Where I'm Calling From

But it is the fingers I remember best. When I stop at the table near his to see to the old couple, I first notice the fingers. They look three times the size of a normal person’s fingers—long, thick, creamy fingers.
    I see to my other tables, a party of four businessmen, very demanding, another party of four, three men and a woman, and this old couple. Leander has poured the fat man’s water, and I give the fat man plenty of time to make up his mind before going over.
    Good evening, I say. May I serve you? I say.
    Rita, he was big, I mean big.
    Good evening, he says. Hello. Yes, he says. I think we’re ready to order now, he says.
    He has this way of speaking—strange, don’t you know. And he makes a little puffing sound every so often.
    I think we will begin with a Caesar salad, he says. And then a bowl of soup with some extra bread and butter, if you please. The lamb chops, I believe, he says. And baked potato with sour cream. We’ll see about dessert later. Thank you very much, he says, and hands me the menu.
    God, Rita, but those were fingers.
    I hurry away to the kitchen and turn in the order to Rudy, who takes it with a face. You know Rudy.
    Rudy is that way when he works.
    As I come out of the kitchen, Margo—I’ve told you about Margo? The one who chases Rudy? Margo says to me, Who’s your fat friend? He’s really a fatty.
    Now that’s part of it. I think that is really part of it.
    I make the Caesar salad there at his table, him watching my every move, meanwhile buttering pieces of bread and laying them off to one side, all the time making this purling noise. Anyway, I am so keyed up or something, I knock over his glass of water.
    I’m so sorry, I say. It always happens when you get into a. hurry. I’m very sorry, I say. Are you all right?
    I’ll get the boy to clean up right away, I say.
    It’s nothing, he says. It’s all right, he says, and he puffs. Don’t worry about it, we don’t mind, he says. He smiles and waves as I go off to get Leander, and when I come back to serve the salad, I see the fat man has eaten all his bread and butter.
    A little later, when I bring him more bread, he has finished his salad. You know the size of those Caesar salads?
    You’re very kind, he says. This bread is marvelous, he says.
    Thank you, I say.
    Well, it is very good, he says, and we mean that. We don’t often enjoy bread like this, he says.
    Where are you from? I ask him. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, I say.
    He’s not the kind of person you’d forget, Rita puts in with a snicker.
    Denver, he says.
    I don’t say anything more on the subject, though I am curious.
    Your soup will be along in a few minutes, sir, I say, and I go off to put the finishing touches to my party of four businessmen, very demanding.
    When I serve his soup, I see the bread has disappeared again. He is just putting the last piece of bread into his mouth.
    Believe me, he says, we don’t eat like this all the time, he says. And puffs. You’ll have to excuse us, he says.
    Don’t think a thing about it, please, I say. I like to see a man eat and enjoy himself, I say.
    I don’t know, he says. I guess that’s what you’d call it. And puffs. He arranges the napkin. Then he picks up his spoon.
    God, he’s fat! says Leander.
    He can’t help it, I say, so shut up.
    I put down another basket of bread and more butter. How was the soup? I say.
    Thank you. Good, he says. Very good, he says. He wipes his lips and dabs his chin. Do you think it’s warm in here, or is it just me? he says.
    No, it is warm in here, I say.
    Maybe we’ll take off our coat, he says.
    Go right ahead, I say. A person has to be comfortable, I say.
    That’s true, he says, that is very, very true, he says.
    But I see a little later that he is still wearing his coat.
    My large parties are gone now and also the old couple. The place is emptying out. By the time I serve the fat man his chops and baked potato, along with more bread and butter, he is the only one left.
    I drop lots of sour cream onto his potato. I sprinkle bacon and chives over his sour cream. I bring him more bread and butter.
    Is everything all right? I say.
    Fine, he says, and he puffs. Excellent, thank you, he says, and puffs again.
    Enjoy your dinner, I say. I raise the lid of his sugar bowl and look in. He nods and keeps looking at me until I move away.
    I know now I was after something. But I don’t know what.
    How is old tub-of-guts doing? He’s going to run your legs