And then there is Steve

01 January 2024

1100

R. Linda:

Recently, I had lunch at an upscale restaurant in Portsmouth, N.H. I arrived early and decided to have a drink while I waited. I had just been served when one of my lunch buddies (my work associate, Desmond) arrived, telling me the other mate would be his usual "fashionably late" self. The late guy was always late and wasn't exactly the type you'd find at an upscale restaurant, but it was the company's treat to all three of us for a job well done in 2023. We had covered a story on a local lawman who had a shady past and was still at his shady ways. The cameraman (Mr. Late) had been an asset to our Bernstein and Woodward reporting, so he was included in the company Thank You luncheon. By the time we were being asked if we cared for a second cocktail, our lunchmate was making his way to us. Desmond leaned towards me and said, "His idea of culture is an undershirt with sleeves, so this get-up we should be thankful for." 

Desmond worked with Steve many times, and they know each other well. I can't decide if they like each other or not. 

Yes, indeed, there was the hairy man in khakis, a Hawaiian shirt with a tweed sports jacket and some kind of Scottish cap of clashing tartan; forget about the socks that were apparently mismatched, as one could plainly see by the Birkenstocks he was sporting. Frankly, I was surprised the restaurant let him in dressed like that. Did I wish I was blind just then? You betcha!

To protect the not-so-innocent, I'll refer to him as Steve. Steve noticed our perusal of his clothing choice and informed us he was in a hurry to meet us. It could have been he showed up in his Jim-jams so as not to make fun (yes, he's British we two are Irish transplants).

Trying hard to ignore the outfit, we looked at the menu when Steve muttered, "I don't like livin' in a country where everything rides on what's in one's pocketbook!"

"Get over yourself. You don't live here, and the company's paying," Des muttered back and then turned to me and said, "Where were we before the monkey came in?"

"We were talking about building a cage." I elbowed him and nodded at Steve.

"I beg your pardon?" Steve said from behind the extensive menu. Steve is temporarily in the States working on an internship, and then back he goes to London. He is a hard person, no other way to put it. Nothing insults him, and he seems to attract sarcasm.

The waiter came to take our order. I went first, Des next and then Steve with a million menu questions holding the orders up. 

"Excuse me, could we get two double scotches because I think we will be here awhile," Des said to the waiter who was nearing exasperation answering Steve's insane questions. Looking relieved, the man took our menus, leaving Steve to study his. 

"Steve, can you at least pretend to be a human being?" Des asked the hairy young gent.

"Well . . .  Desmond, here's the rub, all these bits and bobs are alien to me, and when I order, I wanna know what I'm chewing on."

I must have looked angry because Des said, "I'd be wiping off my fingerprints from around his neck and rehearsing my 911 call by the look of you." And turning to Steve, he said, "And if I was you, I'd lay down . . .  and play dead."

"The long and short of it is I don't like American food unless it is fried chicken and burgers," Steve said, like that was a brilliant excuse for his menu behaviour. "This stuff here makes my brain all sticky. This is enough to make me crack up."

"First off, what brain? Second, a nervous breakdown and you are not compatible. It is you who give us a nervous breakdown." Des sneered at him. "Pull yourself together and order something when the waiter comes back, or don't eat!"

"Aren't you full of Irish sunshine?" Steve sneered back. 

The waiter returned with the scotches, and finally, Steve had no more questions and ordered. But not like a sane person would order from a rather extensive menu—no, not he. He ordered at least four appetisers and two entrees. 

We sat there looking at him, which made him nervous, I think.

"My brain was hazy, so I just got 'em all to try."

Des can come out with some silly, funny stuff when you don't expect it.

"I knew a guy who saw the ghost of his brother before he died. Was run over by a gritter lorry."

"No, I ain't got a brother," Steve retorted, recognising the old joke at his expense.

"Yes, you do. You told me his name is Kenny." Des looked perplexed.

Steve sighed. 

"I'm sure this will come up at the insanity hearing," Des said. "So what did you do with him? Where's the body at?"

"Really?" Steve mumbled, "Clock off, Des."

An aside here, Steve tried to take credit for OUR story. His photos told it all, and while they were appropriate to our reporting, in no way did he run the story down. That he was with us for lunch was an add-on. He wasn't supposed to be at the lunch; instead, he made such a fuss that our boss, Cruella, told him he was included, but she would not attend. I knew why she wasn't; she couldn't stand Steve's bombastic personality or his crude manners. So, the animosity was there as it had been throughout the whole process of our reporting. Des even had a private chat with Cruella about Steve's intimidating her into getting the credit he did not deserve, but alas, it did nothing to stall our argument. We didn't want him at the table. This puts Des in a snarky mood towards Steve. The dislike was apparent, and there was nothing I could do about it, but I did understand the why of it.

Some kind of egg dish came for Steve as an appetiser. It had sauces on a silver server. The waiter put the server next to Desmond.

"Desmond, pass me the Washington Shire sauce. "No, please, Desmond, it was just do it, sort of speak.

"Hm, the what?" Desmond was confused.

"The Westminster Shore sauce," Steve said, over-salting his egg dish.

"Are you having a stroke?" Desmond asked, plainly concerned.

"The Warcasteer Shiner sauce," Steve said, irritation setting in.

"The Worcestershire sauce, Des, please," I said to clarify the confusion. Since when can an Englishman not pronounce Worcestershire?

Desmond was clearly frustrated as he handed it over to Steve. We watched as half the bottle was poured over the exotic eggs to where they began to float. It WAS an appetising dish, but now it was a horrific dish of soggy piped yolks and egg whites that looked like floating eyeballs. I won't gross you out with lunch, Steve made everything on his side of the table look like it came from outer space making it somewhat hard to concentrate on our own dishes. Even the waiter looked aghast.

I wanted to take pictures, but it was terrible enough that Des and Steve were in a confrontational mode that I didn't want to add to it any more than I already had. You'll have to take my word for it; lunch on Steve's side of the tabletop was a nightmare of condiments, sauces, and relishes, where none were needed. 

"What are you like?" Desmond finally said, throwing down his napkin.

When Steve left to use the men's rooms Des and I opted to skip dessert and get coffee somewhere without Steve. Our appetites were ruined as it was and any more time spent watching Steve deconstruct a dessert was not in our stomach's best interest. 

He was OK with our leaving and continued to harass the waiter over dessert. 

This was my last day from work for 2023, and not how I had envisioned spending it. Especially since it was a 'thank you' luncheon. I did have the happiest Christmas I've had in years, though. Everyone was in good cheer, no Dragon Lady visiting, just Tonya, the kiddos and Mam. Sean is even gone for the holidays, trying to learn to ski like a pro with his new girlfriend, Mandy. She's quite the outdoor gal, and as long as she keeps him on these trips, we all approve of this new found love of his; that or his visa expires and it's time to go! Happy New Year, R. Linda!

Gabe

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