The Hive, Part 2--Renee

Susan had a chocolate martini; her second. She arrived first. Joy nursed her Amstel. In the bend of the booth, Bree pored over the wine list like she knew what she was doing. And Renee went with her usual--a Jack and ginger.

Even though they were roommates in the same Brooklyn brownstone, they always reserved Sunday evenings for a girls' night out. Catching up and getting out of their Fort Greene apartment. True they were not precisely consistent in this measure, but they made as good as they could, considering the far-flung places they were from. Toronto. Olympia. Las Vegas. And Renee was from Pittsburgh. When she was a teenager she idled her weekends away at the Warhol Museum and campus galleries. Earlier today she cheered her Steelers to victory over the Browns, from her bed, in her Steelers sweatshirt. Her college boyfriend (Should she still consider him a boyfriend?) had called that afternoon from Baltimore or Annapolis or Silver Springs. She wasn't sure where he lived. It was definitely in Maryland.

She was chewing on the idea beauty was not in the eye of the beholder. It was a constant and it was true, real, beyond physical. Beauty was not entirely in the fashion rags she thumbed through. Well, maybe it was in Nylon, but definitely not in Cosmo. Beauty too should be a five-letter word; she would call it "looks."

And, because she was a spontaneous person, she decided to put her observation into action, from theory to practice.

"Our waiter has some looks."

It didn't come out just the way she had expected, a little over-eager. She thought that she would put the emphasis on "some" to give "looks" the quality of an afterthought. Instead, she accented "waiter" and the rest of the sentence was lost. But there was still potential in this newborn; she would have to prepare her next showcase for "looks" better.

"Ren, are there any cute guys at your office?"

"Yes. Why, yes there are. I don't know which ones have girlfriends yet, but there is one guy from Italy. He brought me some cheese on Friday."

"Was it Italian cheese?"

"It was New York cheese."

Sometimes Bree really got on her nerves with her stupid questions. How could anyone know if cheese was Italian?

"Oh, I may get a raise. Gwendolyn says if we get the Bijou Rouge account everyone will see a substantial bonus in their paychecks."

"A bonus or a raise? Renee, just make sure they don't try to give you more work without more money."

"Bijou Rouge? Is that a cosmetics account?"

"No, it's a big hotel. And I want more work. All I do all day is bring people their mail and say 'Good morning, Crucible Advertising' or 'Good afternoon, Crucible Advertising' or sometimes I just say 'Crucible Advertising.' The 'advertising' part I added myself. 'Crucible' sounded empty without it. Then I sign for packages which I set aside to deliver the next morning. I really need more to do, Susan."

"What would you like to do then?"

"Well, I don't think I have the talent to be a real creative yet, but I would like to come up with some ideas. Maybe I'll write down some ideas and give them to Oz, just to see what he thinks."

"I think that's a great idea."

Before Renee could expand on how the hotel could have a Warhol look, their waiter had pulled a chair up next to her. "You girlds look like a smart bunch. Here's a challenge." And he produced four matchsticks, then he tore a corner off Renee's cocktail napkin. He assembled a football upright and put the napkin piece inside. "You have to get the garbage out of the dustpan, but you can only move two matches. I'll buy a drink for whoever figures it out."

Joy reached over pushed the horizontal bit, then placed the off matchstick, so there was an upside-down dustpan, and the garbage was definitely out.

"I don't need another."

"I'll take hers. Jack and ginger."

Susan looked at her empty glass. Joy nodded.

"C'mon, Bree."

"But I haven't ordered yet."

"We'll go next door. Renee, you stay here and talk to the cute boy." Susan leaned into the waiter's ear. "You're a good waiter. Consider this a very big tip."

He was about to protest professionally. But Renee put her hand on his leg. "What's your name?"

"Raffello."

"Are you Italian?"

"I'm Puerto Rican."

"I'm Renee from Pittsburgh."

"Steelers won big today, yo."

"I did that."

"Then, you are some kind of magic."

"I have a magic sweatshirt."

"I have...to get back to work."

"You have to see my magic sweatshirt."

He stood up, eye-fucking her. She wrote her cell out on a dry spot of her napkin.

"My friends are waiting."

As she walked the endless distance to the door, she rehearsed: You have looks. You really have some looks. Atomize me with your looks. She practically hummed to herself. The delivery was spectacular.