Alex?? Is That You??

Foreword: It's been a while since I posted a story here at Lit. Going back to last spring, when I posted my previous story. My idea was to start a new series, which I did. But after posting the first chapter in the series. Shit happened, and I spent some time in the body and fender shop, followed by more time in rehab with the angels who the Marquis de Sade had personally trained, aka physical therapy.

This new story follows a familiar path, a soft romance that wanders here and there, and in some places, it gets spicey. Since I lived for years in New Orleans and know and love the city, the story will stumble along some of the back streets and neighborhoods of the city as well as other places outside the city. As the old saying goes -- Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler.

Needless to say, but I will say it for the Mods and Demi-Gods of Lit, all the players in the story are past the age of consent. Of course, the question remains. Do they know what they are consenting to? This being Lit, the folks who take their time to write the stories here are not professional writers.

So sure, there will be errors in the course of writing a story. If those errors stir the inner grammar nazi in you and you feel the need to comment, remember this. An old wise man once said. Fold it five ways and put it where the sun doesn't shine. If you want to make a concrete contribution however, reach out to the author and offer your assistance and knowledge.

I hope you enjoy this romp.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amazingly, I was able to get out of work before midnight on a Saturday night as, once again, I muttered to myself about the joys of being a chef. But on the upside, getting out early meant I could stop at my favorite watering hole near my house in the Bayou St John neighborhood of New Orleans. This neighborhood has a comfortable, homey vibe, unlike some of the uptown neighborhoods that are very posh. This part of the town is home to many people who work in restaurants, hotels, and other lines that make New Orleans the city it is.

Who knows, I halfway mumbled to myself, maybe I might get lucky tonight and run into a babe who was desperate and horney. Really, I knew that wasn't in the cards. This place was the neighborhood clubhouse where we all knew each other. This wasn't the place where the hotties and studs all hung out flashing bling and trash. Besides, I was too tired to play the pick-up games. So, I'll happily sit here and enjoy the ebb and flow of my neighbors while my next-door neighbor makes sure my glass is never empty. I knew that I should be doing backflips in my mind, knowing I was off tomorrow. But that meant I had to do the unusual collection of household shit, like laundry. Maybe, if I had a girlfriend, she'd do that.

"Alex Chalmers? Is that you? Really? What are you doing here?" A woman with a strong New York accent grabbed ahold of my limited attention. "For damn, sure, some things never change. You still reek of garlic and onions, so I know you are banging pots and making smoke. Anyway, what the hell are you doing here? You said that beater of an old car, and you were headed to Long Beach. And that was like ages ago."

Looking up, I recognized the face with the vaguely familiar voice. Sallyann Malgeri a good Italian girl from somewhere out on the island. Hearing that famous accent along with her sassy attitude, Humphery Bogart's voice rolled through my head as I thought of all the bars in the city. She had to walk into my watering hole.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Recalling the first time I met Sallyann. I had been living in the basement of an apartment building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Those of us who lived down there called ourselves 'cellar rats.' We lived in the basement of a slightly fashionable pre-war high-rise apartment building. Collectively, our part of the building was called "The Colony,' for damm sure all of us who lived down here had big dreams of moving to one of the upper floors. The owner of the building had gotten a case of the brights a while back when he figured out how to convert storage lockers that were set up for the building's tenants into rentable space. Doing that gave him around forty more paying tenants in the building. These new apartments were around three hundred or so square feet. Hell, if you turned around too fast, you'd give yourself a black eye. The advantage was that they were cheap, or at least cheap by New York standards. After I graduated from chef's school and landed my dream job working in a four-star restaurant in the City, I moved into The Colony. Someone was always bitching about the place and making noise about calling code enforcement to do something. But nothing ever came of that.

People were always moving in and out. Most of the folks who lived down here were involved in the theater or television production in one of the jobs it takes to put a show on. A few of the other folks were students at one or another school scattered around Manhattan. And several others had get-by jobs like I did. The funny thing was I was one of the few cellar rats who actually cooked in my apartment. But that was to be expected. I'm a cook.

There was a clique who ran the place, or at least thought they did. Collectively, they were called the BTC, which stood for Big Tits Club. There were six or so girls and their boyfriends who knew they were it, or at least that's what they thought. For sure, all the girls were heavily overendowed with at least a D, if not double D's tits. One of my neighbors commented you could always tell when they were coming down the hall. Their tits got there ten minutes before they did, but unfortunately, they never brought their brains with them.

The guy who had the apartment across the hall from me landed a real job somewhere over in Jersey, so he moved out at the beginning of August. By Labor Day, a new tenant was moving in. Mom and Dad, with their precious daughter, came down the hall, followed by three fairly husky men. Dad looked pissed as he chomped on the cigar that was screwed into his face. The mom and the little princess were like two birds delightfully talking with each other. The other men were standing around as they carefully looked the place over. Dad nodded at the trio, and they went out, got the princess' stuff, and brought it all in. With that, they all left to get the princess settled, and the newest member of our social club disappeared behind the closed door to her apartment.

It didn't take long for the BTC to pass judgment on the newest colonist from the info that they had gleaned from their usual unimpeachable sources. Turns out she was going to some school to learn about set design for the theater and television. And that she was some kinda princess who thought her shit didn't stink. Her folks lived out on the island. Her mom was a mousey housewife, and her dad was a consultant of some kind working with construction companies. In the opinion of the BTC, this little bitch would turn tail and run by the holidays, if not sooner.

Now and then, when I had two days off together, I'd invite people I knew from the colony to stop by. I fixed something for everybody to have a bite. I thought that was kinda the neighborly thing to do. Somehow, the BTC didn't get the word about these get-togethers. Usually, one or two or three folks would bring a bottle of wine or beer. I made a point to ask the new girl across the hall to join us, especially since the hall outside of our apartments would be filled with people. When I asked her, her face exploded into the warmest smile I had ever seen as she told me hell, YES! I guessed that I was the first person who had spoken to her.

After the 'gathering,' whenever my new neighbor would run into me in the building or the neighborhood, we often got into a conversation about what we were doing. One Fall morning, I ran into her outside on the street, and it turned out we were both headed to one of the neighborhood bodegas. When we got there, we both ordered the same thing. A large coffee regular and a Danish. The typical breakfast for a New Yorker. This girl was irrepressible. The BTC was doing their best to stir up all kinds shit about her, and along the way, they were pulling me into their little shitstorm. Thankfully, everybody in the building knew what a collection of assfarts they were.

Three blocks over from the apartment building was one of the city's more famous 'gentlemen's clubs.' The rumors about the place flew around like tips at the track. There was one more or less common thread to all the rumors. The club had some ties back to 'the boys.' For sure, no one ever got out of control there. The word was that it wasn't good for your health to act like an asshole there.

On the last Wednesday night of the month, the club staged what was called an 'amateur night.' Any girl who wanted to get up on stage and dance could. The winner would get a prize. The rule of thumb was that it took skin to win. The BTC were regular attendees at the monthly dance contest and loved showing all the skin they had.

Just before Halloween, the club had its monthly contest. Of course, the BTC went around and made sure everyone knew about their appearance at the club. The contest winner was determined by how loudly and generously folks in the audience supported the dancer. When one or another member of the BTC was on stage, their boyfriends were exceptionally loud in supporting their girls. And they also encouraged the people in the audience to cheer them on and toss a couple of bucks on stage, too. One of the club employees told the BTC's boyfriends to sit back down and enjoy the show. The boyfriends took exception to being told what to do, which resulted in some heated words being exchanged. When they got outside, one of the club employees met the group on the street and firmly told them that they were not welcome to come back. That got the group pissed off, so one of the guys took a wild swing at the club employee. That effort was blocked as the employee quickly put the boy on the ground. Before the rest of the boyfriends could move to their friend's aid, two other club employees joined in. Within a few short minutes, all of the boys were lying in a pile on the ground. A couple of the girls had tried to step into the fight, but they were easily tossed aside. And they joined their boyfriends on the ground, too.

Word of this encounter quickly spread around our little community. Members of the BTC weren't seen for almost a week, which got everyone laughing. When they finally surfaced, they kept to themselves. One or another, wit commented that the atmosphere down here was a lot better now. For certain, my neighbor and I agreed with that opinion.

With the holidays rapidly approaching, I was putting in tons of overtime at the restaurant. I was either working or sleeping. Once in a while, I ran into my neighbor, whose name I had learned was Sallyann. I said that we would hook up and do something after the holidays when I had some time to call my soul my own. While she seemed to like the idea of us getting together, the problem was her school would kick back in after the holidays.

Finally, the holidays came and went, which meant a bit of order had begun to return to my life. My best friend from Chef's school left a message for me on the alumni board. When I called him, he immediately launched into trying to convince me to move out to Long Beach, California. At first, he wasn't making a lot of headway. Then he told me what kind of money I would make there. That got my attention. I thought about it. I had my year-end bonus money that I could use to buy a beater that would get me there. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this was a real opportunity I couldn't afford to turn down.

Two weeks later, I got all my stuff together and was packing my 'new' car when Sallyann ran into me in the hall of our apartment. We spoke very briefly. Then we kissed each other. What I thought was going to be a sweet goodbye kiss became the most soul-shattering kiss I had ever had. After that kiss, Sallyann ran into her apartment and closed the door. I finished getting everything in the car and headed out. By the time I had gotten on the Jersey Turnpike, I had a massive hard-on as my mind ran over what had just happened. Then it hit me. I had no way to contact Sallyann. Maybe that was for the best.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Then, the lights came on in my brain. Holy Mother of God, it's her. It's the long lost Sallyann. "Sallyann? Right? This isn't the Upper West Side. What are you, lost or something?" That question earned me an arched eyebrow.

My question was answered with a question from her as she dragged an empty barstool over to where I was camped out. "So, like, Alex. What are you doing here, and why aren't you soaking up the sun on some beach in SoCal like you said was your plan?"

Her comment about me and the beaches of southern California reminded me of my big plans to become a champion surfer and the chef who changed the restaurant world. Yeah right. "It's a long, twisted tale. You got the time, or is this one of your touch-and-go chance encounters?"

"Alex, you are the same, ain't nothing changed. You are still such a charming wordsmith. Yeah, I got the time if you're buying."

I looked around and caught the eye of the friendly bartender, who also happened to be a neighbor. "George, give this lovely lady here a drink. Use the bar brands, not any of the good stuff. Besides, she wouldn't know the difference." That earned a chuckle from George as he made my old friend the same thing I was drinking, a Southern Comfort Old Fashioned.

As George put her drink down in front of her, I asked something of a rhetorical question. "I guess our last time together was when I was headed out on my great odyssey, and you were standing in the hall as I left. That sounds about right to you?" My question with the slightest nod of her head. "Anyway, I headed south, and eventually, I found the Skyline Drive, which runs into the Blue Ridge Parkway. These two roads run through the Appalachian Mountains. I tell ya, Sallyann, going down those roads is something ya gotta do. Really, they are worth the drive."

"After that tour, I wandered across Tennessee and the Smokey Mountains. Then I hit Arkansas and found the Ozarks, which took me to Oklahoma. After leaving the mountains, I went across the panhandle and the high plains and hit New Mexico and Arizona. If you're getting the idea I was taking the long way around, you're right. This was the first chance for me to get out and see our country. I had four weeks before I needed to be in Long Beach, so I took my time wandering. So long as I was going west, it was all good. If anyone tried to follow my route, they'd see I was like a leaf floating in the wind."

"I guess you could say that fate directed me to The City of Lost Wages, aka Sin City or Las Vegas. For sure, going there was way off a direct route to where I was supposed to be going. Maybe it was good luck. Because when I got to town, my car started making noises, telling me it was time to take it to the scrap yard. I found a no-tell motel that looked like the roaches wouldn't carry the place away. After that, I fell into bed for the night and got some solid sleep."

"The first thing the next morning, I went to the Union Hall, hoping they might be able to help a brother get something going. When I got there, I showed the guy at the front desk my union card from New York and started to tell him my story. He looked up, then put his hand up like a traffic cop. He told me to take a seat and that someone would call me. It took like what I thought was forever. But eventually, someone who I immediately recognized as a union rep came out and called my name."

"I followed him back to where his desk was. As I sat down, the rep told me that he had called my old local in the City, and someone there told him that I was not only a 'stand-up guy, but that I had real chops.' Sallyann, that amazed me. Having someone from my old local say that I was both a stand-up guy and that I had real chops was a golden reference. But I had to wonder how I got a reputation as a stand-up guy. Yeah, sure, I'd go out of my way to help the guys that owned the restaurants I had worked at. But to me, that was only common sense. You take care of your boss, and your boss takes care of you. That's the way it works anywhere. Like, one time, I heard my boss and the kitchen manager talking about the shitty quality produce we kept getting from a supplier. So, I happened to mention their comments to the driver for the produce company. Funny thing, we started getting better quality produce. Did I have to do this? Nope. But I did. There was nothing wrong with what I did. Another time, a driver told me that, as likely as not, there was going to be a price increase and maybe we should stock up. We did and saved a few bucks. The owner came over and thanked me for watching out for him and the restaurant. Maybe I'm naïve, but ya gotta watch your boss's back, and he will watch yours too. So? You tell me you, Miss Lady, you have been around. What do you think? Am I a stand-up guy?"

"Alex, stop a minute. You know who my family is, right?" Her question got a chuckle from me as I recalled the good folks in the BTC. "The people in my family know a lot of people. They have a lot of friends. And their friends have friends. Capisce? Along the way, you helped people when you didn't have to. Those people remember favors. So, don't ask stupid questions."

Wow, she turned on a light in the back of my head. Yeah, I kinda get it. "Anyway, the union rep tells me there's an opening for an overnight pastry chef, but the problem with the job was it was Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights going into the next mornings. I'd be working twelve hour shifts. But I was guaranteed a full forty hour check. And since I would be working the overnight shift, I would get a ten percent shift differential. My first ten hours of overtime would be time and a half. Anything over fifty hours was double time. And if I worked as a casual part-time employee anywhere in town, I would get OT."

"I told the rep I could do the job. Hell, if you stop by early some morning, I'll get you something fresh from the oven. That got a laugh from him."

"He went on to ask where I was staying. I told him the name of the no-tell motel I was staying at. That earned a grunt of acknowledgment from him. Then he admitted he knew of the place. Next, he asked about my car, which I admitted was on its deathbed on its way to the scrap yard. The rep smiled as he nodded."

"With all that. He reached over, grabbed his phone, and made a couple of calls. On the first call, he spoke with someone in a Spanish dialect. The call got a little loud, but in the end, he smiled and said something like, gracias mi amigo. The next call was very friendly. He told whoever he was talking to where my car was and that I needed it back in the morning."

"With that, he leaned back in his chair and smiled. OK, Alex. Here's the deal. You'll start Thursday night at the Lodge Hotel, it's just off the strip down from the Trop. We gunna swing by there in a few minutes. I'll introduce you to the Exec Chef. Next, we'll go to your no-tell motel and get your stuff outa there. By that time, my brother-in-law will be there with a tow truck to take your car to his shop. His shop is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Your car will be ready for you in the morning for you. Then we'll go to your new apartment. Look, they didn't have a one-bedroom apartment, so they are giving you a two-bedroom place for the price of a one-bedroom. The place is fully furnished; all you need to do is bring your clothes and whatever else you have. You'll be set. OH!!! A lot of folks who work on the strip live there. You'll meet good people."

"Well, Sallyann, I've been with the Lodge Hotels chain for ten years now. I started in Vegas, then got transferred to Chicago to run the banquet kitchen. Then Dallas, with side trips to Houston and Austin. Oh, St. Louie, too. Along the way, I learned about each and every position in the kitchen. I didn't miss a lick. When I came here to New Orleans three years ago, I was given the responsibility of running the kitchen in the evening. I have a talented team that makes miracles look routine. The kitchen is set up like a company in the Army. The Executive Chef is in charge and runs the show. Next in line is the Sous Chef de Cuisine. He's the Chef's primary assistant, his right-hand man, and runs the kitchen on the day shift. Next comes me, the Sous Chef. I'm in charge of the kitchen at night. Depending on what's going on, I get in anywhere from noon to maybe as late as three in the afternoon. If I am extremely lucky, like I was tonight, I get around eleven or so. Most nights, it's well past midnight before I get out."