Page 10 of The End of Summer

“He’s been in lots of stuff. Everything fromOppenheimertoHarold and Kumar go to White Castle.Most recently, he was inThe Studioon Apple TV.”

“That’s it! I watch that show. And I remembered him from10 Things I Hate About You.” Her eyes got wide. “Wait. He’s here? Seriously?”

“I know, I know,” I said, not in the mood for games. “Listen, I just need you to be professional.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Just, damn, you know? That’s really cool that he’s here.”

“Yes. Cool. Great. Wonderful. Come on, then. Follow me.”

“Um, okay.” She set her tray down on the bar. We climbed the stairs to the lobby, then traversed the grand banquet hall towards the back of the room where the staff quarters are hidden, adjacent the main kitchen. “I’ll get you a uniform,” I said. “What size?” I gestured at her body, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you should never assume anything when it comes to women and clothing sizes.

Gretchen looked down at her standard-issue oxford pub shirt and black pants. “I don’t know. Like, an 8? Medium? Whatever you think would fit?”

“What about your feet?”

“My feet?” she echoed.

“Your feet,” I nodded. “You can’t wear those shoes. They’re fine for the pub, but not for private dining.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m a seven and a half.”

“Okay. Be right back.” I went into the supply closet and pulled a crisp white shirt, black fitted dress pants, and a brand new pair of Nine West pumps, still in the box. The garments were covered in plastic, having just returned from the dry cleaners. I handed the outfit to her and pointed to the staff dressing room. I told her to put her things in a locker and try to change quickly. Then, I sat down and placed myhead in my hands, in an attempt to wish away the throbbing.

About five minutes later, Gretchen returned. I gave her a once over. Despite her obvious discomfort, she looked the part. I mean, minus the phosphorescent hair, but really, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Great,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“I, um –”

“What?” I checked my watch. David Krumholtz’s reservation was for 6:00 p.m., and it was 5:50.

“I’m not great at walking in heels,” she confessed earnestly. Her eyes grew wide with the admission. Under different circumstances, I would have found her concern charming.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. This is the uniform. Rules are rules.”

She let out a nervous laugh. “You really think David Krumholtz is going to care if I wear my own, significantly more broken-in shoes?”

I shook my head. “No. But Chef will.”

“Oh. Okay.” She nodded. “Got it.”

Gretchen was doing fine. She was composed, got David and his colleagues each a drink, brought out the bread plate with the bean dip and garlic spread, and ground the fresh cracked pepper over it without making a mess. She walked a little slower than I would have liked, but she was being careful, and that was fine.

Until she fell.

I didn’t see it happen. I walked in just as I heard the word, “Shit!” and only saw the chaos that ensued after the tray came crashing down. David shot up from the table, holding his pants away from his manhood (smart move, too, because Chef Brax basically lights those steamers on fire before plating them). Gretchen was on the ground, possibly in pain, the tray beside her. Lobster macaroni and cheese dripped from the edge of the table in clumps, hitting the industrial carpet with a splash, like chunks of orangey-pink vomit.

“Oh, my God,” I exclaimed, hurrying over to the table. “I am so sorry. She’s new – well, not new, just, she’s fromdownstairs, and, um –”

“I’m fine,” David Krumholtz replied. “It was an accident. I, uh –”

“We have pants in the back! I’ll grab you a whole new outfit,” I said, realizing that I was about to dress a famous actor like a member of the waitstaff.

“Are you okay?” he asked Gretchen, who was scrambling to get up.

“Yeah,” she said, removing her shoes. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to –”

“I know,” he said to her. “Don’t worry about it.”

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