I – MR. Lyle

Oriental specialties

When I first considered the prospect of working on a new job, I thought to myself: This is gonna be a piece of cake.

It wasn’t long before I discovered how wrong I was.

It had been two weeks since The Centre’s shut-down and so far the only job I was able to get was distributing advertising pamphlets. Having a father (or fathers) as the Chairman of a worldwide secret company can ease a lot one’s concern regarding his future, but only as long as that worldwide secret company exists. Afterward... not very useful.

I was comfortably standing at the number 2 spot, calmly waiting for the bone-bag known as my father (my third one, I should mention) to either drop or fall from the stairs – accidentally of course; I could never kill my own father, I’d have to hire someone – when it all went caboodle. (Nice word for Scrabble.)

Anyway, the shutting down of The Centre opened up a whole new world of possibilities for me to use. And enjoy. And that was exactly the right word to describe it: enjoyment. I enjoyed having no schedule to keep up, no Jarod to pursuit, no remarks from Miss Parker to ignore. I enjoyed everything. I even enjoyed the fact that I would have to become my own financial supporter. It was interesting at first, then it got annoying and, finally, despairing.

Fortunately for me, as someone once said, nothing ever lasts forever. And one day I was waiting for meal at a Chinese restaurant when all of a sudden there it was. The perfect job for me.

The restaurant was located a few blocks away from my house. It was a nice place, a family place. The food was excellent, the environment relaxing, and the waitresses… Oh my, the waitresses.

I was glancing at a pamphlet about dental hygiene when, out of nowhere, a riot began. Before I knew it, the cook was walking out of the kitchen with the owner of the restaurant yelling at him.

I couldn’t get a word of what they said; my sister is the one that speaks Japanese. I just eat them. Besides, they were probably yelling at each other in Chinese. So, unless she could speak Chinese (which I think she does too), I could only guess what it was they were saying. Of course, I shouldn't not forget the most important thing: the chances of my sister helping me were very slim. Very slim indeed.

However, being unable to comprehend their exact words, did not elude me from understanding the basic meaning of the whole conversation. Their body language spoke plenty: either something had happened and the cook was leaving, or he was being escorted out, because of something he did. But what?

Now, some of the people who know me, know I’m not the gossipy type. I value my privacy too much and, because of that, I try to maintain a low profile as low as I can. However, it only took me a second before I realized something: I was in for a long, long wait until they found themselves a new cook. That is, unless I did something about it. And that’s what I did.

I got up and went straight to the manager. He was a mid-sized man, with broad shoulders and dark brown dyed hair. I could tell the hair was dyed because... Never mind that, I just know, okay? Blame my sister if you want. Or my mother, may she rest in peace. After all, “baldness is inherited from the mother’s side, Jerry.” Nice TV show, by the way.

Back to the point.

I looked at him, the manager, straight in the eyes and said: “Where’s my food?”

No time for niceties. Like I always said, you must always have a tight grip on things. Otherwise, you’ll be the court’s jester. As a response to my question, he proceeded to open his registry book and check on something.

“Name?”

“Lyle.”

He started flipping through the pages and then found what he was looking for. “Here it is. Mr. Lyle, table five.” He paused for a bit, perhaps for emphasizing, before announcing: “Soon.” And then closed he book with a plastered smile on his lips.

“What do you mean soon? I saw the cook walking out of here.”

“Yes, yes. Shin-Lu.”

“Not she, he.”

“He.”

“That’s what I said. What about my food?”

He checked the book again. “Mr. Lyle?”

“Yes,” I said annoyed.

“Soon,” he answered.

Now, if this was a nonsense stories like any other, or a nonsense story per se, I could let this discussion go on for at least three more pages, but I'm not in the mood so I'm putting an end to it now.

“Never mind that, I’ll get it myself.”

I left him there – still breathing, I might add, considering how pissed off I was – and went inside the kitchen. I wasn’t willing to wait that much, but when I entered the kitchen I was surprised with what I saw. It was like a cyclone had passed by, creating a hybrid of havoc and mayhem and food. Lots of food. Almost like one of Broots' shirts with a stain of sauce on it. Not a good comparison, but it’s the best I can do right now.

“Damn it!” was all I could tell, without forcing the author to rate this as an NC-17 story. It took me a while to get back to my senses, but once I did I realized what I had to do and quickly left the kitchen to get someone to help me clean up that mess. (Gee! Talking about long thoughts.)

I snatched one of the waitresses and brought her to the kitchen. I must say that, at first, she wasn’t in the mood of coming. She babbled something to me.. It could be something like “It’s not my job.” or “My mother told me never to go with strangers.”. Or she could have been just insulting me. Fact of the matter was I wouldn’t know either way. Like I said earlier, I don’t understand Chinese. But, when it comes to get the work done, I always have something to use, something I call the universal translator.

In other words: my 9mm. Standard Centre use. Not that I use it that much nowadays. Only in cases like this one. Fortunately, they don’t happen very often.

So, I took my gun out and pointed it at her head. She stopped babbling. Good. And began shrieking. Not good. Not good at all. The customers started to panic. Something was happening. But what? Oh, wait! Maybe it was me. Strangely as it may sound, I forgot that I’m no longer the terrible Mr. Lyle, Vice-Chairman of the powerful The Centre; I’m just... Mr. Lyle from table five.

I also realized that, no matter how much I tried, she wouldn’t come to the kitchen with me. I only had one option left. If she wouldn’t obey anyone except the manager, I’d have to become someone superior to the manager: the owner.

With that in mind I went outside and found the owner still discussing with the cook. I decided to end the conversation right there by putting a bullet on the owner’s head. Actually, I fired three shots but I only hit one. Too much wine, I guess. I asked the cook if he could do me the favor of preparing my meal.

He showed some reluctance at first but after a brief argument he came to his senses and realized how wrong he was. I don't know if it was the bullet that I put on his kneecap or the words “I’ll eat your daughter alive if you don’t go finish my meal now” that did the trick. Whatever it was, it worked. And, from what I discovered later, he didn’t have a daughter. I guess he didn’t remember that at the time.

Having a gun pointed to his head sure helped him to clear this thoughts. I drove him to the kitchen and told him to stay put. Then, I went to the manager and informed him of the recent events.

“Do you know who I am?”

He was still in shock from what had happened previously. Pale as a corpse, yet still breathing. All the customers had left the scene, but he stood there. Like the captain of a sinking ship. I asked again.

“Do you know who I am?”

He checked the registry book. Even though he knew exactly who I was, it was an habit he found difficult to get rid off.

“You’re Mr. Lyle, table five.”

“Wrong. I’m Mr. Lyle, owner of this restaurant and your new boss. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lyle.”

“Good. Then tell someone to go to the kitchen and help prepare my meal. And tell them no poisons. I’m allergic to death. Understand?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lyle.”

“Excellent. Now go.”

He told two waitresses to go to the kitchen. He said it in Chinese so I could only suppose that’s what he said. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that twenty minutes later I was granted with a delicious stewed lamb with orange. I always liked orange.

Now, nearly a month after The Centre closed shop, after handling some paperwork and buying the place, I’ve assumed the management of the restaurant. Of course I had to kill a few people in order to accelerate the process but, all things considered, it worked out just fine.

I thought of a few attractions to help bring new customers. I hired two of my former co-workers: one as a comedian, the other as a blues singer and guitar player. They'll each have their own chapter later on, so I've been told.

Tonight was Friday and the comedy show was about to begin. I had just finished enjoying my meal with the also delicious company of one of my waitresses – her name was Sue, a very good looking American of Chinese ascendency – when I noticed the presence of two ex-workers from The Centre: Sydney and Broots. They didn’t see me. Good. It was probably for the best. Broots would probably try to cheap his way out of his bill.

I enjoyed the show very much. I even laughed a few times (although I didn't understand most of the jokes) and applauded at the end. After that, I took a short coffee and a scotch and left with Sue.

“Where are we going?”

“My place. Would you like that?”

“Sounds good.”

It will taste even better, I thought and smiled in delightful anticipation. The meal had been exquisite and the dessert promised to be even better.

THE END