The Vice of Self by Robert J Brunet (each kindness read aloud txt) 📖

away the doubts from the night before.
Luck must have been shining on me as well because Jack did not say anything about my lapse of judgment when he told me the waiter that was scheduled to train me called out and if I worked the party I would get a cut of the tips at the end of the day.
After finishing the setup, myself and the other servers walked to the alleyway between the restaurants dish room and the furniture store next door to steal a cigarette. I don’t smoke but I appreciated the opportunity to talk to people who did not believe in suffering a person for their past, and I enjoyed the excuse to watch the people walk up and down Royal Street in their hurried way, from store to store, as though the urgency of those actions were giving meaning to their lives.
We laughed about nothing, until a large tour bus pulled up, shaking the plaster off the brick walls of the building. Everyone turned and went back through the kitchen taking our positions like little soldiers of service waiting to fulfill the fantasy of bustling waiters from a bygone era to people who were more concerned with the distance to the casino and what cocktail we were famous for than the significance of where they were.
While people found their seats, cooks in their starched white chef jackets brought out chafing dishes of jambalaya and bread pudding, and I lined up with the other servers at the bar to fill my tray with Mimosa’s and Brandy Milk Punch’s that were freely distributed to the guests. That was when I heard a voice behind me that sent a shiver through my arms and I had to place the tray down to avoid spilling the libations.
“Hello Lee.”
It was Chloe, her red hair pulled back into a tight knot, fiery green eyes flashing behind her glasses. She stood taller than me even when she wasn’t wearing heels and was dressed smartly in a finely tailored pantsuit. It was her tour company that we were serving today and it was obvious that she was doing very well with it.
We had lived together for five years until she made me move into that boarding house on Decatur Street. I took a deep breath and fought the urge to throw a drink in her face, smiling at her crooked lipstick instead, and allowed her to take the first jab.
“I didn’t know you were back in town, playing in restaurants once more. Trying to kill yourself again?”
I asked one of the waiters to cover for me so she and I could walk to a back corner of the patio and talk. I leaned against the cold brick wall trying to appear casual when she began her barrage.
“What the hell are you doing here? The last time I saw you was in a bed, dying in a backwoods hospital so small they had to fly in a specialist from another state to keep you alive.”
“You came to see me?”
“They called me to sit by your side in case you died. I told them I wouldn’t have anything to do with you, but when the doctor told me – God help me, I jumped into my car and drove straight there.”
Her voice choked, echoing on the crumbling brick, and mascara filled tears pulled themselves down her cheeks in little black rivers flowing from eyes that were pools of anguish. I gave her the white linen napkin in my hand and stared at a small lizard as it climbed up the moist vines to the broken glass cemented to the top of the wall.
She wiped her smeared eyes and before I could say how sorry I was, she started again.
“I guess you should be thankful you were in the bathroom making love to a needle instead of me, otherwise no one would have come to your rescue. You would have died in that bed if I hadn’t paid them to bring you to a decent clinic you know. I could have left you there, you should have stayed there.”
One of the waiters came up, tapping me on the shoulder, and I pointed to the people who were lining up for the buffet. She stood in front of me like she was waiting for an answer, but when I didn’t give her one; she threw the white cloth on the ground and pushed past me, marching out the door.

I was relieved when I got home to find an empty house and a note from Frank on the table explaining that Marie’s daughter would not be able to join us for the evening and it was better if the two of them spent time together alone. I was not in the mood to pretend that I understood how to bowl or that I was interested in other people tonight.
I opened some wine and sat on the front porch, listening to an old jazz cd I picked up in the French Market on the way home, and tried to figure out my next move. I felt I would never pull free of the quagmire of errors that my world was built on and I wondered what price I would have to pay to enjoy a future in this city again. Maybe it was not possible to go back to a place that was filled with your own past, or around people who think you have to earn the right for good things to happen to you.
I let these thoughts bounce around my head and fell into the music when I saw Frank jump out of a small car that pulled up in front of the house. He stood on the sidewalk and beckoned me to join him. I finished my glass of red wine and walked down to the street where two women sat in the car with the windows rolled down.
As I stepped through the squeaky front gate the woman from the driver’s seat got out and came around with her hand extended towards me. She was tall with dark hair, her eyes the color of wet pavement after a thunderstorm and I could see the edges of a tattoo peeking from under the sleeve of her shirt. Her pale skin reminded me of someone malnourished for a juicy steak and she spoke in that affable way that irritates me when people are from a small town where everyone is familiar.
“Hello Lee, I’m Maria’s daughter, Marla.”
I shook her hand, and then Frank introduced me to Maria who remained seated in the car until he opened the door for her to step out. Frank was a nervous schoolboy and his voice cracked when he invited them in for a drink.
“Why don’t you ladies come inside for a quick nightcap? I have a fresh bottle of whiskey waiting to be turned into a Sazerac right now.”
I fell in line behind them and asked him about the note. He told me Marla had shown up at the bowling alley without explanation and he apologized for not calling me to ask if I wanted to join them. I wondered how he managed the ride home, the three of them in that tiny vehicle, but the sparkle in his eyes, the way he fawned over Marie, told me his feelings for her were greater than his irrational fears.
Inside the house Marla and Marie sat on the old leather couch while I stood near the window pretending to select another cd, but I was really looking out the corner of my eye at Marla and the tattoo that was now fully visible on her arm. She caught me watching her and met my gaze but I was too embarrassed to ask her about the design and only smiled back at her.
After much clinking of bottles, Frank returned from the kitchen with a small bar tray that was carefully balanced on the tips of his fingers with four ruby colored cocktails, the little lemon twists floating alone in the center of the iceless beverage. We sat there discussing the history of the drinks and my selection of music, the mother and daughter laughing at how poorly they had bowled, and Marla and I exchanging quick glances over the curved rim of the glasses.
The drinks were finished and Frank stood up offering a second round which was pleasantly turned down by everyone in the room. Goodnights were passed around and as they walked out the door I felt I had missed something critical in the exchanges of the night but I did not know what it could be.

It’s that tip of the tongue experience that only resolves itself at three in the morning when you recall something you never got around to doing, the answer to a question you forgot, a comeback you should have used.
Marla. She was the girl from the barroom last year. I sat up in the bed thinking about the way she had stared at me while talking about gutter balls and saxophones. She wasn’t flirting; she was waiting for me to remember her face.
I rolled around in the bed for hours trying to find a cool spot between the sheets but the confusion of feelings that were fighting for attention behind my eyelids kept me awake. Unable to relax I went into the living room and bathed myself in the grey light of television until the morning sun reached into the windows reminding me that I had another day to get through.
It was early Sunday morning and the only people moving in the Quarter were trying to hide from the rising sun and a few artists setting up for a day of tourist trade and painting. It had been a long time since I worked a Jazz brunch and the blaring trumpet and electric guitar that mocked the memory of Dixieland were no help in stopping my inner dialogue.
I wanted to blame life for putting up these roadblocks to moving forward, but it was the unsettled business from my own past that kept pulling me back.
After making a pass through the dining room, refilling the champagne glasses, I stood by the waiter’s station and watched the line of diners return to the buffet for their second, third and fifth serving. I wondered how they could get up over and over again, choosing the same crap and walk away happy, only to return for more when I realized my own life was very much the same thing.
I took a break and went to the back patio where Chloe and I stood arguing the previous day, calling Frank from the pay phone, and asked him for Marie’s number so I could speak with Marla.
“Okay kid, I didn’t think you guys had hit if off that well last night.”
“I just want to have coffee…and talk.”

I’m at the coffee shop well before the time we had agreed on and stand in the line with the bow tie hanging out of my top pocket and food stains on my shirt sleeve thinking how much I look like an old waiter after a long day at work. I try to make small talk with the young woman behind the counter, but she avoids my eyes and I wonder when I lost the ability to be charming to women.
I grab a table in the corner, and just as I place my back to the wall I see her walk in, wanting to be early as well, not smiling, but not angry either. I watch the intensity of her