If the Shoes Fit

by Laurie O'Connor Stephans

Brian stood amidst the glitterati. His canonization had commenced; stained jacket, sweaty brow, and pungent essence notwithstanding.

            It was New Year’s Eve, and Gary Xagas, host of the most exclusive party in town at Chicago’s most exclusive restaurant, Sheen, had brought out the renowned chef to take a bow.

            More at home in front of a stove than a microphone—and well aware that Gary’s show was more for Gary’s benefit than his own—Brian’s humble response was as genuine as the saffron in the gougères as the crowd chanted his name.

            “Brian. Brian. EARTH TO BRIAN.”

            Jostled from his memory, Brian saw a waiter standing before him with an empty tray.

            “We need more lobster empanadas,” he said, “and Mr. Big is looking antsy, so anything might set him off.”

            “You know our motto:  we do crazy if crazy pays,” Brian replied, taking a pan from the warmer. “Why don’t you take a break? I’ve got this.”

            Brian refilled the tray, grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins, and went through the butler’s pantry into the festivities.

Gary’s guest list had expanded from a year ago to fill the magnificent living room of the penthouse, a theater-in-the-round for the panorama of the Loop and beyond. Millions of lights dazzled from the skyscrapers and the streets far below, and the unmistakable radio spires atop the Sears Tower (real Chicagoans will never call it anything else) glimmered with seasonal red and green lights at their peaks.

There was inky darkness out the east window, with only an occasional blip in the distance to indicate it was not a black hole to another dimension. Normally, it took sunrise to ignite a shimmering light show on the crashing waves of Lake Michigan, but tonight those blips would become launching pads for spectacular fireworks and the revelers had the best seats in the house.

Gary was standing next to Rosie McKenzie and both watched Brian approach a small group to offer the appetizer tray.

“What a difference a year makes,” Rosie said. “To think, last year he was one of the top chefs in the world. Now he’s catering parties.”

“Well, not just any party,” Gary said, giving her elbow a playful nudge.

They both smiled. “Of course,” Rosie demurred. “Do you know what happened?”

“His wife had some kind of serious health problem; I don’t know exactly what. At some point, he had to leave Sheen to take care of her. That’s why I felt it was my duty to hire him for this event.”

Rosie nodded. Oh boy. He just doesn’t miss an opportunity, does he?

“How is she now?”

“I think she’s still alive,” Gary answered distractedly. Once he’d found the opportunity to pat himself on the back, he lost interest in the topic. “But enough about the help. I can see life is treating you great, Miss Big TV Star.”

Rosie was in her eighth year as on-air weatherperson for the 10 o’clock news on Channel 7, the ABC affiliate in the number three market in the country. Her face looked down on commuters from billboards, and was plastered on the sides of buses like barnacles on a public relations battleship.

“Well, ‘Big TV Star’ is a bit of a stretch,” Rosie replied.

“No way,” Gary insisted. “Who wouldn’t love to be in your shoes? I’ve heard rumblings that the network is interested. Soon you’ll be shaking the windy city dust off your boots and moving to greener pastures. That won’t surprise anyone a bit. Oh, look. Gene just got here. Will you excuse me, Rosie?”

Gary bolted before Rosie could answer, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

My shoes? I have news for you. The heels are too high and they hurt my feet. Greener pastures. The big time. That’s what everyone thinks I want. Little do they know. I am so sick of these parties and phonies like Gary. I wanted to be a real meteorologist, not an on-air Barbie doll. Not a dressed-up mouthpiece for the station, being told where to go and what to do on what’s supposed to be my own time.

She took a sip of the exquisite wine and closed her eyes.

One good day. I’ve had just one good day on the job. August 21, 2017. Benton, Illinois, to cover the total solar eclipse. And even then, no respect. They ignored my proposal for a prime time special about it; didn’t want me wasting time going to schools. This was one of only six full solar eclipses in the entire first half of this century, and they were more concerned with what I was wearing on air than the event itself!

Rosie could feel her heart racing, and took a couple of deliberate deep breaths to calm herself. She took another sip of wine and caught another glimpse of Brian.

At least I don’t have to try to make a living bowing and scraping, serving preening snobs. Anyway, two more years and I’ll have enough money to leave this all behind. Oh, shit! Here comes another poser blowhard. Turn on that perky weather girl charm. Just two more years. Focus on that. Just two more years.

“Jerry! You look fantastic. Things must be great at the museum.”

Brian continued to make the rounds, politely offering overpriced hors d'oeuvres and ignoring the looks, which ran the gamut from condescending all the way to pitying. He didn’t need superpowers to hear their thoughts: Thank God we aren’t in HIS shoes.

            He circled back toward the kitchen, past two guests discussing the host.

            “Gary really pulled out all the stops tonight. I didn’t think he could top last year’s party, but he has.”

            “Too bad Lisa couldn’t be here to share in the glory with him.”

“I guess when duty calls, the chairman of the board and heir to the throne must answer. Even on New Year’s Eve.”

            “Can you imagine being either half of that power couple? Jesus, it must be nice.”

            They glanced at Gary, apparently on a break from working the room, and clearly deep in thought.

So far, so good. These idiots are so busy kissing my ass they have no idea I’ve lost everything. They think Lisa is just off on one of her big shot, daddy's girl business trips. They don’t know she's left me and taken daddy's money with her. Thank God I could transfer money to my Cayman account before the banks closed for the holiday. I have two days to figure out what to do next. And that goddamn Brian had to insist on a 50% deposit in cash. Well, the rubber check in his pocket will show him. I don't care what kind of family tragedy he's had. I've lost a lot more.

Gary looked up and saw Paul Atkinson, one of Cook County's foremost prosecutors, approaching.

Now there's a friend I should make.

"Counselor, great to see you!" Gary gushed. "Looks like the city's scumbags are safe tonight."

"Good to see you too, Gary." His handshake was powerful. "This party would be all over the society pages, if they still existed." He lowered his voice. "Hey, is that the chef from Sheen serving appetizers?"

Gary gave a grim nod.

Time to lay it on thick.

"Yes, it's a sad story. Family illness and now it's come to this."

"Well, it's like they say," Paul noted. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall."

"But for the grace of God, we could all be in his shoes," Gary said.

Who'd want his shoes? They're ratty, and he probably can't afford to replace them.

"Just glad I could do my small part to help him out. Enjoy the party." They shook hands again and Gary sought his next prey.

Hello. Donald and Janet Giordano. I don't know if he can do anything for me, but it's always worth it to get close to that piece of ass. She'd be a great replacement for Lisa, but she'll never leave him. She's got it too damn good. Some guys get all the breaks.

Gary strode over, hand outstretched. "Glad you could make it, Don."

"Happy to be here," the charismatic stockbroker replied.

"And Janet," Gary cooed, leaning in a little closer than necessary to kiss her cheek. "You are looking especially lovely tonight." Only a trained eye could catch Don's glare. Janet’s did.

"Looks like the big board is treating you well, Don," Gary continued, his gaze still on Janet.

Those diamonds have to be worth a quarter million. They could solve all my problems. I always wanted to strip her down to the bare bones. This is another good reason to do it.

"Can't complain," Don said, putting an arm around Janet in a way that made it clear she was his and his alone. He gave her arm an ostensibly affectionate squeeze, right where the bruise hidden by her sleeve hadn't quite disappeared.

Keep your distance, Gary. I can't hurt you, but she will pay if this flirting keeps up.

"You look like you're ready for the Oscars red carpet with all that bling, Janet," Gary said, his gaze shifting between her necklace and cleavage.

"You have to break out the good stuff for the party of the year," Janet explained with a coquettish air. Don tightened his grip on her arm. "We need to ring in the new year in style."

New year is right. New year and new life. This jewelry—what you can see and what you can’t—is my ticket to freedom from this monster.

Janet went over the plan for what seemed the millionth time.

Right after midnight, I'm going to pretend to visit the ladies’ room and slip out. My mother and the social worker—the one holding my sworn deposition and photographic evidence of the abuse—will be waiting downstairs with Quentin. Tomorrow we'll have vanished, with new names and an unlisted address. So, get a good look at these tits, Gary. You and Don will never see them again.

Brian stopped at the trio, this time with a tray of champagne flutes.

"Mr. Xagas, the pianist asked me to let you know we're about five minutes from midnight, if you wanted to say a few words."

Has he ever turned that down? I don't think so.

Gary ignored Brian, grabbed a glass of champagne, smiled at the Giardanos, and made his way to the raised platform. Brian walked to the kitchen with his empty tray. He grabbed a bottle of water and assessed the situation. Cleanup was well underway, and Rodrigo, his second-in-command, looked to have things under control.

"I can take it from here, boss," Rodrigo said, ever the mind reader. "Go ahead and beat the rush. No sense being on the road with the amateur drinkers. You have a lot to get home to."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely."

A fortissimo piano fanfare rung out from the other room and the crowd began counting down.

"Ten, nine, eight..."

"Happy New Year, boss."

"Seven, six, five..."

"Same to you, buddy. And don't kill yourself here. He'll probably make his regular staff clean it all again tomorrow anyway."

"Four, three, two, one."

The living room erupted and the two men shared a bear hug.

"See you next weekend," Brian said. "The Emerson shindig."

Rodrigo groaned, and Brian gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“We’ll live.”

He grabbed his coat and went out the back door to the service elevator. He stepped into the alley and cheering could be heard echoing from and between the skyscrapers. The heavens were alive with fireworks.

As he stopped at the exit from the service lot, he noticed a nondescript sedan—one a person couldn’t identify later if their life depended on it—pull up to the awning at the front of the building. The back door opened, and a young boy who looked about six years old jumped out and ran to a woman in a long fur coat and evening gown. Both got back into the car and it pulled away. A tiny feeling of recognition was there and gone in an instant, and Brian turned onto the street for his short drive home.

*

Brian turned the key in the door and found Becky sitting on the couch, watching the fireworks out of their 18th floor window, a baby at her breast.

"Happy New Year," he said, leaning in strategically for a kiss. "Round One or Round Two?"

"Liam went first and Olivia is almost done," Becky said. "How was the party?"

"The usual," Brian said. "Lots of sad looks for poor Brian."

They both laughed. They knew their situation had been the topic of much whispered speculation, but only they knew the true story.

Becky's “medical crisis” had been a high-risk twins pregnancy. Brian had hoped the owners at Sheen would be understanding, but they were more concerned with profiterole than preeclampsia.

So, Brian quit. His job had been a labor of love, not essential to their survival. After all, Becky had a six-figure job in the advertising industry. She took her fully-paid leave, safely delivered their twins, and let Brian take over as Mr. Mom when she went back to work. And it wasn't her using her maiden name that had kept Gary and his ilk in the dark… it was because they just couldn't be bothered. Brian still loved to cook, so he took the occasional high-paying gig for fun. If his hifalutin clients thought the view was good looking down their noses at him, it was even better from his vantage point.

He went to the fridge and pulled out the bottle of champagne. He popped the cork, filled two glasses, and returned to the living room.

"Stop working already and sit down," Becky pleaded. "After a night like this, your feet must be killing you."

"No, they’re fine," Brian assured her. "The secret is being in the right shoes."