Catering

“Pineapple milkshakes, iced tea deeped with honeycomb, mocha chipotle coolers. Man, this is the trippiest party I’ve ever heard of,” said Stan. His long blond hair was tied back from his face with a black ribbon and the caterer’s uniform — black tux and bow tie — made him look like a lanky penguin, completely out of his element in the kitchen of this wealthy suburban home. “And I’ve been to some doozies, let me tell you.” He grinned and elbowed Gus in the gut, nearly making Gus drop his tray. “Hey, remember that time that Billy Pips scored that tank of nitrous from the dentist with the toe fetish?”

“Steeped,” said Gus, equally uncomfortable in his own monkey suit but this was the first job they’d had in like a month and Mrs. Gibson was going to kick them out of their apartment if they didn’t come across with some rent soon.

“What?”

“It’s iced tea steeped with honeycomb, not deeped. And keep your voice down. The guests will hear you.”

Stan made a face. “Look at you, all Mr. Jeeves and shit.” He arched his eyebrows and trotted around the kitchen with one hand raised and his ass sticking out. “May I freshen your chipotle bong water margarita, Madam? Give me a break. I know what you want to do with that honeycomb.”

Gus couldn’t bite back a guilty grin. Stan knew him all too well. “Just shut up and don’t get us fired. We get paid, get back home, I’ll show you exactly what I want to do with it. And the pineapple too.”

“Oooh.” Stan’s eyelids drooped and he leaned in close, teasing Gus’s neatly trimmed beard with his long, Roman nose. “I ever tell you I’ve got a thing for bears in tuxedos?”