Gene.

Oct 27, 2005 18:30

"How was your meal?" asked Mr McDonaugh, the restaurant's owner and chef. We didn't know each other well, but I'd gone to school with his son, Gene, and he knew that, so he was always friendly whenever I ate there.
"Superb, as always, Grant. Did you use the same sauce on the fish as before?" I didn't eat at this restaurant particularly often, but I had had several meals there in the past; enough to notice differences in the food, at least.
"I've changed the wine I use in the sauce. I use a slightly sweeter white, now. Did you enjoy it?" He would have questioned me about the meal until I changed the subject, and I was anything but eager to exchange pleasantries about the food which, we both knew, was excellent.
"No, no, I quite enjoy the new sauce. Certainly, I do." I considered this polite enough, and could think of no better time to bring up his son. "How is Gene?"
"Shhhhh! Don't say that so loud!" He had rushed to my table in an effort to silence me.
"Say what?" I was confused.
"That name! Don't let him hear you say that!" He was insistent and even seemed scared. This confused me further.
"That's his name, though! Why can't I use it?" I tried to hide my confusion; I didn't like appearing out of my depth.
"He goes by a new name, now - Ronaldo. You must always call him Ronaldo." By this time Grant was glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.
"What will he do if I call him Gene?" I had become more than curious about the matter of the forbidden name.
"Shhhh! You don't want to know what he'll do if he hears you say that name." Grant walked back to the kitchen. I don't think he would have said anything more on the subject.
"Chris, why can't I call Gene by his name?" Chris was the bar attendant. He was friendly and, more importantly, not superstitious.
"No-no-no-no! Don't say that name! He's called Ronaldo, now. Only call him by Ronaldo. You don't want to know what he'll do if he hears you say that name." I was, naturally, flustered. It was at this point that Gene/Ronaldo walked through the door. He was not as I remembered him. Before he'd been very casual; more often than not he could be seen wearing a singlet and boardshorts. In the restaurant on that night he was wearing a dark grey business suit with a white dress shirt underneath. He wore glasses, too, a decidedly new affectation. They must have come with the new name, I thought.
"Hi!" I waved to him and gestured for him to join my table.
"How are you? What's new?" I asked. Chris glanced at the two of us, then hid behind the bar.
"Oh, not a lot. Yourself?" Despite the mid-summer temperature that evening, Gene/Ronaldo didn't have a single bead of sweat on his face. He was very collected.
"Very little, truthfully. I'm curious, though..." I was not lying; I was curious.
"Yes?" Gene/Ronaldo seemed very unaware of what I was about to ask.
"Ronaldo, why can't I call you by your real name?" My toes curled in anticipation, and my fingers gripped the table a little too hard, turning my digits white.
"Oh, you don't want to know what I'll do if I hear you say that name." I didn't understand.
"But, what do..." Gene/Ronaldo just shook his head, silencing me.
"Ahh," I said, after a few moments. I understood. Nodding once to each other, we both stood and left the table. I went to the cashier, handing over too many notes, and left without saying another word.
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