was he going to see her. He wasn’t crazy after all.
With that rousing resolution that ignited every fiber in his body and hardened his will into steel, or at least a more solid substance than his usual, weak flesh, Bill was fully prepared to face another day. He deleted Linda’s message. After checking to see if any chocolate remained in the box or any watery scotch lingered in the glass, he went to shower and dress for work.
Chapter 4
For lunch that day, Bill met Stan, a friend and former coworker, at an inexpensive Chinese cafeteria in Midtown, which he had recently discovered when he walked on a different street around his office. It was a dingy-looking place from the outside that did not improve in appearance when one entered. A few blurry photos of China and faded Chinese prints decorated the walls. An assortment of used tables and chairs, too many for the space, crowded the dining area. The entire place looked as if it needed a gut renovation, or at least a thorough cleaning, but Bill was utterly delighted at first sight, because a large sign in the window advertised a five-dollar, hot buffet lunch. He smiled, transported with joy, at finding his new, favorite dining spot. The fact that the cafeteria had a mostly Chinese and Chinese-American clientele, which he could discern from outside, only added to his belief that he had found a real deal, a bargain from Beijing buried in the bowels of expensive Manhattan.
It was only a short walk for both Bill and Stan from their offices to the cafeteria. When they arrived, they shook hands outside the place. As they almost always did when they met, they started trading old barbs about how sick and near death the other looked. Joking and laughing, they hoped in turn that the other would be able to hang on a few more months, even though it didn’t seem likely. “Your tumor has metastasized too much,” they would tell each other. “You look terrible.” Or one of them might say with mock concern, “Buddy, I’m afraid there’s no miracle of medical science to help you now. Whatever your illness is, it’s a killer. It’s been good knowing you.” Their friendship was not of a sensitive, fawning nature.
Stan was a physically imposing man in his forties, tall and broad-chested, who carried his extra bit of weight well. An executive at a large company, he worked at a higher level than Bill had ever attained and looked as if he did. Although balding, he was well-groomed and well-dressed. He wore a superfine, summer-weight, dark wool suit, white shirt with cuff links, and a luxuriant silk tie. Externally, Stan did not appear to be the sort of man who would maintain a friendship with Bill, who was dressed in a final-sale polo shirt and chinos and toting his worn briefcase, which he thought safer than leaving it in the office. But Stan had come from modest roots and retained an open, generous personality. He enjoyed the frank, joke-filled talks he could have with Bill, although he thought Bill dense and inflexible at times. Stan actually lived near Bill on Long Island and would have liked to travel on the train with him to and from work, but Bill was a creature of habit and would not alter his earlier work routine to join Stan, even though Stan was his closest friend. Since Stan was married with two young children, his weekends were filled with family activities. Consequently, the two saw each other infrequently, usually only when they met for an occasional weekday lunch. Bill demanded that it always be an inexpensive lunch. Stan wasn’t so picky.
Inside the cafeteria, each picked up a tray and waited in line to be served. Stan did not have to insist much for Bill to go ahead of him. The thought of a five-dollar lunch filled Bill with excitement, and he was eager to get his food. When it was Bill’s turn to select from the buffet choices, he pointed to a pan of food on the steamer and asked the Chinese immigrant behind the counter serving, “What’s that?”
She replied with a heavy accent, dropping a syllable, “Shiken brokli.”
“What?” Bill asked louder, confusion taking over his face. He wasn’t prepared to comprehend someone who spoke poor English. His attention was focused on getting his money’s worth.
“Shiken brokli,” she repeated, in the exact same tone and volume.
“What did she say?” Bill asked Stan. “Do you understand her?”
“Chicken