12
After a restless night spent tossing and turning thinking about the gigantic withdrawal I’m about to make for my boyfriend’s restaurant, I wake to the smell of eggs and sounds of sizzling bacon around 6:00 a.m.
“Benji? What are you doing?” I ask solo from the bed as I wipe the sleep from my eyes.
“Morning, babe,” he says softly from around the corner of the kitchen. “I thought we could enjoy a nice breakfast together before you head out.”
I creep around the corner and see him flipping and frying strips of bacon in one pan and scrambling eggs in the other. Two bagels pop up from the toaster.
“Uh...can I borrow your hands, babe?”
The sweet way he asks for my help grabbing down two plates from the cabinet before the bagels turn black and the eggs get overcooked is in stark contrast to what I know he’d say to a sous: Sebastian, put down whatever the fuck you are doing and get over here. Are you deaf? I need hands on the line, NOW. I consider my ability to disrupt the natural way he’d respond to a situation—with frustration, red-zone anger and f-words—a gift that helps keep him on the right track.
I set the plates down on the counter and Benji promptly assembles two breakfast sandwiches. I’m in shock at their simplicity. Toasted onion bagel, loosely scrambled egg, thick-cut bacon and a single slice of sharp cheddar cheese are all that make up the stack. A no-frills meal? To what do I owe this pleasure? Granted, he’s mixed a half cup of sparkling water into the scrambled egg batter—his secret for beyond fluffy eggs—and cured the bacon himself, but what’s a meal prepared by his capable hands if he doesn’t put a few chef-y twists on it? At least it’s not a self-indulgent science project like usual.
He carries them over to the butcher-block tabletop and we sit across from each other. I’m still half-asleep but fully aware of the stop at the bank I need to make before I head into work. It zaps my appetite but is apparently a nonissue to Benji, who doesn’t even bother posting a picture of the meal to social media before diving in. He’s already three bites in and halfway done with a string of melted cheese dangling from his bottom lip before I even unfold my napkin.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, lapping up the cheese loogie with his tongue. “Oh, shit. Sorry.” He gets up to walk toward me. Even though he’s responsible for my anxiety, a tight hug would help hit the reset button for me. But instead, Benji beelines it back to the fridge, where he pulls out a carafe of orange juice.
“Here you go, babe.”
I plaster a smile on my face and force myself to take a bite of the big breakfast sandwich he deliciously dumbed down to keep the attention on me instead of his food this morning.
“Okay, love. I know what’s going on with you and I’m not ignoring your feelings. I was just trying to calm your nerves a bit. We never spend mornings together like this and I didn’t just want to send you off with a sleepy ‘have a great day.’ I just don’t know how to show you how much I appreciate what you’re doing for us. Is there something I can say? Is there something I should do?”
His eyes are wide and puppy-dog-like. All he’s trying to do is please me and I’m making it hard. There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t make this investment, and only one—blind trust—that I should. It’s like I’m pretty sure that I have a winning lotto ticket, but I’m afraid to scratch off the foil and actually find out. If I do, it might stop me from fantasizing here and there about this actually working out—about this investment paying off. I mean, what if in five years we really are making it? I’m preggers with baby number two, my feet are up on an expensive leather Chesterton couch from Room & Board, and Benji is helping our kid work on homework at the dining room table of our decked out brownstone before he heads over to Here for the night. All that’s missing is a chocolate Lab.
As I bring myself back down to reality, aka the crowded surface of the butcher-block table in my tiny little apartment, I realize how far off that dream really is. No doubt, the inside of my head right now is a battlefield.
“Babe, please. Say something.” Tears start to well up in his eyes. Though he’s come close, I’ve actually never seen him cry. If he cracks, so will I. And it’s too early for tears. I just can’t get anything to come out of my mouth right now.
“Look, I want this restaurant. I’m not going to lie. But I want you to be happy, too, and this silence is scaring me.”
It hits me that he’s afraid to lose me. That I am still more important than opening Here. That I am still needed, independently and after this investment.
That calms me more than any dose of Xanax could, though I probably wouldn’t mind a pill or two for emergencies.
“Sorry I’ve been quiet. I’m still just waking up and I had a lot going through my mind last night. But, here we are. And I’m excited. And I’m happy for you.”
“For us,” he corrects me. A beaming smile returns to his face.
“And I appreciate the breakfast, I really do. I’m just not hungry yet.”
“That’s okay. Tell you what. I’ll add some tomato and mayo to this and wrap it up for your lunch today.” He gets up and starts clearing the table.
I stand with my plate and Benji takes it from me. He puts it on the counter behind him, then turns back around and grabs my face. He kisses my lips, first sweetly, then more sultrily. His right hand floats to the back of my head, my messy hair in his fingers. His left hand works its way down my back until both of his hands pick me up by the ass as he sets me on the butcher block. This thing is a whole lot sturdier than I thought.
“I love you so fucking much,” he says between kisses as he pulls my T-shirt over my head.
* * *
The money order is sitting in my purse right now.
When I got to the bank and filled out the paperwork, the banker congratulated me on my new house. She assumed the money was for a down payment. I didn’t bother correcting her and now I am carrying around THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS in my purse like it’s a pack of gum.
Angela calls at 9:00 a.m., just when I’m settling into my desk at work, to let me know we have the green light. A part of me was holding out hope that the inspection would go horribly wrong and this would all just go away, or at least buy me a little time. But no, apparently Craig is willing to fund all the repairs and rush charges that are needed to open and everything with the city went swimmingly. Here is happening. Starting today.
Angela goes on to say that she has already opened a bank account for our business, which is where my money order will be deposited. I can’t believe how uber on-top-of-it she is and how quickly things are moving. So quickly, in fact, that she texts me to say she’ll swing by over her lunch to pick it up before I’ve even had a chance to put my lunch in the fridge at work.
This is going to sound ludicrous, but I want more time with it—with my piece of paper that has more zeroes in sequence than I’m accustomed to seeing. This is (was?) my cushion. I love my job, I plan on staying with Daxa for at least another five years, but if I ever got laid off or fired, I felt safe knowing I’d be okay for at least a year (which is really like six months in Benji time.) Am I scared? Yes, of course. But no matter the circumstances, this check represents an accomplishment. Very few other people my age can pull that kind of money out of a bank account and put it toward something this major, and I’ll be sad to see my little “nest egg” go. I consider tacking it up on the bulletin board in my cubicle or magnetizing it to my filing cabinet like it’s a college diploma. Instead, I snap a photo of it with my phone and store it in my camera roll.
What feels like mere moments later, Angela texts me to say she’s a few blocks away. I march downstairs just as her white Jetta pulls up right in front of my office building in the fire lane. She puts the car in Park but leaves it running with the flashers on as she comes out to greet me dressed in gray capri leggings and a neon yellow Lululemon tank top. There’s a sweat stain under her cleavage.
“Hi, sunshine,” she says, as happy as someone picking up a check for $30,000 should be.
“Hi” is all I can muster.
“You doin’ okay, mamacita?” she asks, reaching a warm hand to my shoulder. We’ve come a long way from her jamming a billfold into my boobs.
“Yeah, it’s just...crazy.”
“Ain’t it, though? Told you these cats move fast when they see something they like. Just take it as a sign—there’s money to be made, girlfriend.”
“Let’s hope.” I can’t sound any more like my dog just died.
“How’s B feeling about all this?”
It’s interesting that she’s already given him a nickname, but I figure they’ll probably be spending eighty hours a week together in the near future, so why not start now with the informalities?
“He’s really excited.” A flashback to the insanely passionate sex we had this morning pops into my head and some spunk noticeably returns to my voice. “I think he’ll dive in more once he gets these last couple pop-ups out of the way.”
“Oh yeah. I think I saw something about them on Twitter earlier. He’s still doing those little supper clubs? Does he realize he just bought a restaurant?”
He bought a restaurant? I let it slide. Informalities.
“Oh, trust me, he’s psyched about it. I think he’s just trying to get some savings going for us while you’re busy dealing with the red tape.”
“The red tape? I’m not sure if you guys think I’m futzing around or what, but let me be clear: I get shit done—like the forty-five-minute, level twelve incline elliptical workout I just crushed at East Bank Club. You might not think these thunder thighs could move that fast, but they can. They most definitely can.”
I don’t know her very well, but these sneak peeks at her personality make me like her. I’ll give her that.
“Whatever, Allie. Just know that we’re forty-five days out—or less—from needing to be a fully functioning, high-profile, major-league restaurant on Randolph Street. Speaking of, what are we calling this thing?”
Is Total Fuck-Show Bar & Grill already taken?
“Here. We’re calling the restaurant Here.”
I fully expect Angela to poke a thousand holes in the name, but to my surprise she likes it. Or she nothings it. I really can’t tell because she’s already on to her next point.
“Well, does he understand I’m going to own his ass until Here opens?” The wrath of God is in her voice.
I’m not sure he does, but I certainly do. So I reassure her we’re all on the same page.
“I’ll give him a call before I head back up. I’ll tell him you came to pick up the money and you guys need to connect later to go over the details. Sound good?”
“Love it. Love you. You’re amazing. Now get back to work so I can change out of these clothes before I get a yeast infection and deposit this bad boy in the bank.”
“Please don’t misplace it on the way,” I say, the only parting words I can think of as she buckles herself in.
“Me? Leave cash on the table? Never.” She winks and drives off.
And just like that, I have $1,000 to my name.
* * *
“Benji? Babe? Can you hear me?”
The sound of pots and pans clanking together drowns out all other noises when I call Benji on my way back into my office.
“Yes, love. Sorry, in the middle of something. What’s up?”
“I’m just checking in. I gave the money order to Angela. I think she’s on her way to deposit it now.”
“That’s sick, babe.”
That’s sick? That’s it?
“So what are you up to?” I ask.
“Prepping. Sebastian, no! That’s too much olive oil. You’ve ruined the entire batch. Throw the whole thing out and start again. Damn, is this your first time making an aioli? Jesus, what the fuck, man?”
Prepping indeed.
“Listen, Al. I spoke with the coffee shop lady and she said I could use the space every night this week. So I figure, why just do one or two when I can crank out five pop-ups? I already tweeted the times out for each—said they were the last of my undergrounds and sold out every single spot through Friday.”
Normally I’m the one who handles stuff like this. Proofreading the announcement, taking reservation requests and collecting the cash for the prepaid seats at the table up front. It’s a lot of work for one pop-up. Now he’s attempting to pull off five? My thoughts are with my spreadsheet system. Is he at least logging this? Did he take the payments correctly? Before I can ask, he delves in further.
“I know you’re busy, so I set it up as prepay, cash-only. I made everyone who wanted a spot drop off money by 10:00 a.m. to hold their seat, so there’s no need for you to front the food cost at all.”
“Drop off money where? The coffee shop?”
“No. Why would I trust a lady I’ve never met with all that cash? I had people drop off their money here. I told everyone they had to bring cash immediately or I’d move on to the next name on the wait list. Let me tell you, people move real fast when you tell them it’s their only chance to see me,” he says. I think back to the first time I met him and realize just how much I know that to be true.
Part of me cringes at the fact that my doorman probably thinks Benji cooks and sells meth considering all the cash flow that went on in the lobby before noon today. I just pray that none of the drop-offs were from a critic, someone from the health department or an undercover cop. The other part of me is thanking god that he’s managed to figure out a way to excuse me from my normal pop-up duties in the wake of withdrawing $30,000 to fund another one of his culinary escapades. I’m so relieved, I almost forget to bring up Angela.
“Oh, hey. When are you going to start planning for Here? Angela said there’s not a whole lot of red tape to—”
“Well, not-so-little Miss Angela hasn’t opened a restaurant in the last five years and has never worked in the city, okay?”
“She said everything’s approved,” I mention.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Has the zoning committee come down to sign off on everything?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly my point. The city is going to take issue with a handful of things in the eleventh hour and she better get ready to clear the path.” He’s getting angry over a simple question and acting like he knows everything. Typical Benji.
“That’s fine, she just—”
“Seriously. We don’t even need forty-five days to outfit a kitchen and design a menu. This isn’t Cheesecake Factory. We won’t have 600 different options for dinner. Sebastian! You’re boiling these eggs to death. Get over here and pull them...NOW!”
“Well, could you just maybe call her?”
Success! I said something without him cutting me off.
“I swear, if she’s going to be this annoying off the bat...yes, I’ll call her. Later. And if she brings it up to you again, just remind her that I can do whatever it is in less than twenty-four hours if I have to.”
I make a pistol out of my thumb and pointer finger and put it to my temple. “Okay, so back to these pop-ups. How are you going to manage going back and forth from our place to Pilsen five days in a row? Isn’t Pilsen, like, on the other side of town? That’s going to be hundreds in cab fare alone.”
Money in, money out. My recent obsession flares up.
“My friend owns an art gallery next door. He’s going to help bus plates and fill waters this week, too. Anyway, he’s got a couch in his back room. I’ll just do all the prep in the coffee shop, run the dishwasher a few times, then crash on the couch next door at my buddy’s place and we’ll do it all again the next day. So it actually shouldn’t be too bad. I mean, I won’t see you a ton, but it’ll be cheaper. No cab rides.”
I don’t know of any friends of his that live in Pilsen, but I know if I ask for specifics, Benji will either get belligerent about me prying when he’s trying to do a million other things or he’ll say some arbitrary name—Ronnie, Peter, Stefan—and tell me he was someone he knew from his drug days. It’s the trump card when he wants to put an end to a conversation and it always works.
I ease up on fishing for details and squeeze in one more important question: “What about your NA meetings?”
I want to make sure the wheels won’t fall off while Benji is out from underneath my watchful stare. Rita’s call still has me a little rattled even though I’m positive she’s bat-shit crazy. If she wasn’t she would have called me by now to apologize for the temporary insanity.
“Babe, chill. This is Chicago. There are meetings 24/7 all over the city. I’ll go first thing in the morning with all the guys in their business suits. I’ll text Mark right now and ask him to recommend some around that area. He knows all the best meetings.”
“Well, let me know if you find an open one. Maybe I could meet you at it this week?” It’s a stretch, considering I haven’t gone to any yet myself, but I’m going to miss him and a little face time on our calendar, despite the setting, might be nice.
“Okay, babe, I have to get going—I’m dehydrating strawberries in the oven and I really need to keep an eye on things. Need anything else or can I call you later before service?”
“No, I guess that’s it.” I get that he’s busy and I’m at work so this conversation will have to pick up later, but I’m a little bummed we aren’t going to have the chance to celebrate the fact I’ve just depleted my bank account to buy a restaurant. Oh, well.
“Oh, wait, Benji? One more thing. What about the cash that’s left after food costs? And the gratuities? Maybe I could rent a Divvy bike and come pick it up later?”
“Allie, are you crazy? First of all, that’s a really far way to ride a bike at night in the dark—you’ll get hit by a drunk driver or something. Plus, you know whatever I make this week is going straight into an envelope with your name on it. When I see you Friday, you can have the whole damn thing. Okay? Don’t worry, I’m trying to pocket as much as I can for you. I want you to be set these next forty-five days, babe.”
I’m shocked to hear there’s no bitterness in Benji’s voice. He knows his demons could have a field day with that kind of a trigger and instead he’s still dead set on making sure I’m good.
“Well, it’s not a big deal if you change your mind and want me to come pick up the cash,” I say, silencing the voice inside screaming, IT’S ACTUALLY A HUGE DEAL.
There’s a beat of silence on the phone. I can’t tell if he’s rolling his eyes at me for being overprotective, zoning out to check on the strawberries or scrolling through tweets from people who want to know if there’s any room left at the table. He returns to the line and says, “I’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. I’ve gotta go. Love you.”
I keep my ear pressed to the phone once the call disconnects, letting it all sink in.
The thought of him hanging on to what could amount to a couple grand in cold, hard cash doesn’t sit well with me. Especially since apparently I won’t be seeing him this week. Then it hits me that Locator is alive and well on our phones. If worse comes to worst, I can always pull up the app. However, I’m going to try really, really hard not to do that. I’m going into business with a person who has tattooed my name on his body. I suppose now is probably a good time to start trusting him.
When I get back upstairs to my desk, there’s a bouquet of flowers sitting in my cubicle in a vase.
“Special delivery while you were at lunch,” Dionte tells me.
“He cooks and he sends flowers. Benji is literally the perfect guy,” Stacey says.
I fish around for a note and find one tucked behind a tulip:
There’s no place we’d rather be than Here.
-Angela & Craig