In the City of Shy Hunters by Tom Spanbauer Page B

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    Fiona. I looked up from the red circle and there was Fiona. I put both feet parallel on the floor, my back straight up against the chair, rested my arms around my middle, chin out, shoulders square, new-shoe stiff, big smile.
    When the woman is beautiful, before I know it, my body is at attention.
    What’s important. What’s wrong.
    Deep blue eyes, white white skin. Something wild about her mouth.
    I had to take another breath.
    Her upper lip a life all its own.
    When she smiled, the scar.
    Cauchemar? I said. Isn’t this Café Bistro?
    Nightmare Café, Fiona said. It’s French. I’m the one who’s training you.
    You’re Muffy?
    No, Fiona said, her lip New York drop-dead fuck-you. My name is not Muffy. My name is Susan, Fiona said, Susan Strong.
    Oh, I said. Daniel said that Muffy was the one.
    Susan! Susan Strong , Fiona said.
    Fiona pointed her index straight at my nose.
    Listen up, she said. This is important, she said. Not Muffy! I’m not Muffy anymore. I’m Susan Strong. Understand?
    Things start where you don’t know.
    When I met her, she was Muffy Macllvane trying to be Susan Strong. She wasn’t Fiona yet. Not yet. It was only at the end, after Ruby named her, that she became Fiona.
    FROM UNDER THE chandelier, we went to the three waiters’ stations, then to the bar. Then through the swinging red doors to the parlor, through the archway into the kitchen, Fiona talking talking.
    Café Bistro, Café Cauchemar, Fiona said, A bistro owned by a Jew, its authentic French cuisine cooked by Thais, tables cleaned and bused,your cappuccino delivered by Puerto Rican busboys when you can find them, dishes washed by Mexicans, served by the generally white, almost young, not quite beautiful l’Amérique Profond survivor smiling the drop-dead smile—the actor, singer, dancer, the presenter of the finest medley of fresh vegetables, the musaline sabayon sauce at your table, the ironed white shirt, the black bow tie, the spotted black pants, black sensible shoes, the clean white apron, hair pulled back, fresh-lipsticked unisex clean-shaven slave to attitude, the faggot, the Broadway baby, the hopeful fool this city feeds on, at your table, at your service: the waiters.
    The waiters are Davey Dearest and Walter, and Joanie and Mack, Fiona said, Besides me and Harry. Joanie’s the worst, one of those fashion disasters who gets all her hair cut off and wears too much lipstick and four earrings in each ear. Be different if she was a lesbian, would give meaning to such heavy accessorization and a reason for being such a bitch.
    Then there’s Homo perfectus , Mack Dickson—Mack Son of Dick. Whatever you do, you don’t want to incur the wrath of Mack Dickson. Thee . . . perfect . . . gay . . . man . A Mack Attack is hard to survive. Mr. Poopy Pants himself, Big Baby Torpor right there in front of your eyes. Total Caravaggio—did you see the movie? Caravaggio ? Fiona asked. Harry and I decided that movie should have been subtitled: or How I Lost My Mind to Have a Perfect Body . Derek Jarman needs to get a life.
    A real Nazi with a tortured gym body—Mack Dickson, Fiona said, Voted for Ronald Reagan and proud of it. Coordinates his socks and underwear. Just check it out in the locker room. Today’s Wednesday, so that means his shorts and his socks are red. That’s what Harry says. Wednesday it’s red. When Mack grows up he wants to be a shallow ugly woman with an attitude and bad fashion sense—namely, Joanie.
    Davey Dearest and Walter are actors, nothing more to say, Fiona said. Usually what they’re doing when they’re talking to you is trying out a human emotion to see if they can make you believe they’re feeling it. Life vérité. Walter’s the ectomorph with bad toxins in his fat cells so his overriding human emotion is depression and existential facticity. Actually, Walter just drinks too much coffee. Davey