The Ambassador

In the rugged seaside town they'd stopped in, The Rodd 'n Reel restaurant was the only game in town, or so said the gas station attendant a ways uproad. The only place to get a quality, if overpriced meal he said, and by a mile the only place to drink unless you made drinking your job. Tandy's across the river took care of that crowd but still, the Rodd 'n Reel was everyone's last stop because it was the the classiest joint and best watering hole in the whole Rogue River basin.

His cronies didn't realize this was Rupert's old stomping ground. This was the same coastal town his elderly parents had retired to, and where he'd spent nearly every summer vacationing for decades. He knew these back roads like he'd been sired here himself, knew the landscape and certainly knew Sam, the restaurant's owner and village patriarch. Back in the day Rupert would have recognized most of the staff and patrons too, but it'd been nearly a decade since he'd been to Gold Beach, let alone set foot in the 'Rod. It was only happenstance they were all there now—a miracle in fact, that his Harley-riding work mates on their annual motorcycle trip, this year down the Pacific coast highway, had decided to tuck into this, of all restaurants—based loosely on a townie's tip. But Rupert just smiled and kept that information to himself, letting his friends lead the way.

Unlucky for them, it was peak happy hour and the place was bustling. The smell of brine and stale cigarettes, same as ever, nearly brought a tear to Rupert's eye, as did the low sea of table candles and neon runners along the walls, still tacky but cozy.

A bright-eyed hostess, probably a distant cousin or grandchild, smiled broadly as they entered. "Wow, what a crew!" She eyed them, dirty and leathered, and clucked sadly. "Sorry guys, but there's about an hour wait tonight, got a full house." She waved her hand at the main dining room, the one with the fishnets and window diorama, to show what they were up against. "But y'all can wait in the bar if you like!" His road weary friends couldn't hide their sighs, an eye roll. But there was no where else to go. 

"The bar it is," one of them conceded. They filed their way into the dark and festively lit interior, wearily removing hats and chaps. Rupert dropped back to talk to the hostess.

"Sam here?"

She stopped short, surprised. "Sam? You know him? Should be. Lemme check."

"Tell him Rupert Longburrow is here."

She seemed to have questions, but hesitated.

"Just tell him."

Rupert made his way back to the bar and ordered a Bulleit. The bartender was no one he recognized, but it didn't matter. Soon he'd be drinking on the house.

"Rupert!"

Sam was older now, maybe shorter too, with a gut. And his salt n pepper had faded into a dull silver.

"Sam! Old buddy!" They shook hands, and went into a hug.

"How's the family? Your Mom?"

"Still kickin."

"Little hellcat. Still drinkin too, I'll bet."

"Always."

Sam barked at a bar back to get more tables from the back.

Within minutes a full table was set up in the corner of the dining room, candles lit and and drinks poured. There may as well have been a red carpet.

"Heeey!" "Hoooo!" His normally grizzled buddies had totally lost their composure, waxing poetic.

"Rupert the Ambassador! Strikes again!" "Our boy!"

And so was often the case. If trouble brewed, Rupert was sent in to fix it. If a client requested the impossible, if reservations were forgotten, if there was an outside shot at box seats—their money was always on Rupert. He knew how to find and exploit the weakness or strength of any situation, how to grease just the right wheel. Rupert was their rabbit's foot, the bearer of good fortune, a Parter of Seas.

It was a knack, he had to admit. But like Moses, he erred on the side of quiet modesty; he never revealed his ways. Underpromise, overdeliver, he always said.

So what was his secret? Sometimes, just calculated luck, like this not-so-chance meeting of an old family friend. But mostly—and he was quite sure this was entirely it—he was just nice to people. He made eye contact, he remembered names. He didn't put people on the spot, tried to give folks the benefit of the doubt. He came up with reasonable solutions.

His friends, on the other hand, behaved like most modern humans: gruff, impersonal, blindly naive, and routinely, disgustingly pessimistic.

So while his road buddies may never know how this fortuitous table service came to pass, or nothing of the twenty years spent prepping for it, Rupert enjoyed the expansive wake of his unguided deeds and how they fell like loose diamonds into a well grooved and gravely path.