It’s a miserable summer day. The mercury’s hovering around 96 degrees and the humidity’s making it feel like 106. Our customers aren’t gonna cook in this heat so the Bistro’s packed. All the warm bodies, combining with equatorial temps and the kitchen’s blast furnace ovens, push our central air system to the max. Despite two tons of AC on the roof the thermometer inside registers a balmy 78.

Of course there’s a silver lining to all this. The women are wearing next to nothing. All day it’s been a parade of miniskirts, short shorts and halter tops. The eye candy almost makes me forget how hot it is – almost. Then in comes Trophy Wife.

Trophy Wife is, for lack of a better descriptor – hot. About 42, blonde, trim and tan, she saunters in wearing a diaphanous little outfit while teetering on a set of stiletto pumps. As she walks down the aisle I can’t help but admire the muscle definition in her legs and, ahem, other places. I’m mildly aggravated that she’s sitting in Louis’s section.

But, as luck would have it, Louis runs up to me looking frazzled. “Dude,” he says, “I’m in the weeds. Can you take the drink order on the new table?”

A chance to check out Trophy Wife up close? “No problem,” I reply generously. I’m always ready to help a brother out.

I approach the table and ask if anyone would like a cocktail. Trophy orders a Tanqueray Ten up with olives. Ah, I think to myself, a classicist. While her friends rattle off their drink requests I sneak a peek a Trophy. This lady’s got so little body fat I’ll bet you could read the serial numbers off her breast implants.

When her friends finish with their drink orders Trophy flashes me a brilliant smile and says. “The AC’s blowing on me. Please turn the air conditioning down.”

“Madam? I reply with mild confusion. C’mon, it’s like Africa hot outside.

“I’m cold.”

“I’m sorry madam, but the way our AC works the blower is either on or off.”

“Well turn it off then.”

“Then I’d have to shut off the AC in the entire restaurant,” I explain.

Trophy’s pearly veneers disappear. “Just do as I ask,” she snaps angrily.

So she’s a bitch too. “Yes madam.” I reply dutifully.

I, of course, ignore her request. Turning off the AC will transform the restaurant into a sweltering box. I’m not going to make all the other customers suffer for Trophy’s comfort. She should’ve brought a sweater.

I give Louis the drink order and return to my section. I’m telling a new table the specials when I hear the air conditioner shut off with a metallic thunk. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Within minutes the temperature begins to rise. I hope the customers won’t notice but they do.

“Hey waiter,” a patron yelps, “It’s getting hot in here. What happened to the AC?”

“I will endeavor to find out sir,” I reply.

I hustle to the back and peer at the AC control box. The system’s off. The thermometer now reads 83. I turn it back on.

Suddenly Fluvio runs up to me, “Why did you turn the AC back on?” he asks angrily.

“Because it’s like a hundred degrees out?” I reply.

“The lady on three says she’s doesn’t like the air blowing on her,” Fluvio says. Ah, Trophy Wife got her way after all.

“Fluvio,” I say, “Did you spend $30,000 on a central air system so one customer could tell you how to run it?”


“There ya go.”

Fluvio shrugs and heads downstairs. It’s all in how you phrase things with him.

Soon the temperature stabilizes at a tolerable clime. But Trophy Wife’s pissed. She waves me over.

“Why did you turn the AC back on?” she asks.

“Because the entire restaurant will overheat if I turn it off,” I say.

“But I don’t like the air blowing on me,” she says angrily.

This is when Trophy’s lack of body fat works against her. With so little natural insulation the slightest breeze chills her. Dropped off in the Arctic she’d die of hypothermia in under a minute. Of course I’d volunteer to warm her up. Suddenly Trophy and I are thrashing around inside an igloo on top of a pile of furs as I help her out with some shared bodily warmth. Mmmmmm.

Trophy breaks into my little tableside fantasy. That’s a shame. The igloo was starting to melt. “Turn off the AC now,” she demands.

“Unfortunately I can’t do that madam,” I reply, “perhaps you’d like to move to another table?”

“Where can you put us?” she asks uncomfortably. She’s already sitting at one of the best tables in the house.

“I have a table next to the kitchen open.”

Trophy may be cute but she’s a Yuppie. She’d rather freeze to death than give up her primo table.

“No thanks,” she says, “I’ll manage.” Case closed.

As I walk away from the table I hear Trophy ask her husband to fetch her sweater out of the car.

“But we’re parked three blocks away!” he protests.

Trophy’s whining forces Hubby into the heat to retrieve her sweater. Good dog.

When he returns he’s cursing under his breath, sweating bullets.

I smile to myself and think of the picture of a bikini clad vixen a friend emailed me. The caption read, “Yeah she’s beautiful. But somewhere some guy is sick of her shit.”

Poor Hubby. Something tells me he’s paying handsomely for his prize. You have to pay to play I guess.

Trophy shivers under her shawl.

I go back to work dreaming of igloos.

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