“I think that the kind of books that people read says a lot about the culture that they live in. It influences the kind of shows that they watch and affects all aspects of culture, in general.”
"Wow, that sounds fascinating. I actually love reading Danielle Steel and Nora Roberts. I know that Henry would make fun of me, but they can spin a wonderful yarn and that's all I really want at the end of a hard day.”
“I totally agree with you,” I say. “Their novels are fast-paced and easy to read and focus on relationships. There are many romantic elements but there are others as well, parents and children, sisters, brothers, and all sorts of other familiar relationships. We can learn a lot from the characters in the novels and the popularity of their books speaks to that.”
“I'm not sure Henry would agree with you,” Karen says, smiling out of the corner of her mouth.
In that moment, I see him in her face. They are different sexes and ages and yet it's as if he is a carbon copy of her.
“Do you not agree?” I ask him.
“No, I wouldn’t say that,” Henry says quickly. “Actually, to tell you the truth, I've never read a lot of popular fiction. I'm not sure why, maybe I'm a snob? But I have always been drawn to the short story genre and that's mainly what I read.”
“Novels don't hold your attention?” I ask.
He shrugs and shakes his head.
“I think what I like most is the succinctness of the short story. All of the events are relayed immediately. Everything is resolved, or maybe not resolved. New characters are introduced and we only get a glimpse of who each of them are.”
I smile. I have known many snobs, and a part of me suspects that he might be one of them. But I appreciate his polite comments for the time being.
8
Henry
When I go to work the following morning, I’m not entirely sure if I have my old job on Aurora's boat. But at least, at the yacht club, Mr. Madsen has a bit less influence.
The day proceeds pretty much like all of the other ones this summer. The place gets busy around one, when the lunch crowd comes in from their morning on the water or at the golf club. This establishment has been around for at least fifty years, and very few things about it have changed.
The tables still have to be polished every day, and there are white tablecloths adorning each one. I have worked here for many summers, eventually ascending to the job of bartender. Bartenders make the most tips, followed by servers. We usually split a portion of them with the others but keep the majority to ourselves. Mr. Madsen comes in just as I am setting up all of the bottles and making sure that all of the glasses are extra clean for the lunch crowd.
I flinch, but only for a moment. Taking a deep breath, I brace myself for a possible firing. Much to my surprise, he doesn't appear to be as angry as he was earlier, when he was on the phone with Aurora. He's not working today, so he orders a scotch on the rocks. After talking about the weather and briefly discussing the game on TV above our heads, he asks, “What are you doing with her?”
“What do you mean?” I ask him.
“She's a Tate, don't you know that?”
“Of course I do,” I say, polishing a glass that I've been working on for way too long.
“Don't get me wrong, Henry, I love that family and I appreciate everything they have ever done for me. However, her father is not anyone to mess with—”
“I know that he is a big-time CEO—” I interrupt him.
“You know nothing about Mr. Tate—” Mr. Madsen interrupts me, “and you don't want to know anymore than you already do.”
"What are you talking about?” I ask.
He opens his mouth to say something but then closes it. He's choosing his words carefully. I wait for him to continue.
“Let's just say,” he says after a moment. “Let's just say that what you know about Mr. Tate is only the Disney version of who he is and what he does for a living. He is a very dangerous man and he would not approve of you having any sort of relations with his only daughter.”
A big gulp forms in the back of my throat. I swallow hard. I'm not sure what to say to this or how to react.
Mr. Madsen has never spoken to me in this manner before. He has always been stern but kind and fair. In fact, I know very little about his personal life and he knows very little about mine. He cultivated this distance, not just with me, but all of his employees, and over the years, I have grown to appreciate it.
So, for him to come out and suddenly warn me about dating Aurora is completely out of character.
“Tell me this,” Mr. Madsen says, leaning over the bar top and getting as close to me as possible. “Is this just a one night thing or are you planning on seeing her again?”
I shake my head, not sure how to answer.
“I like her, Mr. Madsen. I like her a lot.”
“Well, that's going to be a problem,” he says and finishes his drink.
Mr. Madsen's words weigh heavily on my mind long after he leaves and way into the afternoon. I try to be friendly with all of the guests, but I'm just not here the way I normally am.
It's hard to joke around and talk about nothing in an interesting way when your heart is not in it. After I eat a brief and quick lunch in the kitchen, I go back to work. The afternoons are usually a quiet time, right before the big evening dinner rush, and I enjoy the solitude. Besides the hostess, I’m the only one here, manning the restaurant in case a big party comes in.
And right when I least want to see another person, let alone act friendly, four guys saunter into the place. They are all dressed in the yacht club’s unofficial uniform, plaid, pastel colored shirts, dockers or khakis along with dark shoes with tassels. I would be surprised if any of their outfits cost less than five hundred dollars. They are not out of the norm for the clientele here, but what grates on me right now is that they’re my age and total assholes.
The guys take seats around the bar, and quickly make themselves at home. They all order beers and make disparaging comments about the women on television.
“Hey,” one of them says, “I'm telling you I can totally get three of those girls in bed with me.”
“No, you can’t.” The others laugh.
“Yes, I can.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Look at them. Look at those faces and those hips. You know that no one really wants them. And they're just desperate for any sort of attention.”
“You’re such an asshole,” the tall one with blond hair and pink pants says. “Yes, Connor, I know that already. That's my schtick, don’t you know that?”
“And that works for you?” Connor asks. “Yes, you could say that.”
I have seen them around before. The self-described asshole has a house not too far away and Connor owns a seventy foot Beneteau. They all work in the city, somewhere near, or right on, Wall Street. They have never been traders, that's kind of a low position, but rather investment bank associates and hedge fund analysts.
They probably make around one-hundred and twenty-thousand a year without bonuses, and they are just starting out. But all of them come from a lot more money than that, and they will be millionaires by the time they're thirty. On the other hand, I work as a teacher during the year in an underprivileged school district in Harlem and don’t clear forty grand after taxes. I probably make another ten in the summer, and I give all of that to my mother to help with her bills.