Chopped Liver

(Part 1 of 2)

by Alexander Edelman

I boarded the L two blocks from my apartment. It was a cold, January afternoon. Bitterly cold. The kind where when the wind gusts up it feels like the cold is coming from inside your bones. It doesn't blow, it cuts. Of course, I was used to this, having lived in Chicago for over five years now, first as a student at Northwestern Law School, then as someone taking time off from law school, and now as a full-fledged working member of society.
My apartment was small, but it fit my needs: a place to eat and sleep, occasionally have a date over. The two small windows weren't really such a bad thing, especially since I often went to sleep as the sun was beginning to rise. Late nights were common in my business; I never got off before 2 a.m., and at least once a week I was there until 3 or 4. My time of arrival was about twelve hours later, between two and four in the afternoon. On that day, however, I was boarding the train at 1:15, an early start.

The reason I'd set out early was that I had to make a stop on the way. Several VIPs were coming in that night, including the Consul General of France and the CEO of a big insurance company, and they'd be ordering some especially expensive alcohol. Not the kind of thing that could simply be sent to the speakeasy, so I went to pick up the stuff myself. I got off the train near where I worked and went to the large liquor store just down the street. I bought all my alcohol here, both for work and for pleasure, so they knew me.

"What'll it be Mr. Schwartz?" asked Ed Jr., the sales clerk and owner's son. "You here for your rum?"

"No, Eddy. I need a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. Your father's holding it for me."

"Let me check," he said, looking under the counter. "Ah, here it is. This is good stuff. It's $180 dollars, plus tax."

"I'll be paying cash, and needing a receipt."

"Sure thing, Mr. Schwartz. Can I get you anything else?"

"No thanks."

"Are you sure? Look, there's a new flavor of Absolut—it's onion. What do you say I throw in a free mini bottle?"

"Are you sure you're father wouldn't mind?"

"Hey, if you buy $180 bottle of Whisky, then one little mini-bottle on the house is no problem. Especially if it makes you buy more booze."

"Well thanks. I'll have to come up with a drink with this. Is it really onion?"

"That's what it says. Thanks for coming, Mr. Schwartz."

"Thanks Eddy. See you around."

"See you, Mr. Schwartz."

I left Ed's with a smile on my face. The kid was so enthusiastic, it always cheered me up when he was working. His father, Big Eddie (of Big Eddie’s Fine Liquors) was polite, but had the jaded perspective of having spent a life of hard work in an unfair world. His wife died when Eddie Jr. was just a child, and they had struggled. Eddie Jr. was a smart kid who worked in the store on weekends and holiday to help his dad out. He was a joy to be around. Not that I wasn't pretty upbeat most of the time to begin with. I had a good thing going. I loved my job, had a close group of friends, and was on good terms with my entire family. I was really happy, and at that point, saw no good reason not to be.

I took the alcohol and made my way towards the speakeasy, hidden inside an old warehouse. I arrived at 2:30, the same time as Evans. Evans Bazin was a Haitian immigrant, and the unofficial leader of a small group of Haitians that made up the majority of the staff at the speakeasy where I worked. They all spoke French and had at least some familiarity with French cuisine, which was important because our French chef, Pierre, was very temperamental. They were also all illegal immigrants, and pretty tough- looking characters, which made them ideal to do work that was pretty illegal. The six of them did almost everything on the operations side of the restaurant. They were the dishwashers, waiters, kitchen help and when necessary, bouncers.

Chicago, of course, has a long tradition of speakeasies, bootleggers, and those who navigate around various prohibitions. In the 20’s it was alcohol. In the 21st century, it's foie gras. Foie gras is a French delicacy, the fattened liver of a goose. It's production through force feeding is pretty gross, and considered inhumane (incidentally, I kind of think that killing something then eating it's liver is inhumane, but no one asked me). A number of countries (mostly in Europe) have banned the procedure, and my very own Chicago was the first city in the world to make it illegal to serve the dish.
At first those who opposed the ban sued, but with the support of PETA, the city held fast. Then, once the ban was in place, most of the restaurants that served foie gras continued to do so privately. This worked for about six months, until a hip nightclub owned by a relative of the mayor—The Daley Planet—was shut down for serving foie gras in violation of the ban. That was enough to send everyone else running scared, and led to the opening of the three speakeasies.

Operating a foie gras speakeasy differed a great deal from a traditional, Prohibition-Era speakeasy. A much narrower customer base and the needs of production (beyond a bathtub still) made it much more difficult. As a result there was a highly complex and boring process to create a series of shell companies and non-profits that does not warrant detailing here. Still there were three in town: a modern but casual and laid back restaurant and café known as Avant, an ultra-hip, French American fusion cuisine restaurant with a 20's gangster theme known as Mason Capone, and The Cooked Goose, the very traditional French restaurant where I worked as bar tender.

Inside I found the Haitians sitting around the office watching CNN.

"Hey, it's le Juif," said Hubert, using my nickname. "You're brother is going to be on the news."

I smiled again. My younger brother, Jonathan, was a terrorism expert. In the post-9/11 days, they're something of a dime a dozen, but my brother had just published a book that had gotten some attention in the media, containing some pretty radical ideas. His book caused quite a stir, and he got another small publicity boost from being invited to testify in front of the Senate sub-committee on terrorism.

At the hearing, he’d cited statistics that directly contradicted the Secretary of Homeland Security, and made the guy look like he didn’t know what he was doing. That night, the Secretary sat on a panel at a dinner, and after the discussion, failed to turn off his microphone. When he returned from the bathroom, the mike picked up everything he said until a sound tech managed to shut off the microphone. In that time he managed to call my brother a dirty word (starts with a k) and use several racial slurs against Arabs. So there was my brother, sitting on CNN talking to Anderson Cooper. He'd had some good training with a media consultant, and could handle himself well.

The heads of both the Anti-Defamation League and the Council on American-Islamic Relations have said that Secretary Brown's apology is inadequate, and they both want him to resign. What do you want from the Secretary?"

"Anderson, I want what I've always wanted from him and his department. I want them to put politics aside and do what it takes to secure this country, its citizens, and its values from attack. What Secretary Brown said was wrong, and he wronged me and two groups of citizens. But while it is wrong to attack minorities, those two groups combined make up less than 10% of the country's population. The Secretary has been wronging all of us, the whole country, endangering us by playing politics with his department."

"But certainly the comment offended you. You weren't at all upset?"

"I was. I'll be honest with you, Anderson. I found out when I received a call from my publisher. They were getting requests from journalists for an interview, so they scrambled to call me. When I first heard, I was shocked. 'He said what?' It just seemed ridiculous. I didn't believe it until I saw the clip, and at that point I didn't feel personally insulted as much as generally offended that this guy is anti-Semitic. I know Secretary Brown, and while he isn't the nicest guy, I'd never guess that he's a bigot."

"You grew up in Des Moines, Iowa. Is this the first time you've experienced anti-Semitism?"

"Since you prefaced your question with my hometown, I assume you're implying that growing up in the Midwest I must have been the victim of anti-Semitism. Well, I wasn't the most popular kid in school, but my friends never treated me differently, and the kids who were mean to me were mean because I was no good around a basketball, not because I was a Jew. I'm sure there were a few people who didn't like me and said nasty things, but I've never been directly assailed by any racial or religious slurs, and that's still true. Just because Secretary Brown's mike was on doesn't change the fact that his comment was whispered to someone, someone who I believe has a Jewish father. If we worry about every whisper, then we become paranoid, even if people are really whispering about us."

"So, do you think Secretary Brown should resign?"

"Well, I think there are really two issues there. There's a political question, and a practical one. But as I’ve said, I think this position should be apolitical, so I’ll leave politics aside. From a purely practical standpoint, he has to resign. My expertise is terrorism, not racism, but I always learned that racism is the product of ignorance. If this is true—and I think it is—then we should be very concerned that our Homeland Security Secretary is ignorant. This isn’t an ad hominem attack. You have to wonder how much contact someone who'd say these things has with the Arab community in the United States.

“The vast majority of Arab Americans are loyal citizens, and their cooperation is essential to fighting the war on terrorism. They—as a group—have very useful skills, namely Arabic. And if the Secretary didn't have a good relationship with the Arab community before, it will only get worse. So yes, I think he should resign.”

"So if Paul Brown resigns, who do you think should replace him?"

"That's a tough question. This is a new job, and it isn't clear what makes a good Secretary of Homeland Security. I would want someone who wouldn't act politically, but do what needed to get done. None of my names could ever make it, but I'd say Mark Jones, Thomas Bailey, or anyone from the 9/11 commission."

"What about Secretary Jonathan Schwartz?"

"I'm definitely on the list of people who could never get the job. I've stepped on too many toes."

"But what if you were offered the job? Would you accept?"

"Well, it would be hypocritical of me to turn it down after all my tough talk of getting politics out of the job and the need for competency. So yes, if offered the job, I'd take it. And now this is the only part they'll show of this interview."

"Let's hope not. I've been speaking with Jonathan Schwartz, author of War on Terrorists. Thank you for speaking to us, Jonathan."

"Thank you, Anderson."

"Coming up on…"
 
"Not bad," said Sollee, shutting off the TV, "but you're supposed to be unloading the truck that just pulled up out back. When food delivery needs to be secret, it has to be unloaded quickly. Rapidement!"

The six Haitians got up slowly and went to unload the truck. Jean-Paul, the youngest of the group at only 16, went into the dining room. In the “morning” he'd fold napkins and do other menial tasks while studying for his GED. Evans insisted and Sollee agreed. We're all hoping he'll be able to go to college next year. I followed him, heading to the bar. Sollee followed me.

"What'cha got there?" she asked, as I pulled out the bottle.

"This is Johnny Walker Blue, it's the really high end stuff. Actually, I'm going to need to be reimbursed."

"How much?" Sollee asked.

"About $190."

 "Yeah, alright. This is the $60 a glass scotch?"

"Yep. We'll need it tonight for the diplomat and the CEO."

"Right, of course.”

"Alright, let me get the cash to reimburse you. Need anything else?"

"No ma'am."

"Good. Get to work, this is going to be a big night. And you," she said, turning on Jean, "you'd better pass those tests next month."

"Yes ma'am."

Sollee smiled and went into the kitchen. She owned the place, and ruled it like a queen. Even for the operator of a speakeasy, she had quite a mysterious past. She claimed to be a descendent of a Canadian bootlegger, but often failed to disguise her Boston accent, especially when she was on the phone with her parents. She was a good owner, carefully balancing secrecy and publicity, paying bribes and kickbacks, and making sure the right people came in to ensure we wouldn't be shut down. She also paid all of us fairly, giving the staff a little above minimum wage before tips (generous in the restaurant industry), me quite a bit more (and my tips were sometimes as good as the wait staff), and Pierre much more than he could get without owning a restaurant, which, given his gambling addiction, was not really a possibility. She also arranged to directly pay his rent, utilities, grocery bill, and keep up a small tab at an underground casino, which had agreed not to take more money in. Thus, his addiction was kept in check (that’s what she said, and it seemed to be true), and he was able to put all of his considerable talent into cooking.

I got to work. In the small speakeasy I didn't have a real barback, though Amil sometimes served as one when the bar was especially busy. As a result, I would come in several hours early to do all the prep work myself. The glassware would be washed the night before, but still need to be replaced in the bar. Speed-pours needed to be inserted into bottles and garnishes and ingredients prepared. The ice machine required tending as it slowly produced 40 gallons of ice for the evening. Later, white wine and champagne needed to be chilled, and red wine allowed time to breath. I set to work stacking glasses.

About an hour later, I was cutting lemons when my cell phone rang. It was my mother. "Charlie, did you see what that Nazi Paul Brown said? Can you believe he called Jonathan a you-know-what?"

"No, ma, it's shocking."

"Feh. I always knew that man was an anti-Semite. I could tell just by watching him. The way he looked at your brother. If he really cared about his job he'd be glad to get help, but he's just a bigot who'd probably be in the KKK if he were born 30 year earlier. Well, pftt," she spat, "on him. He dug his own grave on this one. They’re going to have hearings, both parties want them, on some committee, with Lieberman, and he's going to tear that goy a new one. And meanwhile, your brother's getting all this free publicity for his book. Oh, he won't say it, because it would be a shanda, but this was probably the best thing that could happen to him. His book's really successful, your father and I are so proud."

"I'm proud too mom. Do you hear Anderson Cooper ask him about becoming Homeland Security Secretary?"

"I've always liked that Anderson Cooper, he’s very sharp. I don't think he would have asked that if it weren't at least a possibility. Oh, can you imagine, my Jonathan, Secretary of Homeland Security. Of course, I don't much care for the President, but it's like Jonathan says, it needs to be a non-political job. Maybe Hillary will even keep him on after she gets elected—oy, I'm schlepping nachas. Your brother makes me so proud."

"What am I, chopped liver?"

"Oh, Charlie, you know we love you. And we're proud of you, whatever you do. But just think, our Jonathan, in such an important job."

I went back to chopping the lemons, holding the phone against my ear with my shoulder. "It's great. So how are you, ma?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I'd be better if my children called me a little more often."

"Ma, I called you last week. And what about your wonderful Jonathan? Doesn't he call?"

"You know your brother is very busy. But yes, he still finds time to call me. He called me this week, not last."

"He called to remind you to tape him on C-Span."

"I asked him to do that! Anyways, it's not like you call."

"I was going to call later today, ma, I promise. As soon as I take my lunch break."

"It's three in the afternoon."

"You know I don't eat lunch until an hour before dinner starts, ma. I work in a restaurant."

"Well, you're not going to get in trouble, are you?"

"No, my boss is out talking to someone."

"Well, I'm sorry to disturb you. Get back to work, all right."

"Okay, ma. I will."

I hung up the phone and went back to work. I had not been intending to call my mother over my lunch break, but I should have, and when the time rolled around, I sat on the loading dock with a big bowl of fish stew Pierre had made and called my sister, Sarah.

"Hi, sis," I said, when she picked up the phone.

"Hey, Charlie. I was wondering if I was going to hear from you today. Have you talked to mom and dad?"

"Yeah, mom called earlier. You?"

"I called her this morning. And Jonathan, but he didn't pick up. Someone from his publisher said he was doing an interview. Have you talked to him?"

"He called me last night, after the story broke. It was late, so he probably didn't want to wake you or Sam or the kids. How are they, by the way?"

"They're fine, but don't change the subject. I can't believe he called you."

"I'm sure he'll call you as soon as he can. He's probably just too busy right now to do anything but go from interview to interview. Did you see him with Anderson Cooper?"

"You sound just like mom. Yeah, I saw him. Same little bullshitter he always was, huh?”

“You’re just jealous because he was always more charming than you.”

“And you were always smarter, but somehow I ended up in the tech industry and you’re a drug dealer.”

“Shut up, you’ll trigger Raptor,” I said, only half joking. “And I’m not; I work for the Children’s World Hope Foundation.”

“If you’re not a drug dealer, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Yeah, well you’d better hope the EFF doesn’t subpoena this tape, because they’d kick you out for saying something like that.”

“Ha ha,” said Sarah sarcastically. “First of all, there’s no such thing as Raptor, it’s a myth. And second, if it was real, saying drug dealer a couple of times wouldn’t trigger it unless it already thought you were a drug dealer, in which case they would get a very real wire tap. And third, if you work for a foundation, why are you a bartender?”

“It’s complicated and boring, I’ve told you. Just drop it okay.”

“I’m just worried about you. You wouldn’t last a week in jail.”

“Thanks. But I’m not doing anything illegal. You never really answered, how are Sam and the kids?”

“I did answer, they’re fine. The twins are still doing well in kindergarten, Sam’s loving his work, everything’s fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’d love to see you some time.”

“You’re always welcome here in Seattle, if the foundation ever gives you time off.”

“Maybe I’ll work something out. I could use a vacation.”

“Well, I've got to go, Microsoft wants me to design their new media download service, and I'm meeting with someone in half an hour."

"Are you ever going to take any of these offers?"

"Not for at least a few years, but they buy me lunch at great restaurants, so why not go?"

"Well, good luck, I guess."

"You, too. Love you, Charlie."

"I love you too Sarah."
 
That night, the restaurant was hopping, and I kept very busy. We opened at 5:30, but the first seating wasn’t until six, so people who got there early (we encourage our customers to space out their arrivals to avoid attracting attention) could sit at the bar or in the rather small lounge. The first couple to arrive were the Roggens; he was an attorney, she was a fairly well regarded psychologist, and prominent as a practitioner and supporter of what I think was called EMDR and involved eye movement. It was, according to another patron and an admitted rival of hers, controversial, but he had conceded that she had effectively treated a number of vets for their post-traumatic stress disorder, though he claimed this particular method had nothing to do with it. Her husband, while working for a firm that was nearly always suing the city or the state, managed to stay out of the press, and wasn’t that well known.

“What’ll you have?” I asked.

“Do you have any of that Pinot Gris that I had last time?”

“I’ve got the last bottle chilling right now, and for the gentleman?”

“Make it a vodka martini, Charlie, dry.”

“Glad to do it, Mr. Roggen.”

I reached down and pulled the vodka from the speed rail. The dry vermouth was in the cooler behind me, next to the white wines. I filled the shaker with ice, and then poured the vodka and vermouth over it. After a gentle stir, I put on the strainer and filled a martini glass. I poured a the glass of wine before skewering two olives and tossing them in the martini.

“Here you are,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” said Mr. Roggen.

They tapped the glasses together and toasted true love. Each drank and complimented me on the drink I’d served. They chatted while I began to empty and clean the shaker. I had a dozen available, and more in the back, but when I could I liked to keep them clean. More people entered, but they stayed in the small lobby and didn’t come over to the bar.

“I finished reading your brother’s book,” said Dr. Roggen.

“How did you like it?” I asked, at that point drying off the glass.

“It was good,” she said, “very interesting. I’m not sure I like his reason for opposing racial profiling. I’m glad he’s against it, but he should oppose it because it’s racist. He says it’s just a poor tool.”

“I know,” I said, “that chapter pisses off almost everyone. He also thinks racial profiling is racist, but that’s not the most convincing argument. That’s what he said.”

“Well, I still don’t like it,” she said. “I did like his proposal for anti-terror cells to operate with more agility than governments. But where on earth did he get the idea for cloning?”

“That weird religion, I forgot their name…they said they cloned a kid a year back.”

“The Raelians,” Mr. Roggen chimed in.

“Right, well my brother read that they had the idea for cloning suicide bombers, to punish them. That’s not really reasonable, since a clone isn’t the person who committed the crime. It’s just a kid with the same DNA. But he liked the idea, and thought having a gay couple either here or in Israel adopt the kid would be the most odious outcome for the terrorists.”

“That’s a pretty weird idea,” said Mr. Roggen.

Another couple came up to the bar, much younger. He ordered a Heineken, and she ordered a cosmopolitan. She gave me a smile, while he never made eye contact. I overheard them talking, and he was a new associate at a big firm. A friend of mine from law school was an associate there as well, but I’d been doing this job long enough to know that this guy didn’t want to hear that. So I shook her drink in silence, poured it artfully (not that they noticed), then popped his beer.

“Here you are,” I said, “should I put that on you tab?”

“Yeah, yeah, here you go,” he said absentmindedly, grabbing his beer while still not making eye contact. He flashed a twenty and dropped it in my tip jar. He was showing off, but I still get the money, and better, I knew Mr. Roggen would tip more so as not to be outdone by the cocky kid and aspiring corporate lawyer he regarded as his moral inferior.

It’s not like I lived from tip to tip, I did fine. But I enjoyed making these little changes, these small decision that led to better tips, and I got a little thrill when it paid off. It made me feel more in control. As lame as it sounds, I felt like everyone in the service industry did it, and it was better than spitting in people’s food. It was the only way to stay passionate about the job.

Everyone continued to talk about this and that, though I paid little attention. Amil came back and asked for a bottle of white wine for a dish Pierre was making. I gave it to him, and refilled Dr. Roggen’s wine glass. Then it was six, and the Roggens and everyone else were seated, one at time, by Evans, who was usually the host around this time. Mr. Roggen put a twenty and a ten in my jar before going to his table.

The restaurant was small, seating less than 20 people in its normal configuration (we could fit 9 couples), so between the Roggens, lawyer, the group of 6 waiting in the foyer, and the Consul General and his wife and son (who had arrived promptly at six), we were nearly full. The diplomat appropriately ordered the most expensive French wine we had (for the sake of his reputation, I won’t tell you how much it cost), but his wife, who was born in Edinburgh, ordered a glass of the scotch I’d bought that afternoon. The younger couple ordered another round, and the Roggens ordered a bottle of red wine that I’d recommended on the menu for the evening (though it said Pierre recommended it as a pairing). The table of six, I later found out, were Mormon, and drank only water. The final party of four arrived at around 6:10, and ordered single glasses of wine and beer.

The first course was always the same. A small serving of pâtés de foie gras, the house special. At this point I often had little to do, and in later sittings I used the time to clean, but then I just watched the guests eat. My Midwestern palate wasn't exactly cultured, but Pierre's foie gras was startlingly good, and it was fun to watch people savor the rare taste. The next course was a salad, for which there were two options that changed with the season, then about a dozen entrées, half of which include more foie gras in some form. I refilled wine glasses and drinks, but with so few people, most of the first sitting was down time for me.

Once the Consul and his family had finished their bottle of wine, they had a full round of scotch, which made everyone on the staff very happy (and paid for the bottle, not yet half-empty). And between dinner and dessert, everyone who was drinking ordered something else. The Roggens had kir, the late-comers Irish coffee, the diplomat’s family drank grappa as a digestif, the young couple had chocolate martinis, and even the Mormon group ordered a round of Italian sodas. Soon the guests began to leave, though the Consul’s wife stopped at the bar for one more for the road while her son and husband retrieved their car (we had a complex system for diverting attention from exiting cars).

“How was your meal, ma’am?” I asked, as I poured her a finger of a less expensive, younger single malt scotch.

“You know, I never really liked the French food. You mustn’t tell my husband or Pierre this, but this is the only place I can get French food I really enjoy.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” I said, and was rewarded with three twenties and instructions to “keep the change” on the $25 tab.

Before the young couple had left, the next sitting arrived. The tables were turned over with amazing speed and grace by the Haitians, but by then I was already serving a bank president Champagne and a CEO and his partner manhattans.

The second sitting was very similar to the first, and the evening tended to repeat itself somewhat. There were four sittings, which happened every two hours, though the last one tended to start early and be comprised of a much younger group who was willing to start dinner at midnight. They were often seated by 11:30, since the 10:00 sitting was mostly made up of older people who had come from a show or movie, and were tired enough that they often did not stay through dessert. As a result, the midnight crowd (Jean-Paul, who liked vampire movies, called them the Lost Kids) often arrived by 11:00 to start drinking before they sat down. While many did not tip that well, they were a good source of business, and their presence tended to cause the previous sitting to leave earlier, which meant we could all go home earlier. As a result, I sometimes poured a little generously for this set, and regaled them with stories.

“How did your brother end up testifying to that committee?”

“Oh man,” I said, handing someone their vodka and Red Bull, “this is a good story.”

The ability to tell stories while bartending is the best secondary bartending skill to have. It’s better than any trick or joke, because it keeps people engaged, and they’ll hang around for another drink. It didn’t work quite the same at my bar, but it was a skill I had honed over my time working at the Goose.

“So the head of the subcommittee is from Iowa, where my brother and I were raised. Our parents are Democrats, and don't support Senator Storer, but happened to meet him at a Jewish Federation event. No, that’s her lemon drop, your martini is coming. Anyway, they're donors, and the Senator came to glad hand the Jewish neocons. They got to talking and my mother mentioned—and knowing her probably went on and on about—my brother, the terrorism expert. You’re welcome. So Storer, who's the king of pork barrel politics, loves any chance to throw money at the state, or any place in the state, or anyone from the state. Most politicians do this as a way to win support at home and get reelected. Storer does it as a matter of principle. One dirty martini. So he decided to give my brother some free press. That’s how he put on the list.”

“So, what really happened at that hearing, I’ve read different things?”

“I’m sure you all missed the hearing entirely, unless you were watching C-SPAN 2 in the middle of the day. There was nothing worth showing on the evening news or the Daily Show. Not at the time, but you all know what happened. My brother shows that the guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and the guy gives my brother the dirtiest look you’ve ever seen.

“That night, my brother went out to a hip Georgetown bar with our cousin, our cousin’s fiancée and some of his friends who work in the area. He (my brother) ran into his old girlfriend who's now a staffer for Diane Feinstein. They reconnected and my brother spent the night at her apartment. All this I heard later. The Secretary did not have such a good night. This, of course, made all the 24 hour news networks, and I even heard about it last night. My brother was up late giving interviews to make the morning deadlines, caught a few hours of sleep, then started going on TV.”

“Have you talked to your brother?”

“I did, but he didn’t tell me anything.”

This was mostly true. I talked to him when I got off work, and he said it was fine for me to give interviews and say whatever I wanted, as long as it didn't infringe on Mom, Dad, Sarah (our sister) or her family's privacy. For obvious reasons, I neglected to give any interviews.
“Does he know what you do?”

“No,” I answered firmly, which was also mostly true. Like the rest of my family, he had a sense that I didn’t work for a charity, but didn’t want to know what I really did for a living.

I signaled that I was finished telling the story by taking the cabernet sauvignon I’d been allowing to breathe to the stock broker’s table. When I returned, a voice from the crowd around the bar called out “Hey, Schwartz.”

I couldn’t place it at first, but then I realized that it was “Francis Cabot, you stuffy old plutocrat, what are you doing here?”
“It’s good to see you too, Charlie. I haven’t seen you since Contracts. You were all the rage in that class, as I recall. You know, if you weren’t making the rest of us look bad, we’d have all been impressed instead of hating you so much. I mean, Professor Richards sure thought the sun shone out your ass.”

“Whatever, just because I answered his questions correctly…”

“Oh please, Schwartz, you were his star. A teacher hasn’t liked a student that much since Socrates had dinner with Agathon.”

“And now I remember why I left law school. Classics majors.”

“Seriously, man, what happened? I figured we’d graduate together, but L3 I look around and you’re gone.”

“It’s a long story. No, it’s actually not. I woke up one morning, and realized that my entire life had been planned out. When I was just five years old, they put me in school, and ever since I’d been on autopilot, working hard, but not really making any decisions. I realized that by the time I finished, I’d have been 20 years in school, and 5 years out of school. And I don’t remember anything from those five years. I felt like if I did that, I would just coast, and the next time I would wake up at fifty or sixty and realize I’d done nothing my entire life. I was terrified, so I left. I finished out the semester, but I did the paperwork for time off that very day. That was October of my second year.

“And what about you?” I asked, “you’ve got, what, 3 years work experience under your belt. You must be working some big corporate shit to be eating here. Did you sell out to the man?”

“No, no, I actually didn’t. I’m working for a plaintiff’s attorney, a small firm, but we have loyal clients. We just won a huge case against a big pharmaceutical company I can’t mention for some exceptionally unsavory behavior. It was settled outside of court, and there’s a privacy clause, but our cut of the settlement was 9 figures. I worked on the case, and along with everyone else at the firm, got a nice little bonus when the case settled. I’m here to celebrate.”

“Congratulations. Can I recommend a Champaign?”

“Nah, I’m sick of it. I drank a ton at the office. How about a really good mixed drink? Something that makes me look cool and manly.”
“One Manhattan, coming up.”

At one point during the 10:00 sitting, I saw Sollee talking in a corner to someone who I knew worked in the mayor's office. Sollee looked upset, and was gone for close to an hour before returning, looking a little sullen, but trying to hide it. Before I went home, Sollee told me to come in early the next day, at ten.

I tried not to think about it, and returned to the bar after getting only a few restless hours of sleep. I arrived at the speakeasy to find everyone standing around the dining room looking tired and sullen. We all knew what Sollee was going to say before she said it.

"Thank you for coming early, everyone. I'm sorry to tell you that I found out last night that the Tribune is running an expose on the speakeasies, and they have our address. I've tried to pull in favors, but the best I could get was that the police won't raid the place until two in the morning, and that was only on one condition: that they find nothing when they get here. We have to strip the place bare, including the kitchen, and wipe everything clean of fingerprints or DNA. That means disconnecting and removing everything from the kitchen, taking apart and destroying the dining room, and wiping down all the surfaces.

"There's an abandoned industrial site down by the water where we'll be chucking all of the wood,” said Sollee, “and paper into an incinerator. We've got a drop for silverware, where it'll all be melted down. All the glassware is getting recycled, and all the dishware is being laundered and sold. There's a large van for hauling most of this stuff, and a 16 wheeler will be by to take the kitchen appliances. I've got an automated service canceling all of tonight's reservations, but we need to have most of the stuff out by 6. Then we need to flush all of the pipes and be gone by 10, when the police will start monitoring everyone. The van will get chopped, and we all go home. I've liquidated our accounts, and you'll each be receiving a very nice bonus. For obvious reasons, we can't be in touch in the future. I'm sorry to spring this on you, but it's the only option we have. There's a lot of work to do, so let's get to it."

Alexander Edelman was born and raised in Kansas City, where he currently resides. He graduated from Harvard College in 2007. He is interested in the stories that change the world.