Great. More to do.
It seems like an easy enough task: stop Kolten from eating whatever he was planning to eat. But when I open the glass doors I don’t see him. Instead I’m hit with a wave of shitty music. It takes me a second to place it: “Walk Like an Egyptian” by the Bangles.
And the place is packed with people dressed in Egyptian garb. Many of them, just like the guy in the lobby earlier, are wearing bronzer to darken their skin. They must have gotten ready for their flight, it got canceled, and they all ambled up here to let off some steam. Because there’s serious drunken energy in the room. Old folks flailing their bodies to the music, hoisting glasses of wine and light beers, smiles stretched to capacity as they try to make the best of their terrible, horrible, no good, very bad situation.
Standing just inside the door is my new trillionaire bestie, Osgood. He’s staring at the crowd, dabbing at his forehead with his little purple pocket square. His face is flat. He turns to me and just shakes his head a little, and even though I know he doesn’t hold me responsible, I feel embarrassed to be associated with this place.
The shit these people get away with.
Okay, Kolten.
I glance around and don’t see him, but the crowd is thick, so I dive into the middle of it, scanning the room. I spot him sitting with his brother and Drucker. She’s having a red wine, they both have beers. No plates yet.
But Cin, the tight little Dominican waitress covered in tattoos who I’ve considered making a pass at, is wending her way through the tables, her arms laden with food.
And there are a lot of people between us.
I move toward them and call out, “Hey.”
They’re not paying attention, or maybe they don’t hear me over the music, which is playing much louder than it should be. Cin puts down the plates. The social media wunderkind is having a sandwich. I cut through the grid of tables, dodging around drunken racists, but it’s not a straight path, so I’m hopping from foot to foot.
As I’m about to call “hey” again, an old man in a white robe and an Egyptian headdress bumps me into a table, setting me off course and knocking the wind out of me.
I push him away and scramble to my feet, yell, “Hey!”
Kolten still doesn’t notice me, so I pick a saltshaker off the nearest table and wing it at them. It catches Warwick in the chest, and he gets up, not sure what happened with all the chaos around him, but Kolten already has his sandwich in his hand.
I start pushing tables out of the way. Warwick sees me now, and I point at his brother. “Stop him right now.”
But he doesn’t get what I mean.
Stop him from what? Eating a delicious sandwich?
Finally, though, Kolten pauses, mouth open, sandwich halfway there, and it gives me enough time to reach him and knock it out of his hand. The sandwich flies through the air and lands on the floor, and he pauses, before standing up and screaming, at the top of his lungs, his face red with rage, “Why the fuck would you do that?”
I can’t help but notice he’s still wearing his Buddhist beads.
“Are you allergic to anything?” I ask, catching my breath.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You tell me right now why I shouldn’t have you fucking fired and carted out of here like a fucking criminal…”
Warwick grabs his brother’s shoulder, and Kolten seems to calm a bit. “Peanuts,” Warwick says. “He’s allergic to peanuts. But we told the waitress…”
Kolten is still sputtering but I ignore him and go around to the sandwich. It’s a vegetarian banh mi, with a sauce that, when I dip my pinkie in and taste, may as well be full-blown peanut butter. I take the sandwich and toss it on the table and ask, “Where’s Mbaye?”
“Right here,” he says, standing behind me, wiping his hands with a dish towel, probably drawn by the commotion.
“Dropping the ball back there?”
“What are you talking about?”
I gesture to the sandwich. “Guy has a peanut allergy.”
“Okay, whoa,” he says, hands up. “I made and plated that on a station I cleaned myself. I double-checked everything. I always do.”
“Try the sauce.”
He dips a tentative finger in, sticks it in his mouth, and his eyes go wide. “That’s not the sauce I put on.”
“Well it’s the sauce he almost ate,” I tell him. “How did it get there? Fairies?”
“I don’t…” He falters for a minute, allowing that maybe he did mess up. But then he steels himself and looks me clear in the eye. “I prepared that myself. I double-checked everything.”
“Well you don’t always, do you?” I ask, my voice cracking.
The words are acid. They splash on his skin and burn. And it feels good to see how much they hurt him. It brings me comfort. It’s like a pressure-release valve, letting out a little of the steam that lives in my chest. I don’t care what that says about me.
Mbaye drops his head. He doesn’t look up at me when he says, “January…”
“What?” I ask. “January, what. What do you have to say to me?”
He sighs.
We have an audience. Mbaye gives up and turns to Kolten. “Mister Smith, I cannot apologize to you enough. This mistake is unacceptable.”
Kolten has cooled a bit. I think because of the way his brother is gripping his triceps. He no longer looks like he wants to rip someone’s head clean off their shoulders. He nods slightly and says, “Yes, it is unacceptable.”
Then Warwick says, “Huh.”
We all turn to him. He’s patting his blazer, his face twisted in confusion. “I had it when I left the room. I remember switching it because I changed jackets…”
“Had what?” I ask.
“The EpiPen,” he says. “I always carry one. That’s impossible.” He looks up at me. “Thank god you were here. How…?”
“She’s Unstuck,” Drucker says, taking some small degree of pride in being the one to inform them.
“Thanks for the reminder,” I tell her. “Yes, everyone, I am Unstuck, and I watched Kolten here choke and die a few minutes ago and thankfully I got in here in time.” I turn to Kolten. “So, you know, sorry I put my unwashed hands on you.”
“Thank you,” he says, because he knows he needs to say it, not because he’s in the proper emotional state to mean it.
Warwick steps in, and I am beginning to understand the dynamic of their relationship much better. “We owe you so much. Thank you for this. Seriously. I just…I can’t believe I forgot the pen. That seems impossible.”
No, it doesn’t.
There’s a bad feeling worming in my gut. The music has stopped, mercifully, so I leave them to sort out the aftermath and take Ruby to a quiet corner and ask, “How are the video feeds right now?”
“They seem fine,” it says.
I take out my phone. “Show me their table for the past ten minutes. Double speed.”
The video appears on my phone, but the view sucks. There are too many people moving. I only have a view of Warwick’s back.
“Okay, now show me the kitchen, and Mbaye preparing the sandwich.”