The Olganizer

“They drop their kids off, and then they hit the gym, and then they meet for lunch. And on Tuesdays and Thursdays they meet for lunch here.” 

Ben is told this on his first day. He observes his induction with curious detachment through tall, mirrored walls, where a young boy stands stiffly in a black and white uniform resembling a petrified penguin. The waiter, an Argentinean named Gaston, speaks in a thick accent he finds intimidating and difficult to follow. As Gaston walks away the only detail Ben recalls is something about wives tipping well. It sticks in his mind for days like an unruly tuft of hair refusing to be flattened.

They wear interesting shoes. It is the first thing he notices. An alarming array of shoes approaching him, it seems, with charms and buckles, glitter and sequins. Shoes that jangle like bangles on a bony wrist, shoes with tight floral straps that entwine and entrap and surely suffocate their ankles, shoes precariously perched, defying the laws of physics, with teensy-weensy heels, unnaturally high, elevating these women to new heights like over-zealous push-up bras. 

They glide effortlessly, as though the entire length of the restaurant were a Milan catwalk. Except for the stocky one, Ben observes quietly, whose stilettos don’t make her calves less chunky, or her feet less broad. Her expression suggests she’s tackling a grueling obstacle course as she lumbers between the heavy, white cloth tables.