I’ll tell you who’s a real self-made man: The Prince of Mexico, Antonio Gold. My favorite customer, The Prince of Mexico always comes in "just to see what’s new” and then he buys it. He never complains when I tell him I can’t do something, he understands the limits of my position and he fully comprehends that, sometimes, cell phones don’t work. He also picks up the check at the Sushi Cafe.
Always tan and impeccably dressed, Mr. Gold keeps even the remaining strands of his hair in slick order, parallel to one another, all ten of them cutting through the breeze in unison. He had someone create him a logo with his initials and a crown on top. The Prince, AG. We transfer the logo to the wall paper of every new phone he gets. Only he knows better--he calls them “toys”.
He knows to come in on Monday, when both Brooklyn and I are working, but Cock Bombay is not. Sometimes he comes in on other days and makes Cock Bombay shake his hand and kiss his ass because he knows we’ll get a kick out of it. He tells us we should keep our jobs until we have somewhere else to go. Of course, all of our customers share that somewhat biased opinion.
Originally from Mexico, I sometimes doubt his last name was Gold before he moved to Beverly Hills. I’m not saying he wasn’t Jewish before, but I may suggest his levels of religious devotion can be altered with the terms of the moment. I've never seen a yarmulke disrupting the aerodynamics of his tanned dome, but I suspect he keeps one in his convertible's glove compartment. He's a convertible Jew. Best as I can tell, he makes a living servicing television executives, lawyers, doctors and professors. He introduces people and, to my bewilderment, must somehow get a commission in doing so. I don’t get involved with the ethics of it, just the sashimi.
“Two large sakes and three large Sapporos!” Brooklyn announces our return.
We hand our hot towels back to the server. The Prince of Mexico keeps his because he prefers it to the napkins. He starts the ordering in his heavy, regal Mexican accent that sounds like a coffee plantation. For each item he orders, he pinches his fingers to varying degrees, as if the size of the item would help the server to locate it.
“Bring me some sesame seeds, toasted," (small pinch) "and those carrots," (slightly more space) "and some limón," (larger still). "Mucho limón" (the biggest). "And we are ready to order.” He orders.
Having once been in their shoes, I am quick to provide the “please” and “thank you” to the server. The Prince would never dare. Normally, such dismissive behavior toward those in the service industry would be reason enough for me to limit a friendship. If you are ever the least bit rude to a server, you lose points. The Prince of Mexico earns a free pass. Maybe he’s just curt, not rude. He’s buying, I can’t complain. Okay, fine, I have a price.
“I’m going to tell you both something,” he ignores the arrival of toasted sesame seeds and julienned carrots. “This Bombay is out for you both.” He crams a salmon skin roll full of what he calls “the Omegas” into his mouth. “Heee’s going to get you.”
Brooklyn and I are no strangers to this news. If anything, we broke it to the Prince months ago. For me, Cock Bombay never got over the fact that I made it back from the 2007 firing and has been looking for a reason for me to foul up ever since. In his mind, he doesn’t make mistakes, but he was a part of that one. The way I treat him as if I know he fucked up drives him crazy. Brooklyn stands up to him just enough to cause trouble. Not one to let assaults on the truth slide by, Brooklyn will get into screaming matches with Cock Bombay in the Acrylic Cage just to test the limits. Somehow he makes it out alive. In many ways, he’s a braver man than I.
Basically, Cock Bombay knows we’re smarter than he is. He knows we don’t fit nicely into the system. We are not the droids you’re looking for. If it weren’t for 1) our customers always pulling him aside to tell him how great we are and 2) our sales records, we’d be long gone. We make up our own rules and he hates it. He needs the numbers we post and the service we provide. He’s stuck between having it his own way and us, his MVPs, having it ours.
In Cock Bombay, the Prince of Mexico sees similarities to himself. “This guy, he will stop at nothing to get to the next step. He can either get noticed by promoting you, or by firing you.”
I haven't thought of our situation in these terms. I poke my chopsticks in the wasabi and think about Bombay's options. Promoting us is clearly more dangerous to his career. He would gladly promote us to the Inland Empire region to get us out of his way, but I think he knows we’d be back. I think he knows the desert would spit us back out too. Covered in sand, we’d find Cock Bombay sucking down soup in a saloon somewhere. Brooklyn and Glamour Boy would dismount, tie up the horses and kick down the doors.
“Cock Bombay, take your last sip of broth and turn around! Recognize us? You thought we were dead. You dragged us out to the desert and tied us to a stake. You surrounded us with rattle snakes and left us there. You gave us each a gun with one bullet in it, hoping we’d come to some kind of mutual agreement. Well, we have. We both agreed that as long as you’re sitting in your executive chair with those beady eyes judging the world, there will be no peace. We saved these bullets, Cock Bombay. We saved ‘em--one for each of your damned beady eyes. You may not see where you’re goin’, but you’ll know where you are by the flames on your back. See you in hell, Cock Bombay!” POP POP!
“What are you laughing at?” the Prince looks at me confused.
“Nothing.” I pour another round of sake.
Brooklyn drops his in his beer, grinning. I slam mine and chase it. The Prince of Mexico wipes his hands on the towel, shaking his head and smiling. "Just watch your backs."
“We should go.” My conscience ends the fun. I’m always the first to ruin the party. “They’re waiting.”
