Dinner at Fiorello's

Chapter 1 Henry Appleby stared at the Craigslist ad on his iMac screen. No, it was not in the Men Seeking Men or the Casual Encounters section. Henry had perused those ads, but at eighteen years old, he found most of those ads were more for education, titillation, and fantasy. He couldn’t imagine the guys who posted them, nor could he picture the brave souls who had the courage to respond. Still, they showed Henry a part of the world he was curious about, even if he was not ready to take such a seedy plunge, if he ever would be. No, the ad that had caught Henry’s eye was in the Jobs section. More specifically, it was in the food/bev/hosp subsection. It read: General Kitchen Help Wanted Fiorello’s, Rogers Park Fine Italian Dining destination, is looking for general front-end and back-end help. You’ll do everything from wash dishes and bus tables to food prep. Pay is minimum wage, but it’s a great way to learn the food industry from the ground up. High school graduate or GED required; past restaurant work desirable but not necessary. Please call in person at the restaurant between the hours of 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m., Monday through Friday. No phone calls, e-mails, or postal inquiries, please. Henry had been staring at the ad for more than fifteen minutes. The only break had been the few minutes he took to leave Craigslist to google Fiorello’s and locate their address on Jarvis Avenue. Even though Henry lived in Evanston, only a short drive away from Rogers Park, Chicago’s farthest-north lakefront neighborhood, he had never been by the place. Henry’s father, Theodore, but known to everyone else as “Tank,” startled Henry out of his reverie. Henry jumped a little as his father swept into the room without warning. “You looking at porn sites again? Damn, to be young!” His booming voice intruded on the sunny early June morning. Henry quickly shifted the Google tab on his computer to the website for NYU and turned to give what he knew was a sheepish grin to his strapping father. Even though he had been doing nothing close to what his dad had suggested, heat still rose to Henry’s cheeks. “What? No, no, of course not.” His father, already dressed in his Ermenegildo Zegna suit, crisp white shirt, and rep tie, whacked him playfully on the back of the head. “Lighten up, kid. I was just kidding.” He laughed. “And if you’re lookin’ at a little T&A, who am I to complain? You’re a red-blooded American male, just like your dad.” Henry could only keep grinning stupidly. Porn would have been one thing. His father would have accepted, maybe even welcomed, his son looking at the ubiquitous one-handed art so prevalent on the Web, but he would have had a s**t fit if he had known his son was getting excited over an employment ad for kitchen help. Now there was horror. Kitchen help was not appropriate. Not in the Appleby family. His father moved back toward the entrance to Henry’s room. “That summer help position at my law firm is still waiting for you. I told the partners you could start next week. You okay with that?” Henry still could not find a single word to say. He knew his father wasn’t really asking if he was okay with it; he was simply reminding Henry of his obligation. Henry scratched his blond hair as if fleas had suddenly invaded it. He kept grinning and wondered if he resembled a chimp. He nodded weakly. “Sure, Dad,” he finally managed to utter. In a bold move for Henry, he added, “I’m just considering all my options for the summer. You know, last time to be free and all that.” “What options?” his father asked in a chiding voice. “You’re prelaw at NYU this fall, right? What could be better than working for one of the best investment law firms in Chicago? That’s some solid résumé s**t, son.” “You’re right, Dad.” Henry said the words but experienced a sinking sensation, as one does when one speaks something that comes from the head but not the heart. “Well, enjoy the life of Riley for a few more days. I don’t blame you. They’re gonna work you to the bone down there, but you’ll learn a lot.” “Sounds great,” Henry said without much conviction. He let his gaze roam back to his iMac screen, staring at the Craigslist tab. Could he dare? “See you later, kiddo. The early bird and all that. And by the way, what the hell are you doing up at seven A.M.?” “I don’t know, Dad. I was awake.” “And decided to go online before anything else. You kids. Typical.” Tank ran his fingers playfully through his son’s mop of hair. “We’ll need to get this cut before Monday. Go see Giovanni,” he said, referring to his barber on Main Street. Henry’s shoulders relaxed, and he let out a long breath as his father exited the room. He got up and crept to his bedroom door, watching as Tank descended the winding staircase. His father paused to pick up his metal briefcase from its place in the foyer, slipped the Wall Street Journal under his arm, and then headed outside. The sound of the Lexus starting up in the drive let Henry know it was safe to go back in his room and return to Craigslist, where he could ponder such an outrageous position as “General Kitchen Help.”