately when he did open his mouth it was only to ask about the bus.
“Which bus are you waiting for?”
“The, um, the 87.”
“Oh, you’re waiting for the 91?”
“Nope.”
“The 86?”
“No.”
“Yes, you said the 86.”
“87.”
This was not the correct answer.
“You’re fucking lying to me. Why would you fucking do that? What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m trying to get home and you’re fucking lying to me. You know I don’t think right, so it doesn’t HELP me when people fucking lie to me. You think you can just tell me whatever.”
“No, look. . .I’m sorry.”
Christopher felt intensely awkward for having thought about fluff for brains. At that moment the bus rolled into view strolling leisurely down the street towards them.
“Fuck your sorry.”
And the doors opened just as the man opened his mouth and spat at him, the snot-green globule landing on his left shoulder. He gagged. Managing to climb into the bus he scraped it off with his Charlie Card before being ignored by the driver.
“Hello Tony” The driver said looking past his shoulder to the man on the curb.
“Watch that one, he’s a fucking liar.”
The door closed.
“Are you going to pay or what?”
Christopher tapped the card against the box. “Shouldn’t that guy be on the Ride?”
“Huh, he wasn’t kidding, you really are an asshole.”
Christopher didn’t wait for more of a response, he had already shuffled his way halfway down the bus to find a seat for the short trip to Lechmere.
When they got there he left through the back door.
The wind was stronger here, tugging at the bottom of his coat, demanding his attention, finding it’s way up and under and through bits of clothing it had no business going up or under or through. Here he waited for the final push into Boston. He didn’t think of his work as being in Boston, not really. And the daily piercing of the river was a return home from the wars. The streetcar was late - as usual - and by the time it was ready to leave a crowd had built up that forced its way up the stairs all at once, chased by the seething gusts. Christopher did manage to find a seat, only to give it up 30 seconds later to a woman with three large shopping bags who for some unfathomable reason had pushed her way into the very centre of the car.
Finally the whine of the electric motor reached it’s peak and the car started up the ramp to the viaduct. Waves tossed about on the Charles. Peaks and valleys of darkness, almost black blue hills. No rowers today. Chased back to their boathouses by the snarling whitecaps. Rowers. What good were they? Forget them he thought as the train passed over the lock and paused briefly at Science Park. The wind and the waves disappeared along with the rest of the world as the train plunged into the ground somewhere before Causeway Street.