Feeding The 1%

Only the wealthy do not care that your company overcharges, and so you drive into posh enclaves deep in the wine
country, unload your van under arching oaks, and push your carts of food past flawless flower gardens, or sometimes, as in this case, acres of lawn from which a massive bronze statue partially rises: head, shoulders, knees.

Inside this house is a vast room containing nothing but a sofa that faces a wall from which water falls from the ceiling to the floor and somehow disappears. In another room there is a row of glass panels etched with tiny white doves and as you walk around this sculpture the birds appear to take flight, one after another. But you have a job to do and no permission to be near this masterpiece, to be anywhere beyond the kitchen.

Which is just as you expected: rosewood cabinets, onyx appliances, creamy marble countertops. You pull out your battered trays of mini crab cakes and run your fingertips over what must be the oven, searching for something that opens or illuminates. No use asking the trophy wife, but there is a child getting himself a drink from the invisible fridge and you pounce on his mercy. He answers with a monstrous yawn, points out the row of hidden controls, and leaves you to figure them out, and eventually you do, with help from your waiter, who compromises the assignment by drying an heirloom goblet with his meaty hand and breaking it to bits, while you manage to drop the first slice of strawberry tart on the travertine floor. At first you gape, frozen, then, per your training, you spring into action, cutting each remaining piece a little smaller and plumping the plates with extra berries and mint. The guests, focused on gossip and cognac, will not notice this sleight of hand. Only one person finishes her dessert, and two portions come back to the kitchen with the stub of cigars buried in the marscapone cream.

A cobalt sink lit from below guides you to the bathroom where you find the trophy wife nuzzling a man with silver hair who is not her husband, and because you matter so little, she does not even give you a warning glance as she sidewinds out the door.

Andrea Bocelli’s “Time To Say Goodbye” has been playing on repeat for the last hour, but no one seems to notice or say goodbye. You have loaded, unloaded, and reloaded the dishwashers, put all your dirty hotel pans, utensils, and bar towels back in the van, and there is nothing left to do but wait for the house to empty so you can wash the brandy snifters and ash trays and head back to the shop where you will empty the van yet again and knock back a few stiff drinks—-combat pay for the mission.

For now, trembling with fatigue, you sit on the patio steps, and watch the smoke from your cigarette curl towards the moon. Soon the family dog will amble over, sniff your hands and soiled white jacket, before flopping down with a heavy sigh in a show of solidarity.