I studied Milton’s face as he rambled about himself and his past. Occasionally, I got a word in.

“Milt, you said that before 9/11, you were king. What did you mean by that?”

“Yes,” responded Milton, a bit too loudly. “King of the Mail Heap.” He was almost defiant in answering my question. “There was a publication written about me in 1992. That’s the title. It’s in my car. I brought it to show you.”

I couldn’t wait to read it.

“What did you study in college to make you King of the Mail Heap?” I asked with a smirk.

“What college?” was his retort, as if I were an idiot. “You can’t study what I did. I have an innate talent.”

Milton’s overall look was nothing special. He had an olive complexion, dark eyes, and hair. His Zotsky dating profile said he was 5’10”. My estimate was closer to 5’8″. He wore a baseball cap (I suppose to cover his baldness) and had a trapezoid-shaped, Hitler-esque mustache with angled sides above his goatee.

I increasingly doubted my sanity and wondered why I’d accepted this date.

“You know my first wife was named Miriam,” he told me. “We were high-school sweethearts and were married for ten years.”

“So, what happened?” I asked.

“I had a twelve-year affair with my business partner – a stunning Russian woman who now lives in Paris and is extremely successful.” Milton was very matter-of-fact about this.

“Did you marry your Russian business partner?” I asked him.

“No,” he said. “Never did. But after we broke up, I did marry a gorgeous, younger woman–a dancer I met in the Catskills who was Filipino, Spanish, Portuguese…” he continued with a lengthy list of Heinz 57 varieties.

“She must have been lovely,” I offered. He nodded in agreement.

“Unfortunately, I was trying to rebuild my business, so I wasn’t around much once we moved to Hudson Valley. You know, we had the largest swimming pool in our county.”

Impressive.

“When we first married, we lived in Manhattan. She loved to cook and also enjoyed fine dining. We were regulars at all the great places; Le Bernardin, Cafe des Artiste, Boulet–the chefs loved us and we loved them. They were often guests at our home, and my wife would cook elaborate meals. Once we moved upstate, however, she got bored. She began to travel independently and often was away for months. Neither of us was ever lonely, if you know what I mean. It cost me $2 million to divorce her.”

I couldn’t understand why he told me all this. Did he think it made him more desirable? Whatever the reason, I couldn’t wait to get home and was thrilled when Zach reappeared. Milton started up again.

“I thought I told you I’d let you know when we were ready to order.” He sounded like a total asshole. I was amazed that Zach never flinched. I immediately spoke up.

“You know what, Zach? Whenever I come here, I get the same thing: Eggplant Lasagna. And that’s what I want tonight.”

“Why not try something new,” suggested Mr. Know-It-All.

“Because I like eggplant lasagna,” I said, staring him down. Milton backed off. He ordered two appetizers and didn’t ask if I wanted another glass of wine. The way things were going, I’d need the whole bottle.

“While waiting for dinner to arrive, Milton ran out to his car and brought back the article he’d mentioned. It was dated June 1992. It was titled, “King of the (Mail) Heap.” Pictured front and center was a young Milton looking very much like Billy Joel in his early years, holding a red-velvet, gold-trimmed crown shaped like a mushroom. Only King Charles would wear such a thing. I asked if I could keep the periodical he’d handed to me. He proudly answered yes.

I’m sure he had multiple copies.

Dinner arrived without incident, although Milton commented on the size of the servings and said he’d have to take some home. I was happy with my eggplant lasagna. Zach came by to ensure all was well. Thankfully, Milton kept his mouth shut.

Finally, it was over, and Zach came with the check. Milton raised his hand and announced, “I’ll take that.” Zach obliged. Minutes later, Zach returned.

“The card was declined, sir,” Zach told Milton. I was laughing to myself. What a total jerk.

“I’m certain there’s a mistake,” replied Milt defensively. “Try it again,” he demanded. Zach left with the same card and returned with the same result moments later.

I almost said I’d handle the problem, but I enjoyed watching Milton squirm, so I stayed quiet. He pulled another card out of his wallet and handed it to Zach. I wondered what was going on in Zach’s mind. His face showed nothing.

The second card was accepted. Zach returned to our table and handed Milton the receipt. Milton had money crumpled in his fist and extended his hand toward Zach.

“I never add a tip to the receipt.” I couldn’t tell how much Milt had given him.

Milton and I parted ways soon after the dinner tab was settled. His parting words were, “I’ll call you when I get home so you know I arrived safely.”

“I’ll probably be asleep by then,” I told him. Then, I left.

He did call. I didn’t answer.

I returned to Max A Mia the following weekend with friends. When I arrived, I asked if Zach was working that evening, and he was. The host sent him to my table. He recognized me as soon as he came over, and I explained, in more detail, the circumstances behind that dreadful evening. Then I handed him money.

“I don’t know what he gave you for a tip, but my instinct tells me it wasn’t very much. Please accept my apologies.”

“It wasn’t very much,” replied Zach. “Thank you.”