The spring sun had chinned above the Liminal Street Bridge and was beginning to scrub off the morning chill. Heard, but unseen, a cardinal wot-wot-trilled from the tangle of shrubbery along the fence and inside the fence, the parking lot thrummed with activity. A Peregrine Fruit and Vegetable truck was backed into the loading dock and a Suckling Boar truck was idling nearby waiting a turn. The trucks faced grill to grill as if engrossed in conversation, and behind them a Patiss Bread van wheeled across the lot—au domain mes amis!—before rolling to a stop at the sidewalk, signaling a turn but needing to wait for a group of pedestrians to pass before proceeding. Nun of the Above broke off from the group and scooted up the loading ramp. She called out to the Peregrine Fruit and Vegetable driver and asked to buy a tangerine.
Wholesale not retail, the driver twisted another flat onto his hand truck without even looking to see who’d asked.
Oh perfect! I’m happy to pay wholesale, Nun of the Above extracted a bill from the clutch purse that dangled from a chain around her neck. The driver pivoted, ready to be even more annoyed than he already was, but he whipped off his cap and wiped his hands on his shirt when he saw who it was. I’m sorry, pardon Sister, but no, I have cases, not singles. I would if I could, I would—no wait, here! He tore off a corner of the paper that covered the top flat and extracted an orange. That’s on me, right, no charge? But if you can say a rosary—for the family, for me and my wife.
Nun of the Above was laughing when she rejoined the group. She held up the orange and rotated it like it was a gem that could refract the light. The world’s tears are ever the same, she murmured, if one person begins to cry, someone else stops. And so it is with laughter as well.**
What are you saying? General Mayhem asked and her smile broadened, Just a quote, she answered.
General Mayhem scowled and shook his head. He held the door so that they could enter.
Will Waite could see the problem immediately, and if it was obvious to Will, then it was obvious to everyone—We’ll need a bigger table, He said to the Maitre’d, and waved his hand toward the expanse of the room. The Maitre’d thinned his lips and shook his head, I’m sorry, but this is the table that you reserved. His tone was unctuous and diffuse, seeming to wash over the group from the wainscot and molding.
I understand, I do, understand, Will Waite’s voice quavered, But as you can see, we’re now more than we were, with members of the cloth and the coil, and many who could have gone on but chose not to—we’ll need a table to match, Will Waite grimaced. He rolled his shoulders and gave a reptilian poke and twist of his neck.
I can see, and of course I understand. But you should have mentioned the possibility when you called. The other tables are all reserved.
The room was cavernous and empty so the Maitre’d was dissembling, or cruel, or possibly nurturing some private arcanum to share later at whatever after-hours, maitre’d convocation he’d be attending. The room was a sea of unoccupied tables, set and ready, with white cloths and reflecting place settings that made them look like tarped boats at anchor in a darkening harbor.
But how could we have known it then? Will Waite’s voice cracked. You can see only what you see when you see it, and what we saw then is not what we see now. Time doesn’t work any other way so how can you ask for something that would require it did? Will Waite’s shoulders slumped and he looked as if he might puddle to the floor. But Rich Assaking and Les Ismore each took an arm and they helped him into a chair. Rich Assaking motioned for the others to join Will Waite at the table, Come, sit everyone!
Anticipation isn’t alchemy, the Maitre’d muttered but his words were lost in the shuffle of people moving to take seats. You could also become more than you were in other ways as well, he added.
I thought we were changing tables, Miss Wording grumbled.
I did too, Wiccan Doit nodded. They never tell us what’s really going on.
And even when they do, it’s never all that clear.
Ah, but that kind of clarity is birdlike and rare, and never stationery, Father Cal Endder was hurrying and his words were choppy with his uneven breathing. The perfect blend of patience and practice, the scalpel and the brush. It’s much more common to just push on. Miss Wording and Wiccan Doit stopped to take in what he was saying and Father Cal stepped around them and dropped into one of the last open seats.
It didn’t seem like such a rule-y sort of place when we made the reservation, Will Waite was mopping his face with a handkerchief and Rich Assaking leaned in and helped guide the wiping around his eyes. Rich squeezed Will’s shoulder, No, and it didn’t start out as such a rule-y sort of day either, he said.
General Mayhem had produced a deck of cards and he and Nun of the Above had started a card game while the seating was being sorted out. Nun of the Above placed a card and General Mayhem collapsed his hand and re-spread it. I’ll match your wode and add two fools, He plucked two cards from the fan of cards and snapped them onto the table.
Is your stake high fools or low? Nun of the Above asked and General Mayhem snickered, As if you could tell the difference, a grin puckered beneath his mustache.
Nun of the Above sighed, So this is how it will go? That you’d rather be clever than helpful?
As if you could tell the difference, General Mayhem rushed out the words, chortling, then he began to cough. His face reddened and his eyes drew into a squint, but even as he was tearing up and struggling for breath, he was swiveling and craning, surveying the table to see who had followed the exchange.
Crowd in, crowd in please. Squeeze together so we can fit. It was Marshall Law’s turn to Chair and he was doing what he could, but it was clear that no amount of squeezing was going to help. Not when Church had sent both Nun of the Above and Father Cal Endder, and Force had sent the trifecta of General Mayhem, Office Sir and Private Affares, and with the straggle of late-comers still pushing through the door. It was another reminder that it had become a time of careless multiplying, when even the trifles seemed to be of such consequence that careless multiplying was thought to be a virtue. And that was confusing also, since they could all remember the years when a corner booth and smallish scrum of chairs would have done for their meeting.
Sitting is bad, but standing is even worse, Wiccan Doit groaned.
Truly! And especially now when so many are come to the age when infirmity clouds the doing. Come sit with me, I don’t mind sharing, Nun of the Above scooched to the side of her chair.
And come to the age when so much remains to be done! Miss Wording and Les Ismore chimed the response together, the chorus of their voices swelling it into a forceful refrain.
I’d make an honest wager that this crowding is meant to be an insult, General Mathew showed his wallet but didn’t take out any bills. It’s completely unnecessary, just look at the room. And mark this as well, soon enough we’ll be told we’re expected to beg for food if any is to be served, General Mayhem stood and pocketed his wallet. You there! A word! He moved to buttonhole the Maitre’d. The General leaned in and pointed, tapping the Maitre’d on the lapel, then he leaned away and poked him again as he pressed his case.
The whole time he was listening the Maitre’d was shaking his head. He ran his hand through his thinning hair. I’m sorry, Sir, but the kitchen is closed, he said.
Say what?! No, that’s buggery! Look here! This plaque states the restaurant opens at 7 in the morning and stays open until 9 at night, daily and without exception. And no doubt that’s your signature there, humped across the bottom attesting to it all. The General leaned toward the plaque and read out, Reynaldo Reynaldo Raynaud.
Reynaldo Rene Ramundo! The Maitre’d bowed. He was beaming. And the matter is exactly as you state. The restaurant does and it would, and how marvelously you reason from there to your point! The restaurant hours are what is posted and with a reservation I could seat you, but the restaurant would still be closed. Please understand that your disappointment is shared. But the deliveries for today were not what we ordered, so even as you would sit and ask for this or that, point all up and down the menu, declaim and insist, I’ve chosen, so bring me my food, at last you would be forced to admit what your senses had already confirmed, that although the restaurant seemed open, it still was not.
Again with your horse-plucky! You serve words over words but nothing of any substance!
Sir! I must disagree. I believe that words matter greatly, the Maitre’d looked offended.
Again, more of your nonsense!
A point of order!
Miss Wording! Stand please and state your point of order? Marshall Law rapped his gavel.
My order would be the ribeye steak, or the haddock. I’m so blasted hungry I could be charmed by a bowl of Cheerios, General Mayhem shouldered his way back into his seat.
I am standing.
I am too, but I’d gladly trade it for a seat—anyone, please? Wiccan Doit said.
Marshall Law rapped again, Miss Wording?! He frowned and looked in the direction of her voice. He was feeling annoyed, it was well past time for a change in their leadership. But who should be next? Bam Boozle? Curt Response? Not likely, either of those two. Nun of the Above was the logical candidate but there were her issues with General Mayhem. Would the cohesion of the group hold? Will Waite? Maybe, but things would be different.
It’s now afternoon and we’ve done nothing of the morning’s agenda, Miss Wording’s voice swam over to Marshall Law from behind backs and heads.
I rise to object, Office Sir said, I hear neither point nor order in what she says. Office Sir shifted in his seat and looked as if he might actually stand, but instead he just smiled and waited for Marshall Law to rule.
I’d order the parmesan fries and the garlic knots, or even better—a plate of crudités or hors d’oeuvres, something that could be brought with little fuss and less preparation, how could anyone object to that? General Mayhem continued to grumble.
Is it afternoon already? How do you know that? Nun of the Above scanned the room and then concentrated her gaze on Miss Wording before seeming to lose interest. She began to peel her orange.
The objection is sustained and the point of order is denied, Marshall Law said.
But—
And that’s for the best, I believe, Father Cal Ennder nodded, As a practical matter, our understanding improves when we separate what’s true but trivial from what’s essential. The kernel from nugget, the drib from the drab. So much of what we believe is real is just illusion, the ephemera—the appearances we accept at birth—in all the ways we dress our days as morning, noon and night, each parceled and distinct rather than a seamless whole, and all in service to the terminal sentence that the illusion disguises.
Well thank goodness for that, General Mayhem broke the silence that followed. He mimicked Father Cal Endder’s cadence. So it’s just that my breakfast, lunch and dinner only appear different and not the same, which of course they are when bupkis is all that’s on the menu.
You mistake my point.
And you mistake mine with your genuflexitive mumbo-jumbo. What I’m talking about is the here and now, what’s right before us in this moment—which is nothing.
And I agree.
You don’t. You couldn’t. Because if you did, you’d also be thumping the table and summoning the Maitre’d. You’d be with me shoulder to shoulder pressing the case for change, and there’d be none of your praise the Lord and pass the butter, because plainly there’s not even the slightest pat of butter to be passed.
And no Lord to be praised?
I didn’t say that.
Mostly because you hadn’t gotten to it yet, I would guess, Nun of the Above said. You can shout at the clock all you want but it won’t change the time.
Which means what?
That you might consider more closely before you convey. The time will pass no matter what, but the difference could be eternity.
Oh isn’t that a cheery thought?! Puts the sparkles in my bubbly so to speak, but then I haven’t got any bubbly, have I? No glass, no bubbles, no water, no wine, and not a shred of hope for any as far as I can tell. And if something doesn’t change soon, we’ll all die from the lack, turned away like refugees and just a stone’s throw from an overflowing larder. But I won’t go quietly. I won’t, and does anyone here have enough gumption to join me no matter how many times we’re denied?
To the barricades then over lunch? Are you really that hungry? And your plan is to command a solution?
Is yours to pray for one? You are a creature of habit.
The only lasting peace is the peace we make with our illusions, a first step on the journey to wisdom. It’s in that moment that we finally begin to wash away the limits of our condition, Father Cal Endder began.
My faith is never a burden, Nun of the Above interrupted, Stitching epaulets to your shoulder doesn’t make you a General any more than fashioning a crown would make you a King.
Or wearing a wimple makes you a nun.
Appearances are the most powerful of our distractions, Father Cal Endder continued, What we believe we see in a General or a King, an Abbess, or a Commoner. All the distinctions we create to cloak true seeing of the world. HIs cadence had the rhythm of a wave, the phrases rising to a crest before breaking and spreading on the sand.
All I truly see is that it’s already afternoon and we still haven’t had any food.
Is that all you ever think about?
When I’m hungry, yes! I wasn’t trained in ignorance. My training was to lead with what I feel and right now, I’m feeling hungry. But if I press that point I’m told that I might as well go and fry ice.
Do you hear the turn in what you just said? Wouldn’t ice frying would be movement in the desired direction, Father Cal Endder said.
Oh, please.
I’d be happy to make a try at shaking things up Sir. Private Affares pushed up from the table and General Mayhem stood with him. The Maitre’d had left, but a white-jacketed waiter was polishing silverware and folding it into napkins for place settings. Excuse me? Private Affares approached him, I’d like to speak with the Maitre’d.
I’m sorry Sir, but today is a day off for him so he isn’t here. Is there something I can help you with? The waiter’s hair fell in an unruly sweep all around his head and he held it away from his face while he spoke. His English was flecked with the caricature of an accent, like the English spoken by a foreign character in a B-movie.
Again with your nonsense! I spoke with the man barely minutes ago in this very spot, General Mayhem shouldered to the front of Private Affares.
Perhaps so, but today remains his off day and he is not here. Is there something I can help you with?
We wanted to ask again about food!
Of course. Are you ready to order?
Now we’re getting somewhere, General Mayhem put a hand on Private Affares’ shoulder. First I’ll have a Cobb salad—no wait, even better! Bring Cobb salad, family style for the table, but no onions and dressing on the side. Bring bread as well, and then for me a ribeye steak, medium rare, with roasted potatoes. Did you get all that? Now go around and ask the others what they want.
I’m sorry Sir, but steak was on the menu for yesterday but not today.
What?!!
What’s on the menu for today? Private Affares asked.
I would have to ask.
You’d have to ask? General Mayhem drew himself to his full height and glowered at the waiter. That’s all very well for you, I suppose. You’re young and freshly pressed and it’s easy to be sanguine when you’re like that. But how do you think that sanguine will feel a few years from now when you’re more like me?
I’m sorry Sir, but it can’t be helped. There was a problem with the deliveries today and all morning in the kitchen, they were working to sort it out.
A problem, blah, blah, blah, with the trucks, blah. And all morning they were hoping to sort it out. But we can’t eat hope, son, no one can, not even you.
We can go together to check, if you like, the waiter offered, perhaps by now it’s fixed. Which was how General Mayhem and Private Affares came to have a tour of the kitchen.
I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m not optimistic, General Mayhem announced when he and Private Affares rejoined the others. He settled heavily into his seat.
Why not? What did you see? Wiccan Doit asked.
There was bisque on the stove, but the saucier said it was for Friday and not today.
It was quite tasty actually, Private Affares said.
You ate?!
A bowl, yes, we both did, General Mayhem nodded. And some lamb with collards and a slice of soda bread. The lamb was just barely cooked though, but again it isn’t needed until later in the week.
And yet you managed to masticate and swallow, Nun of the Above observed.
By way of understanding, yes. I’d been told there was a problem and I needed to form my own personal judgment about the explanation. I would have been derelict in my duty not to secure an understanding of how there’s bullocks on the menu for starters and only apologies for the rest.
But we can’t eat explanations now, can we? No one can, except you apparently.
General Mayhem scowled, Why do you come here if you’re just going to be like that?
Why do you? Nun of the Above matched his tone.
Not for the cards, certainly.
We come for the cause, for the work that needs doing! That was Miss Wording and Les Ismore again as a chorus.
And not for the camaraderie either, General Mayhem muttered.
A point of order? Miss Wordings’ voice wobbled out.
Office Sir? Marshall Law didn’t even bother to recognize Miss Wording.
I can hear no point nor order in what she says.
Sustained!
But I—Miss Wording began but this time she was interrupted by Private Affares, I did find a copy of the menu for today, He rattled the paper he was holding.
Let me see that, Office Sir snatched it from him. He held it at arm’s length then turned it over and looked at the back before placing it front side up on the table.
But this appears to be in a foreign language, can that be right? Wiccan Doit was leaning over Office Sir and looking at the menu. I believe it’s in Hungarian, She looked up at the waiter.
The waiter beamed. He was rocking from foot to foot, Just so, Madam’s power of observation is superb. Today was to be a Hungarian Day.
Hungarian? Like Goulash? General Mayhem asked.
Sir! Hungarian cuisine is much more than goulash.
Little more than gibberish I expect, given what there’s been so far. That seems to be mostly what you serve.
One of these entrees is an anagram of Tuna Tartare. See? I work it out like this! Wiccan Doit was scribbling on the menu. There! See, is that right? She looked up at the waiter.
I’m sorry Madam, I can’t say. Only the Maitre’d speaks Hungarian.
Wait! This one is an anagram also—it’s Beef Hearts with Rabe!
A menu of anagrams?! Who would do that?
No one did, the Waiter looked visibly upset, I can assure you.
And this one is Cornfed Wizard!
Cornbread Wizard probably, check your work.
Who would feed corn to a wizard?
No one did. There is no corn and no wizard, the waiter had twisted the napkin he was holding into a corkscrew.
We’ll take one of everything then. It will either work out or it won’t, General Mayhem said, That is if your wizard can be bothered to cook for us. Or if the trucks brought any Hungarian ingredients today.
So you do understand.
So I don’t understand! You say that today is Hungarian day but the deliveries mucked up and there isn’t any Hungarian food. So what about yesterday?
Yesterday was our buffet, all you can eat, the waiter was smiling again.
Just my luck. And tomorrow?
Tomorrow is fresh and local. Whatever the trucks will bring.
So the only problem is with today.
With the illusion we call today, Father Cal Endder began.
As you understand, the waiter nodded.
As I don’t understand. I understand nothing except that we’re more likely to starve than be brought anything to eat.
Well thank goodness then that you ate already, Nun of the Above said.
But I’m still hungry, thank you! Why is it that people like you are always so happy to go without?
Preparation.
Meaning you have an orange.
Which I’m happy to share.
I detest oranges.
Wait, wait. Couldn’t we just approach the waiter again? It seemed for a minute that we were making progress.
Cups over! That’s all that’s left to do, everyone turn over your cup.
What good will that do?
Turning over is the international symbol for distress. Even a place as backwards as thi should understand that.
I don’t see how turning our cups over helps anything.
What about the salt and pepper shakers?
Salt and pepper shakers as well. Over! Everything over, make the waiter understand that enough is enough.
I see no benefit to pressing our case with the waiter. We must have the Maitre’d.
I agree!
I believe the waiter and the Maitre’d are one and the same, you don’t see the resemblance?
Seriously? Could you truly look just once instead of these glasses-off glances followed by pronouncements? The body types are completely different, their heights, the hair, the clothes, nothing about them is the same.
A wig is easy enough managed, and a change of clothes, a stuffed suit.
And it’s from illusions such as these that we shatter the world. The stories we create and then share and share again. Making culture. And civilization. But pierce the veil and it’s all artifice. Exhaustion in pursuit of fantasy, and fantasy in pursuit of persuasion about what’s real or what’s not.
I’m sorry, but I must ask this group to leave, The Maitre’d was standing next to Marshall Law.
Not yet, our reservation included food. We haven’t eaten.
I must insist. You’re disruptive, there’s salt and pepper all over the table and cups that can’t be filled. I must consider the welfare of the other guests and the ability of our staff to serve.
There are no other guests!
And nothing has been served!
The Maitre’d shrugged, As you wish to believe, but you still must go.
We’ve done nothing wrong, Marshall Law argued. But there was no persuading the Maitre’d. So eventually they stood and sorted out their coats. They filed past the Maitre’d and out the door.
Are you satisfied now? Nun of the Above asked.
Are you? General Mayhem said.
The Maitre’d changed the sign on the door to Closed when the last one was out. The evening air was wet with fog and each streetlight could barely manage a narrow cone of light in the gathering darkness. Only the vestigial outline of the Liminal Street Bridge was visible in the scumble of mist that lifted off the river. In the corner of the parking lot, an ancient sedan was up on blocks with it’s hood open. Nun of the Above moved off from the group and stepped toward the sedan. She seemed to be listening, but there was no sound to be heard, not from the sedan or from the hawk perched on the overhead line above it. The hawk was motionless except for the pivot of it’s head as it waited, its senses gathered and focused, alert for prey—for a cardinal at the least, but hoping against hope for something more and of much greater sustenance.
*A Flash of Lightning in a Summer Cloud
“This is how to contemplate our conditioned existence in this fleeting world:
Like a tiny drop of dew, or a bubble floating in a stream;
Like a flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
Or a flickering lamp, an illusion, a phantom, or a dream.
So is all conditioned existence to be seen.”
― The Buddha – The Diamond Sutra
* * “The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh. Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. Let us not speak well of it either. Let us not speak of it at all. It is true the population has increased.” (Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett.)
About the Author
Ric Nudell lives in rural western Massachusetts (United States) with his wife, two dogs and cat. He was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota in 1951. In addition to writing fiction, he is a musician and a runner, and recently completed his 10th marathon. When not writing or running, he can be found in the garden, in the kitchen baking, or out cutting and splitting firewood for the winter.
