The Saturday Night Everlasting
Sample Chapters
To my Schnookums; sorry I had to kill you.
Prologue
Slingin’ Hash
“I won't let you down, I will not give you up
Gotta have some faith in the sound
It's the one good thing that I've got
I won't let you down, So please don't give me up
'Cause I would really, really love to stick around, oh yeah”
- George Michael
Peoria, Illinois
1991
Denny’s Restaurant
The orders of toast looked exactly like toenail clippings as they curled up and hardened beneath the kitchen’s heat lamps. The bread was inedible. Each plate was hot to the touch. There were six plates of white, at least eleven orders of wheat, and three English muffins that had been sitting in the window so long, they resembled ceramic urinal cakes.
Linda’s dentures made a disgusted scowl.
“God dammit, Lucky,” the old waitress snapped. “My whole section is about to walk. What – the fuck – are you guys doing back there? Is Lionel smoking again?” With a swoosh of liver spots, she cleared four plates of toast into a nearby bus tub – crash. Seeing he now had room, Lucky, the expo, an Andy Capp character who could barely see over the window, quickly added four more. The little white plates that were closest to the servers tottered dangerously at the edge.
“I see the breakfast rush is going well today,” Alan said, coming up to Linda’s side and helping her clear space. The passover window now resembled a table at a garage sale; it was completely covered with different sized dishes, none of which anyone wanted. The passover was a long, stainless steel rectangle that glowed a warm orange from the cone-shaped heat lamps above. It separated the old kitchen from the old restaurant behind; this was a Denny’s in desperate need of a remodel, and Alan couldn’t help but notice that Linda matched the décor.
“Hug?” he asked.
“I can’t serve this shit,” she told him, grabbing a dead pancake and holding it up like dirty Kleenex. “Just look at this. It’s so fuckin’ hard on top, you could light a goddamn match on it.” She slammed down her ticket book, shoving a wet bus tub into Alan’s chest –
“Hold this,” she said.
As old men with newspapers watched from the counter behind, Linda flung plates of dead eggs into the bus tub, oblivious to the clatter. It wasn’t that anyone noticed, of course. The restaurant was slammed with the weekend breakfast crowd, and the crash of dishes could barely compete with the dining room’s forks, knives, chewing and slurped coffee…and gruff Midwestern accents. The interior’s pink & orange vinyl booths were so full of people, like an airplane, there was barely room to move –
And everyone was angry!
“Shouldn’t we be saving the tickets?” Alan asked Linda, as he handed off the heavy tub to a busboy. Though the food in the window was clearly unservable, it all still had to be made again. But Alan saw no tickets. In fact, he didn’t see tickets anywhere. He did a quick inventory of the items in the window, and counted eleven partially completed orders. Whatever was happening in the kitchen right now was far worse than cooks in the weeds. Pulling his own ticket book from his apron, the young waiter stepped backwards. This was bad.
“Coffee?” came the cheerful voice of the youthful girl behind him. Alan turned to see Guinevere, a hostess in her twenties, with big sultry eyes and lips, framed within a pile of shiny, shoulder-length hair. She was the kind of young woman who made a brown polyester uniform look good, and the old men at the counter put down their papers as she passed -
“Coffee?” she smiled, stopping at every customer to fill their cup -
“Coffee? Would you like some more coffee? -
Hey, big guy – how bout’ a refill on that coffee?”
“Stop it,” Alan told her, hiding a grin. “I know what you’re doing.”
“What?” Gwen asked innocently. She batted her eyes as though Alan were straight. “I’m just trying to give customers the best customer service that I can.” Her expression was intentionally doe-eyed.
“I said stop it,” Alan repeated. “You’re gonna’ piss people off.”
“Asking for coffee?” She played dumb.
“By repeatedly asking everyone for coffee. Just…stop it. This is really not a good time.” Gwen cocked her head and ignored him.
More servers approached the kitchen. The dining room’s mood had taken a turn for the worse, and a family of four got up and walked out, followed by a nearby two-top. Somewhere in the front room, a customer complained about waiting forty minutes for a lousy fucking bowl of oatmeal.
Elsewhere in the restaurant, a hungry kid screamed at its parents and threw Cheerios onto the floor.
The waiting area was filling with black women in hats, while the smoking section – two thirds of the building – now resembled a scene from Stephen King’s The Mist. When the cashier added a second page to the wait, Lucky dutifully plated more toast.
“Where the fuck is Onie?” Linda snapped, speaking as though she had a cigarette in her mouth. She had managed to clear enough plates to see into the kitchen.
But there wasn’t any chaos, she realized.
The cooks stood idle at their stations, waiting for Lucky’s direction. The grill was empty, the fry-baskets hovered above the grease, and the motley kitchen crew seemed to take a collective step backward as though the old waitress wanted to grab them by the throats.
“Y’all fuckin’ deaf!?”
Alan went to speak, but a long, slender arm pushed him aside from behind. For just a flashing second, Alan caught the gleam of diamonds. “Guys, I need tables 41, 43, and 45 now,” Patrick said firmly, lining three handwritten order tickets directly in front of Lucky. “And where’s Big Tim?”
“He’s talking to Onie,” Lucky piped up. “I think they’re in the office.”
“Tell him we need him on the line right now,” Patrick said, scooting Linda aside. “And where’s Lionel? You guys all know that Lucky shouldn’t expo on a Sunday.” Alan watched Patrick’s eyes dart across the kitchen staff, before fixating on the small electric printer directly above the toaster. His eyes narrowed. “Lucky?” Patrick asked carefully. “Where are all the orders?”
“There ain’t no orders,” Lucky said. “There ain’t been any since Big Tim went in back.”
“No orders, Lucky?”
“Nope.”
“No orders…at all?”
“Nope.”
“This is Sunday,” Linda snapped. “How can there be no orders?”
Noooo! Alan now realized what was happening.
“Wait – are you saying that you’ve got nothing coming out of the kitchen?” Sally, a nearby waitress asked. By now, all the servers had gathered, searching for overdue tickets. “Cuz, I’ve got two tables about to walk. And another that wants to talk to Onie.”
“Where is Onie?” someone asked.
“And where the hell is Big Tim?”
“Is Lionel even working today?”
“He’s probably smoking in back,” Sally said, making a doobie gesture with her fingers.
“How bout a topper on that coffee?” Gwen merrily asked a nearby customer.
As the gang converged around the cooks, Patrick inhaled deeply, forcing calm. Alan watched Patrick gather himself, in a way that was almost too professional for a breakfast diner.
Patrick was clearly the best server on the floor, and he took his job more seriously than the managers. Even Linda stepped aside for him, which was surprising considering she was a local Denny’s lifer, and Patrick had only just transferred in from Nevada, running circles around everyone. While the server’s fingers methodically tapped the window, Alan watched Patrick’s diamond rings twinkle brilliantly under the heat lamps -
As if on cue, Big Tim appeared in the kitchen.
“Sorry, folks. Had to talk to the man.” A collective sigh of relief was felt as a light skinned black man the size of a mountain took Lucky’s place in the window. “Good job, buddy…but why don’t you let me take over?” Big Tim grinned at Patrick before noticing the empty cooks’ side ticket holder. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together. “Oh, that ain’t good.”
“Tim, I need this food now,” Patrick told him, pushing his own tickets forward. His voice was calm, but deadly serious, and Alan could tell he was stressed.
“We all need our goddamn food now,” Linda barked, “and tell Onie to get his little brown ass on the floor.”
“I’m HERE,” Onie announced from somewhere in back. He appeared like a savior, rolling up sleeves. The compact Pakistani was barely out of high school, and Denny’s in Peoria was obviously his first restaurant gig. He adjusted his glasses, clapped his hands loudly, and then made a show of rubbing his palms together. Onie came to Big Tim’s side. “What do we have? The Sunday crowd? Let’s get ready to sling some hash, people!”
He had absolutely no idea of what he was walking into.
Big Tim shot him daggers.
“Well Onie,” Big Tim took a moment to explain, “we seem to have a dining room filled to capacity, but our dance card is empty.” His demeanor was identical to Hoke from Driving Miss Daisy. “Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you?”
“That’s because we’re about to get slammed, buddy,” Onie said confidently, turning towards the line cooks. “C’mon, people! Get your game faces on!”
Rolling his eyes at Patrick, Big Tim turned his attention to the printer. He checked the power and paper before opening the unit’s top; the moment he did, a spasm of thermal paper shot out like a snake in a can. The long white spool was crinkled like an accordion, mashed together near the top with an ugly smear of purple. The orders on the floor were somewhat readable, but everything submitted within the last 30 minutes was lost forever.
Sighing audibly, Big Tim looked directly at Patrick.
“I’m surprised you didn’t notice this.”
His tone wasn’t accusatory, but it was honest.
Patrick removed his glasses and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Coffee?” –
“Not now, Gwen.”
“All right gentlemen, here’s what we’re going to do.” Without missing a beat, Big Tim took control of the situation. Separating the readable tickets, he turned to the cooks; with a few short commands, the grill was loaded and fry baskets hit the grease. Plates crashed a second time as the window got scooped into bus tubs; it was followed by the hiss of steam as Lucky wiped the hot metal surface with a wet rag while the servers scattered like roaches. Onie started table visits, beginning with Linda’s section. A good eight more tables walked, with a few waiting at the register, demanding to see the manager.
They’ll be waiting awhile, Alan thought.
Needing a moment before facing his own customers, Alan stepped into the kitchen and headed for the breakroom. He crossed paths with Patrick – who was apparently doing the same – and watched as the hotshot waiter ducked into the stockroom, closing the door behind.
“How about a cup of freshly perked coffee?” Gwen asked Alan, appearing at his side. Alan turned to face her. He couldn’t help but smile. Over the past few months, he and Gwen had been rapidly becoming friends, and on days like today he greatly appreciated her humor.
“Let’s have a cigarette,” he said.
* * * * *
Oblivious to what had just happened, Lionel leaned against the dumpster when Alan and Gwen came out the kitchen’s back door. Despite finishing a Kool, he had clearly been smoking something much stronger; he gave the young hostess an I’ll do you right now look as the April sun caught the synthetic shine of her dress, and shapely figure within.
Gwen wasn’t a supermodel, but she oozed sexuality in a Catholic schoolgirl sort of way. All of the cooks were in lust with her, the black guys in particular, and Gwen knew how to use that fact to her fullest advantage. “Can I bum a cigarette, stud?”
“You know I’ll give you whatever you want,” the Jamaican told her, holding out his pack.
“One for Alan too?” she added. Lionel didn’t object, but he also wasn’t happy about it. Gwen made sure to thank him.
“You know I’ve got my own cigarettes, right?” Alan asked.
“I wanted a menthol, so I can crystalize my lungs,” Gwen said. Alan smiled. “Let’s go this way,” he told her, gesturing towards the parking lot. “It’s a little too early for a contact high.”
“Should I get some for later?” she asked.
“Err, maybe. Let’s see how this day plays out first. I think I just lost an entire round of tips.”
The Peoria Denny’s had been around since the sixties, and the building had a Brady Bunch shape, common for the time. It was a retro oasis surrounded by parking lots, and the two friends lit up as they walked towards the property’s edge, to a place that overlooked Lake Street – and Northwoods Mall, beyond. A cloud of smoke slowly expanded around their shoulders.
“I…am…really sick of this place,” Gwen said.
“Sick of Denny’s or sick of Peoria?” Alan asked.
“Denny’s,” she said. “Peoria too. I guess I’m sick of both. But I’m definitely sick of this place.” She gestured towards the restaurant. There were flies buzzing around the dumpster where Lionel had stood, surprising considering it wasn’t even summer yet.
“Yeah, today was rough,” Alan admitted.
“It happens every week,” she said.
“Well, not every week. But it does seem to be happening more frequently.”
Cars whizzed past below as the two puffed in silence, though their serenity was broken when diners piled into a nearby Plymouth, complaining about their experience. Alan looked away when he realized they had been one of his own tables. “Oops.”
“Hey guys! Do you want some coffee!??” Gwen yelled, not caring if they heard. Alan smiled again. The friends watched the car pull away.
“You know that Big Tim is leaving, right?” Gwen said as she flicked her butt into the grass. “That’s why he wasn’t on the line this morning. He was in back, giving Onie his notice.”
“Fuck,” Alan replied, stamping out his own. “Big Tim’s the only thing that’s holding this place together. Lionel’s too stoned to take his place. And Lucky? Seriously? You saw what happened today. Sunday’s without Big Tim are just going to be…awful.”
“And Saturdays, and Fridays, and Thursdays, and Wednesdays…” Gwen added.
“Ugh.”
Alan took a moment to digest this news. He shook his head and pulled out his own pack of smokes, lighting another. “Fuck, seriously? No Big Tim? How are we going to run the kitchen?”
“You sound like Linda. Fuck, fuck, fuck” –
“I pay my rent with this place,” Alan reminded her. “You still live at home.”
“I pay rent,” she protested.
“You give your mom a couple bucks for groceries.”
“That’s rent.”
“That’s not rent.”
“Well, no…but it is something.” Gwen smiled herself and watched an old Impala station wagon heave itself into the lot. It parked on the perimeter that overlooked the mall, which caused her to look upwards at the sprawling shopping center – and the ring of chain restaurants that dotted its own perimeter. Her attention became fixated, and in a moment so was Alan’s –
It is…something, they both thought at once.
Like a clown car, a family of eight piled out of the Chevy. It expelled a mother, a father, and unhappy kids that looked dirty even from this distance. A stroller was produced and a wailing toddler slammed into its seat. If Alan had to guess, they were killing time while their trailer was being fumigated…and if Linda or Patrick had any say in the matter, the group would end up being seated in the middle of his own section.
It is…something.
“Hey guys?” the little voice called from behind, causing both Alan and Gwen to turn around. Onie was standing in back of the restaurant. He had the facial expression of having just been mugged. “We’re seating your section, Alan. You do still work here, right?”
Alan suddenly felt Gwen’s hand on his own. Their fingers interlocked, and Gwen squeezed tightly. His eyes met hers.
“Do you still work here?” she asked.
“Do you still work here?” he asked back.
“I’ll do it if you do it,” she said. “But only if we get jobs in the same place. I want us to work together.”
Alan thought about this for a moment. “Gwen, I have to pay rent.”
“These jobs are a dime a dozen,” she said. “And you can wait tables anywhere. Do you reeeeeeally want to go back in there after today? Spend another shift with Linda?”
“Alan?” Onie called. “Err, Gwen?” His voice took on a nervous tone. “Are you guys coming back?”
“Are we coming back, Alan?” Gwen had already unpinned her nametag and tossed it on the ground. “Are we really going back?”
“It is hard to get the smell of griddle fry out of these uniforms,” Alan admitted.
“Let’s go,” she prodded, unbuttoning her vest. She yanked it off like a stripper, and twirled it around her head before letting it go. Like foreplay, Gwen pulled herself in close to Alan. She started unbuttoning his own vest, purring. “I love a man in brown polyester.”
“Do you?” he said.
“I do,” she insisted.
“How long do you think it will take us to find a new job?” he asked.
“A week. Tops. Let’s see where Big Tim is going. Maybe he can use his pull to get us hired.”
Alan thought about this as though pretending to weigh his options, but in truth, he’d already made up his mind. He’d actually made up his mind some time ago, but he just needed someone else to say it. He grinned.
“Okay, Gwen. Lets do it.”
* * * * *
Patrick sat alone in a booth in the far corner of his section. For the first time today, he was able to hear the MUZAK; George Michael’s Freedom droned on from the ceiling’s speakers, in a way that sounded like the final scene of the movie The Shining…soft, distant, creepy.
The rush was over thank God, and like everyone else who had left for the day, the server was counting his money in solitude, tips far less than expected. He put his ticket book aside when Linda approached. “Shit day,” she said with a sigh. “I’m fuckin’ exhausted. I don’t know why I do this.” She looked at his pile of ones and fives. “I’m walking with seventy. How bout’ you?”
“About the same,” Patrick told her. “Maybe a little less. It definitely wasn’t our finest hour.”
“You heard the news about Big Tim?” she asked.
“I did,” he said. “That’s a blow.”
“Onie said he’s gonna’ put an ad in the paper,” Linda said. “There ain’t no way that Lionel can fill that fucker’s shoes.” Linda paused before adding, “I think Lionel’s going to jail anyway.”
“Drugs?”
“Yup,” Linda told him. “And if he don’t do time, he’s probably going to skip town anyway. It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s a few little Lionels in the oven around here. And I’m not talkin’ about the kitchen.” Patrick winced as her upper plate shifted when she laughed.
“Well I’m off, Linda. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The tall server stood up and tucked his cash into his pocket. He glanced at his Rolex. It was half past three. “Bright and early as always.”
“You know where to find me,” the old waitress said, waving goodbye.
Gathering his pens, book, nametag, and apron, Patrick left the restaurant in exhaustion. He walked to the back of the parking lot, passed employees’ rusty pickups, Chevettes, and K-cars…and then onto his own ride – a 91’ Eldorado with the new Northstar engine – which he’d told coworkers that he’d bought with a settlement. Once inside the vehicle, Patrick removed the four hundreds he’d hidden within his tips and stashed them in his wallet. He drove away with the same thought as everyone:
I didn’t make much money today.
"Brown polyester uniforms" It was like working in a goddamn ROCKFORD FILES episode!
Act One
Strike a Pose
Strike a Pose
One
Black Coffee
"Baby, baby -
I'm taken with the notion…to love you with the sweetest of devotion -
Baby, baby -
My tender love will flow from…the bluest sky to the deepest ocean -
Stop for a minute -
Baby, I'm so glad you're mine…"
- Amy Grant
Washington, Illinois
Fifteen Years Later
BEEP!
BEEP!
BEEP!
Beer cans clattered as Guinevere awoke with a start. The first thing she saw was a red smear of light, and she thrashed in the sheets in a desperate effort to reach it. The numbers came into focus – 6:45am – and they rolled up and down, keeping time with her nausea. It took a few moments to find her way out of the waterbed, as she’d purposely placed the alarm clock on the far side of the room. She had to get up to shut it, and that meant she had to get UP.
The bedroom was almost completely dark, less the black light from within the Nuon Klock on her nightstand. It was the model with flamingos and a palm tree under the sun, a gift from back in the day, when she was still in college. As her eyes adjusted to its dim purple glow, she stood on the pile of last night’s clothes and could now make out the general shapes around her. Bed. Nightstand. Beer cans. Trash can.
Trash can!
Moments later, even in the darkness, all Gwen could see was puke.
* * * * *
“It’s – a – beautiful – morn’in,” Stephanie grumbled at the breakfast table when her mother emerged from the kitchen’s basement door, like a convict climbing out of a manhole. Steph’s granddad had rented Kingpin the previous evening, and the young girl had watched it with both of her grandparents, complete with popcorn. Steph had inherited her mother’s humor, a fact that her Papa made clear he didn’t appreciate. Audrey, Stephanie’s grandmother, had always been the opposite; she shot her granddaughter a subtle glare that said, please, darling…let’s not be an ass.
“Late night, dear?”
Jacob, Audrey’s husband, did not share her levity however, and lowered his newspaper in disapproval. He looked his daughter up and down, noticing that she had obviously just thrown herself together. “Where were you last night?” he asked.
You look like you woke up on the floor of a Greyhound station.
“We were supposed to watch that movie together. All of us, Gwen. You do remember that you have a daughter, right?”
“How about a cup of freshly perked coffee?” Steph muttered from her oatmeal.
“Coffee sounds good,” Gwen said, dodging the question. She kissed her mom and daughter, and then touched her dad on the shoulder before heading to the coffee machine and pouring a mug. She took it black.
“I asked where you were last night,” Jacob repeated, more firmly this time.
“At work,” Gwen said, a little too quickly. “You know that.”
“And afterwards?”
“Out…for a bit.” Guinevere stammered slightly. She swiftly regained composure though, and brought a palm to her forehead. She was quickly reading the room. “Oh, God…I’m sorry. I totally forgot to get the movie.”
“Papa got it,” Steph said flatly. She pushed her oatmeal aside before standing up and slamming her chair into the table. “We gotta’ go.”
The family watched the young girl storm from the kitchen.
Gwen hesitated. Something was wrong -
“But it’s not time for the bus.”
“It’s Tuesday, dear,” Audrey reminded. Gwen shook her head in confusion. Audrey forced a smile. “Tuesday the fifteenth?”
Again, deer in headlights.
“The fifteenth of October?” Audrey said.
“Is…there no school today?” Gwen asked.
“Yes, but, Stephanie’s appointment is at 8:30,” Audrey pressed. “Remember? I made the appointment early, so we would only miss two periods?”
Gwen still didn’t get it.
“Your daughter needs glasses,” Jacob said bluntly, standing in disgust. He adjusted his shirt and tightened his tie before adding, “And we need to talk.” His tone was not kind.
The old man rinsed out his mug before gathering his keys, coat, and briefcase. Gwen watched her father kiss her mom, but intentionally left without saying goodbye to her. The back door opened and closed. The two women stayed silent while the garage door rose and a car engine started.
Audrey cleared her throat.
“My credit card’s on the counter, dear.”
* * * * *
The sky was the color of Reynolds’s Wrap as Guinevere’s white LeBaron zipped down Washington Street hill with its windshield wipers flapping. The car stood out against the red, yellow, and brown trees around it; the valley was beautiful this time of year, and Gwen loved how the buildings within the approaching Peoria skyline were illuminated by little warm windows that shimmered within the cold rain.
The wet street was busy with morning commuters, and she let up the gas when red and blue lights came up fast in the rear view mirror. An East Peoria cop shot passed her car with a whoosh, before quickly veering right and up the I-74 ramp. Stephanie had been brooding since they left the house.
“Look, I’m sorry.” Gwen broke the silence. “I completely forgot about this morning.”
“No shit,” the young girl muttered.
Gwen glared at her daughter in the passenger seat. “Language?”
Silence.
A second police car sped passed them, its flashing lights reflecting in the pavement.
“Steph,” Gwen said. “You know, I know that you’re angry now, but, you know, life gets a little complicated once you get to be an adult.” She waited a moment to see if that worked. One beat, two beats, then she added, “And you’re going to find that out soon, when you start high school in a couple of years.”
Her head hurt from the bar last night. Gwen frowned on realizing she had forgotten to take ibuprofen before leaving home. This day was not going well.
“Next year,” Stephanie grumbled.
“What’s that?”
“I start high school next year,” Steph told her.
“I knew that,” Gwen said quickly. “What I mean is that you’re about to be in ninth grade…and then you’ll graduate, and then you’ll be off to college.”
“And that means what?” Steph asked.
“It means that you’re growing up fast, and that you’re going to find out…” her voice trailed off. Up ahead, two more police cruisers now turned onto the approaching interstate. Gwen sighed and called uncle. “Hell Steph, I don’t know what that means. I’m just really, really sorry.” She put her blinkers on. Her daughter’s eyes widened.
“Why are we slowing down?” Steph asked, sitting up.
“Because your mother needs another cup of coffee,” Gwen told her, turning into the Hardee’s off the interstate. She entered the drive thru, and stopped at the outdoor menu. She rolled down the window and ordered. “Want anything?” The young girl shook her head and crossed her elbows.
“Suit yourself.”
“We’re going to be late,” Steph grumbled.
“No, we won’t,” Gwen assured her, pulling up to the window. She undid her seatbelt, paid, got her beverage, and placed it in the cup holder. She then circled the restaurant and slowed at the parking lot’s entrance, waiting for traffic to clear. Stephanie realized her mother hadn’t rolled up the window yet.
“Seriously?” Steph protested. “You’re seriously going to smoke in the car?”
“Yes, sweetie.” Gwen tried – and failed – to hide the frustration in her voice. Fuck it, she thought and let the sarcasm roll. “In addition to coffee, your mother also requires a cigarette. Coffee, cigarette. The two go hand in hand. Just like a mother and her equally loving daughter.” Her temples were pounding, now. An idea popped into her head. “You don’t have any aspirin, do you?”
“Just…go,” Stephanie told her. Her eyes had a shiny glaze. “You can drop me off at the doctor and I’ll find my way back.”
“You’ll take a bus?” Gwen asked, locating her pack and shoving a Kool in her mouth. She fumbled beneath the seat for a lighter.
“Maybe,” Steph said. “Or maybe I’ll just take a cab.”
“A cab? Really? One of those dirty airport cabs?”
“Yes.”
“The cabs that take the drunks home at night?”
“Well, you would know.”
Gwen scoffed. “And how exactly would you pay for that?”
“I can pay.”
“Really?”
“I said I can pay.”
“You have a job that I don't know about?” Gwen pressed, her tone growing mean. She found a working lighter and lit up in the driver’s seat. Washington was busy this morning, but she saw a break in headlights coming through the wipers. Preparing to merge right, she eased the brakes a little.
“I asked how you expect to pay without a job?” Gwen repeated, taking a drag before popping the coffee open. She took a swig and returned it to the holder. “Please, enlighten me. How would you go about paying for that?”
Stephanie’s face got red -
“I’ll just use the card Nana gave me.”
Slam!
Gwen gasped softly, and froze with her daughter’s words. The cigarette tumbled from her mouth, falling onto her lap and smoldering. She had forgotten how mean the young girl could be, and Stephanie’s statement cut with razor precision. Turning towards the passenger seat, Gwen saw that Steph was glaring at her with cold, angry eyes; she had been clearly waiting for just the right moment to drop this little bombshell, and judging from her face, Steph knew her bomb had found its target.
Neither of them realized that their car was now inching foreword.
“Nana gave you her credit card?” Gwen asked, taken back. A thousand different things were now racing through her mind, intensified by the hangover. It was though the very temperature had dropped in the car, and Guinevere felt blindsided by a rogue wave of regret. She took a moment to process this. When she spoke next, her voice was much quieter.
“Nana gave you her credit card?”
“She gives you hers all the time,” Steph rubbed it in. “She gave one to you this morning, didn’t she? Isn’t that how you’re going to pay for the optometrist?”
“Well, yes but” –
“Where were you last night?”
My mother gave my daughter her credit card and didn’t tell me.
“Stephanie, I” - Gwen struggled for words. It was like her whole life was flashing before her eyes. The decisions she’d made. The time she’d wasted. The tears that she saw welling up within Stephanie’s eyes right now. Gwen thought about how her own aging mother had been forced to raise a daughter that she’d never meant to have -
My God…what have I become?
The car was rolling now.
“You can’t even pay your own bills!” Stephanie burst, hot tears exploding like shards of glass. “Nana pays for everything! My clothes! My school! She even gave me money for the doctor for when I got-” – the young girl gasped –
“MOM!”
“Fuck!” Guinevere shouted, feeling the burn of the forgotten cigarette. Her body went slow motion as she franticly fought the orange sparks, unaware that the entire world had suddenly gone sideways. She never even heard the horn, or the squeal of the Coca-cola truck slamming on its brakes. She didn’t hear the impact, or the hideous crash of metal and glass when her car was thrown into oncoming traffic, rolling over and over and over again.
Gwen couldn’t hear anything anymore.
* * * * *
Joliet, Illinois
BEEP!
BEEP!
BEEP!
The small red light flashed as a key turned and the front door opened. Alan entered his home wearing pressed khakis, a sharp green polo, sunglasses, a black bikers jacket, and a new leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder – an item that he still wasn’t quite used to carrying. On entering the small foyer, he immediately tapped a code into the Napco Gemini keypad, stopping the alarm. His boots clomped on the hardwood when he came into the living room, losing the bag and laying his jacket on one of the three black leather sofas, arranged in a U. He then noticed a second red light, a little LED glowing steadily on his answering machine. He walked to the desk and hit play; he listened to the messages while sitting and unbuckling the bag. Alan took out his MacBook.
Beeeeeep -
“An answering machine? Seriously? Have you really not set up voicemail?” The man on the speaker was clearly holding back laughter. “You know that the nineties are over, right? Dude. Honestly. Set, up, voice, mail. The answering machine makes you seem old.”
Alan raised his eyebrows at the comment.
“Anyway, I know you hate when I do this, but…I think I’ve found someone you might like to meet. He meets the criteria. He’s cute, smart. He’s younger than you. He also likes all that Star Wars crap that you seem to refuse to give up.”
Three massive movie posters loomed down from the wall, immediately behind the sofa above Alan. They displayed the original trilogy, oversized like billboards, professionally framed in glass.
“And best of all, this guy is clean,” the message continued. “Like, Mr. Monk clean. He’s got like four vacuum cleaners. I think you two would get along. If you’re interested, I’ll text you his number. You do at least text people, right?”
Beeeeeep –
“Weeeeeeel, how-dee part-ner! Them slot machines are always loose, here at the Elder-Rado casino! It’s a dang, spankin’ bee-you-tee-full day in sunny Nee-vada, and the fore-cast is" - the auto-dial message switched to a tinny, mechanical drone – “…cloudy, overcast, a fifteen percent chance of light rain…” – before switching back with a click. “Perfect day for a drive!”
Alan looked irritated.
“So, put on yer’ dandies and dump yer’ worries at the sitter! Parkin’s free, and the drinks is all-ways on the house. We’ve got blackjack. We’ve got craps. We’ve got Bingo. We’ve got keno. And when it comes to our waitresses” – an old-time car horn wailed – “well, let’s just say that if you don’t like the lady ya’ came with, ya’ might just hit the jackpot!”
Pulling up the Drudge Report, Alan made a mental note to get even with the friend who had added his number to the casino’s mailing list. The message droned on for a few more moments, and was followed by a telemarketer and an earlier call from work that had already been resolved. Alan’s fingers clattered on the keyboard. He shifted in the sofa when the next message played, pulling up Recon.com in his browser. The MacBook screen turned red and black -
Beeeeep –
“Alan? This is Jacob Williams, Guinevere’s father,” the voice came from the speaker. Alan looked up. He hadn’t heard Jacob in years, and the old man’s voice sounded…galvanized.
“Listen, Alan. There’s no easy way to say this.” Jacob paused while taking a breath. “There’s been an accident. Gwen is asking for you. I need you to call me as soon as you get this message. My phone number is” –
Alan heard nothing past that sentence.
* * * * *
He was up in a heartbeat, flip-phone in hand. He didn’t even remember calling work or throwing clothes in a suitcase, but less than an hour later, his speedometer shot to 80 as he joined the traffic on I-55, heading south.
He made it to Peoria in less than two hours.
Black Coffee
"Baby, baby -
I'm taken with the notion…to love you with the sweetest of devotion -
Baby, baby -
My tender love will flow from…the bluest sky to the deepest ocean -
Stop for a minute -
Baby, I'm so glad you're mine…"
- Amy Grant
Washington, Illinois
Fifteen Years Later
BEEP!
BEEP!
BEEP!
Beer cans clattered as Guinevere awoke with a start. The first thing she saw was a red smear of light, and she thrashed in the sheets in a desperate effort to reach it. The numbers came into focus – 6:45am – and they rolled up and down, keeping time with her nausea. It took a few moments to find her way out of the waterbed, as she’d purposely placed the alarm clock on the far side of the room. She had to get up to shut it, and that meant she had to get UP.
The bedroom was almost completely dark, less the black light from within the Nuon Klock on her nightstand. It was the model with flamingos and a palm tree under the sun, a gift from back in the day, when she was still in college. As her eyes adjusted to its dim purple glow, she stood on the pile of last night’s clothes and could now make out the general shapes around her. Bed. Nightstand. Beer cans. Trash can.
Trash can!
Moments later, even in the darkness, all Gwen could see was puke.
* * * * *
“It’s – a – beautiful – morn’in,” Stephanie grumbled at the breakfast table when her mother emerged from the kitchen’s basement door, like a convict climbing out of a manhole. Steph’s granddad had rented Kingpin the previous evening, and the young girl had watched it with both of her grandparents, complete with popcorn. Steph had inherited her mother’s humor, a fact that her Papa made clear he didn’t appreciate. Audrey, Stephanie’s grandmother, had always been the opposite; she shot her granddaughter a subtle glare that said, please, darling…let’s not be an ass.
“Late night, dear?”
Jacob, Audrey’s husband, did not share her levity however, and lowered his newspaper in disapproval. He looked his daughter up and down, noticing that she had obviously just thrown herself together. “Where were you last night?” he asked.
You look like you woke up on the floor of a Greyhound station.
“We were supposed to watch that movie together. All of us, Gwen. You do remember that you have a daughter, right?”
“How about a cup of freshly perked coffee?” Steph muttered from her oatmeal.
“Coffee sounds good,” Gwen said, dodging the question. She kissed her mom and daughter, and then touched her dad on the shoulder before heading to the coffee machine and pouring a mug. She took it black.
“I asked where you were last night,” Jacob repeated, more firmly this time.
“At work,” Gwen said, a little too quickly. “You know that.”
“And afterwards?”
“Out…for a bit.” Guinevere stammered slightly. She swiftly regained composure though, and brought a palm to her forehead. She was quickly reading the room. “Oh, God…I’m sorry. I totally forgot to get the movie.”
“Papa got it,” Steph said flatly. She pushed her oatmeal aside before standing up and slamming her chair into the table. “We gotta’ go.”
The family watched the young girl storm from the kitchen.
Gwen hesitated. Something was wrong -
“But it’s not time for the bus.”
“It’s Tuesday, dear,” Audrey reminded. Gwen shook her head in confusion. Audrey forced a smile. “Tuesday the fifteenth?”
Again, deer in headlights.
“The fifteenth of October?” Audrey said.
“Is…there no school today?” Gwen asked.
“Yes, but, Stephanie’s appointment is at 8:30,” Audrey pressed. “Remember? I made the appointment early, so we would only miss two periods?”
Gwen still didn’t get it.
“Your daughter needs glasses,” Jacob said bluntly, standing in disgust. He adjusted his shirt and tightened his tie before adding, “And we need to talk.” His tone was not kind.
The old man rinsed out his mug before gathering his keys, coat, and briefcase. Gwen watched her father kiss her mom, but intentionally left without saying goodbye to her. The back door opened and closed. The two women stayed silent while the garage door rose and a car engine started.
Audrey cleared her throat.
“My credit card’s on the counter, dear.”
* * * * *
The sky was the color of Reynolds’s Wrap as Guinevere’s white LeBaron zipped down Washington Street hill with its windshield wipers flapping. The car stood out against the red, yellow, and brown trees around it; the valley was beautiful this time of year, and Gwen loved how the buildings within the approaching Peoria skyline were illuminated by little warm windows that shimmered within the cold rain.
The wet street was busy with morning commuters, and she let up the gas when red and blue lights came up fast in the rear view mirror. An East Peoria cop shot passed her car with a whoosh, before quickly veering right and up the I-74 ramp. Stephanie had been brooding since they left the house.
“Look, I’m sorry.” Gwen broke the silence. “I completely forgot about this morning.”
“No shit,” the young girl muttered.
Gwen glared at her daughter in the passenger seat. “Language?”
Silence.
A second police car sped passed them, its flashing lights reflecting in the pavement.
“Steph,” Gwen said. “You know, I know that you’re angry now, but, you know, life gets a little complicated once you get to be an adult.” She waited a moment to see if that worked. One beat, two beats, then she added, “And you’re going to find that out soon, when you start high school in a couple of years.”
Her head hurt from the bar last night. Gwen frowned on realizing she had forgotten to take ibuprofen before leaving home. This day was not going well.
“Next year,” Stephanie grumbled.
“What’s that?”
“I start high school next year,” Steph told her.
“I knew that,” Gwen said quickly. “What I mean is that you’re about to be in ninth grade…and then you’ll graduate, and then you’ll be off to college.”
“And that means what?” Steph asked.
“It means that you’re growing up fast, and that you’re going to find out…” her voice trailed off. Up ahead, two more police cruisers now turned onto the approaching interstate. Gwen sighed and called uncle. “Hell Steph, I don’t know what that means. I’m just really, really sorry.” She put her blinkers on. Her daughter’s eyes widened.
“Why are we slowing down?” Steph asked, sitting up.
“Because your mother needs another cup of coffee,” Gwen told her, turning into the Hardee’s off the interstate. She entered the drive thru, and stopped at the outdoor menu. She rolled down the window and ordered. “Want anything?” The young girl shook her head and crossed her elbows.
“Suit yourself.”
“We’re going to be late,” Steph grumbled.
“No, we won’t,” Gwen assured her, pulling up to the window. She undid her seatbelt, paid, got her beverage, and placed it in the cup holder. She then circled the restaurant and slowed at the parking lot’s entrance, waiting for traffic to clear. Stephanie realized her mother hadn’t rolled up the window yet.
“Seriously?” Steph protested. “You’re seriously going to smoke in the car?”
“Yes, sweetie.” Gwen tried – and failed – to hide the frustration in her voice. Fuck it, she thought and let the sarcasm roll. “In addition to coffee, your mother also requires a cigarette. Coffee, cigarette. The two go hand in hand. Just like a mother and her equally loving daughter.” Her temples were pounding, now. An idea popped into her head. “You don’t have any aspirin, do you?”
“Just…go,” Stephanie told her. Her eyes had a shiny glaze. “You can drop me off at the doctor and I’ll find my way back.”
“You’ll take a bus?” Gwen asked, locating her pack and shoving a Kool in her mouth. She fumbled beneath the seat for a lighter.
“Maybe,” Steph said. “Or maybe I’ll just take a cab.”
“A cab? Really? One of those dirty airport cabs?”
“Yes.”
“The cabs that take the drunks home at night?”
“Well, you would know.”
Gwen scoffed. “And how exactly would you pay for that?”
“I can pay.”
“Really?”
“I said I can pay.”
“You have a job that I don't know about?” Gwen pressed, her tone growing mean. She found a working lighter and lit up in the driver’s seat. Washington was busy this morning, but she saw a break in headlights coming through the wipers. Preparing to merge right, she eased the brakes a little.
“I asked how you expect to pay without a job?” Gwen repeated, taking a drag before popping the coffee open. She took a swig and returned it to the holder. “Please, enlighten me. How would you go about paying for that?”
Stephanie’s face got red -
“I’ll just use the card Nana gave me.”
Slam!
Gwen gasped softly, and froze with her daughter’s words. The cigarette tumbled from her mouth, falling onto her lap and smoldering. She had forgotten how mean the young girl could be, and Stephanie’s statement cut with razor precision. Turning towards the passenger seat, Gwen saw that Steph was glaring at her with cold, angry eyes; she had been clearly waiting for just the right moment to drop this little bombshell, and judging from her face, Steph knew her bomb had found its target.
Neither of them realized that their car was now inching foreword.
“Nana gave you her credit card?” Gwen asked, taken back. A thousand different things were now racing through her mind, intensified by the hangover. It was though the very temperature had dropped in the car, and Guinevere felt blindsided by a rogue wave of regret. She took a moment to process this. When she spoke next, her voice was much quieter.
“Nana gave you her credit card?”
“She gives you hers all the time,” Steph rubbed it in. “She gave one to you this morning, didn’t she? Isn’t that how you’re going to pay for the optometrist?”
“Well, yes but” –
“Where were you last night?”
My mother gave my daughter her credit card and didn’t tell me.
“Stephanie, I” - Gwen struggled for words. It was like her whole life was flashing before her eyes. The decisions she’d made. The time she’d wasted. The tears that she saw welling up within Stephanie’s eyes right now. Gwen thought about how her own aging mother had been forced to raise a daughter that she’d never meant to have -
My God…what have I become?
The car was rolling now.
“You can’t even pay your own bills!” Stephanie burst, hot tears exploding like shards of glass. “Nana pays for everything! My clothes! My school! She even gave me money for the doctor for when I got-” – the young girl gasped –
“MOM!”
“Fuck!” Guinevere shouted, feeling the burn of the forgotten cigarette. Her body went slow motion as she franticly fought the orange sparks, unaware that the entire world had suddenly gone sideways. She never even heard the horn, or the squeal of the Coca-cola truck slamming on its brakes. She didn’t hear the impact, or the hideous crash of metal and glass when her car was thrown into oncoming traffic, rolling over and over and over again.
Gwen couldn’t hear anything anymore.
* * * * *
Joliet, Illinois
BEEP!
BEEP!
BEEP!
The small red light flashed as a key turned and the front door opened. Alan entered his home wearing pressed khakis, a sharp green polo, sunglasses, a black bikers jacket, and a new leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder – an item that he still wasn’t quite used to carrying. On entering the small foyer, he immediately tapped a code into the Napco Gemini keypad, stopping the alarm. His boots clomped on the hardwood when he came into the living room, losing the bag and laying his jacket on one of the three black leather sofas, arranged in a U. He then noticed a second red light, a little LED glowing steadily on his answering machine. He walked to the desk and hit play; he listened to the messages while sitting and unbuckling the bag. Alan took out his MacBook.
Beeeeeep -
“An answering machine? Seriously? Have you really not set up voicemail?” The man on the speaker was clearly holding back laughter. “You know that the nineties are over, right? Dude. Honestly. Set, up, voice, mail. The answering machine makes you seem old.”
Alan raised his eyebrows at the comment.
“Anyway, I know you hate when I do this, but…I think I’ve found someone you might like to meet. He meets the criteria. He’s cute, smart. He’s younger than you. He also likes all that Star Wars crap that you seem to refuse to give up.”
Three massive movie posters loomed down from the wall, immediately behind the sofa above Alan. They displayed the original trilogy, oversized like billboards, professionally framed in glass.
“And best of all, this guy is clean,” the message continued. “Like, Mr. Monk clean. He’s got like four vacuum cleaners. I think you two would get along. If you’re interested, I’ll text you his number. You do at least text people, right?”
Beeeeeep –
“Weeeeeeel, how-dee part-ner! Them slot machines are always loose, here at the Elder-Rado casino! It’s a dang, spankin’ bee-you-tee-full day in sunny Nee-vada, and the fore-cast is" - the auto-dial message switched to a tinny, mechanical drone – “…cloudy, overcast, a fifteen percent chance of light rain…” – before switching back with a click. “Perfect day for a drive!”
Alan looked irritated.
“So, put on yer’ dandies and dump yer’ worries at the sitter! Parkin’s free, and the drinks is all-ways on the house. We’ve got blackjack. We’ve got craps. We’ve got Bingo. We’ve got keno. And when it comes to our waitresses” – an old-time car horn wailed – “well, let’s just say that if you don’t like the lady ya’ came with, ya’ might just hit the jackpot!”
Pulling up the Drudge Report, Alan made a mental note to get even with the friend who had added his number to the casino’s mailing list. The message droned on for a few more moments, and was followed by a telemarketer and an earlier call from work that had already been resolved. Alan’s fingers clattered on the keyboard. He shifted in the sofa when the next message played, pulling up Recon.com in his browser. The MacBook screen turned red and black -
Beeeeep –
“Alan? This is Jacob Williams, Guinevere’s father,” the voice came from the speaker. Alan looked up. He hadn’t heard Jacob in years, and the old man’s voice sounded…galvanized.
“Listen, Alan. There’s no easy way to say this.” Jacob paused while taking a breath. “There’s been an accident. Gwen is asking for you. I need you to call me as soon as you get this message. My phone number is” –
Alan heard nothing past that sentence.
* * * * *
He was up in a heartbeat, flip-phone in hand. He didn’t even remember calling work or throwing clothes in a suitcase, but less than an hour later, his speedometer shot to 80 as he joined the traffic on I-55, heading south.
He made it to Peoria in less than two hours.
Two
I Know You’re Out There Somewhere
“Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends.
Like my father's come to pass
Seven years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends…”
- Green Day
Peoria, Illinois
Saint Francis Medical Center
“How is she?” Alan asked, out of breath, running up to the nurse’s station where Dale was waiting. Dale was Guinevere’s older brother, tall, solid, dark hair with wisps of grey; he said nothing when Alan approached, but hurriedly led him down the hall towards the ICU. They followed the arrows on the polished tile floor to a big set of locked double doors. Dale was wearing a yellow visitors badge, which he flashed to a passing nurse who used a card to open them with a beep. The two men entered quickly.
The ICU was a long, white hallway void of the usual hospital décor. Everything looked shiny, Alan noticed. Shiny floors, shiny walls, shiny gurneys, in front of rooms with shiny glass windows. The corridor was chillingly quiet, less the hum of machines and the murmur of medical personnel speaking in hushed tones. Alan’s boots made muffled clomps as Dale took him past a second nurses’ station, and then slowed at nearing the room, where a drawn blue curtain provided privacy to those inside.
Just outside its doorway, a doctor in scrubs was giving instructions to nurses, who nodded quietly. There was blood on the doctor’s shirt. Alan overheard the phrase, “just make her comfortable.”
The physician looked up when he heard the men approach.
“Doctor?” Dale asked, with Alan behind.
The physician nodded, but said nothing. He gave a second nod to the nurses, who stepped away together. “Go ahead,” he told Dale, before stepping away himself.
Alan inhaled deeply –
He followed Dale into the room.
* * * * *
…beep…beep…beep…
Gwen looked…like meat. There was no other way to describe it. Her face was wrapped in bloody gauze, with wires and tubes going everywhere. Alan went numb in an instant. Somewhere in his mind, his brain threw a switch that forced every muscle in his body to remain calm as he took in the sight of his injured friend. Guinevere was broken. She could never be repaired. His eyes followed the shape of her frame on the bed, a shape that wasn’t right anymore, and bent in ways it was never meant to be.
Audrey and Jacob sat on either side of their daughter, and the old man whispered into Guinevere’s ear when he sensed Alan’s approach. “He’s here, Sweetie.”
Alan felt his feet move foreword. He watched as his hand reached out for Guinevere’s own. Jacob got up, letting Alan take his place. Alan sat down and leaned cautiously over the bed, squeezing Gwen’s hand when he spoke. “Hey Schnookums,” he said.
“Schnookums,” she whispered faintly.
Audrey fought to contain tears. Jacob went to comfort his wife, while Dale watched from the corner. Alan came in close to Gwen. “You know, even in this hospital room, you look…amazing.”
Mmmph!
The heart monitor jumped when Gwen choked back wet coughs. Audrey’s head shot up in anger, but quickly softened when she realized a smile had miraculously appeared on Guinevere’s lips. The coughing subsided, and Alan wiped the red from Gwen’s teeth. She whispered, “Did you bring hairspray?”
“Of course.”
“And makeup?”
“I brought the whole goddamn store,” he assured her. “I even brought the lady from the cosmetics counter. She’s just outside. She’s waiting outside to” – he trailed off for a moment. Gwen tightened her grip on his hand. Alan cleared his throat. “I have a whole team waiting to dress my Schnookums into something more appropriate –
“There’s a limo waiting too.”
…beep…beep…beep…
Jacob stood and walked to the corner by his son. Audrey remained behind, refusing to leave the bedside. Guinevere’s breathing was labored, and Alan felt uncomfortable as though intruding on a moment meant for immediate family. He had rushed to Peoria without fully thinking things through, and now that he was here there was really only one thing that he needed – and hated – to do. It was time to say goodbye, and to excuse himself from the room. Audrey looked at him in understanding.
“Listen, Gwen, I just want to say” –
“Do you ever watch Supernatural?” Guinevere whispered, stopping him. “They wrecked the Impala,” she said.
“What?”
“Supernatural,” she repeated, her words in shallow breaths. “It’s a show about…two brothers…they’re hot…they kill demons…they wrecked their Impala…at the end of …the first season’s last show.” Alan shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”
“I love…that show…it’s so funny,” she told him.
“I’ll bet it is.”
“And the brothers…are so…hot.”
His fingers still interlocked with Gwen’s, Alan looked up to her mother. She doesn’t know what she’s saying right now. Her brain is dying, and she’s talking about random memories. The old woman nodded, as though she already knew.
“They wrecked…the Impala,” Gwen repeated.
She’s talking about a TV show because it reminds her of the accident. Her synapses are firing like broken electricity lines, and all of this is just a metaphor...nothing more than magical thinking.
“I loved that car,” she added.
…beep…beep…beep…
The room watched in silence.
Everyone knew the end was near.
Guinevere spoke again. “I’m so sad, Alan.”
“Schnookums, no” –
“But I am…I really am.”
“Don’t say things like that, Gwen. We’re all here now. I’m here now. And I’m going to stay here until” – he quietly gulped for air – “I’m going to stay here until you get better.”
Please…don’t talk about this now.
“But I am sad,” she insisted, her eyes suddenly opening wide. For just a flashing second, Alan caught a glimpse of the Guinevere he remembered…and the big, wide eyes that once smoldered with both humor and sexuality. She looked as though she might try to sit up, but her body – her broken body – no longer had that ability. But her words were still strong, even though her voice was not. And what those words said to him next would haunt him always, long after today and until the end of his own –
“The worst part about my depression is that it has a sense of humor.”
Alan went numb.
The grip on his hand loosened slightly.
“I fucked up,” Gwen whispered to him.
“Sweetie, no,” Audrey choked, tears on her cheeks. “The accident wasn’t your fault.” Her daughter heard her mother’s words, but Gwen’s eyes stayed focused on Alan.
“I fucked up with Stephanie.” Gwen spoke directly to him. Her eyes were like steel. “I wasn’t ready to be a mom. I wasn’t ready to do a good job.”
“Gwen,” Alan protested. “I’m going to step outside for a second. “Your mom’s here, and so is your dad and brother. They should be the ones to” – he stopped midsentence, realizing what he was about to say.
He attempted to stand, but Guinevere wouldn’t allow it. Her red and purple fingers refused to release their grip, forcing him closer. Alan looked at Audrey in desperation. I’m so sorry. He could hear Jacob behind him, inhaling in both exhaustion and grief. Audrey’s eyes met Alan’s. It’s all right, Alan. Gwen wants you to be here.
Alan relented. He placed both hands on top of Gwen’s own. The heart monitor was slowing now. “I’m here, Schnookums.”
…beep, beep, beep…
“Alan, listen to me,” Gwen whispered. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“It’s important,” she said.
“Tell me.”
“…I want you to…Stephanie…” Her sentence was incomplete.
“You want me to get Stephanie?” Alan asked, looking at Audrey, then Jacob. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll get Stephanie.” He suddenly realized that Gwen’s daughter wasn’t in the room. A horrible thought occurred when he remembered Dale telling him that Stephanie had also been in the car this morning. My God. Was Stephanie killed in the accident? His face went white. Dale noticed this. “Steph’s okay.”
Alan turned back to the bed. “Steph’s okay,” he repeated. “You want me to get her?” Gwen shook her head. Her tongue made a sickening swallowing sound before she spoke next:
“No…I want you to take care of her.”
Alan froze –
“Come again?”
“I want you to take care of her,” Gwen repeated, much softer now. “I want you…to take care of…my daughter…like you took care of me…when we all worked at Checker’s.”
The room fell silent.
Alan stirred, in both sadness and discomfort. The heart monitor had grown noticeably slower – beep!..........beep!..........beep! Alan looked towards Audrey, not knowing what to say, but the old woman was fighting to hide her own grief as she buried her head within the bloody blanket, next to her daughter’s shoulder. Jacob had brought his hand to his mouth, with Dale in close. All eyes in the room now fell onto Alan, waiting for what he’d say next.
“Remember when…we danced…at Night Faces?” Gwen barely had strength to finish the sentence. A silent song from a long forgotten night crept through the room like a ghost, with Alan and Guinevere its only audience. It was Adam Ant’s Strip, and it’s chorus was slow, in time to her fading heartbeat –
“We’re just fol-low-ing ancient his-tor-ree, if I strip for you, would you strip” –
The music stopped dead, echoing like an empty corridor.
Gwen’s mouth and eyes both widened in wonder, as she blew her final breath like a kiss -
For me?
Squeezing his Schnookums’ hand one final, deliberate time, Alan said what he needed to say.
* * * * *
Hot tears exploded from the room as Alan dashed into the ICU hallway, slamming his back onto the closest solid wall. The doctor appeared again and patted Alan on the arm before joining the family, calling time of death. An unseen hand pulled the blue curtain tight in the window, allowing the Williams a final moment of privacy. His chest rising and falling quickly, Alan took one last glance into Guinevere’s doorway before stumbling away in a daze, the sounds of the hospital becoming static in his ears. He found himself a few rooms down, staring at a teenage girl in a bed who was unconscious from medication. Stephanie was alone in her room.
A hand touched Alan’s shoulder from behind.
“They had to sedate her when they brought her in,” Dale said to Alan, his voice still sad, but rebounding. “She was crying so hard, she could hardly breathe.”
“Was she in the ambulance with Gwen?” Alan asked.
“No, they took her separately,” Dale said. “Gwen was a mess. Thank God the hospital was so close.”
The two men watched Stephanie from the doorway. Alan noticed she had been spared the accident’s brunt, miraculously surviving with only minor cuts and bruises. As he watched the young girl’s chest rise and fall, Alan could feel his own lungs slowing, anxiety subsiding. He wondered how much Steph “knew,” and what might be going on within her own head right now as her last conscious memory was EMT’s swarming her mother. Her dreams must be…awful.
“She must have had a guardian angel,” Alan heard himself say.
“C’mon,” Dale told him. “Let’s find someplace to get a drink.”
“Wait, what?” Alan snapped back into the moment. “Shouldn’t we…wait?” he asked, surprised. “I mean, shouldn’t we at least go sit with Stephanie? So someone’s there when she wakes up?”
Dale looked as if he were accessing what Alan just said. “You want to do this sober?”
“Well no, but…” Alan hesitated. “Dale, we just can’t leave.”
“Then you take the first shift, and I’ll find us a flask,” Dale said. Before Alan could object, Dale’s back was halfway down the corridor, heading for the exit. Alan took a breath and exhaled slowly. He paused at Stephanie’s room, then opted for a nearby chair on the hallway’s opposite side. From this new vantage point, the young girl’s bed was in his line of sight; he could get up if she awoke, but keep his distance in the meantime.
His pocket buzzed. Alan reached into his leather jacket, took out the phone and looked at Caller ID. He flipped it open. “Thank God,” he said into the handset, covering his eyes with his hand.
“You need me to pick you up?”
* * * * *
The white Boeing 737 touched down with a roar beneath the dark skies above The Greater Peoria Regional Airport. It slowed to a stop, and then turned around and taxied along the runway lights. The plane rolled past mountains of dirt, idle bulldozers under spotlights, and a long, orange, temporary plastic fence before docking at the gates, which dotted the side of the old terminal. Alan watched its progress from the closing airport bar, then downed the last of his Manhattan, and heading for the American Airlines arrival gates. A tinny voice echoed throughout the near-empty concourse: “…Now arriving…flight 317 from Las Vegas…deboarding at Gate 5…”
The arriving passengers emerged in little waves, tired businessmen, disheveled twentysomethings, and lots of red Bradley sweatshirts. Alan stood at the exit, paying little attention to the faces that passed. His eyes perked up when he saw what he was looking for – a sharp razor of bleached blonde hair on a tall, thin, middle aged man who stood out against the crowd. Alan smiled when Patrick came up to him. “Hey buddy,” Alan said.
“Look at you,” Patrick said back, hugging him. The two men embraced for a moment. “It’s good to see you. When did you get in?”
“This afternoon.”
“How is she?” Patrick asked.
Alan paused before answering -
“She’s gone."
“No,” Patrick said, adjusting his backpack and laptop case. The two stood silently as the debarking passengers eased to a trickle. The lights went dark in the bar over Alan’s shoulder. Patrick watched the steel mesh get lowered as security met the bartender, locking up for the night. The loudspeakers announced that the airport would be closing shortly. Patrick’s eyes grew shiny. “Well then,” he said quietly.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
The two stared at each other uncomfortably, not knowing what to do next. Alan shifted in his boots before noticing the time and gesturing towards the baggage carousels. He cleared his throat. “We should probably get your bags.”
“I’m good,” Patrick told him, patting his backpack. It was small, but clearly filled to capacity.
“No luggage?” Alan seemed surprised.
“I never bring more than what I can carry on the plane,” Patrick told him. “But I would like to stop by a store on the way to the hotel, if that’s okay. Anywhere I can get shaving cream, and a bag of fresh T shirts.”
“Sure,” Alan said, patting his friend on the shoulder. “Do you want me to carry one of those?”
“I got it,” Patrick said, readjusting the weight of his two bags. The two headed for the exit. “Where are you staying? Are you staying with Gwen’s folks?”
Alan stopped. “Actually, I don’t know,” he realized. “I left the house so quickly, I didn’t even think about it.” He thought a moment. “Where are you staying? I’ll just get a room there. We can drive to the house together, tomorrow.”
Patrick wiped his eye and found a little smile.
“Of course,” Alan said, realizing the silliness of his question. He noticed that Patrick’s backpack had a logo for the same Nevada casino from the message on his answering machine. “My truck’s in the lot. And there’s a Wal Mart on the way.”
“Perfect,” Patrick said.
The glass exit doors opened with a hiss as the two men left the terminal, and walked through the airport’s parking lot together beneath the quiet autumn night.
* * * * *
Ding!
Ding!
Ding!
The slot machines erupted in noise, spitting out coins into shiny, silver trays. The casino floor was packed with slots, arranged in themed rows on top of colorful, patterned carpet. Massive chandeliers clung to the ceiling like fireworks, and the whole place was accented in mirrors and neon. The Pair-A-Dice riverboat had been permanently docked in the nineties, though its footprint had grown along the Illinois Riverfront, expanding into a first-rate gambling complex which included gaming floors, restaurants and bars, and a modern hotel that overlooked Peoria’s skyline. Despite being a weeknight, the place was surprisingly busy; Alan and Patrick sat in Nelson’s Deli, eating sandwiches while gamblers placed bets all around. They had to lean close to hear each other.
“How’s Vegas?” Alan asked, over the noise. “You still at that little casino?” Patrick chewed and nodded.
“I run a Bingo game now. It’s not too big, but we have a steady crowd. Lots of old people. Lots of wheelchairs.”
“Sounds classy,” Alan joked. “And thanks for adding me to the mailing list, by the way. I keep getting those stupid messages.”
“Aren’t they awful?” Patrick laughed. “The whole place is like that. It’s like time got stuck in 1972, and never got started up again. It reminds me of the old Riviera on the strip.” He swallowed before adding, “We’re definitely off-strip, though. No high-rollers there.”
“Welcome to the Hotel California,” Alan joked.
“Not quite, but close,” Patrick said.
Alan pushed his sandwich aside and finished the last of his chips. As Patrick did the same, Alan noticed that the rings on Patrick’s fingers had gotten bigger these past fifteen years.
“You still with Best Western?” Patrick asked.
Alan shook his head. “I’m with the Roanoke now,” he said. “I’m an assistant manager for their place in downtown Naperville. It’s an old hotel that got refurbished. Thirty rooms, a little restaurant and bar. I guess we’re classified as a boutique hotel. We’re right across the street from a Barnes and Noble.”
“Nice,” Patrick said.
“Not as nice as this,” Alan said, settling back in his chair and looking over the casino’s crowd. “The only time we’re ever this busy is on New Years, or when something is happening nearby.” He looked at his watch.
“It’s late,” Patrick realized.
“I figure we’ll go to the house around noon?” Alan said. “Stop by, see if they need anything? Maybe do a grocery run for them?”
“That sounds good.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Just through the funeral,” Patrick said. “You said it was Friday?”
“That’s what Dale told me.”
“I wish I could stay longer, but I can’t be gone the weekend.”
“Same here.”
“You’ve got Dale’s number?” Patrick asked. Alan nodded. “I’ll text him when I get up.”
“We shouldn’t be too early,” Patrick said, his tone growing somber. “I can’t…even imagine…what her folks must be going through. To lose a daughter that way.”
“Yeah.”
“And Steph?” Patrick asked.
Alan crossed his arms and shook his head. “She’s okay, but…” His words trailed off. “Again, I’ll text Dale in the morning.”
“Okay.” Patrick gathered his things. “We should get some sleep.”
The two friends stood in silence, tossing their wrappers into the trash. Bright lights and jackpots buzzed all around as they threaded through the gaming floor, where people playing blackjack and poker cheered their winning hands. The place felt alive with excitement and happiness, though neither Alan nor Patrick felt right sharing in the sentiment. The two stayed quiet until they reached the elevators past the lobby. Alan pressed the call button, but when the doors opened, Patrick lingered.
“Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Patrick told him. “I forgot to buy razors. I’m sure they’ll have them in the gift shop.”
“Aren’t they closed by now?” Alan asked. “I’ll give you one of mine.”
“They have vending machines.”
“Okay,” Alan said. “I’ll text you when I’m up.”
“Perfect,” Patrick said, giving him a quick hug. The two separated and Alan vanished behind the closing elevator doors. Patrick double backed through the lobby, hesitated at the darkened gift shop, and then turned to watch the elevator, making sure that Alan had gotten off on their floor. Once the cabin returned with a different set of passengers, Patrick backtracked to the gaming floor and joined the gamblers at a high-stakes poker table, where he placed a stack of hundreds onto its green felt. Unaware that Alan was now sitting across the casino at a bar, Patrick bet the max on each hand.
The two wouldn’t see each other again until the following morning.
Two
I Know You’re Out There Somewhere
“Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends.
Like my father's come to pass
Seven years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends…”
- Green Day
Peoria, Illinois
Saint Francis Medical Center
“How is she?” Alan asked, out of breath, running up to the nurse’s station where Dale was waiting. Dale was Guinevere’s older brother, tall, solid, dark hair with wisps of grey; he said nothing when Alan approached, but hurriedly led him down the hall towards the ICU. They followed the arrows on the polished tile floor to a big set of locked double doors. Dale was wearing a yellow visitors badge, which he flashed to a passing nurse who used a card to open them with a beep. The two men entered quickly.
The ICU was a long, white hallway void of the usual hospital décor. Everything looked shiny, Alan noticed. Shiny floors, shiny walls, shiny gurneys, in front of rooms with shiny glass windows. The corridor was chillingly quiet, less the hum of machines and the murmur of medical personnel speaking in hushed tones. Alan’s boots made muffled clomps as Dale took him past a second nurses’ station, and then slowed at nearing the room, where a drawn blue curtain provided privacy to those inside.
Just outside its doorway, a doctor in scrubs was giving instructions to nurses, who nodded quietly. There was blood on the doctor’s shirt. Alan overheard the phrase, “just make her comfortable.”
The physician looked up when he heard the men approach.
“Doctor?” Dale asked, with Alan behind.
The physician nodded, but said nothing. He gave a second nod to the nurses, who stepped away together. “Go ahead,” he told Dale, before stepping away himself.
Alan inhaled deeply –
He followed Dale into the room.
* * * * *
…beep…beep…beep…
Gwen looked…like meat. There was no other way to describe it. Her face was wrapped in bloody gauze, with wires and tubes going everywhere. Alan went numb in an instant. Somewhere in his mind, his brain threw a switch that forced every muscle in his body to remain calm as he took in the sight of his injured friend. Guinevere was broken. She could never be repaired. His eyes followed the shape of her frame on the bed, a shape that wasn’t right anymore, and bent in ways it was never meant to be.
Audrey and Jacob sat on either side of their daughter, and the old man whispered into Guinevere’s ear when he sensed Alan’s approach. “He’s here, Sweetie.”
Alan felt his feet move foreword. He watched as his hand reached out for Guinevere’s own. Jacob got up, letting Alan take his place. Alan sat down and leaned cautiously over the bed, squeezing Gwen’s hand when he spoke. “Hey Schnookums,” he said.
“Schnookums,” she whispered faintly.
Audrey fought to contain tears. Jacob went to comfort his wife, while Dale watched from the corner. Alan came in close to Gwen. “You know, even in this hospital room, you look…amazing.”
Mmmph!
The heart monitor jumped when Gwen choked back wet coughs. Audrey’s head shot up in anger, but quickly softened when she realized a smile had miraculously appeared on Guinevere’s lips. The coughing subsided, and Alan wiped the red from Gwen’s teeth. She whispered, “Did you bring hairspray?”
“Of course.”
“And makeup?”
“I brought the whole goddamn store,” he assured her. “I even brought the lady from the cosmetics counter. She’s just outside. She’s waiting outside to” – he trailed off for a moment. Gwen tightened her grip on his hand. Alan cleared his throat. “I have a whole team waiting to dress my Schnookums into something more appropriate –
“There’s a limo waiting too.”
…beep…beep…beep…
Jacob stood and walked to the corner by his son. Audrey remained behind, refusing to leave the bedside. Guinevere’s breathing was labored, and Alan felt uncomfortable as though intruding on a moment meant for immediate family. He had rushed to Peoria without fully thinking things through, and now that he was here there was really only one thing that he needed – and hated – to do. It was time to say goodbye, and to excuse himself from the room. Audrey looked at him in understanding.
“Listen, Gwen, I just want to say” –
“Do you ever watch Supernatural?” Guinevere whispered, stopping him. “They wrecked the Impala,” she said.
“What?”
“Supernatural,” she repeated, her words in shallow breaths. “It’s a show about…two brothers…they’re hot…they kill demons…they wrecked their Impala…at the end of …the first season’s last show.” Alan shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”
“I love…that show…it’s so funny,” she told him.
“I’ll bet it is.”
“And the brothers…are so…hot.”
His fingers still interlocked with Gwen’s, Alan looked up to her mother. She doesn’t know what she’s saying right now. Her brain is dying, and she’s talking about random memories. The old woman nodded, as though she already knew.
“They wrecked…the Impala,” Gwen repeated.
She’s talking about a TV show because it reminds her of the accident. Her synapses are firing like broken electricity lines, and all of this is just a metaphor...nothing more than magical thinking.
“I loved that car,” she added.
…beep…beep…beep…
The room watched in silence.
Everyone knew the end was near.
Guinevere spoke again. “I’m so sad, Alan.”
“Schnookums, no” –
“But I am…I really am.”
“Don’t say things like that, Gwen. We’re all here now. I’m here now. And I’m going to stay here until” – he quietly gulped for air – “I’m going to stay here until you get better.”
Please…don’t talk about this now.
“But I am sad,” she insisted, her eyes suddenly opening wide. For just a flashing second, Alan caught a glimpse of the Guinevere he remembered…and the big, wide eyes that once smoldered with both humor and sexuality. She looked as though she might try to sit up, but her body – her broken body – no longer had that ability. But her words were still strong, even though her voice was not. And what those words said to him next would haunt him always, long after today and until the end of his own –
“The worst part about my depression is that it has a sense of humor.”
Alan went numb.
The grip on his hand loosened slightly.
“I fucked up,” Gwen whispered to him.
“Sweetie, no,” Audrey choked, tears on her cheeks. “The accident wasn’t your fault.” Her daughter heard her mother’s words, but Gwen’s eyes stayed focused on Alan.
“I fucked up with Stephanie.” Gwen spoke directly to him. Her eyes were like steel. “I wasn’t ready to be a mom. I wasn’t ready to do a good job.”
“Gwen,” Alan protested. “I’m going to step outside for a second. “Your mom’s here, and so is your dad and brother. They should be the ones to” – he stopped midsentence, realizing what he was about to say.
He attempted to stand, but Guinevere wouldn’t allow it. Her red and purple fingers refused to release their grip, forcing him closer. Alan looked at Audrey in desperation. I’m so sorry. He could hear Jacob behind him, inhaling in both exhaustion and grief. Audrey’s eyes met Alan’s. It’s all right, Alan. Gwen wants you to be here.
Alan relented. He placed both hands on top of Gwen’s own. The heart monitor was slowing now. “I’m here, Schnookums.”
…beep, beep, beep…
“Alan, listen to me,” Gwen whispered. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“It’s important,” she said.
“Tell me.”
“…I want you to…Stephanie…” Her sentence was incomplete.
“You want me to get Stephanie?” Alan asked, looking at Audrey, then Jacob. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll get Stephanie.” He suddenly realized that Gwen’s daughter wasn’t in the room. A horrible thought occurred when he remembered Dale telling him that Stephanie had also been in the car this morning. My God. Was Stephanie killed in the accident? His face went white. Dale noticed this. “Steph’s okay.”
Alan turned back to the bed. “Steph’s okay,” he repeated. “You want me to get her?” Gwen shook her head. Her tongue made a sickening swallowing sound before she spoke next:
“No…I want you to take care of her.”
Alan froze –
“Come again?”
“I want you to take care of her,” Gwen repeated, much softer now. “I want you…to take care of…my daughter…like you took care of me…when we all worked at Checker’s.”
The room fell silent.
Alan stirred, in both sadness and discomfort. The heart monitor had grown noticeably slower – beep!..........beep!..........beep! Alan looked towards Audrey, not knowing what to say, but the old woman was fighting to hide her own grief as she buried her head within the bloody blanket, next to her daughter’s shoulder. Jacob had brought his hand to his mouth, with Dale in close. All eyes in the room now fell onto Alan, waiting for what he’d say next.
“Remember when…we danced…at Night Faces?” Gwen barely had strength to finish the sentence. A silent song from a long forgotten night crept through the room like a ghost, with Alan and Guinevere its only audience. It was Adam Ant’s Strip, and it’s chorus was slow, in time to her fading heartbeat –
“We’re just fol-low-ing ancient his-tor-ree, if I strip for you, would you strip” –
The music stopped dead, echoing like an empty corridor.
Gwen’s mouth and eyes both widened in wonder, as she blew her final breath like a kiss -
For me?
Squeezing his Schnookums’ hand one final, deliberate time, Alan said what he needed to say.
* * * * *
Hot tears exploded from the room as Alan dashed into the ICU hallway, slamming his back onto the closest solid wall. The doctor appeared again and patted Alan on the arm before joining the family, calling time of death. An unseen hand pulled the blue curtain tight in the window, allowing the Williams a final moment of privacy. His chest rising and falling quickly, Alan took one last glance into Guinevere’s doorway before stumbling away in a daze, the sounds of the hospital becoming static in his ears. He found himself a few rooms down, staring at a teenage girl in a bed who was unconscious from medication. Stephanie was alone in her room.
A hand touched Alan’s shoulder from behind.
“They had to sedate her when they brought her in,” Dale said to Alan, his voice still sad, but rebounding. “She was crying so hard, she could hardly breathe.”
“Was she in the ambulance with Gwen?” Alan asked.
“No, they took her separately,” Dale said. “Gwen was a mess. Thank God the hospital was so close.”
The two men watched Stephanie from the doorway. Alan noticed she had been spared the accident’s brunt, miraculously surviving with only minor cuts and bruises. As he watched the young girl’s chest rise and fall, Alan could feel his own lungs slowing, anxiety subsiding. He wondered how much Steph “knew,” and what might be going on within her own head right now as her last conscious memory was EMT’s swarming her mother. Her dreams must be…awful.
“She must have had a guardian angel,” Alan heard himself say.
“C’mon,” Dale told him. “Let’s find someplace to get a drink.”
“Wait, what?” Alan snapped back into the moment. “Shouldn’t we…wait?” he asked, surprised. “I mean, shouldn’t we at least go sit with Stephanie? So someone’s there when she wakes up?”
Dale looked as if he were accessing what Alan just said. “You want to do this sober?”
“Well no, but…” Alan hesitated. “Dale, we just can’t leave.”
“Then you take the first shift, and I’ll find us a flask,” Dale said. Before Alan could object, Dale’s back was halfway down the corridor, heading for the exit. Alan took a breath and exhaled slowly. He paused at Stephanie’s room, then opted for a nearby chair on the hallway’s opposite side. From this new vantage point, the young girl’s bed was in his line of sight; he could get up if she awoke, but keep his distance in the meantime.
His pocket buzzed. Alan reached into his leather jacket, took out the phone and looked at Caller ID. He flipped it open. “Thank God,” he said into the handset, covering his eyes with his hand.
“You need me to pick you up?”
* * * * *
The white Boeing 737 touched down with a roar beneath the dark skies above The Greater Peoria Regional Airport. It slowed to a stop, and then turned around and taxied along the runway lights. The plane rolled past mountains of dirt, idle bulldozers under spotlights, and a long, orange, temporary plastic fence before docking at the gates, which dotted the side of the old terminal. Alan watched its progress from the closing airport bar, then downed the last of his Manhattan, and heading for the American Airlines arrival gates. A tinny voice echoed throughout the near-empty concourse: “…Now arriving…flight 317 from Las Vegas…deboarding at Gate 5…”
The arriving passengers emerged in little waves, tired businessmen, disheveled twentysomethings, and lots of red Bradley sweatshirts. Alan stood at the exit, paying little attention to the faces that passed. His eyes perked up when he saw what he was looking for – a sharp razor of bleached blonde hair on a tall, thin, middle aged man who stood out against the crowd. Alan smiled when Patrick came up to him. “Hey buddy,” Alan said.
“Look at you,” Patrick said back, hugging him. The two men embraced for a moment. “It’s good to see you. When did you get in?”
“This afternoon.”
“How is she?” Patrick asked.
Alan paused before answering -
“She’s gone."
“No,” Patrick said, adjusting his backpack and laptop case. The two stood silently as the debarking passengers eased to a trickle. The lights went dark in the bar over Alan’s shoulder. Patrick watched the steel mesh get lowered as security met the bartender, locking up for the night. The loudspeakers announced that the airport would be closing shortly. Patrick’s eyes grew shiny. “Well then,” he said quietly.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
The two stared at each other uncomfortably, not knowing what to do next. Alan shifted in his boots before noticing the time and gesturing towards the baggage carousels. He cleared his throat. “We should probably get your bags.”
“I’m good,” Patrick told him, patting his backpack. It was small, but clearly filled to capacity.
“No luggage?” Alan seemed surprised.
“I never bring more than what I can carry on the plane,” Patrick told him. “But I would like to stop by a store on the way to the hotel, if that’s okay. Anywhere I can get shaving cream, and a bag of fresh T shirts.”
“Sure,” Alan said, patting his friend on the shoulder. “Do you want me to carry one of those?”
“I got it,” Patrick said, readjusting the weight of his two bags. The two headed for the exit. “Where are you staying? Are you staying with Gwen’s folks?”
Alan stopped. “Actually, I don’t know,” he realized. “I left the house so quickly, I didn’t even think about it.” He thought a moment. “Where are you staying? I’ll just get a room there. We can drive to the house together, tomorrow.”
Patrick wiped his eye and found a little smile.
“Of course,” Alan said, realizing the silliness of his question. He noticed that Patrick’s backpack had a logo for the same Nevada casino from the message on his answering machine. “My truck’s in the lot. And there’s a Wal Mart on the way.”
“Perfect,” Patrick said.
The glass exit doors opened with a hiss as the two men left the terminal, and walked through the airport’s parking lot together beneath the quiet autumn night.
* * * * *
Ding!
Ding!
Ding!
The slot machines erupted in noise, spitting out coins into shiny, silver trays. The casino floor was packed with slots, arranged in themed rows on top of colorful, patterned carpet. Massive chandeliers clung to the ceiling like fireworks, and the whole place was accented in mirrors and neon. The Pair-A-Dice riverboat had been permanently docked in the nineties, though its footprint had grown along the Illinois Riverfront, expanding into a first-rate gambling complex which included gaming floors, restaurants and bars, and a modern hotel that overlooked Peoria’s skyline. Despite being a weeknight, the place was surprisingly busy; Alan and Patrick sat in Nelson’s Deli, eating sandwiches while gamblers placed bets all around. They had to lean close to hear each other.
“How’s Vegas?” Alan asked, over the noise. “You still at that little casino?” Patrick chewed and nodded.
“I run a Bingo game now. It’s not too big, but we have a steady crowd. Lots of old people. Lots of wheelchairs.”
“Sounds classy,” Alan joked. “And thanks for adding me to the mailing list, by the way. I keep getting those stupid messages.”
“Aren’t they awful?” Patrick laughed. “The whole place is like that. It’s like time got stuck in 1972, and never got started up again. It reminds me of the old Riviera on the strip.” He swallowed before adding, “We’re definitely off-strip, though. No high-rollers there.”
“Welcome to the Hotel California,” Alan joked.
“Not quite, but close,” Patrick said.
Alan pushed his sandwich aside and finished the last of his chips. As Patrick did the same, Alan noticed that the rings on Patrick’s fingers had gotten bigger these past fifteen years.
“You still with Best Western?” Patrick asked.
Alan shook his head. “I’m with the Roanoke now,” he said. “I’m an assistant manager for their place in downtown Naperville. It’s an old hotel that got refurbished. Thirty rooms, a little restaurant and bar. I guess we’re classified as a boutique hotel. We’re right across the street from a Barnes and Noble.”
“Nice,” Patrick said.
“Not as nice as this,” Alan said, settling back in his chair and looking over the casino’s crowd. “The only time we’re ever this busy is on New Years, or when something is happening nearby.” He looked at his watch.
“It’s late,” Patrick realized.
“I figure we’ll go to the house around noon?” Alan said. “Stop by, see if they need anything? Maybe do a grocery run for them?”
“That sounds good.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Just through the funeral,” Patrick said. “You said it was Friday?”
“That’s what Dale told me.”
“I wish I could stay longer, but I can’t be gone the weekend.”
“Same here.”
“You’ve got Dale’s number?” Patrick asked. Alan nodded. “I’ll text him when I get up.”
“We shouldn’t be too early,” Patrick said, his tone growing somber. “I can’t…even imagine…what her folks must be going through. To lose a daughter that way.”
“Yeah.”
“And Steph?” Patrick asked.
Alan crossed his arms and shook his head. “She’s okay, but…” His words trailed off. “Again, I’ll text Dale in the morning.”
“Okay.” Patrick gathered his things. “We should get some sleep.”
The two friends stood in silence, tossing their wrappers into the trash. Bright lights and jackpots buzzed all around as they threaded through the gaming floor, where people playing blackjack and poker cheered their winning hands. The place felt alive with excitement and happiness, though neither Alan nor Patrick felt right sharing in the sentiment. The two stayed quiet until they reached the elevators past the lobby. Alan pressed the call button, but when the doors opened, Patrick lingered.
“Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Patrick told him. “I forgot to buy razors. I’m sure they’ll have them in the gift shop.”
“Aren’t they closed by now?” Alan asked. “I’ll give you one of mine.”
“They have vending machines.”
“Okay,” Alan said. “I’ll text you when I’m up.”
“Perfect,” Patrick said, giving him a quick hug. The two separated and Alan vanished behind the closing elevator doors. Patrick double backed through the lobby, hesitated at the darkened gift shop, and then turned to watch the elevator, making sure that Alan had gotten off on their floor. Once the cabin returned with a different set of passengers, Patrick backtracked to the gaming floor and joined the gamblers at a high-stakes poker table, where he placed a stack of hundreds onto its green felt. Unaware that Alan was now sitting across the casino at a bar, Patrick bet the max on each hand.
The two wouldn’t see each other again until the following morning.
Gwen with her "Over 21" Drivers License
|
Alan & Guinevere, circa 1989
|
Three
The Busiest Restaurant in Town
“Eagle’s calling and he’s calling your name
Tides are turning, bringing winds of change –
Why do I feel this way?
The promise of a new day…”
- Paula Abdul
Peoria, Illinois
1991
The hot summer sun caught the highlights of Guinevere’s hair as she pulled into the parking lot, Paula Abdul blasting. Her car did a loop before finding a spot near the other servers’ vehicles; she parked, closed the convertible’s top, then gathered her apron, pens, and ticket book while climbing out of her new Chrysler LeBaron. She wore a crisp pink polo, jeans that enunciated her heart-shaped butt, and a pair of Jackie O sunglasses that she’d bought at Famous Barr. Despite having a nametag on her shirt, Gwen could have easily passed for a catalog model.
Behind her, over her shoulders, the trees around Northwoods Mall glowed a bright, brilliant green, with the tired Denny’s road sign just visible in the distance. More cars rolled into the lot, and Gwen held back as a dented Chevy Citation rattled up, taking the space next to hers. She could smell marijuana the moment its engine stopped.
“Hey Jackie,” Gwen said cheerfully, waiting for her coworker to get out of the vehicle. Jackie was 40 going on 70, and looked more suited for a Harley than a little hatchback. Gwen smiled patiently as Jackie heaved herself from the seat, dropping a lit cigarette when she slammed the squeaky door closed. “Careful there,” Gwen added. “You need another one?”
“Nah, this one’s still good.” Jackie scooped up the smoldering Marlboro and shoved it into her mouth without a second thought. It looked like she’d slept in her clothes. “How you doin’ today?” Jackie asked, her voice raspy.
“Great,” Gwen said. “And you?”
“I think I slept funny,” Jackie said, tightening a wrinkled apron around her wrinkled jeans. Her shoes were the color of dirt. “We were up til’ three last night. Got us some good skank.”
“You can’t tell,” Gwen assured her, lighting her own smoke while the two walked towards the restaurant together. Another few cars pulled into the lot behind, and servers emerged and chatted with each other, getting ready for the lunch shift. The younger ones were clearly Bradley students. One of them had a new RX-7. From above, everyone converged onto a big red brick building, with lots of windows, a tall facade, and a large dormered roof reminiscent of an old fire station. The words “CHECKER'S CASUAL CAFE” were mounted high above the entrance as the servers flicked their butts and entered, putting on their game faces.
Jackie followed Guinevere inside.
* * * * *
Bright ceiling fluorescents reflected in the stainless steel surfaces along the long, wide servers’ alley within the Checker’s kitchen. The air smelled of coffee as the big urns finished brewing, while the opening crew filled ice, cut lemons, stocked glasses, straws, and silverware, and rolled carts back and forth from the alley to the prep line.
Alan stood in front of the passover, filling ice baths from a large plastic bucket. He had a different haircut today – not as tall as Buster Poindexder’s, but definitely a study in both height & hairspray. His profile resembled a 90210 extra who was having trouble letting go of the 1980s. This was especially true on days like this, when he wore his polo collar UP.
“Schnookums!” Guinevere squealed, entering the alley with Jackie. She ran up to Alan and gave him a hug. “I like the new do. It makes me quiver in places that were already moist when I saw your truck in the parking lot.”
“Hey Gwen,” Alan said, bucket still in hand. He looked up to Jackie, who was getting coffee for herself. “Morning, Jack.”
“Mornin’.”
“Watch the time, people,” Laurie said like a buzzkill, intentionally rolling her cart so close, it forced Alan and Gwen to move. Laurie ripped off the plastic from a tray filled with individual potato condiments, and slammed them one by one into the ice water. “Clock is ticking. We open at eleven.”
“Good morning Laurie,” Gwen seethed with sarcasm. Laurie was the equivalent of the restaurant’s “Roz” from 9 to 5, round, mid-40s, and aware of everyone’s business. The greying waitress somehow glared at Gwen without ever making eye contact.
“You’re in the bar today,” Laurie said flatly, returning the cart to the kitchen. The Bradley boys entered the alley in a wolf pack, also stopping for coffee. “We open in ten, people!” they heard Laurie shout, to no one in particular. Gwen smiled at Alan.
“Laurie, however, does not make me quiver.”
* * * * *
The Checker’s kitchen was a cavernous place, with a server’s alley, cook’s line, and a large prep area at the rear of the building. It had a dishwashing alcove, and numerous separate passages that led to the bar, breakroom, stock and laundry rooms…as well as a small employee restroom. There was also a little hallway that ended at the managers’ office, squeezed like an afterthought between the Hobart machine and fry station. As Checker’s was currently the busiest restaurant in town, the kitchen staff had arrived earlier in the morning, hours before the opening servers.
“Cigarette?” Gwen asked Alan, straightening her apron. Alan shook his head.
“I haven’t gotten my tickets yet,” he told her.
“I’ll get them for you,” Gwen said as she opened the door to the milk dispenser, checking her hair in the reflective interior surface. “Are you top or bottom today?”
“Don’t know,” Alan said, tying his Shoes for Crews. He noticed Laurie return from the back. “Hey Laurie. Am I top or bottom today?”
“That’s probably something you should have checked when you came in,” she said, avoiding the question. Laurie walked past Jackie as she left the kitchen. “What a bitch,” Jackie said.
“I’ll find out for you,” Gwen said to Alan, following Laurie into the dining room. Gwen left the alley and entered the front of house, a space just as cavernous as the kitchen, only on a much grander scale.
* * * * *
Like its brick exterior, Checker’s dining room had a retro, turn-of-the-century feel. It was clearly a modern restaurant, but its windows and booths were designed to look antique, with plants, polished brass railings, and hanging schoolhouse lights and fans. The “great room” space was divided into two distinct levels: an upstairs smoking section – “the top” – and a downstairs non-smoking section – “the bottom” – with a good sixty tables and booths between the two. A separate bar room held an additional fourteen tables and booths, and was connected to the great room by a large foyer/waiting area at the building’s customer entrance.
A long open hallway ran half the upper floor, and Guinevere followed Laurie’s ass as it rounded the corner into the lobby. Upon arrival, Laurie came shoulder-to-shoulder with Natalie, a hostess, a clone of Jennifer Grey from Dirty Dancing, who was passing out tickets to the drooling Bradley boys. She wore a dress that left nothing to imagination. Laurie did not look happy.
“We have an alley rally people, so let’s get this wrapped up,” Laurie said to them. The waiters shot her daggers, but the hostess didn’t miss a beat.
“Actually,” Natalie told Laurie, “there is no alley rally today. Rodney’s still in an interview. I guess we’ll have to open all by ourselves.” The hostess looked at the waiters, bringing a finger to her mouth. “Think you boys can handle that?”
The Bradley Boys howled like dogs.
“Just give me my tickets,” Laurie snapped, snatching them from Natalie’s hands. She looked at the podium’s laminated table map, then counted her bundle, confirming its accuracy.
“I’ll take tickets too,” Gwen said. “For me and for Alan.”
“Don’t you mean Schnookums?” Natalie asked, smiling.
“Servers can’t get each others’ tickets,” Laurie reminded them. “It’s a loss prevention issue.”
“Fuck off, Laurie,” Natalie said, smiling harder. She handed Gwen two bundles. “Here you go…Schnookums.” Laurie stormed away in a huff. “Oh no,” Natalie told Gwen. “I think she’s gonna’ tell.”
“I love you, Nat,” Gwen said.
“Make lots of money today,” Natalie told her.
“Hey – where’s Alan today?”
“Bottom. Forties.”
“And me?”
“Bottom, sixties.”
“Thanks.”
Gwen smiled and backtracked to the kitchen, glancing at her Swatch to see if there was time for a smoke. It was a bit too close, so she joined the other servers in checking on her section. Arriving diners could be seen in the windows as Guinevere came downstairs, into nonsmoking. The tables were empty, less one in a far closing section. Her face lit up when she saw Rodney stand from his interview, shaking hands with a familiar face.
“Patrick!” Gwen said, surprised, coming up to the Denny’s waiter once Rodney left. “What are you doing here?”
“I start tomorrow,” he told her. “At least I start training tomorrow.”
“You quit Denny’s?” she asked.
“You could say that.”
“Well, that’s a surprise. I thought you were a lifer.”
“No, it’s time for a change,” Patrick said, chuckling. “I’ve done my time at Denny’s.”
“We’ve all done our time at Denny’s,” Gwen corrected. “This is a much better option.”
“Places, people!” the two heard Rodney yell. His voice carried the tone of a gay man who had yet to leave the closet. “Come to the lobby and help Natalie seat your sections.” The MUZAK snapped on. It joined Toto’s Africa mid-song, “I seek to cure what’s deep inside, frightened of this thing that I’ve become…”
“Gotta’ run,” Gwen told him. “I’m off tomorrow, but I’ll see you soon.” She paused before adding, “I’m really glad you’re here, Patrick.”
“Me too,” he said.
As Guinevere returned to the kitchen, Patrick straightened his table, making sure it was customer ready. The large windows now revealed a steady march of arriving diners, as well as more big-haired servers, a second slinky hostess, and a couple of Hispanic busboys who spoke to no one but each other. The cooks stood ready at their stations, with Big Tim in the middle – “All right gentlemen, here’s what we’re going to do.”
Diners entered the lobby like cattle, and the Checker’s machine slammed into motion; it was a mighty engine of front and back employees, all overseen by Rodney, who smiled without emotion from behind a handful of menus, held in front like a shield.
The restaurant was anything but a casual café…
* * * * *
The parking lot was nearly empty the next morning, as Alan rolled up in his 79’ Silverado. He parked in his favorite spot, and climbed out of the pickup wearing jeans and a Dr. Frankenfurter T-shirt; he carried his Checker’s uniform, pressed, on a hanger. He had just slammed his door, when a shiny new Cadillac pulled into the lot. Patrick emerged from the vehicle, wearing a polo and jeans so new, they both still had creases. The tall blonde trainee met Alan at his truck, and the two walked into the restaurant together, hours before the first seating. “What’s up, Patrick?” Alan said.
“Good morning,” Patrick smiled.
“Ready for life without Linda and Lucky?”
“I am,” Patrick told him, smiling at Alan’s attire. “What’s on the agenda today?”
“Waitering 101,” Alan said. “Store tour, a couple videos, and we’ll get you a menu to study. They’ll probably have you shadow me today. We’re down six servers, so I think Rodney wants you on the floor by the weekend.”
“I took a menu home to study,” Patrick said.
“That’s great,” Alan said. “Because, I mean, we’re reeeeeally down servers right now. A bunch of people quit before Sharon went on vacation.”
“Who’s Sharon?” Patrick asked.
“She’s the manager,” Alan said.
“Not Rodney?”
“No, Rodney’s the assistant,” Alan explained. “We have Sharon, the general manager…and then Rodney and Bill, who are the assistants.”
“Have I met Bill?”
“I don’t think so. You’d know because he’s kind of a dweeb.”
Alan led them towards the exterior kitchen door in the back, by the dumpsters. The door was propped open, and a few prep cooks were already outside, smoking. Alan pulled Patrick aside before they entered.
“Look,” Alan said. “I know that you’re an incredible waiter, and I actually feel a little awkward having to train you. But it’s all just a formality. Just like Denny’s, once you learn the menu and register system, it’s all the same. We’re just slingin’ hash.”
“I figured that,” Patrick told him.
“Seriously,” Alan continued, “We’ll get you trained this week, and then they’ll give you a small section over the weekend. We’ll see how you do – I’m sure you’ll be fine. Once the weekend is over, and the managers see you can handle your shit, you’ll have a regular section.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Besides,” Alan added, “you’ve already got a secret weapon.”
Patrick smiled. “What’s that?”
“You’ve got me and Gwen,” Alan said. “We’ll tell you all the gossip. Who’s nice, who’s a bitch, who’s got your back, and who to steer away from. The first thing I’ll tell you is to be careful what you say around Laurie.”
“Got it.”
Before the two went inside, Alan added, “Hell, Rodney didn’t even call your references. Apparently, my Schnookums vouched for you.”
* * * * *
Entering Checker’s from the back of house was a completely different experience. A little beige hallway passed the laundry room where linens were washed, and then opened into the long prep kitchen, where the air was thick with vegetables and raw chicken. A sweatshop of Hispanic women worked like robots with knives, chopping, slicing, and moving mechanically between steel tables and walk-in refrigerators. Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” – in Spanish – blared from a boom box cassette deck, as Alan began to explain how the kitchen was organized.
“Prep cooks,” Alan told Patrick, gesturing towards the women. “They get here at 7am every day, and get everything ready for the lunch and dinner shifts.” Patrick noticed that none of them looked up when Alan passed.
“They seem focused on their jobs,” Patrick said.
“Actually, they don’t like gay people,” Alan clarified. “They’ll talk about us as soon as we leave.” Knife in hand, one of the ladies glared at Alan, as though proving his point. The waiters moved on, into the cook’s line.
“This is the cook’s line,” Alan continued. “It’s empty now because the cooks don’t get dropped off until 9:30 or 10.”
“Dropped off?” Patrick asked.
“Most are incarcerated,” Alan explained. “Well, minimum-security incarceration. Short term offenses, from the Peoria County Jail. Theft, drugs, minor armed assault…things like that. The ones on good behavior have the option for supervised work release during their sentences, rather than sitting in jail. It’s actually a pretty good deal for the restaurant because they’re always on time and they never walk out during shifts. And the managers like them because they’re cheap.”
“I suppose this is a better place than prison,” Patrick said.
“Jail, not prison,” Alan corrected. “And yes, you’d think this was a better place than jail.” They rounded the corner into the empty server’s alley. Alan stopped to pour them both coffee. “Of course, in a way, this place does have bars of its own.” He showed Patrick how to use the timeclock, then walked him to a set of saloon doors at the end of the alley.
“Speaking of bars,” Alan said…
* * * * *
Checker’s customer bar was a tall square room with a dormered ceiling and skylights. The space was paneled top-to-bottom in golden oak, with hunter green carpet, brass & glass dividers between booths, and a large, horizontal, Casablanca-style ceiling fan that rotated slowly above. Rather than a fireplace, the seating was arranged around a Sony projection-TV. Alan sat Patrick at the center table, then retrieved a training video from its bulky, plastic case. He popped the tape into the VCR, which appeared on the big blue screen. The sound was threaded through the room’s audio system. Alan signed loudly.
“I’ll be honest,” he said. “The hardest thing about working at Checker’s is learning how to use the register system. And this is how it starts. Enjoy!”
“I’ll try,” Patrick said.
Patrick watched Alan leave the bar, then turned to the training video. The blue screen went black, dissolving into a pink and teal haze. The music was early 80s, the kind of tinny techno one would hear within a bad commercial. A hissing cat appeared, back arched, tail curled forward, front paw poised as though ready to strike. The cat became a stylized silhouette, which settled into a circle in the middle of the screen. Below the logo, Patrick read words that looked like Apple II graphics:
The
BOBCAT
POS System
The latest in professional kitchen technology!
Copyright 1983
The image dissolved into a futuristic kitchen, as though someone had combined a restaurant with the starship Enterprise. Waitresses came and went wearing shiny silver uniforms, carrying trays of food & drink upon dishware inspired by hubcaps. Rather than appliances, the cooks’ line had a wall of cardboard computers, and enough flashing lights to trigger a seizure. The cooks resembled Devo. The busboy wore a robot costume. The camera panned across the set, revealing the video’s hostess – a dead ringer for TV’s Carol Brady – wearing an orange Halston III jumpsuit, collar up. Her shoulder pads were wide enough to injure passerby. Her heels looked painful.
“Welcome to the future!” Mrs. Brady said to the screen. “And welcome to the team at your wonderful new job, here at” – the image froze. A dubbed voice read over the audio – “Checker’s casual café.” The video resumed.
“And what’s the future like? I’ll bet you’re expecting flying cars and robots to do your bidding. Well, I’m afraid that’s not quite the case just yet. That’s just silly!”
“…But I do have something futuristic to show you.” The camera panned to reveal the same registers that were currently in use at Checker’s. “The amazing Bobcat 2000!” Brady squealed, as a chorus of angels sang off camera.
Patrick sank in his chair.
The screen dissolved into a different location, where Mrs. Brady was now walking through what looked like an old Steak n’ Ale. Actors playing diners were pretending to enjoy their meals, while actors playing restaurant staff were pretending to give good service. She continued:
“What’s the hardest part about working in a restaurant? Long shifts? Fussy customers? Working til’ midnight without getting a break, and then walking to your car in the dark, hoping you don’t get mugged?” Brady flashed her pearly whites. “Of course not. The hardest part is having to use an outdated register system. Everybody knows that.”
Another dissolve took the viewer into the kitchen. It was just as staged as the dining room, only the cooks here looked real, and angry for having to participate. A few were staring at the camera. Brady stood out like the only woman in a men’s prison, and her orange jumpsuit wasn’t helping.
“Oh, the kitchen. It’s such a busy place. Cooks cursing, servers shouting, and busboys running around, speaking gibberish. And remember how we used to talk to the cooks back in the old days?” – she paused so the viewer could remember – “Pen…and paper! How old fashioned!”
Brady held up a pen with a standard server’s ticket pad, shaking her head as though they were the wrong answer. She quickly scribbled a handwritten order, tore it off, affixed it to the order wheel and spun. The tattooed line cook hesitated, then snatched it like a fistful of owed money, glaring at the cameraman the entire time.
“So…much…writing,” Brady said with a pasted smile. “And sooooooo much wasted paper!”
A jarring jump cut took the viewer to the same kitchen, in what was obviously hours later, after the staff went home. Patrick noticed that Brady’s collar was down, her Halston wasn’t as crisp anymore, and her heels had changed into flats. The camera then focused on the Bobcat 2000 itself, a computer the size of a tabletop television, with a green CRT monitor above a waterproof keyboard. Brady explained how it worked.
“Using the Bobcat is incredibly simple,” she said. “All you do is push buttons. First, you need a server’s key” – she demonstrated as she spoke – “which you insert like this.” She pushed the key in like a car’s ignition. “Turn the key three clicks to the right for the operating menu” – click, click, click – “then enter your restaurant’s six digit identification code” – deet, deet, deet, deet, deet, deet.
Brady inhaled.
“THEN enter your four digit server’s code” – deet, deet, deet, deet – “and wait for the menu for your specific location to populate. Once it appears, push the button marked ‘new table.’ Enter your table number, the amount of diners, and press YES when the screen asks if you’d like to open a new table. Once the computer accepts your request, just enter your food order using these seven simple groups of category keys, all of which open into corresponding submenus with columns of three-digit product codes that you can use to leave notes for the cooks.” Taking a quick breath, Brady smiled at the camera –
“It’s…so…easy!”
“Jesus Christ,” Patrick mumbled. “That’s less complicated than paper?”
“It’s actually not that bad,” said the voice over the saloon doors. “The managers open the system when they get in, and just leave it open throughout the day.”
Patrick turned to see Marty, a skinny guy in his late twenties with a nest of curly hair, a John Oates mustache, and flat-toed cowboy boots instead of tennis shoes. Marty was apparently today’s opening bartender, and had just arrived to work.
“And you’ll get the hang of the menus with practice, but it helps if you memorize the codes.” He came in and extended his hand. “I’m Marty, by the way.”
“Patrick.”
“First day?”
“First day.”
“Well, welcome to hell,” Marty told him, taking a sip of his own coffee. Patrick watched the young man duck beneath the bar, popping up in front of a mirror, shelves of liquor bottles, and the bar’s own Bobcat unit. “It’s a good place to work if you can keep your cool with all the shit.”
Back on the television, Mrs. Brady was in the dining room again. She walked to the servers’ station, where a waitress with Cher-hair was pretending to having just used the Bobcat. “I can’t believe how EASY it is!” the server exclaimed. Patrick noticed the register still displayed the hissing cat logo, which meant that the system wasn’t even open. Brady turned to the camera and beamed. “I told you it would be!”
“And you’re starting on a good week,” Marty told Patrick from behind the bar. “Sharon’s on vacation.”
“Is she really that bad?” Patrick asked, remembering Alan’s earlier comment.
Marty grinned, ignoring the question. “As I said, it’s a good place to work if you know how to keep your cool.” Techno started playing again, and both men looked up together to watch the training tape’s end. Servers, who were dancing out of step to the music, now surrounded Mrs. Brady – who brought the video home:
“So, ain’t nothin’ gonna’ break your stride as you learn to use your Bobcat 2000 register system. Modern registers mean faster service. And I think we all know what fast service means” –
The screen cut to a close up of a server’s open palm. Like Bewitched magic, harps played as three singles appeared in the hand. More harps, a five appeared, topped off with some change. The screen then cut back to a waitress holding the money. “I’m rich!” she squealed. Brady nodded in agreement.
“She is rich,” Brady told the viewer. “And with your store’s amazing Bobcat 2000 register system, YOU can be rich too!”
Patrick stared in silence as the music reached a crescendo, the handful of money gradually fading to black. Before he could move, Alan appeared at his side, holding more training tapes. “The next one’s about food sanitation. Mrs. Brady wears a hazmat suit in that one.” Patrick winced.
“How about a refill on that coffee?”
The Checkers Bar
|
Alan & Patrick
|
Any typical note from Gwen, on any given day.
Four
The Funeral
“Who’s gonna tell you when it’s too late?
Who’s gonna tell you things aren’t so great?”
- The Cars
2006
A soft drizzle fell from above as Jacob’s silver Buick pulled into the driveway of the Williams family home. From their vantage point on the living room sofa, Alan and Patrick could see the vehicle clearly, but chose not to meet it as that felt like an intrusion. Stephanie sat in the passenger seat, wrapped in a crocheted afghan that her Papa had brought to the hospital.
The old man got out, then walked around to his granddaughter’s side; he opened the door for her, helping her stand. The young girl looked shell-shocked as her grandfather led her through the garage and into the house. Alan and Patrick could hear Audrey meet them in the kitchen, followed by gentle whispers. The basement door opened, and Audrey took Stephanie downstairs to her room – a room that was located directly across from her mother’s.
Jacob came into the living room. “She’s home,” he said quietly.
“She looks good,” Patrick said. “It’s good that she’s in her own bed now.”
The old man nodded, but said nothing more. He returned to the kitchen, where he met his wife as she came upstairs.
Patrick looked at Alan. “What should we do?” he whispered. Alan shrugged his shoulders, standing up and setting his tea onto the coffee table. He crept towards the doorway that led to the kitchen. He listened for a moment, before motioning Patrick to his side. Once together, the two entered the room.
“Mrs. Williams?” Alan asked. “Patrick and I are going to the store. What can we get for the house?”
The old woman dried her eyes, smiling at the two. “I actually made a list.” Jacob left the room as his wife got her purse. A piece of folded paper stuck out from the top, as though she’d expected the offer. She muttered something about not having any cash, but Patrick raised his palm. “We got it, Mrs. Williams.”
She smiled sadly. “Please call me Audrey. Both of you.”
* * * * *
The first round of friends & family were arriving as Patrick climbed into Alan’s pickup, closing the door. Alan buckled the seatbelt, then started the engine on his 05’ Frontier. Ten minutes later, the two were zipping down Washington Street hill, the same route that Guinevere had traveled barely 24 hours before. Alan slowed when they passed the accident site; there were still remnants of broken glass on the pavement. A short while later, they pulled into the same Super Wal Mart the two had visited the previous night. They entered the store.
“This is a surprisingly long list,” Alan said to Patrick. “I think she started writing it before Gwen died in the hospital.”
Patrick grabbed a cart. “Don’t say things like that.”
“No, seriously, look at what’s on here.” Alan showed him the paper. “Cat litter, vacuum bags, those little gel air fresheners. Look – she even specifies what brand and scent to buy.”
“The family is coming over, Alan. It makes sense that she wants a clean house.”
Alan pointed to an item near the bottom. “Annnnd what grocery aisle are the panty hose in again? Are they next to the peas?”
“Okay, I see your point.”
“How much cash do you have?” Alan asked. “She apparently wants cold cuts.”
“I’ve got cash. Should we break this list up? Divide and conquer?”
“No,” Alan told him. “I say we make this trip last as long as possible. I don’t know any of the extended family, and this is the first time I’ve actually seen Gwen’s folks in like, ten years. I feel like we’re intruding.”
“You’re friends with Dale though?” Patrick asked.
“Eh, not really. But I do have his num” – Alan stopped midsentence. He reached into his jacket to retrieve his buzzing phone. “Speak of the devil,” he said to Patrick, flipping it open. “Dale?” What’s up?” Alan listened for a moment. “Dale, where are you now?” Patrick watched a look of concern take over Alan’s face.
“Stay there,” Alan said into the phone. “We’ll come get you.” He snapped it shut.
“What’s wrong?” Patrick asked.
“We gotta’ go,” Alan told him. “Hold on to the list. We have a bigger problem than peas and panty hose.”
* * * * *
The drizzle had grown into full-blown rain as Alan’s pickup splashed onto the lot of East Peoria’s Bump’r-2-Bump’r Auto Salvage. The place was little more than a rusty prefab building, a pile of smashed cars behind a fence, and lots and lots of mud. Dale’s own pickup was parked by the office, so Alan took the spot next to it. A quick trip inside revealed that Gwen’s brother was somewhere on the property, so Alan and Patrick zipped up their coats and slopped into the automotive graveyard. They found the man in one of the aisles, in front of the remains of his late sister’s convertible. He was drunk.
“Alan!” Dale said, a little too loudly. He was sitting on the ground Indian-style, with a bottle of Canadian Club between his legs. He stared at Alan somberly before noticing Patrick, looking him up and down. “And you must be Patrick.”
Patrick held back a little, with his arms folded in front of his chest. “Good to see you again,” he said carefully.
“What are you doing here, Dale?” Alan asked, coming up beside him.
“Sitting in the dirt,” Dale said, his eyes like slits in the rain. Wet hair hugged his skull, making him resemble Dark Shadows’ Barnabas. “Or, in the mud, actually.” He was soaked to the bone.
“Why don’t you give that to me?” Alan asked, taking the bottle from him. The wet man protested, but stopped as he watched Alan take his own deep swallow, swirling the contents near the bottom before finishing it completely. Alan handed it back. “All yours,” he said, pointlessly wiping his lips on his sleeve.
“Damn,” Dale slurred, whipping the empty bottle at a long-dead Caprice. It shattered on impact. “Man after my own heart.”
“More than you realize,” Alan told him. He briefly looked at Patrick, then back to Dale. All three men then turned their attention towards Guinevere’s convertible…or, at least to what was left of it. The 15-year-old vehicle looked more like crumpled paper than metal, and the rain hadn’t yet washed away all the blood. It’s a miracle Stephanie survived, Alan thought.
“Have a seat,” Dale said to Alan, tapping the puddle next to him.
“How about if we take you back to the house?” Patrick suggested, looking very uncomfortable. His body had clearly not yet acclimated to the cold, and fall in Illinois was far different than Nevada. Patrick looked directly at Alan. “That sound good?”
“He’s right,” Alan said to Dale. “This isn’t the kind of cold shower you need.”
Dale laughed, as though realizing how he must have appeared. “Let’s go to mom and dad’s,” he said, grinning like the Joker. “Wait til’ they get a load of me.”
Patrick came up to Alan’s side. “He’s right,” Patrick told him, looking at the man’s condition. “We can’t take him to Gwen’s house like this.” Alan thought about this. “How far do you live, Dale?” Alan asked.
“Pekin,” he mumbled.
“There’s no way he can drive there himself,” Patrick told Alan.
“I can drive,” Dale slurred.
“Let’s take him to your room,” Alan suggested to Patrick. “He can use the shower. We can wash his clothes in the Laundromat. Order room service. Get a pot of coffee into him.” Patrick shot him daggers.
“Absolutely…not,” he said firmly.
“Then where, Patrick? Should we sober him up at Denny’s?”
Patrick sighed audibly, weighing the options. He then gestured for Alan to take one of Dale’s shoulders while he took the other, himself. “Get him up,” Patrick said. The two helped Dale to his feet.
“Dale, give Alan your keys,” Patrick said loudly, as though speaking to a child. Dale’s head rolled around on his shoulder, his eyes now facing Patrick. “You know I’m right here, right?” Dale said.
“Got em’,” Alan said, fishing keys from the drunk man’s jeans.
“Now give me yours,” Patrick continued, readjusting his shoulders to support Dale’s weight. “You drive his truck, I’ll drive yours,” he told Alan. “Get his wallet. Find out where he lives.”
“You heard the man.” Alan patted Dale hard on the back.
“Let’s go, buddy.”
From above, the rain came down like icicles as the two men led Gwen’s grieving brother through the piles of totaled vehicles, then into the outer parking lot. They poured him into the passenger seat, then took their own places behind steering wheels. Patrick followed Alan as their vehicles left the lot, their blinkers glowing brightly in the dreary afternoon. A single bead of red rolled off its shattered windshield, as Guinevere’s car stayed behind.
* * * * *
Many hours later, the two friends returned to the Williams’ house. Alan backed into the driveway so it would be easier to unload the groceries, and after three trips to the kitchen with bags, they closed the pickup’s gate. The cozy home was nestled along a curvy, tree-lined lane with no sidewalks – which was now filled with the parked cars of family. Audrey had set up a table in the garage, where cousins and uncles were drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Alan and Patrick lingered by the truck outside. They both looked dry, but disheveled. “Had enough?” Alan asked his friend.
“I’m going to grab a shower at the hotel, then go see my folks,” Patrick told him. “I told them I was in town.” He paused before adding, “Would you like to come?” Alan shook his head.
“I’m gonna’ linger for a bit. Make an appearance inside. I won’t stay long, though.”
“You’re welcome to come with me,” Patrick said. “I’m sure my folks won’t mind. Mom’s making a rib roast. Whenever a person comes over for dinner, she cooks for ten.”
“Again, thanks, and I mean no offense by this, but I think I’m done with other peoples’ families for today,” Alan told him. “Seriously, I’m just gonna’ go inside, take a lap through the house, then head back to the hotel, myself.” He looked at the men in the garage for a moment. “I might hit the new club later, see what it’s like. You should come with me if you finish with your parents early.” This time, Patrick declined.
“Not tonight,” he said. “If I do anything, I have to stop somewhere and get a shirt and tie.”
“No worries. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
The two briefly hugged, then Patrick got into his rental car. Alan watched him drive away before returning to the kitchen. Once inside, he poured himself a hearty CC and coke, holding it close as he wandered the living and dining rooms. He ended up standing in the cozy family room, looking out a big bay window, which overlooked the wooded back yard. For just a flashing second, Alan thought he saw Guinevere standing in the grass, struggling not to laugh as she gleefully gathered cicadas. The Phantom of the Restaurant, he thought as he caught his own reflection in the glass.
The entire home was filled with family, whispering in small groups; Alan leaned on a nearby wall, sipping booze while taking it all in. His eyes then fell onto the mantle above the flickering fireplace, where Audrey displayed a small collection of Roseville pottery. Alan recognized several as pieces Guinevere had purchased for her mom over a decade ago. The thought made him sad.
Finishing his drink, he returned to the kitchen and rinsed out the glass. He was about to find Audrey to say goodbye, when he noticed the door that led to the basement – and remembered the first time he walked through it. Alan nodded at the women seated around the kitchen table, ducking through the doorway and descending the stairs beyond. A moment later, he was in the Williams’ basement. He stood in front of Guinevere’s bedroom door, and the memories it held within.
Alan pushed it open.
* * * *
The bedroom didn’t feel dark because it had no lights, but rather because it had no windows. The space had been carved from a corner of the basement, and looked as though it was originally used for storage, with carpet and paneling added later, as an afterthought.
Standing in the doorway, Alan hesitated before he entered. He could tell that the room had been straightened for company, a quick surface clean to fix the bed and vacuum the floor. But that’s all that had been done, and the space still remained the same as Gwen had left it only a short time ago. It’s exactly the same, Alan thought, the same as over a decade ago. Every book, every knickknack, every memory from Guinevere’s past was identical to the first time he had seen this place, back in 91’. Time hadn’t changed here –
Time had been frozen.
Stepping through the doorway, Alan paused to take it all in. He saw Gwen’s waterbed. He saw her desk. He saw the Nuon Klock he had once given her, the one with flamingos and a palm tree under the sun, a present for having successfully survived her first Sunday rush at Denny’s.
Jacob could be heard from the living room above as Alan’s eyes explored the bedroom’s contents. He saw books from ICC. A statue of Disney’s the Beast. He saw an old clock radio next to a stack of CDs from the 80s & 90s. He opened the player to see the disc inside: The Cars: Greatest Hits. Alan smiled. Drive had always been one of Gwen’s favorite songs.
Noticing something behind the bedroom door, Alan closed it to reveal one of the room’s few recent additions. It was a Natasha Bedington poster, visible only when the door was shut. He stared at it for a moment, then turned around to see his own reflection within the mirror above Guinevere’s dresser. Photographs surrounded the reflective surface like a scrap board, each picture taped to make a frame. One image stood out from the rest, and Alan carefully peeled it away. It was a snapshot of a much younger Gwen, in between himself and a late-twenties Patrick. The photograph had been taken at Checker’s, and when Alan turned it over he saw the handwritten words, The Trio.
Gulping for air, he almost lost it.
A few minutes passed as Alan allowed himself to cry, after which he returned the picture, now wrinkled from his fist. He checked himself in the mirror before wiping the wet off his face. He then reopened the door, and took one last look at the room before shutting the light –
Pfft!
There was a noise behind him.
* * * * *
Alan turned around to see an open door, and the evening’s light fading within a basement window. Clearing his throat, he approached it. He found himself standing in the entrance to Stephanie’s room, directly across from her mother’s. The teenage girl was sitting on the edge of her bed. She was drinking a beer.
“Do you always watch little girls, when they’re all by themselves in their room?” Steph asked without looking up. She took a sip of beer. “What are you? Some kind of pervert?”
Alan raised his eyebrows. “A pervert?”
“You’re not going to start masturbating, are you?” she added.
“No, I wasn’t planning on it.” He smiled slightly, nodding to the beer. “You old enough to be drinking that?”
“I’m a grieving daughter. I can do whatever I want.”
“That so?”
“Yup.”
Alan leaned on the threshold and folded his arms. Aside from a few cuts and bruises, the young girl barely showed a hint of the accident that had just taken her mother. “You want me to get you anything?” he asked. “You hungry? There’s lots of food upstairs.”
She answered without a single moment’s hesitation –
“I want you to bring my mother back!” she burst, her face going crimson as the afghan fell from her shoulders. Alan was at her side in a heartbeat, but the second he tried to touch her, she recoiled like measuring tape –
“Christ, you’re gullible,” Stephanie smirked. She took another sip of beer and winced. “How much of this shit do I have to drink before I cop a buzz?”
“That depends,” he told her honestly, heartbeat slowing. “How strong is your tolerance?”
“But dis’ is my vew’ry first beew. I don’t have a tow-wer-rence.”
“Liar,” Alan told her.
“You would know,” she shot back.
“Are you calling me a drunk?”
“I know who you are,” she said.
“And who’s that?”
“You’re one of the trio,” she said with distain. “You and that other guy you came here with. The tall one. With the blonde hair. You guys were friends with my mom.”
“We are friends with your mom.”
“You’re friends with a dead woman?” Steph asked. “How is that possible? Do you have psychiatric powers?”
“Psychic powers,” Alan corrected.
“Huh?”
“Psychic powers,” he repeated. “A psychic is a person who talks to the dea” – he stopped midsentence, realizing where he was going…and also realizing that he hadn’t fully processed Guinevere’s death himself, yet. He inhaled deeply, taking a moment to look Stephanie over; he saw how much she was indeed her mother’s daughter, and how clearly it was becoming that she’d inherited Guinevere’s humor. More specifically, she’d inherited his Schnookums’ humor…
“I know what you guys did to that poor woman,” Steph said, changing the subject.
“What woman?” Alan asked.
“That Sharon lady. The one who managed that restaurant that you and that blonde guy worked at with my mom.” Alan raised his eyebrows. “You know about that?”
“She told me all about it. She told me when she was drunk.”
He took a breath. “What did she tell you?”
“You’re a thief.”
“Well, your mother was a thief too.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Neither does drinking when you’re – how old are you? Thirteen?”
“Am I interrupting?” the voice behind them asked. Stephanie quickly passed Alan the can, and he made sure that Audrey saw him take a drink before he answered.
“Not at all, Mrs. Williams. We’re just having a chat.”
“Can I see you outside for a minute?” Audrey asked him. He nodded, touching Steph on the shoulder when he stood. He followed the old woman to the basement’s sliding glass door in the adjoining rec room. They stepped onto the patio outside. Like Jacob’s very first message to Alan, Guinevere’s mother looked galvanized.
* * * * *
“I just want to thank you for all that you’ve done,” Audrey told him. It meant a lot to Gwen that you came, and it meant a lot to us.” She smiled sadly. “Thank you.”
“It’s no problem, Mrs. Williams.”
“Audrey,” she corrected.
“Audrey, yes, of course,” he said.
“And I also wanted to say that neither Jacob nor myself expect you to honor what Gwen asked before she died,” Audrey said. “Of course you’re not going to take care of Stephanie. That’s just silly.”
Alan sipped his beer. “I understand.”
“We also don’t expect you to stick around the house like this,” she went on. “I mean you can if you want, but I know it must be uncomfortable for you to be surrounded by all these people you don’t know.”
“I know Steph,” he said. “And I’m getting to know Dale.”
“You know what I mean,” Audrey said. “And that goes for Patrick, too.”
“Well, I thank you for saying that, but it’s obviously no trouble at all,” Alan assured her. “Gwen was my friend, and I’m staying here for her.”
“That being said,” he added, “as long as you’re sure you don’t mind, I’ll definitely be at the wake tomorrow, and of course at the funeral the day after. Same goes for Patrick. We’ll both be there.”
“That sounds ideal,” Audrey told him.
“Let me just finish my beer, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Your beer?” Audrey laughed. “It’s not the first time I’ve caught Steph drinking.” A thought occurred to her. “Oh, I should give you this” – she reached into her pocket and pulled out three singles, a five, and some change. “For the groceries.”
“Thanks.” Alan shoved it into his pocket without looking. “You take care of yourself, Audrey. We’ll see you tomorrow night.” Audrey returned inside, leaving him alone on the patio. Alan swallowed the last of the beer, smashed the can and tossed it, then left by walking through the yard, avoiding the house completely.
Stephanie watched in silence from the window, her hand on the glass as Alan went away.
* * * * *
Two days later, church bells rang in the belfry as Guinevere’s coffin was carefully placed into the back of a black hearse. With Patrick in the seat beside him, Alan watched the cars of extended Williams family take places within the funeral procession; his freshly-washed pickup joined the line towards the end.
He couldn’t get The Cars’ Drive out of his head.
The sky was aluminum grey above the line of white headlights that snaked through Washington and East Peoria traffic. The procession continued for almost forty minutes before slowing near a tall iron fence, where the hearse and limos made a wide turn and entered the cemetery’s crushed gravel lane. Alan followed red taillights through the trees and tombstones, stopping as they neared a grouping of white chairs in front of a podium. Ten minutes later, the white chairs were filled with black clothes.
Drive kept echoing through Alan’s mind, as the priest approached the podium, addressing the mourners. Jacob gave the eulogy, but Alan could only hear mumbles from moving lips. His eyes wandered the tops of heads and hats, before focusing on Guinevere’s family in the front row. Audrey and Jacob both sat in silence, but Steph couldn’t stop crying. She looked so much like Guinevere…
Drive! Drive! Drive!
As dirt hit the flowers on top of the descending coffin, everyone stood and gave the family privacy. Alan and Patrick returned to the pickup, where they waited for the procession to disband. Car doors opened and closed. Engines started. Brake lights came on. A short time later, Alan pulled out of the cemetery and headed for Avanti’s restaurant, where the family had planned a luncheon.
His Schnookums was now truly gone.
Totally forgot about the mullet.
|
The first note Gwen signed as "Schnookums."
|
The Trio
|
Five
Dark Lady
“Baby don’t be shy when you’re holding my hand
Cause this time goes back, you’ve got to understand it’s you.
Ba-ba-ba-baby in your eyes I see it so clearly
that our love is so strong And you never go wrong,
I’ve got the best for you…”
- Milli Vanilli
1991
The late afternoon sun burned a deep, Brady Bunch orange as it hovered above the tree-lined horizon, threatening to set. The Checker’s parking lot was packed with cars tonight, while the delicious aroma of flame-broiled burgers hung in the air like smoke. A cocktail waitress served drinks to those waiting outside as Patrick’s Eldorado looped around the building, parking in back. A few minutes later, the newly-hired waiter came up to the entrance; he held the door for Cheryl Bennish, the cocktail waitress, a gorgeous red-haired woman of a certain age, with breasts the size of safety cones.
“Make room for the twins!” she announced to all in earshot, expertly balancing a tray of empty glasses on her palm. “Thanks, Patrick,” she said with a wink. He noticed that she somehow managed to walk as though her flats were six-inch heels. He followed her inside.
“Newhall, party of seven!” Natalie yelled over the crowd, opting to use her voice instead of the intercom. The pretty young hostess stood behind the podium, where she handed a pile of menus to a waiting server who then led the party to his section. The lobby was wall-to-wall people. It reminded Patrick of Sundays at Denny’s, only with a far better clientele. He worked his way to the podium.
“Hey Nat,” he said. “Busy night.”
“Hey Patrick,” Natalie said cheerfully, noticing his Rolex. “Nice watch.”
“Thanks. Where am I tonight?” She looked at her laminated map.
“You’re top. Forty-three and forty-four.”
“Only a two table section?” he asked. “On a Saturday? That doesn’t seem right.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” she said. “Sharon did the line-up instead of Rodney. It’s only your first week, and she doesn’t like giving newbies too many tables on weekends. Besides, she hasn’t even met you yet.” The hostess paused before adding, “And then…there’s also…a little situation tonight.”
Patrick looked deflated. “What’s that?”
“SHARON GOT DUMPED!” Guinevere shouted over the customers, pushing her way to the podium with a shit-eating grin on her face. She was laughing so hard, she was almost out of breath. When she finally reached Patrick, her words came between gulps of air: “Sharon…got dumped! And she paid…for everything! She took Lisle…to Florida…and he dumped her…as soon as they…got back…to Peoria!”
“Guinevere, be nice,” Cheryl scolded, overhearing from nearby. She shot Patrick a look that said Gwen’s right, though. Sharon getting dumped is fuckin’ hysterical before calling for someone to hold the door for her tray & tits again. “Big knockers comin’ through, people! Y’all might want to give this lady some room.”
“Eleven and thirty-two are open,” Rodney called to Natalie, poking his head into the lobby. He held back as a group of customers exited the dining room, then gestured for Patrick to clock in. “Patrick, your section is full, but Laurie just dropped the check at forty-four.”
“Got it,” Patrick said.
“Rodney, can you turn up the intercom?” Natalie asked. He nodded, but then noticed Gwen gossiping. “Guinevere, is there a reason you’re bothering the hostesses?”
“I’m just telling Nat that one of my tables is open,” she said innocently.
“No you’re not,” Rodney snipped, snapping his fingers and pointing towards the kitchen. “Run food. Now.”
“Bye, he told her, bah rum-dump-dump-dump!” Guinevere sang, heading for the kitchen through the bar’s saloon doors, which swung open to drunks shouting at big-screen baseball. Patrick grabbed his tickets and followed. They passed a little alcove, where the bar servers were using their own Bobcat register, separate from the unit behind the bar itself. The two then entered the restaurant’s busy kitchen through a second set of saloon doors, where the blasting 80s MUZAK was almost louder than the cook’s line. The scene was as chaotic as a sale at Filene's Basement.
* * * * *
"I've been searching high, I've been searching low..."
"Wanna spend my life" -
"With youuuuuuuu...!"
“Welcome to Fantasy Island!” Alan greeted Patrick, power-walking passed with a large tray of burgers balanced on his fingertips – then shouting “CORNER!” when he rounded the corner into the dining room. At the exact same moment, Laurie ducked under his tray, coming into the alley. She immediately shouted at the fry station cook: “WALKING IN…TWO FRIES, ONE CHEESE STICK, ONE KID TENDER!”
The fry-station ceiling went fireball-orange, as baskets hit grease with the violent sizzle of frozen food and hot oil.
“I need Bar six and seven!” Marty yelled to the cooks, shouting from the bar’s kitchen access window. “Two tender dinners, and extra peppercorn ranch!”
“Thirty seconds!” Bill, tonight’s server-side expo, shouted back. He was already garnishing two platters of tenders and fries, and he swiftly ladled two ramekins of ranch from containers in the ice baths. Bill passed the food off to one of the Bradley Boys, who in turn passed the food off to Marty.
“Order in the bowl!” a server yelled, placing a white soft-copy onto the hot side’s incoming ticket plate. “Salad in the bowl!” a different server yelled, passing a green soft-copy to cold side.
“Ready to close?” Laurie asked, coming up to Patrick. She looked at her ticket book, then onto the orders hanging on the cook’s side. “We’re going to close by the book tonight. Spick n’ span.”
“I’m ready,” Patrick told her. “But I’m going home now if you don’t give me back my tables.”
“Forty-four just left,” she said. “And I’m about to drop the check at Forty-five.”
“Thanks.”
“I need food runners!” Bill shouted to all in earshot, his voice traveling over an alley teeming with servers, all of who were trying not to bump into each other. Thirty different servers’ hands filled trays, poured drinks, ladled soup, brewed coffee, pre-bussed dishes, scooped ice cream, submitted tickets – and tapped away at the two Bobcat terminals, one on either side of the kitchen.
“Rodney told me that I have to run food,” Gwen said to Bill, her demeanor that of a lost child. “Do I reeeeally have to do that?”
“Take this to thirty-one,” he said, pointing to a tray with three heavy platters of country fried steak. She scoffed at the suggestion, then filled a ramekin with pickles instead.
“You know what, Bill? I just now remembered that a table asked me for this,” she told him. “I’ll be right back.” The assistant manager watched Gwen walk out of the kitchen, tossing the ramekin into the dishwashing station as she rounded the corner. She passed Alan and Jackie on her way out; they came into the kitchen together, from different parts of the dining room.
“WALKING IN…CHEESE STICKS, MUSHROOMS, KID TENDERS ON THE FLY!” Alan yelled, losing the big tray and getting in line at the Bobcat.
“I got this,” Patrick told Bill, taking the tray that Gwen had refused. With a single, graceful swoop, he lifted the tray over his head on fingertips and navigated the alley with the skill of an experienced waiter. Bill looked impressed.
“Did you hear about Sharon?” Jackie asked Alan, as Patrick approached. The Coke machine was next to the Bobcat, and she talked while scooping ice into glasses. “Lisle gave her the heave-ho. I hear it’s baaaaaaad…”
“Thanks to Gwen, I think everyone’s heard the news – hold on Jack.” Alan looked at Patrick. “You got sat.”
“Thanks,” Patrick told him, clearing his throat. “Corner!”
“Speaking of Sharon, where is she?” Alan asked Jackie. The glassy-eyed waitress pointed to the hallway between the fry and dishwashing stations, where the blinds on the manager’s door were now tightly closed.
“Still in the office,” she said. “I think she’s hiding.”
“That happens when you’re a humiliated, middle-aged woman,” Rob Kinere said bluntly, overhearing the two while he waited for the register. Rob was one of the Bradley Boys, with feathered blonde hair the size of Daryl Hall’s, which was why Guinevere called him Rob Vain. “What was Gwen singing?”
“I have no gift or ring, bah-rum-dump-dump-dump,” Gwen said on cue, coming round into the kitchen. She walked up the alley to where Bill was standing and handed him a hard copy ticket, with the soft copy still attached. “Bill, we have a little problem. I kinda’ forgot to turn in this ticket.” His eyes grew wide when he saw the Bobcat’s printed time stamp.
“Gwen, this was keyed in forty minutes ago!”
“And I also kinda’ forgot to key it in, too,” she said. “So technically, the table’s been waiting over an hour.” She paused for effect - "For soup and salad.”
“GUINEVERE!” Rodney shouted, bursting through the bar’s saloon doors like an angry woman. “Where is table twenty-two?” She pointed to Bill. He pointed to the ticket. Rodney snatched it from Bill’s fingers, looked it over in disgust, then leaned forward so he could yell through the passover. “I need two soup and salads, NOW! Honey mustard on the side, NOW!”
“And a dick up my ass now,” Jackie whispered to Rob Vain.
“And where is Big Tim?” Rodney added, looking at the cooks. The kitchen was running smoothly yes, but the chances of that going sideways were great without a strong expo – and Big Tim was nowhere in sight.
“He’s in the office talking to Sharon,” Bill told him.
“On a Saturday?” Rodney huffed.
“She’s the boss. She can do what she wants.”
“Two soup and salads!” Zevon, the cold-side cook called out, throwing them into the window. His name was actually Henry, but everyone called him “Zevon” because he was a dead ringer for the Transverse City singer, both in appearance and alcoholism.
Patrick came up to expo to return his empty tray. He then went to use the Bobcat in the bar, but Rodney stopped him cold and shoved the overdue soups and salads into his hands.
“Take these to twenty-two a.s.a.p.,” Rodney told him. “Apologize for the wait, and offer them” – he looked at the ticket – “two more glasses of chardonnay, on the house. And tell them we’ll give them a free kooky-monster.” Patrick nodded, then bee-lined for the dining room. “And YOU,” Rodney said to Guinevere. “I swear to God, if this ever happens again” – he stopped midsentence. She was nowhere in sight. Rodney’s face shot back to Bill.
“Did you hear about Sharon and Lisle?” Bill mouthed softly, intentionally changing the subject. A devious smile crept across Rodney’s lips, but before he could reply, a CRASH of shattering plates brought all eyes towards the alley’s dining room doorway, where a single surviving saucer whirled to a stop like a hubcap -
“You’d better make that a bottle of chardonnay,” Bill told Rodney.
“You didn’t yell corner!” Ty, a server, a waitress as tall as Patrick, cried. Ty was a lesbian who looked more man than woman, but her emotions were as fragile as a child in a well. Her face went hot as she screamed at Patrick –
“You didn’t yell corner! You’re supposed to yell corner! How do I know that you’re coming around the corner if you…DON’T…YELL…CORNER!”
“I’m so sorry,” Patrick quickly apologized, trying to wipe honey mustard off her eyebrows. “It was totally my fault. And you’re right. I didn’t yell corner…”
“Youuuuuu didn’t yell corrrrrrnner!” she blubbered, collapsing to her knees in sloppy, heaving sobs. Ty’s polo was smeared in barbeque sauce. Her crotch had taken a direct cola hit, making it look like she’d pissed her pants. Alan had to look away when he noticed that his roommate now had a chicken wing in her hair. Not again, he thought.
“Thar she blows!” one of the Bradley Boys yelled. “Every goddamn Saturday.”
“Will someone please get her a towel?” Rodney snapped.
“A towel?” someone yelled from the bar. “She needs a fuckin’ shop vac!”
“I thought that dykes were supposed to have balls” –
“She handles problems well. She must be ex-military” –
“The ox and lamb did time, bah-rum-dump-dump-dump” –
“Schnookums, be nice.”
Cheryl Bennish entered the kitchen from the bar, just in time to see Ty being escorted from the floor; she spun on her heels and left the way she came, with a single word: “Nope.” The doors swung back open to reveal Natalie from the lobby. “Ladies and gentlemen!” the hostess shouted to everyone. “Get ready for a fourteen table turn!”
Big Tim appeared behind the cook’s line. A very young Cher could now be heard on MUZAK, singing about a fortune queen, New Orleans, and a cat in a black limousine.
“WALKING IN…TWO CHEESE STICKS, TWO MUSHROOMS, THREE HOT ARTICHOKES, AND SEVEN…I REPEAT, SEVEN FRIES!”
The cook’s line rumbled like thunder.
The ceiling over the grease fryers flashed an angry red.
Mia, the dishwasher, a dark-skinned girl the size of Karen Black’s fetish doll, pressed a button to start the Hobart’s washing cycle, throwing clouds of hot steam into the air. She then crept out from behind her station, where she squatted next to Patrick, helping him clean the mess. Neither two noticed that in the hallway over their shoulders, a woman had emerged from within the manager’s office. It was hard to see her face. Her figure was silhouetted within the fire & brimstone from the Hobart and deep fryers.
The dishwasher hissed steam and the fryers belched smoke as Sharon Donovan, Checker’s general manager, a short, round woman with a yellow blazer over a black skirt, hose, and heels, finally stepped into view. Her appearance coincided with the Cher song’s refrain:
Dark lady laughed and danced and lit the candles one by one…
Everyone in the kitchen fell silent.
Sharon, obviously, did not look happy.
* * * * *
Many hours later, the restaurant’s final customers finished their kooky monster as Patrick topped off their coffee, dropping the check. The two-tiered dining room was almost completely empty, less a few straggling servers who cleaned tables and completed sidework. Checker’s had a totally different ambience at night, with big, dark windows, stars in the skylights, and an eerie glow from the soft pink bulbs within the schoolhouse lights and fans. Most of the staff had clocked out for the day, with many moving on to Happy Valley, a local dive just down the street, where the mall’s service employees got drunk on cheap draft beer. Aside from the soft voice of Lionel Richie, the dining room was quiet.
Alan emerged from the manager’s office, with the open door giving those in the kitchen a quick glimpse of Sharon’s profile. She was seated at the desk, her pose as rigid as a statue. Her black hose & heels were crossed beneath the chair, and her blazer was still buttoned tight – like Atticus Finch in a shirt, tie, and vest. She didn’t move an inch when Alan stepped into the kitchen, closing the door behind. His eyes locked with Zevon’s as Alan wrapped his apron around his ticket book. Oh my God, the waiter mouthed. The line cook nodded in agreement, sipping an odd-smelling Sprite while he scraped the deep fryers.
“Nnnnnngggh!” Guinevere grunted like a hunchback, dragging a big plastic bucket of ice through the kitchen from the prep line. She acted as though the bucket were a refrigerator, and she made a show of heaving it onto the Coke machine, dumping ice into the bin. She then dropped the bucket to the floor, and pretended to collapse on the counter. “Now can we go?” she asked Alan. He smiled.
“Laurie!” Alan yelled down the alley. “Can you please check Gwen’s sidework?” Stepping away from wrapping the ice bath’s condiments, Laurie grabbed her clipboard and came up to the soft drink station. “Coke machine?” Laurie asked.
“Yes, it’s a Coke machine,” Gwen said.
“Ice full?”
“It is.”
“Drip tray flushed with hot water?”
“I flushed.”
“Spigots soaking in seltzer?” Laurie asked.
“Yes Laurie, the spigots are soaking in seltzer…as you could actually see yourself, if you looked up from your clipboard.”
Laurie’s eyes became visible above her glasses. “Did you run hot water through them first?” Guinevere rolled her eyes.
“Yes Laurie, I washed them first. I had to wash them because I was masturbating earlier, and I didn’t want to leave behind any traces of my vaginal juices.” The two women locked eyes. “Don’t worry,” Gwen added. “I wasn’t thinking about you.”
“Just let her go, Laurie,” Alan said, coming between them. Laurie initialed her board and stormed off. Alan turned to Gwen and sighed. “Oh, Schnookums…”
“I’m hungry,” she informed him. “Let’s get some food.”
Patrick came round the corner. Alan looked up when he saw him. “Hey – Gwen and I are going to grab something to eat. You wanna’ come?”
“Where?” Patrick asked.
“We’ll probably go to Lum’s on Knoxville,” Alan told him. “That’s on your way home, right?”
Patrick took a quick glance at his tips. “I can do Lum’s”
“I’m sick of Lum’s,” Gwen complained. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Steak n’ Shake?” Patrick frowned. “I don’t know what else is open this late.”
Gwen’s eyes lit up. “Let’s go to Denny’s!”
“Denny’s? Seriously?” Alan frowned. “And by seriously, I mean…yuck.”
“I don’t want to go to Denny’s,” Patrick told them.
“Well, I don’t want to go to Slums again,” Gwen said. “Or Shit n’ Shake. Or the Crappy Valley.” She looked at Alan with narrow, seductive eyes. “Are you reeeeeally going to deny your Schnookums what she wants?” Alan smiled and shook his head again.
“Schnookums always wins,” he said to Patrick. “Sorry buddy, but it looks like we’re going to Denny’s. Come with us.”
“I’m going to pass, but you two have fun.”
The three looked up as Laurie went by with a frown, then walked up to the manager’s office and gently tapped the door. “Sharon?” she said softly. “My tickets are ready. Is it okay if I come in?” The door opened up, and Laurie took the chair next to Sharon’s. The three watched Laurie lean in close to their jilted boss, taking her hand and whispering.
Sharon kicked the door closed with her heel.
“Well,” Alan said to Patrick, “you know where we’ll be if you decide to change your mind.”
* * * * *
The night was filled with bright summer stars as Guinevere’s convertible sat side-by-side with Alan’s pickup in the old Denny’s parking lot. Looking in from outside, the two friends could be seen amongst the diners, in a booth by the window. Alan exhaled cigarette smoke while Gwen’s arms flailed like broken electricity lines, excitedly recounting their evening’s shift.
“…and the chicken wing in her hair!” Gwen laughed, gasping for air. “A goddamn, fucking chicken wing! And it was covered in barbeque sauce, so it was sticky! Bill had to wash her hair in the prep sink, and he used sanitizer instead of shampoo!”
“That was hysterical,” Alan agreed. “That’s actually why I don’t want to go home right away. I know she’ll be waiting for me, listening to that damn Melissa Etherege song over and over and over…”
“How can you live with her?” Gwen asked, calming down. She lit a cigarette. “I’ll bet she cries in her sleep.”
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
“Do you ever hear her masturbating?”
“What’s up with all the masturbation talk lately? Is my Schnookums not being properly satisfied?”
Guinevere exhaled a long drag of smoke. “I need a boyfriend. I’m tired of being alone.” Alan took her hand.
“You’ve got me,” he said seductively.
“Maybe. But if you and I were to ever have sex, I’d have to duct tape a picture of Kiefer Sutherland over my face. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to maintain an adequate erection.”
The two looked up when a skeleton with skin slammed food onto their table. Guinevere recognized the liver spots before she saw the face, and Alan set his burning cigarette in the ashtray as he spoke. “Linda! I thought you only worked mornings.”
“Yeah,” Linda said, her breath reeking of Winstons. “Lafayette laid his Harley on Route 29. Tore the bike up pretty bad. Got a compound fracture too. He has to wear a catheter bag on his leg now. You guys need ketchup?”
Alan and Gwen shook their heads in unison.
“So I had to pick up some graveyard shifts,” Linda continued. “Fixin’ a hog ain’t cheap.”
“And the hog is the…bike?” Guinevere clarified.
“I’m workin’ twelve to twelve tonight. Graveyard through breakfast.” The old waitress snatched Alan’s cigarette from the ashtray, gummed a long drag, then replaced it where she found it. Alan quietly pushed the ashtray aside. “Hell,” Linda added. “Maybe I should get a job with you guys and Big Tim. What’s that place called again? Cheddars?”
“Checker’s,” Alan corrected, imagining what it might be like if Linda actually worked at the Casual Café. She’d be as out of place as a garbage man serving high tea, he thought.
“You guys work with Patrick now, right?” Linda asked.
“We do,” Gwen said. “He just started last week.”
A yellow smile appeared on the old woman’s dentures. “And y’all hired him? Just like that?”
“He’s a great waiter,” Alan told her. “He was on the floor himself, tonight. I forgot how fast he is.”
“I’ll bet he’s fast,” Linda chucked.
“What does that mean?”
“You know why Onie fired him?” Linda smirked, fishing for gossip.
“He didn’t get fired. He quit.”
“That what he tell ya’?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then y’all got lied to,” she said flatly.
“What do you mean?” Alan asked.
The old woman stood back smugly. “Apparently Mr. hot-shot waiter got caught red-handed with his hands in the till. He’d been filling his pockets since the moment he transferred in, and Onie thinks that he stole from that Nevada store he worked at too.”
“That’s absurd,” Guinevere scoffed, popping a French fry into her mouth.
“No, it ain’t,” Linda said. “Ya’ guys hired a thief.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Linda,” Alan offered, “restaurants are full of gossip. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Restaurants are like…well…it’s like there’s a big pool of servers in town, and everyone knows each other. Everyone cycles through the same places. They start at Denny’s, then move to Bob Evans. Some go to the River Station, and others go to places like Checker’s. And everybody talks about everybody…you know that.”
“We talk about you,” Gwen assured her.
“Then he’s got you fooled,” Linda said.
“I’d have heard something,” Alan said.
“Ya’ talk to Big Tim?” she asked. “You know he still drinks with Lucky.”
“Big Tim’s said nothing,” Alan told her. “And he’s been working with Patrick for almost a week. If there were a problem, I’d have seen it. Or, at least I’d have picked up on it.”
“Two orders up, Linda!” the line cook called out, ringing the bell. Linda gave him a nod, then scratched her armpit as she looked at Alan’s truck through the window.
“That’s an awful nice truck you got there, Alan. It’s a 79’, right? I had me one of those, but Lafayette wrecked that, too.”
“It was so good to see you!” Gwen tried to move the old bat along. “We’re going to eat now. Is that okay?”
“But I couldn’t afford to buy a new one.” Linda ignored her. “I had to buy me a beater. It’s a shame I didn’t get a settlement or something, ya’ know, like Patrick did. A little extra cash in my pocket, so I could get me one of those new caddy-lacks.” She paused to let this sink in. “Patrick rolls around in a Caddy, right? Pretty impressive for a Denny’s waiter.”
“A Checker’s waiter,” Gwen growled.
The cook dinged the bell again.
“You two enjoy your meal,” Linda added. Guinevere watched the veins behind her knees as the old woman walked away. “Well, that was delightful,” Gwen said, lighting another cigarette. She gestured to the one that Linda had gummed. “Don’t forget to finish yours.”
“Do you think it’s true?” Alan asked, pushing aside his grilled cheese. “He does drive a nice car.”
“I drive a nice car,” Gwen reminded him.
“Yeah, but you still live at home. You can afford it.”
“She’s just an old witch,” Gwen said. “And she’s jealous that we’ve all moved on to better” – she ran her fingers along the filthy window sill – “and cleaner places.”
Alan sat back in the booth to think, watching the old waitress interact with other tables. At one point she noticed him, and nodded in a way that said, You know it’s true, Alan. And sometimes the truth is hidden in plain sight. Alan thought about this while Guinevere finished her burger, and later after they’d paid the tab, grabbing one last smoke in the parking lot before saying goodbye.
He thought about this his entire ride home.
* * * * *
The following day at Checker’s, Alan asked Patrick a point-blank question.
Five
Dark Lady
“Baby don’t be shy when you’re holding my hand
Cause this time goes back, you’ve got to understand it’s you.
Ba-ba-ba-baby in your eyes I see it so clearly
that our love is so strong And you never go wrong,
I’ve got the best for you…”
- Milli Vanilli
1991
The late afternoon sun burned a deep, Brady Bunch orange as it hovered above the tree-lined horizon, threatening to set. The Checker’s parking lot was packed with cars tonight, while the delicious aroma of flame-broiled burgers hung in the air like smoke. A cocktail waitress served drinks to those waiting outside as Patrick’s Eldorado looped around the building, parking in back. A few minutes later, the newly-hired waiter came up to the entrance; he held the door for Cheryl Bennish, the cocktail waitress, a gorgeous red-haired woman of a certain age, with breasts the size of safety cones.
“Make room for the twins!” she announced to all in earshot, expertly balancing a tray of empty glasses on her palm. “Thanks, Patrick,” she said with a wink. He noticed that she somehow managed to walk as though her flats were six-inch heels. He followed her inside.
“Newhall, party of seven!” Natalie yelled over the crowd, opting to use her voice instead of the intercom. The pretty young hostess stood behind the podium, where she handed a pile of menus to a waiting server who then led the party to his section. The lobby was wall-to-wall people. It reminded Patrick of Sundays at Denny’s, only with a far better clientele. He worked his way to the podium.
“Hey Nat,” he said. “Busy night.”
“Hey Patrick,” Natalie said cheerfully, noticing his Rolex. “Nice watch.”
“Thanks. Where am I tonight?” She looked at her laminated map.
“You’re top. Forty-three and forty-four.”
“Only a two table section?” he asked. “On a Saturday? That doesn’t seem right.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” she said. “Sharon did the line-up instead of Rodney. It’s only your first week, and she doesn’t like giving newbies too many tables on weekends. Besides, she hasn’t even met you yet.” The hostess paused before adding, “And then…there’s also…a little situation tonight.”
Patrick looked deflated. “What’s that?”
“SHARON GOT DUMPED!” Guinevere shouted over the customers, pushing her way to the podium with a shit-eating grin on her face. She was laughing so hard, she was almost out of breath. When she finally reached Patrick, her words came between gulps of air: “Sharon…got dumped! And she paid…for everything! She took Lisle…to Florida…and he dumped her…as soon as they…got back…to Peoria!”
“Guinevere, be nice,” Cheryl scolded, overhearing from nearby. She shot Patrick a look that said Gwen’s right, though. Sharon getting dumped is fuckin’ hysterical before calling for someone to hold the door for her tray & tits again. “Big knockers comin’ through, people! Y’all might want to give this lady some room.”
“Eleven and thirty-two are open,” Rodney called to Natalie, poking his head into the lobby. He held back as a group of customers exited the dining room, then gestured for Patrick to clock in. “Patrick, your section is full, but Laurie just dropped the check at forty-four.”
“Got it,” Patrick said.
“Rodney, can you turn up the intercom?” Natalie asked. He nodded, but then noticed Gwen gossiping. “Guinevere, is there a reason you’re bothering the hostesses?”
“I’m just telling Nat that one of my tables is open,” she said innocently.
“No you’re not,” Rodney snipped, snapping his fingers and pointing towards the kitchen. “Run food. Now.”
“Bye, he told her, bah rum-dump-dump-dump!” Guinevere sang, heading for the kitchen through the bar’s saloon doors, which swung open to drunks shouting at big-screen baseball. Patrick grabbed his tickets and followed. They passed a little alcove, where the bar servers were using their own Bobcat register, separate from the unit behind the bar itself. The two then entered the restaurant’s busy kitchen through a second set of saloon doors, where the blasting 80s MUZAK was almost louder than the cook’s line. The scene was as chaotic as a sale at Filene's Basement.
* * * * *
"I've been searching high, I've been searching low..."
"Wanna spend my life" -
"With youuuuuuuu...!"
“Welcome to Fantasy Island!” Alan greeted Patrick, power-walking passed with a large tray of burgers balanced on his fingertips – then shouting “CORNER!” when he rounded the corner into the dining room. At the exact same moment, Laurie ducked under his tray, coming into the alley. She immediately shouted at the fry station cook: “WALKING IN…TWO FRIES, ONE CHEESE STICK, ONE KID TENDER!”
The fry-station ceiling went fireball-orange, as baskets hit grease with the violent sizzle of frozen food and hot oil.
“I need Bar six and seven!” Marty yelled to the cooks, shouting from the bar’s kitchen access window. “Two tender dinners, and extra peppercorn ranch!”
“Thirty seconds!” Bill, tonight’s server-side expo, shouted back. He was already garnishing two platters of tenders and fries, and he swiftly ladled two ramekins of ranch from containers in the ice baths. Bill passed the food off to one of the Bradley Boys, who in turn passed the food off to Marty.
“Order in the bowl!” a server yelled, placing a white soft-copy onto the hot side’s incoming ticket plate. “Salad in the bowl!” a different server yelled, passing a green soft-copy to cold side.
“Ready to close?” Laurie asked, coming up to Patrick. She looked at her ticket book, then onto the orders hanging on the cook’s side. “We’re going to close by the book tonight. Spick n’ span.”
“I’m ready,” Patrick told her. “But I’m going home now if you don’t give me back my tables.”
“Forty-four just left,” she said. “And I’m about to drop the check at Forty-five.”
“Thanks.”
“I need food runners!” Bill shouted to all in earshot, his voice traveling over an alley teeming with servers, all of who were trying not to bump into each other. Thirty different servers’ hands filled trays, poured drinks, ladled soup, brewed coffee, pre-bussed dishes, scooped ice cream, submitted tickets – and tapped away at the two Bobcat terminals, one on either side of the kitchen.
“Rodney told me that I have to run food,” Gwen said to Bill, her demeanor that of a lost child. “Do I reeeeally have to do that?”
“Take this to thirty-one,” he said, pointing to a tray with three heavy platters of country fried steak. She scoffed at the suggestion, then filled a ramekin with pickles instead.
“You know what, Bill? I just now remembered that a table asked me for this,” she told him. “I’ll be right back.” The assistant manager watched Gwen walk out of the kitchen, tossing the ramekin into the dishwashing station as she rounded the corner. She passed Alan and Jackie on her way out; they came into the kitchen together, from different parts of the dining room.
“WALKING IN…CHEESE STICKS, MUSHROOMS, KID TENDERS ON THE FLY!” Alan yelled, losing the big tray and getting in line at the Bobcat.
“I got this,” Patrick told Bill, taking the tray that Gwen had refused. With a single, graceful swoop, he lifted the tray over his head on fingertips and navigated the alley with the skill of an experienced waiter. Bill looked impressed.
“Did you hear about Sharon?” Jackie asked Alan, as Patrick approached. The Coke machine was next to the Bobcat, and she talked while scooping ice into glasses. “Lisle gave her the heave-ho. I hear it’s baaaaaaad…”
“Thanks to Gwen, I think everyone’s heard the news – hold on Jack.” Alan looked at Patrick. “You got sat.”
“Thanks,” Patrick told him, clearing his throat. “Corner!”
“Speaking of Sharon, where is she?” Alan asked Jackie. The glassy-eyed waitress pointed to the hallway between the fry and dishwashing stations, where the blinds on the manager’s door were now tightly closed.
“Still in the office,” she said. “I think she’s hiding.”
“That happens when you’re a humiliated, middle-aged woman,” Rob Kinere said bluntly, overhearing the two while he waited for the register. Rob was one of the Bradley Boys, with feathered blonde hair the size of Daryl Hall’s, which was why Guinevere called him Rob Vain. “What was Gwen singing?”
“I have no gift or ring, bah-rum-dump-dump-dump,” Gwen said on cue, coming round into the kitchen. She walked up the alley to where Bill was standing and handed him a hard copy ticket, with the soft copy still attached. “Bill, we have a little problem. I kinda’ forgot to turn in this ticket.” His eyes grew wide when he saw the Bobcat’s printed time stamp.
“Gwen, this was keyed in forty minutes ago!”
“And I also kinda’ forgot to key it in, too,” she said. “So technically, the table’s been waiting over an hour.” She paused for effect - "For soup and salad.”
“GUINEVERE!” Rodney shouted, bursting through the bar’s saloon doors like an angry woman. “Where is table twenty-two?” She pointed to Bill. He pointed to the ticket. Rodney snatched it from Bill’s fingers, looked it over in disgust, then leaned forward so he could yell through the passover. “I need two soup and salads, NOW! Honey mustard on the side, NOW!”
“And a dick up my ass now,” Jackie whispered to Rob Vain.
“And where is Big Tim?” Rodney added, looking at the cooks. The kitchen was running smoothly yes, but the chances of that going sideways were great without a strong expo – and Big Tim was nowhere in sight.
“He’s in the office talking to Sharon,” Bill told him.
“On a Saturday?” Rodney huffed.
“She’s the boss. She can do what she wants.”
“Two soup and salads!” Zevon, the cold-side cook called out, throwing them into the window. His name was actually Henry, but everyone called him “Zevon” because he was a dead ringer for the Transverse City singer, both in appearance and alcoholism.
Patrick came up to expo to return his empty tray. He then went to use the Bobcat in the bar, but Rodney stopped him cold and shoved the overdue soups and salads into his hands.
“Take these to twenty-two a.s.a.p.,” Rodney told him. “Apologize for the wait, and offer them” – he looked at the ticket – “two more glasses of chardonnay, on the house. And tell them we’ll give them a free kooky-monster.” Patrick nodded, then bee-lined for the dining room. “And YOU,” Rodney said to Guinevere. “I swear to God, if this ever happens again” – he stopped midsentence. She was nowhere in sight. Rodney’s face shot back to Bill.
“Did you hear about Sharon and Lisle?” Bill mouthed softly, intentionally changing the subject. A devious smile crept across Rodney’s lips, but before he could reply, a CRASH of shattering plates brought all eyes towards the alley’s dining room doorway, where a single surviving saucer whirled to a stop like a hubcap -
“You’d better make that a bottle of chardonnay,” Bill told Rodney.
“You didn’t yell corner!” Ty, a server, a waitress as tall as Patrick, cried. Ty was a lesbian who looked more man than woman, but her emotions were as fragile as a child in a well. Her face went hot as she screamed at Patrick –
“You didn’t yell corner! You’re supposed to yell corner! How do I know that you’re coming around the corner if you…DON’T…YELL…CORNER!”
“I’m so sorry,” Patrick quickly apologized, trying to wipe honey mustard off her eyebrows. “It was totally my fault. And you’re right. I didn’t yell corner…”
“Youuuuuu didn’t yell corrrrrrnner!” she blubbered, collapsing to her knees in sloppy, heaving sobs. Ty’s polo was smeared in barbeque sauce. Her crotch had taken a direct cola hit, making it look like she’d pissed her pants. Alan had to look away when he noticed that his roommate now had a chicken wing in her hair. Not again, he thought.
“Thar she blows!” one of the Bradley Boys yelled. “Every goddamn Saturday.”
“Will someone please get her a towel?” Rodney snapped.
“A towel?” someone yelled from the bar. “She needs a fuckin’ shop vac!”
“I thought that dykes were supposed to have balls” –
“She handles problems well. She must be ex-military” –
“The ox and lamb did time, bah-rum-dump-dump-dump” –
“Schnookums, be nice.”
Cheryl Bennish entered the kitchen from the bar, just in time to see Ty being escorted from the floor; she spun on her heels and left the way she came, with a single word: “Nope.” The doors swung back open to reveal Natalie from the lobby. “Ladies and gentlemen!” the hostess shouted to everyone. “Get ready for a fourteen table turn!”
Big Tim appeared behind the cook’s line. A very young Cher could now be heard on MUZAK, singing about a fortune queen, New Orleans, and a cat in a black limousine.
“WALKING IN…TWO CHEESE STICKS, TWO MUSHROOMS, THREE HOT ARTICHOKES, AND SEVEN…I REPEAT, SEVEN FRIES!”
The cook’s line rumbled like thunder.
The ceiling over the grease fryers flashed an angry red.
Mia, the dishwasher, a dark-skinned girl the size of Karen Black’s fetish doll, pressed a button to start the Hobart’s washing cycle, throwing clouds of hot steam into the air. She then crept out from behind her station, where she squatted next to Patrick, helping him clean the mess. Neither two noticed that in the hallway over their shoulders, a woman had emerged from within the manager’s office. It was hard to see her face. Her figure was silhouetted within the fire & brimstone from the Hobart and deep fryers.
The dishwasher hissed steam and the fryers belched smoke as Sharon Donovan, Checker’s general manager, a short, round woman with a yellow blazer over a black skirt, hose, and heels, finally stepped into view. Her appearance coincided with the Cher song’s refrain:
Dark lady laughed and danced and lit the candles one by one…
Everyone in the kitchen fell silent.
Sharon, obviously, did not look happy.
* * * * *
Many hours later, the restaurant’s final customers finished their kooky monster as Patrick topped off their coffee, dropping the check. The two-tiered dining room was almost completely empty, less a few straggling servers who cleaned tables and completed sidework. Checker’s had a totally different ambience at night, with big, dark windows, stars in the skylights, and an eerie glow from the soft pink bulbs within the schoolhouse lights and fans. Most of the staff had clocked out for the day, with many moving on to Happy Valley, a local dive just down the street, where the mall’s service employees got drunk on cheap draft beer. Aside from the soft voice of Lionel Richie, the dining room was quiet.
Alan emerged from the manager’s office, with the open door giving those in the kitchen a quick glimpse of Sharon’s profile. She was seated at the desk, her pose as rigid as a statue. Her black hose & heels were crossed beneath the chair, and her blazer was still buttoned tight – like Atticus Finch in a shirt, tie, and vest. She didn’t move an inch when Alan stepped into the kitchen, closing the door behind. His eyes locked with Zevon’s as Alan wrapped his apron around his ticket book. Oh my God, the waiter mouthed. The line cook nodded in agreement, sipping an odd-smelling Sprite while he scraped the deep fryers.
“Nnnnnngggh!” Guinevere grunted like a hunchback, dragging a big plastic bucket of ice through the kitchen from the prep line. She acted as though the bucket were a refrigerator, and she made a show of heaving it onto the Coke machine, dumping ice into the bin. She then dropped the bucket to the floor, and pretended to collapse on the counter. “Now can we go?” she asked Alan. He smiled.
“Laurie!” Alan yelled down the alley. “Can you please check Gwen’s sidework?” Stepping away from wrapping the ice bath’s condiments, Laurie grabbed her clipboard and came up to the soft drink station. “Coke machine?” Laurie asked.
“Yes, it’s a Coke machine,” Gwen said.
“Ice full?”
“It is.”
“Drip tray flushed with hot water?”
“I flushed.”
“Spigots soaking in seltzer?” Laurie asked.
“Yes Laurie, the spigots are soaking in seltzer…as you could actually see yourself, if you looked up from your clipboard.”
Laurie’s eyes became visible above her glasses. “Did you run hot water through them first?” Guinevere rolled her eyes.
“Yes Laurie, I washed them first. I had to wash them because I was masturbating earlier, and I didn’t want to leave behind any traces of my vaginal juices.” The two women locked eyes. “Don’t worry,” Gwen added. “I wasn’t thinking about you.”
“Just let her go, Laurie,” Alan said, coming between them. Laurie initialed her board and stormed off. Alan turned to Gwen and sighed. “Oh, Schnookums…”
“I’m hungry,” she informed him. “Let’s get some food.”
Patrick came round the corner. Alan looked up when he saw him. “Hey – Gwen and I are going to grab something to eat. You wanna’ come?”
“Where?” Patrick asked.
“We’ll probably go to Lum’s on Knoxville,” Alan told him. “That’s on your way home, right?”
Patrick took a quick glance at his tips. “I can do Lum’s”
“I’m sick of Lum’s,” Gwen complained. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Steak n’ Shake?” Patrick frowned. “I don’t know what else is open this late.”
Gwen’s eyes lit up. “Let’s go to Denny’s!”
“Denny’s? Seriously?” Alan frowned. “And by seriously, I mean…yuck.”
“I don’t want to go to Denny’s,” Patrick told them.
“Well, I don’t want to go to Slums again,” Gwen said. “Or Shit n’ Shake. Or the Crappy Valley.” She looked at Alan with narrow, seductive eyes. “Are you reeeeeally going to deny your Schnookums what she wants?” Alan smiled and shook his head again.
“Schnookums always wins,” he said to Patrick. “Sorry buddy, but it looks like we’re going to Denny’s. Come with us.”
“I’m going to pass, but you two have fun.”
The three looked up as Laurie went by with a frown, then walked up to the manager’s office and gently tapped the door. “Sharon?” she said softly. “My tickets are ready. Is it okay if I come in?” The door opened up, and Laurie took the chair next to Sharon’s. The three watched Laurie lean in close to their jilted boss, taking her hand and whispering.
Sharon kicked the door closed with her heel.
“Well,” Alan said to Patrick, “you know where we’ll be if you decide to change your mind.”
* * * * *
The night was filled with bright summer stars as Guinevere’s convertible sat side-by-side with Alan’s pickup in the old Denny’s parking lot. Looking in from outside, the two friends could be seen amongst the diners, in a booth by the window. Alan exhaled cigarette smoke while Gwen’s arms flailed like broken electricity lines, excitedly recounting their evening’s shift.
“…and the chicken wing in her hair!” Gwen laughed, gasping for air. “A goddamn, fucking chicken wing! And it was covered in barbeque sauce, so it was sticky! Bill had to wash her hair in the prep sink, and he used sanitizer instead of shampoo!”
“That was hysterical,” Alan agreed. “That’s actually why I don’t want to go home right away. I know she’ll be waiting for me, listening to that damn Melissa Etherege song over and over and over…”
“How can you live with her?” Gwen asked, calming down. She lit a cigarette. “I’ll bet she cries in her sleep.”
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
“Do you ever hear her masturbating?”
“What’s up with all the masturbation talk lately? Is my Schnookums not being properly satisfied?”
Guinevere exhaled a long drag of smoke. “I need a boyfriend. I’m tired of being alone.” Alan took her hand.
“You’ve got me,” he said seductively.
“Maybe. But if you and I were to ever have sex, I’d have to duct tape a picture of Kiefer Sutherland over my face. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to maintain an adequate erection.”
The two looked up when a skeleton with skin slammed food onto their table. Guinevere recognized the liver spots before she saw the face, and Alan set his burning cigarette in the ashtray as he spoke. “Linda! I thought you only worked mornings.”
“Yeah,” Linda said, her breath reeking of Winstons. “Lafayette laid his Harley on Route 29. Tore the bike up pretty bad. Got a compound fracture too. He has to wear a catheter bag on his leg now. You guys need ketchup?”
Alan and Gwen shook their heads in unison.
“So I had to pick up some graveyard shifts,” Linda continued. “Fixin’ a hog ain’t cheap.”
“And the hog is the…bike?” Guinevere clarified.
“I’m workin’ twelve to twelve tonight. Graveyard through breakfast.” The old waitress snatched Alan’s cigarette from the ashtray, gummed a long drag, then replaced it where she found it. Alan quietly pushed the ashtray aside. “Hell,” Linda added. “Maybe I should get a job with you guys and Big Tim. What’s that place called again? Cheddars?”
“Checker’s,” Alan corrected, imagining what it might be like if Linda actually worked at the Casual Café. She’d be as out of place as a garbage man serving high tea, he thought.
“You guys work with Patrick now, right?” Linda asked.
“We do,” Gwen said. “He just started last week.”
A yellow smile appeared on the old woman’s dentures. “And y’all hired him? Just like that?”
“He’s a great waiter,” Alan told her. “He was on the floor himself, tonight. I forgot how fast he is.”
“I’ll bet he’s fast,” Linda chucked.
“What does that mean?”
“You know why Onie fired him?” Linda smirked, fishing for gossip.
“He didn’t get fired. He quit.”
“That what he tell ya’?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then y’all got lied to,” she said flatly.
“What do you mean?” Alan asked.
The old woman stood back smugly. “Apparently Mr. hot-shot waiter got caught red-handed with his hands in the till. He’d been filling his pockets since the moment he transferred in, and Onie thinks that he stole from that Nevada store he worked at too.”
“That’s absurd,” Guinevere scoffed, popping a French fry into her mouth.
“No, it ain’t,” Linda said. “Ya’ guys hired a thief.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Linda,” Alan offered, “restaurants are full of gossip. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Restaurants are like…well…it’s like there’s a big pool of servers in town, and everyone knows each other. Everyone cycles through the same places. They start at Denny’s, then move to Bob Evans. Some go to the River Station, and others go to places like Checker’s. And everybody talks about everybody…you know that.”
“We talk about you,” Gwen assured her.
“Then he’s got you fooled,” Linda said.
“I’d have heard something,” Alan said.
“Ya’ talk to Big Tim?” she asked. “You know he still drinks with Lucky.”
“Big Tim’s said nothing,” Alan told her. “And he’s been working with Patrick for almost a week. If there were a problem, I’d have seen it. Or, at least I’d have picked up on it.”
“Two orders up, Linda!” the line cook called out, ringing the bell. Linda gave him a nod, then scratched her armpit as she looked at Alan’s truck through the window.
“That’s an awful nice truck you got there, Alan. It’s a 79’, right? I had me one of those, but Lafayette wrecked that, too.”
“It was so good to see you!” Gwen tried to move the old bat along. “We’re going to eat now. Is that okay?”
“But I couldn’t afford to buy a new one.” Linda ignored her. “I had to buy me a beater. It’s a shame I didn’t get a settlement or something, ya’ know, like Patrick did. A little extra cash in my pocket, so I could get me one of those new caddy-lacks.” She paused to let this sink in. “Patrick rolls around in a Caddy, right? Pretty impressive for a Denny’s waiter.”
“A Checker’s waiter,” Gwen growled.
The cook dinged the bell again.
“You two enjoy your meal,” Linda added. Guinevere watched the veins behind her knees as the old woman walked away. “Well, that was delightful,” Gwen said, lighting another cigarette. She gestured to the one that Linda had gummed. “Don’t forget to finish yours.”
“Do you think it’s true?” Alan asked, pushing aside his grilled cheese. “He does drive a nice car.”
“I drive a nice car,” Gwen reminded him.
“Yeah, but you still live at home. You can afford it.”
“She’s just an old witch,” Gwen said. “And she’s jealous that we’ve all moved on to better” – she ran her fingers along the filthy window sill – “and cleaner places.”
Alan sat back in the booth to think, watching the old waitress interact with other tables. At one point she noticed him, and nodded in a way that said, You know it’s true, Alan. And sometimes the truth is hidden in plain sight. Alan thought about this while Guinevere finished her burger, and later after they’d paid the tab, grabbing one last smoke in the parking lot before saying goodbye.
He thought about this his entire ride home.
* * * * *
The following day at Checker’s, Alan asked Patrick a point-blank question.
Cheryl Bennish
|
The Trio at Checkers
|
Ty in drag
|
Six
Leaving Las Vegas
“I remember when
I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place
Even your emotions have an echo in so much space…”
- Gnarls Barkley
2006
Red and blue lights splashed across Alan’s windshield as his pickup rounded the lane’s gentle bend, a packed suitcase on the passenger seat next to him. Slamming to a stop at the Williams family home, Alan jumped out in time to witness a pair of EMT’s carrying Jacob to the ambulance, where the vehicle was waiting open. One of the old man’s pant legs was missing, and his ankle had been wrapped in a ball of bloody gauze. Audrey stood with her arms crossed at the foot of the open front door, her expression far more angry than concerned. He ran up to her -
“What happened?”
“All of the men in this house are idiots,” she said in disgust, returning inside to the kitchen. Alan hesitated, then followed.
The home’s interior smelled like sawdust when he entered the living room, dressed in a black Roanoke Hotel polo. Alan stopped cold when he noticed that the contents of Guinevere’s room had been packed, and were now stacked in boxes, divided into piles for both storage and Goodwill. Audrey could be heard storming down the basement stairs, having words with Dale, then hurrying back up. The old woman was tugging on her coat as Alan entered the kitchen. She grabbed her purse. Lights flashing, the ambulance pulled away in the front window.
“I’m coming with you!” Dale yelled from the stairs, entering the kitchen with blood on his T-shirt. He smelled like a brewery, but he wasn’t slurring his speech – yet.
“Oh no,” Audrey told him. “You…are not driving.”
“You drive,” he said, grabbing his own coat.
“You’re staying here,” she shot back. “Someone needs to stay with Steph.”
“She’s fourteen years old. She doesn’t need a sitter!”
“She just lost her mother!” Audrey snapped.
“And I just lost my sister!”
“Dale, we are not having this conversation now!” Audrey found her keys and bolted into the garage, slapping the opener button as she passed. The big door rattled upwards as she whipped open the door to her blue Cherokee, throwing her purse into the passenger seat. “This fucking family should buy stock in Saint Francis!” She got in and started the engine –
But then, she immediately stopped it.
“Where’s the BUICK?” she yelled from behind the windshield, now realizing that Jacob’s Lucerne was not beside her Jeep. Her driver’s door flew open again. She looked frantic.
“Stephanie,” Dale realized, pushing Alan aside and racing downstairs. Audrey hurried back into the kitchen in time to hear her son calling up from the basement. “She’s not in her room!” The woman bolted towards the bedrooms, looking for her granddaughter.
“Can Stephanie drive?” Alan asked Dale, who nodded. “And Jacob’s Buick is new, right?” Dale nodded again. “I need a computer,” Alan told him.
“In here,” Dale said, leading him into the dining room, where an eMac sat on a desk by the wall. Alan jumped into the office chair and brought up Safari. His fingers clattered on the keyboard.
“If the car is new, then it probably has OnStar,” Alan said. “Does Audrey have the account number?”
“MOM!” Dale shouted, not realizing the woman was now beside him. Her face took a direct blast of distilled breath, moving her hair slightly. “What’s your OnStar account?”
“I think that model has GPS,” Alan told them, pulling up the OnStar site. “The police can track it.”
“Like CSI,” Dale said.
“We didn’t pay for that,” Audrey told them.
“They can still track the car if it’s an emergency,” Alan said.
“What do you need?”
“Year, model, and license plate number.”
“2006 Lucerne, but the plate is new – I don’t know what it is.”
“Do you have any paperwork?”
“Yes!”
Audrey raced into the kitchen in time to see the Buick’s running lights flash white across the open doorway to the garage. The car took its place in Jacob’s spot, beside the Jeep. Its trunk popped open when the engine stopped. Stephanie was behind the wheel, oblivious to the recent commotion. She got out and began to empty the trunk before noticing her panicked Nana. “What?” she asked innocently. Audrey grabbed her in an angry hug.
“You took Papa’s car?” Audrey’s heart was pounding. “Why did you take Papa’s car?” Her granddaughter pointed to the Wal Mart bags as soon as the bear trap released.
"Was I not supposed to use your card?”
“That’s not what I mean,” Audrey stammered in love. “That’s not the point…you’re not old enough yet…you shouldn’t be, shouldn’t be…” Her voice trailed off as anger returned. She sighed in total frustration.
“We are going to have a talk when your Papa gets home,” Audrey said firmly, getting back into her Jeep. The SUV slammed into reverse, then sped off down the street. Stephanie looked at Alan’s polo, and then to the blood on her glassy-eyed uncle’s shirt. A devious smile crept across her face. “This looks interesting” –
“What did I miss?”
* * * * *
Guinevere’s room had been stripped to the studs, with a bare concrete floor where the carpet used to be. All of her furniture had been moved into the rec room, though the items had been pushed aside so the stretcher could get through the slider. Alan’s eyes followed an orange extension cord from the rec room into Gwen’s bedroom. The cord stopped at a SawZaw – and a mess of unorganized hand tools – with blood still dripping from the power tool’s new blade. He noticed a near-empty whiskey bottle, with two of Audrey’s coffee mugs nearby. It was obvious what had happened.
“One for the road?” Dale asked when Alan came back up into the kitchen. He had raided the stash of booze left behind by well-meaning visitors, and had already poured two glasses, neat. He offered one to Alan, who waved his hand. “I just came by to say goodbye. I have to work tonight. I need to hit the road.”
“More for me then,” Dale said.
“Guess who’s getting her own panic room?” Stephanie asked, rummaging through bags and finding a package of Funyuns. The two men watched her grab a beer from the fridge, then settle into the family room sofa, flipping on a talk show. Dale poured both drinks into the same glass.
“I’m going to leave you guys my card,” Alan told Dale. “It’s got my work number on front, but I wrote my home and cell on the back.” He set the card on the counter. It read:
Roanoke Hotel
Downtown Naperville, Illinois
Alan Lavinski
Assistant Property Manager
“Feel free to call if you need anything,” Alan told Dale. He looked towards Stephanie. “And you too, Steph. I also wrote my email on the back.” The young girl raised a Funyun, but did not look up. “And pass the message onto you’re folks too,” Alan added, directly to Dale. “I hope your dad’s okay.”
“Will do.”
“Great,” Alan said, straightening his collar. “I’m gonna’ head off now.” He waved at the sofa. “Take care, Stephanie.” She didn’t wave back. With a quick pat to Dale’s shoulder, Alan left the kitchen through the garage and headed for his truck. Dale closed the door behind him, and carried his drink downstairs. Stephanie turned up the volume when the SawZaw started up again, then ran to the living room window, where she watched the taillights on Alan’s Frontier.
As soon as he was gone, she snatched the card for herself.
* * * * *
Nevada
Three days later, the hot desert sun sizzled in the sky above Las Vegas valley. In the outskirts of the city, the far outskirts of the city, a garish neon sign buzzed away, unaware it wasn’t yet night. The sign looked forty years old up close. It was faded, but colorful, and animated by a clockwork-filled belly of squeaky, interior gears. A geezer in a wheelchair rolled towards a steer in stilettos, and what followed next was no less than obscene, albeit impressively engineered.
The letterboard below described the best gosh-dang Neil Diamond impersonator in the valley. It also boasted the best gosh-dang Salisbury steak in the valley, available for just $2.99, inside, on the buffet, adjacent to penny slots. A rainbow of flashing lights was positioned within the monstrosity’s center, raised slightly. The bulbs spelled out: ELDER-RADO CASINO N’ MOTEL, with a painted lower byline adding, Rooms Available by Night or Hour.
Being that it was still lunchtime, the motel had no vacancy.
“…Y’all come back now – bzzt! – Y’all come back now – bzzt! – Y’all come back now – bzzt! – Y’all come back now…”
An eight-foot knock off of Vegas Vic waved goodbye to departing seniors in a manner more fitting to Pennywise the Clown. As a Greyhound full of blue hair heaved itself out of the parking lot, a shiny 00’ Eldorado convertible rolled up to the lobby, stopping at the valet. Taking off his sunglasses, Patrick pressed a twenty into the attendant’s hands before going inside.
* * * * *
Rhinestone Cowboy droned on from above as seniors tethered to oxygen tanks pulled slot machine levers with both hands. The gambling hall was mid-century modern, with low popcorn ceilings, dark walnut paneling, and hanging lights shaped like translucent wagon wheels. A hideous cowboy-themed carpet ran for miles in every direction, and the air stunk of cigarettes, Youth Dew, and grease fryers in need of cleaning. Various John Waynes’ ran the tables. Various Dale Evans’ trolled the aisles, serving drinks. A flashing marquis announced the next Neil Diamond show, starring the amazing Indrajit Agnihorti. Per the caption on his photo, he was very well known in Mumbai.
Patrick headed for the Bingo Hall.
“How’s the crowd today, Mel?” he asked Melody, his partner in crime. A curvy girl in her twenties, Mel was one of the few employees he actually liked. She was smart and bubbly, but not quite pretty enough to work on the Strip. “It’s getting there,” she said. “You want something to drink?”
“I’ll take a Sprite,” he said.
“Hungry?”
“Yes, but” – Patrick looked towards the snack bar, where a grungy teenager handled hot dogs with bare hands – “not from here.”
“I’m going to make a Chick-fil-A run on my break,” she said. She peeled off her Nancy Blake wig, exposing long, brown, slightly oily hair. “That okay?”
“Perfect. Here’s a ten.”
“Thanks.”
The Bingo hall was a series of interconnected banquet rooms, with their partitions permanently open, creating a long, rectangular space. Despite the tacky carpeting, the room wasn’t as ostentatious as the rest of the property; its interior was filled with long folding tables and chairs, which could easily be moved to accommodate the handicapped.
Patrick’s workstation sat right in the middle, perched on a platform like a talk show stage. A large, jumbotron game board hung from above; its graphics twinkled in western themes, with the phrase “Bang-Go!” running across the top, animated to resemble a gun, firing $100 bills.
Melody returned with the Sprite. “I’ll be back in twenty.”
“Oh – extra pickles,” Patrick said.
“Got it.”
Patrick pretended to organize papers until she was gone, then discreetly glanced up to make certain he was alone. He then unlocked the playing balls from the safe, and set them next to the casino’s bingo computer. Reaching for the clipboard with today’s game sales goals, he accidentally bumped his soda, knocking the bottle to the floor. Clipboard in hand, he ducked out of camera view for a moment. After he got up, he returned to entering numbers into the system.
Later, as gaming time neared, the tables gradually filled with wheelchairs and white hair. Biddies claimed their favorite corners, carefully arranging trolls, cats, clowns, gnomes, owls, mushrooms, raunchy Sillisculpts, and countless other lucky tchotchkes. Bingo cards were taped to tables, while daubers were lined in orderly rows. Melody reappeared as Kitty Russell with a beverage tray, and was joined by a 240lb Annette Fucincello in a short hoop skirt & spurs; the two circulated through the growing crowd of codgers, and peddled well liquor while dispensing coinage from pistols.
YEEEEEEEE-HAWAAAAH!
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
Startled blue-hairs nearly lost their teeth when the jumbotron blasted to life. Giant holes appeared in the game board to coincide with the deafening gunfire, and each animated bingo square galloped a different direction, like frightened horses. A grizzled prospector appeared on the screen. His voice was identical to the message on Alan’s machine.
“Weeeeeeeel, how-dee part-ner! Them slot machines are always loose, here at the Elder-Rado casino! But you ain’t here to play slots right now, are ya’? Yer’ here to play” – BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! –
“BANNNNG-GOOOO!”
A giant countdown appeared: 5:00, 4:59, 58, 57, 56…
“It’s time to start takin’ yer’ seats, partners! Find ya’ a good spot, get some moonshine from yer’ waitress, and give a big how-dee-ho to my good friend Daisy, who’s gonna’ call yer’ numbers for ya’” – the pre-recorded prospector looked directly at the hall’s raised platform – “Say hello, Miss Daisy!” Patrick didn’t miss a beat as he donned a cowboy hat, bringing a microphone to his lips.
“Actually, Miss Daisy doesn’t work here anymore,” the host said cheerfully, “But that’s okay because I’m Cowboy Pat, and I’ll be calling your numbers today. How’s everybody doing? You folks excited?”
A handful of old farts muttered yes, they were excited.
"Well, that’s just great! You sure sound excited! And, hey – you know what? How about if I tell you a little about the game before we all get started?” A switch was flipped on the platform’s podium, firing up the room’s big disco ball. Hundreds of tiny white dots suddenly appeared on rayon pantsuits, silver oxygen tanks, and eyeglasses, while the sound system began to play a familiar tune. Had Barry Manilow been within earshot, what followed next would have given him a stroke.
“Hit it!” Melody shouted from in back.
“My name is Pat-rick…I’ll call your num-bers. And with our friendly Kitty Rus-sell, you’ve no need to move a mus-cle! This is Ann-ette. She carries men-us. And if your stomach needs un-win-ding, know our food is ne-ver bin-ding! A-cross our gam-ing floor, you’ll find the rest-room doors…and all our stalls are wide, who could ask for more?”
“At the El-der” – the staff joined in – “Ra-do ca-si-no! The best slots from Ve-gas to Re-no! At the El-der Ra-do ca-si-no…our prime rib is cheap and our jackpots are steep here at the El-derrrrr…what’s not to lovvvvvve?!”
As Patrick went on to explain how Marsha had extra cough drops, Pam, a pretty brunette, a woman of a certain age (though decades younger than everyone else), worked her way through the clapping crowd and found a free chair at one of the long tables. Despite the packed house, Pam was hard to miss; her kelly-green dress had such a loud, leafy pattern, Blanche Devereaux could have used it as wallpaper. Biddies protected their purses, shooting dirty looks when Pam sat down. She placed a single playing card on the table.
“…you’ll be a su-per-star, you’ll dine on ca-vi-ar…”
Pam, as always, was feeling lucky today.
“…you’ll gush blue blood with that Bang-Go gunshot, cuz it’s meant for you!...”
And Patrick was feeling lucky himself, when he recognized his favorite player in the audience. By now, the entire bingo hall was singing.
“At the El-der Ra-do Casiiiiiii-no! If you’re creak-y and ash-en, there’s al-ways a chance that at the El-derrrrrrr…you’ll hit Bang-Gooooooooo!”
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
The lights snapped on when the jumbotron opened the game, and Patrick began calling numbers. Arthritic fingers anxiously tapped tickets while red and blue daubers punched squares with such force, they looked like police slamming felons against cars. The game was barely underway when Pam noticed that her own card now had a single diagonal of green across its center, with no additional ink spots. “Oh my goodness,” she told the couple beside her. “I think I won!” Her hand shot upward, fluttering.
“Bingo! I think I have Bingo! Oh, Mr. Patrick, over here” – she took a deep breath and shouted as though screaming rape – “BINGO!”
The jumbotron exploded in fireworks.
The room fell silent with cold, angry stares.
Patrick made sure to check her numbers carefully, verifying that her jackpot was indeed, legit; he then kept her ticket for casino records, as was policy. But Pam didn’t mind, of course. It was his job to be suspicious. And Patrick was very good at his job, which is why she always attended his games on Tuesdays at ten, Thursdays at twelve, and the second Sunday of each month.
There were, after all, many dishonest people in Las Vegas.
* * * * *
Illinois
The Roanoke Hotel was a local landmark, a three-story pile of bricks and art deco, set on a corner in the heart of historic downtown Naperville. Like many of the buildings within the gentrified neighborhood, the Roanoke was nearly 130yrs old, but had been renovated from the basement to the roof, and now offered good sheets and great towels – at a premium price. Deep burgundy awnings ran the length of its sidewalk-facing windows, with tasteful scrolled lettering that announced both its lobby’s restaurant, and Old Places, its trendy bar. The whole place was a pretentious gold mine.
“I not clean shit on wall again!” Juanita yelled, slamming her rubber gloves down onto the mahogany counter. Her English was fractured, though considerably better than a month ago. “Drunks come in! Use toilet to – how you say – blow chunks! They think it funny to not shit in toilet! You should lock door!”
Jim, the property’s manager, the world’s oldest metrosexual, looked up from behind his glasses. His eyes then went to the door of the lobby’s public restrooms. “How bad is it?”
“It bad! They shit on floor, on wall, not shit on inside of toilet but on outside.” The little Hispanic stormed off to the opening elevator. A wealthy yuppie couple got out with suitcases as the short maid got in. “YOU clean shit off wall! I no do it this time!”
The elevator closed.
“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” Jim told the departing guests. “Please come back and visit us again.” The revolving door spun as fast as a lost hubcap. Alan came through them on his way into the lobby. He watched the running guests through the window -
“What happened?”
“Code Brown.”
“Where?”
"To your left.”
With his messenger bag still over his shoulder, Alan opened the bathroom door and recoiled - "Jesus!”
“Jesus had nothing to do with it,” Jim assured him. “Unless he was the one who decided to mix cold Brown’s Chicken with scotch at 3am.”
Alan tossed his coat and bag in the back office before hitting the front desk intercom – beep! “Juanita, call the desk, please. Juanita, call the” – Jim pressed the switch hook down. “I’m afraid that ship has sailed.” He nodded to the gloves. “And I know how much you like rubber.”
“Leather,” Alan corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Well, then find yourself a nice pair of chaps and go whip that toilet into shape.”
“You’re an ass, Jim.”
“And by ass you mean…employer?”
“What’s going on?” Charlotte asked, propping open the restaurant’s French doors. She set out a sign that read, Breakfast at Roanoke Place. Reservations Preferred, But Not Required. Seating Daily, 7:10am – 11:15am. Jim gave her a devilish grin.
“You know that truffle soup I like? The creamy one, with all the onions and garlic?”
Charlotte winced. She knew exactly what he meant. “You’re a disgusting old man!” She returned to the restaurant in a snit. Alan hit the elevator’s call button.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Jim told him.
“I have to get the mop from the basement.”
“Use the one in the restaurant. Charlotte won’t mind.”
“It’s shit, Jim. I can’t use the kitchen mop in the restroom.”
“Suit yourself.”
As Alan went to the basement’s utility room, Jim came out from the counter and checked his appearance within a lobby mirror. He resembled Hugh Hefner, especially as his choice of clothes – an open-dress shirt with rolled up sleeves – actually worked. Smoothing his silver pompadour, Jim then turned up the volume on the lobby’s waiting room TV. He paused to get sports scores before changing the channel to Headline News. The hotel felt more cosmopolitan when the guests saw CNN in the lobby.
The late autumn sunrise sent beams of warmth through sidewalk windows, and the delicious aroma of Kona coffee and scones wafted through the air. More guests came down with suitcases. Alan returned with a rolling mop & bucket, going in. A fat kid sat its spoiled ass in front of the TV, and bitched that he couldn’t watch cartoons.
A pretty female anchor was now reading national news. The screen showed Patrick and Pam getting shoved into a squad car, with the byline below: Two Arrested For Las Vegas Bingo Scam. The anchor went on to explain that hundreds of thousands of dollars were suspected missing.
Finding the remote, the little shit flipped to SpongeBob.
Six
Leaving Las Vegas
“I remember when
I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place
Even your emotions have an echo in so much space…”
- Gnarls Barkley
2006
Red and blue lights splashed across Alan’s windshield as his pickup rounded the lane’s gentle bend, a packed suitcase on the passenger seat next to him. Slamming to a stop at the Williams family home, Alan jumped out in time to witness a pair of EMT’s carrying Jacob to the ambulance, where the vehicle was waiting open. One of the old man’s pant legs was missing, and his ankle had been wrapped in a ball of bloody gauze. Audrey stood with her arms crossed at the foot of the open front door, her expression far more angry than concerned. He ran up to her -
“What happened?”
“All of the men in this house are idiots,” she said in disgust, returning inside to the kitchen. Alan hesitated, then followed.
The home’s interior smelled like sawdust when he entered the living room, dressed in a black Roanoke Hotel polo. Alan stopped cold when he noticed that the contents of Guinevere’s room had been packed, and were now stacked in boxes, divided into piles for both storage and Goodwill. Audrey could be heard storming down the basement stairs, having words with Dale, then hurrying back up. The old woman was tugging on her coat as Alan entered the kitchen. She grabbed her purse. Lights flashing, the ambulance pulled away in the front window.
“I’m coming with you!” Dale yelled from the stairs, entering the kitchen with blood on his T-shirt. He smelled like a brewery, but he wasn’t slurring his speech – yet.
“Oh no,” Audrey told him. “You…are not driving.”
“You drive,” he said, grabbing his own coat.
“You’re staying here,” she shot back. “Someone needs to stay with Steph.”
“She’s fourteen years old. She doesn’t need a sitter!”
“She just lost her mother!” Audrey snapped.
“And I just lost my sister!”
“Dale, we are not having this conversation now!” Audrey found her keys and bolted into the garage, slapping the opener button as she passed. The big door rattled upwards as she whipped open the door to her blue Cherokee, throwing her purse into the passenger seat. “This fucking family should buy stock in Saint Francis!” She got in and started the engine –
But then, she immediately stopped it.
“Where’s the BUICK?” she yelled from behind the windshield, now realizing that Jacob’s Lucerne was not beside her Jeep. Her driver’s door flew open again. She looked frantic.
“Stephanie,” Dale realized, pushing Alan aside and racing downstairs. Audrey hurried back into the kitchen in time to hear her son calling up from the basement. “She’s not in her room!” The woman bolted towards the bedrooms, looking for her granddaughter.
“Can Stephanie drive?” Alan asked Dale, who nodded. “And Jacob’s Buick is new, right?” Dale nodded again. “I need a computer,” Alan told him.
“In here,” Dale said, leading him into the dining room, where an eMac sat on a desk by the wall. Alan jumped into the office chair and brought up Safari. His fingers clattered on the keyboard.
“If the car is new, then it probably has OnStar,” Alan said. “Does Audrey have the account number?”
“MOM!” Dale shouted, not realizing the woman was now beside him. Her face took a direct blast of distilled breath, moving her hair slightly. “What’s your OnStar account?”
“I think that model has GPS,” Alan told them, pulling up the OnStar site. “The police can track it.”
“Like CSI,” Dale said.
“We didn’t pay for that,” Audrey told them.
“They can still track the car if it’s an emergency,” Alan said.
“What do you need?”
“Year, model, and license plate number.”
“2006 Lucerne, but the plate is new – I don’t know what it is.”
“Do you have any paperwork?”
“Yes!”
Audrey raced into the kitchen in time to see the Buick’s running lights flash white across the open doorway to the garage. The car took its place in Jacob’s spot, beside the Jeep. Its trunk popped open when the engine stopped. Stephanie was behind the wheel, oblivious to the recent commotion. She got out and began to empty the trunk before noticing her panicked Nana. “What?” she asked innocently. Audrey grabbed her in an angry hug.
“You took Papa’s car?” Audrey’s heart was pounding. “Why did you take Papa’s car?” Her granddaughter pointed to the Wal Mart bags as soon as the bear trap released.
"Was I not supposed to use your card?”
“That’s not what I mean,” Audrey stammered in love. “That’s not the point…you’re not old enough yet…you shouldn’t be, shouldn’t be…” Her voice trailed off as anger returned. She sighed in total frustration.
“We are going to have a talk when your Papa gets home,” Audrey said firmly, getting back into her Jeep. The SUV slammed into reverse, then sped off down the street. Stephanie looked at Alan’s polo, and then to the blood on her glassy-eyed uncle’s shirt. A devious smile crept across her face. “This looks interesting” –
“What did I miss?”
* * * * *
Guinevere’s room had been stripped to the studs, with a bare concrete floor where the carpet used to be. All of her furniture had been moved into the rec room, though the items had been pushed aside so the stretcher could get through the slider. Alan’s eyes followed an orange extension cord from the rec room into Gwen’s bedroom. The cord stopped at a SawZaw – and a mess of unorganized hand tools – with blood still dripping from the power tool’s new blade. He noticed a near-empty whiskey bottle, with two of Audrey’s coffee mugs nearby. It was obvious what had happened.
“One for the road?” Dale asked when Alan came back up into the kitchen. He had raided the stash of booze left behind by well-meaning visitors, and had already poured two glasses, neat. He offered one to Alan, who waved his hand. “I just came by to say goodbye. I have to work tonight. I need to hit the road.”
“More for me then,” Dale said.
“Guess who’s getting her own panic room?” Stephanie asked, rummaging through bags and finding a package of Funyuns. The two men watched her grab a beer from the fridge, then settle into the family room sofa, flipping on a talk show. Dale poured both drinks into the same glass.
“I’m going to leave you guys my card,” Alan told Dale. “It’s got my work number on front, but I wrote my home and cell on the back.” He set the card on the counter. It read:
Roanoke Hotel
Downtown Naperville, Illinois
Alan Lavinski
Assistant Property Manager
“Feel free to call if you need anything,” Alan told Dale. He looked towards Stephanie. “And you too, Steph. I also wrote my email on the back.” The young girl raised a Funyun, but did not look up. “And pass the message onto you’re folks too,” Alan added, directly to Dale. “I hope your dad’s okay.”
“Will do.”
“Great,” Alan said, straightening his collar. “I’m gonna’ head off now.” He waved at the sofa. “Take care, Stephanie.” She didn’t wave back. With a quick pat to Dale’s shoulder, Alan left the kitchen through the garage and headed for his truck. Dale closed the door behind him, and carried his drink downstairs. Stephanie turned up the volume when the SawZaw started up again, then ran to the living room window, where she watched the taillights on Alan’s Frontier.
As soon as he was gone, she snatched the card for herself.
* * * * *
Nevada
Three days later, the hot desert sun sizzled in the sky above Las Vegas valley. In the outskirts of the city, the far outskirts of the city, a garish neon sign buzzed away, unaware it wasn’t yet night. The sign looked forty years old up close. It was faded, but colorful, and animated by a clockwork-filled belly of squeaky, interior gears. A geezer in a wheelchair rolled towards a steer in stilettos, and what followed next was no less than obscene, albeit impressively engineered.
The letterboard below described the best gosh-dang Neil Diamond impersonator in the valley. It also boasted the best gosh-dang Salisbury steak in the valley, available for just $2.99, inside, on the buffet, adjacent to penny slots. A rainbow of flashing lights was positioned within the monstrosity’s center, raised slightly. The bulbs spelled out: ELDER-RADO CASINO N’ MOTEL, with a painted lower byline adding, Rooms Available by Night or Hour.
Being that it was still lunchtime, the motel had no vacancy.
“…Y’all come back now – bzzt! – Y’all come back now – bzzt! – Y’all come back now – bzzt! – Y’all come back now…”
An eight-foot knock off of Vegas Vic waved goodbye to departing seniors in a manner more fitting to Pennywise the Clown. As a Greyhound full of blue hair heaved itself out of the parking lot, a shiny 00’ Eldorado convertible rolled up to the lobby, stopping at the valet. Taking off his sunglasses, Patrick pressed a twenty into the attendant’s hands before going inside.
* * * * *
Rhinestone Cowboy droned on from above as seniors tethered to oxygen tanks pulled slot machine levers with both hands. The gambling hall was mid-century modern, with low popcorn ceilings, dark walnut paneling, and hanging lights shaped like translucent wagon wheels. A hideous cowboy-themed carpet ran for miles in every direction, and the air stunk of cigarettes, Youth Dew, and grease fryers in need of cleaning. Various John Waynes’ ran the tables. Various Dale Evans’ trolled the aisles, serving drinks. A flashing marquis announced the next Neil Diamond show, starring the amazing Indrajit Agnihorti. Per the caption on his photo, he was very well known in Mumbai.
Patrick headed for the Bingo Hall.
“How’s the crowd today, Mel?” he asked Melody, his partner in crime. A curvy girl in her twenties, Mel was one of the few employees he actually liked. She was smart and bubbly, but not quite pretty enough to work on the Strip. “It’s getting there,” she said. “You want something to drink?”
“I’ll take a Sprite,” he said.
“Hungry?”
“Yes, but” – Patrick looked towards the snack bar, where a grungy teenager handled hot dogs with bare hands – “not from here.”
“I’m going to make a Chick-fil-A run on my break,” she said. She peeled off her Nancy Blake wig, exposing long, brown, slightly oily hair. “That okay?”
“Perfect. Here’s a ten.”
“Thanks.”
The Bingo hall was a series of interconnected banquet rooms, with their partitions permanently open, creating a long, rectangular space. Despite the tacky carpeting, the room wasn’t as ostentatious as the rest of the property; its interior was filled with long folding tables and chairs, which could easily be moved to accommodate the handicapped.
Patrick’s workstation sat right in the middle, perched on a platform like a talk show stage. A large, jumbotron game board hung from above; its graphics twinkled in western themes, with the phrase “Bang-Go!” running across the top, animated to resemble a gun, firing $100 bills.
Melody returned with the Sprite. “I’ll be back in twenty.”
“Oh – extra pickles,” Patrick said.
“Got it.”
Patrick pretended to organize papers until she was gone, then discreetly glanced up to make certain he was alone. He then unlocked the playing balls from the safe, and set them next to the casino’s bingo computer. Reaching for the clipboard with today’s game sales goals, he accidentally bumped his soda, knocking the bottle to the floor. Clipboard in hand, he ducked out of camera view for a moment. After he got up, he returned to entering numbers into the system.
Later, as gaming time neared, the tables gradually filled with wheelchairs and white hair. Biddies claimed their favorite corners, carefully arranging trolls, cats, clowns, gnomes, owls, mushrooms, raunchy Sillisculpts, and countless other lucky tchotchkes. Bingo cards were taped to tables, while daubers were lined in orderly rows. Melody reappeared as Kitty Russell with a beverage tray, and was joined by a 240lb Annette Fucincello in a short hoop skirt & spurs; the two circulated through the growing crowd of codgers, and peddled well liquor while dispensing coinage from pistols.
YEEEEEEEE-HAWAAAAH!
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
Startled blue-hairs nearly lost their teeth when the jumbotron blasted to life. Giant holes appeared in the game board to coincide with the deafening gunfire, and each animated bingo square galloped a different direction, like frightened horses. A grizzled prospector appeared on the screen. His voice was identical to the message on Alan’s machine.
“Weeeeeeeel, how-dee part-ner! Them slot machines are always loose, here at the Elder-Rado casino! But you ain’t here to play slots right now, are ya’? Yer’ here to play” – BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! –
“BANNNNG-GOOOO!”
A giant countdown appeared: 5:00, 4:59, 58, 57, 56…
“It’s time to start takin’ yer’ seats, partners! Find ya’ a good spot, get some moonshine from yer’ waitress, and give a big how-dee-ho to my good friend Daisy, who’s gonna’ call yer’ numbers for ya’” – the pre-recorded prospector looked directly at the hall’s raised platform – “Say hello, Miss Daisy!” Patrick didn’t miss a beat as he donned a cowboy hat, bringing a microphone to his lips.
“Actually, Miss Daisy doesn’t work here anymore,” the host said cheerfully, “But that’s okay because I’m Cowboy Pat, and I’ll be calling your numbers today. How’s everybody doing? You folks excited?”
A handful of old farts muttered yes, they were excited.
"Well, that’s just great! You sure sound excited! And, hey – you know what? How about if I tell you a little about the game before we all get started?” A switch was flipped on the platform’s podium, firing up the room’s big disco ball. Hundreds of tiny white dots suddenly appeared on rayon pantsuits, silver oxygen tanks, and eyeglasses, while the sound system began to play a familiar tune. Had Barry Manilow been within earshot, what followed next would have given him a stroke.
“Hit it!” Melody shouted from in back.
“My name is Pat-rick…I’ll call your num-bers. And with our friendly Kitty Rus-sell, you’ve no need to move a mus-cle! This is Ann-ette. She carries men-us. And if your stomach needs un-win-ding, know our food is ne-ver bin-ding! A-cross our gam-ing floor, you’ll find the rest-room doors…and all our stalls are wide, who could ask for more?”
“At the El-der” – the staff joined in – “Ra-do ca-si-no! The best slots from Ve-gas to Re-no! At the El-der Ra-do ca-si-no…our prime rib is cheap and our jackpots are steep here at the El-derrrrr…what’s not to lovvvvvve?!”
As Patrick went on to explain how Marsha had extra cough drops, Pam, a pretty brunette, a woman of a certain age (though decades younger than everyone else), worked her way through the clapping crowd and found a free chair at one of the long tables. Despite the packed house, Pam was hard to miss; her kelly-green dress had such a loud, leafy pattern, Blanche Devereaux could have used it as wallpaper. Biddies protected their purses, shooting dirty looks when Pam sat down. She placed a single playing card on the table.
“…you’ll be a su-per-star, you’ll dine on ca-vi-ar…”
Pam, as always, was feeling lucky today.
“…you’ll gush blue blood with that Bang-Go gunshot, cuz it’s meant for you!...”
And Patrick was feeling lucky himself, when he recognized his favorite player in the audience. By now, the entire bingo hall was singing.
“At the El-der Ra-do Casiiiiiii-no! If you’re creak-y and ash-en, there’s al-ways a chance that at the El-derrrrrrr…you’ll hit Bang-Gooooooooo!”
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
The lights snapped on when the jumbotron opened the game, and Patrick began calling numbers. Arthritic fingers anxiously tapped tickets while red and blue daubers punched squares with such force, they looked like police slamming felons against cars. The game was barely underway when Pam noticed that her own card now had a single diagonal of green across its center, with no additional ink spots. “Oh my goodness,” she told the couple beside her. “I think I won!” Her hand shot upward, fluttering.
“Bingo! I think I have Bingo! Oh, Mr. Patrick, over here” – she took a deep breath and shouted as though screaming rape – “BINGO!”
The jumbotron exploded in fireworks.
The room fell silent with cold, angry stares.
Patrick made sure to check her numbers carefully, verifying that her jackpot was indeed, legit; he then kept her ticket for casino records, as was policy. But Pam didn’t mind, of course. It was his job to be suspicious. And Patrick was very good at his job, which is why she always attended his games on Tuesdays at ten, Thursdays at twelve, and the second Sunday of each month.
There were, after all, many dishonest people in Las Vegas.
* * * * *
Illinois
The Roanoke Hotel was a local landmark, a three-story pile of bricks and art deco, set on a corner in the heart of historic downtown Naperville. Like many of the buildings within the gentrified neighborhood, the Roanoke was nearly 130yrs old, but had been renovated from the basement to the roof, and now offered good sheets and great towels – at a premium price. Deep burgundy awnings ran the length of its sidewalk-facing windows, with tasteful scrolled lettering that announced both its lobby’s restaurant, and Old Places, its trendy bar. The whole place was a pretentious gold mine.
“I not clean shit on wall again!” Juanita yelled, slamming her rubber gloves down onto the mahogany counter. Her English was fractured, though considerably better than a month ago. “Drunks come in! Use toilet to – how you say – blow chunks! They think it funny to not shit in toilet! You should lock door!”
Jim, the property’s manager, the world’s oldest metrosexual, looked up from behind his glasses. His eyes then went to the door of the lobby’s public restrooms. “How bad is it?”
“It bad! They shit on floor, on wall, not shit on inside of toilet but on outside.” The little Hispanic stormed off to the opening elevator. A wealthy yuppie couple got out with suitcases as the short maid got in. “YOU clean shit off wall! I no do it this time!”
The elevator closed.
“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” Jim told the departing guests. “Please come back and visit us again.” The revolving door spun as fast as a lost hubcap. Alan came through them on his way into the lobby. He watched the running guests through the window -
“What happened?”
“Code Brown.”
“Where?”
"To your left.”
With his messenger bag still over his shoulder, Alan opened the bathroom door and recoiled - "Jesus!”
“Jesus had nothing to do with it,” Jim assured him. “Unless he was the one who decided to mix cold Brown’s Chicken with scotch at 3am.”
Alan tossed his coat and bag in the back office before hitting the front desk intercom – beep! “Juanita, call the desk, please. Juanita, call the” – Jim pressed the switch hook down. “I’m afraid that ship has sailed.” He nodded to the gloves. “And I know how much you like rubber.”
“Leather,” Alan corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Well, then find yourself a nice pair of chaps and go whip that toilet into shape.”
“You’re an ass, Jim.”
“And by ass you mean…employer?”
“What’s going on?” Charlotte asked, propping open the restaurant’s French doors. She set out a sign that read, Breakfast at Roanoke Place. Reservations Preferred, But Not Required. Seating Daily, 7:10am – 11:15am. Jim gave her a devilish grin.
“You know that truffle soup I like? The creamy one, with all the onions and garlic?”
Charlotte winced. She knew exactly what he meant. “You’re a disgusting old man!” She returned to the restaurant in a snit. Alan hit the elevator’s call button.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Jim told him.
“I have to get the mop from the basement.”
“Use the one in the restaurant. Charlotte won’t mind.”
“It’s shit, Jim. I can’t use the kitchen mop in the restroom.”
“Suit yourself.”
As Alan went to the basement’s utility room, Jim came out from the counter and checked his appearance within a lobby mirror. He resembled Hugh Hefner, especially as his choice of clothes – an open-dress shirt with rolled up sleeves – actually worked. Smoothing his silver pompadour, Jim then turned up the volume on the lobby’s waiting room TV. He paused to get sports scores before changing the channel to Headline News. The hotel felt more cosmopolitan when the guests saw CNN in the lobby.
The late autumn sunrise sent beams of warmth through sidewalk windows, and the delicious aroma of Kona coffee and scones wafted through the air. More guests came down with suitcases. Alan returned with a rolling mop & bucket, going in. A fat kid sat its spoiled ass in front of the TV, and bitched that he couldn’t watch cartoons.
A pretty female anchor was now reading national news. The screen showed Patrick and Pam getting shoved into a squad car, with the byline below: Two Arrested For Las Vegas Bingo Scam. The anchor went on to explain that hundreds of thousands of dollars were suspected missing.
Finding the remote, the little shit flipped to SpongeBob.
Seven
Diamonds Are Forever
“Ev’rybody dance now!”
- C+C Music Factory
1991
“I need to ask you something,” Alan said point-blank, coming up to Patrick’s side in the busy Checker’s server’s alley.
“Hold on,” Patrick told him, pushing his way to the cook’s line, where he slapped a soft copy onto the passover plate. “Order in the bowl!” He turned to Alan. “Can it wait?”
“No…it really can’t.”
“Patrick,” Big Tim called from the kitchen. He tapped the paper order, still in the bowl. “You need to ring this up first.”
“I’m ringing it up right now,” Patrick told him, “but I really need you to start making the food.” The cook wouldn’t budge, though his tone was calm as always. “I will make your food. As soon as you ring up the ticket.” Patrick took it back.
“There is NO smoking during rush!” Sharon shouted, as Jackie appeared in the alley as though she’d just been shoved. The waitress expelled a lungful of grey, before scurrying out of the kitchen like a scared cat. Sharon immediately followed, screaming at all the servers. “And if I catch any more of you in back, I’ll lock the fucking breakroom!”
Her heels made deliberate clicks as she went after Jackie.
Alan followed Patrick to the Bobcat. There was a line.
“Come…on!” Patrick said impatiently. Ty was just finishing at the machine, but Rob Vain still had his own turn. “I don’t know why it’s so important to ring things in first,” Patrick complained to Alan. “The cooks still read the paper. They use what’s written down, not what’s printed on the side!” Alan watched the tall man’s Rolex twinkle as he anxiously tapped at his pant leg. “Are you going to be much longer?” Patrick asked Rob.
“Easy, Vanilla. I’m almost done.”
“WALKING IN…ONE FRY, ONE ARTICHOKE!”
Rob finished quickly, so Patrick immediately took his place. He entered his code – deet, deet, deet, deet! Alan waited patiently as the new server hunted & pecked through the submenus. This was going to take awhile.
Sharon returned to the kitchen. She was wearing the lavender blazer today, as though she’d found a style she’d liked and bought a colored case-pack. The black hose & heels are always the same, Alan observed, returning his eyes to the back of Patrick’s neck. Whenever he used the Bobcat, the tall, blonde waiter – once faster than Linda at Denny’s – always ground to a soul-crushing halt, like a secretary who couldn’t type.
“The following sections have been SAT,” Sharon shrieked. “Jennifer! David! Kelly! Brittany!” – she paused to fill her lungs with air – “But don’t think that means you’re excused from running food! WORK! BOTH! WAYS!”
“Dammit,” Patrick muttered, as the Bobcat’s screen inadvertently returned to the main server menu. He put his glasses on, eyes darting between the green screen and plastic buttons. David came up behind them both, but on realizing how long Patrick was taking, rolled his eyes and used the bar register instead.
Alan had enough.
“Let me show you a trick.” Alan scooted Patrick aside. “This is what I used to do, when I first started. Give me your ticket.” Patrick passed it, and Alan read the order. “Do not tell anyone I’m showing you this – understand?”
“Okay.”
“See these items?” Alan pointed to what Patrick had written. “They’re all similar in price. “They all have different product codes on the screen’s menu, but look at the buttons.” – he pointed to the keypad – “There’s only two buttons for burgers. That’s because these two are the most popular, so the keyboard has a shortcut. The same holds true for all the submenus. The top twenty items have shortcut buttons, along with things like soda, and the top ten sides.” Alan looked at Patrick. “You follow?”
“Yes.”
“All the cooks want to see is that a burger has been rung up. Any burger. They don’t care which one it is.” Alan inserted the ticket into the printer, hit the deluxe burger key four times, then pressed total. The Bobcat whirred. The order was now in the system. “Done. Go turn this in.” Alan swiftly keyed in his own order while Patrick was away. But, the new waiter returned with questions.
“The prices aren’t the same,” Patrick said. “Laurie said that each item has to be keyed in correctly, otherwise” –
“Keyed in correctly for inventory.” Alan clarified. “That’s all the Bobcat is. Just an inventory system, so the managers can track food costs. We still hand write tickets like any other restaurant. Honestly, I wish we just had the Denny’s register. It was so much simpler than this.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow.
Natalie popped her head into the kitchen. “We seated your section, Alan. Two Cokes, one root beer, one coffee. They also want fingers for their nasty little hell-child. It wants them to be well-done.”
“Thanks,” Alan told her, grabbing an empty beverage tray. Before he loaded drinks, he shouted at the fry cook: “WALKING IN…KID TENDER, BURNT!” He started scooping ice, but then noticed that Patrick was lingering.
“What?”
“But again, the prices aren’t the same,” Patrick persisted, looking at his ticket. “Won’t the customers know?” Alan took his ticket again, and pointed at the handwritten portion.
“Actually, no, they won’t. Look at what you have here. Deluxe burger, Western burger, Sedona burger, and a regular cheeseburger. The deluxe and Sedona are more expensive, but the western and regular are cheaper.” He did the math in his head.
“The total difference is under a dollar, and you’d be surprised how few people notice that. Plus, the restaurant made an extra seventy cents. And just to make sure they don’t notice the discrepancy” – Alan grabbed a nearby Sharpie and scrawled, “Thanks! Have a great day!” across the ticket’s surface, making it hard to read the prices. He returned the hard copy to Patrick.
“You’re welcome.”
Patrick took a moment to take this all in, but Sharon pulled him out of his head, slapping him when she passed. “Just because you’re new doesn’t mean you can stand there with a thumb up your ass!” Her voice trailed off with her heels. “I need food runners! Now!” Alan hoisted his beverage tray into the air.
“Oh – and I still need to ask you something,” he said to Patrick. “It’s important, so don’t forget.” Ticket still in hand, Patrick watched Alan leave the kitchen –
Thanks! Have a great day, he thought.
* * * * *
Later, in the calm between the lunch and dinner rush, Alan sat with Ty in the sixties, taking a break. The customers were now restricted to the restaurant’s front, and half the dining room was empty, allowing staff to breathe during the eye of the hurricane. There were several groups of servers sitting at tables within the vacant sections, including David, Jennifer, and Kelly – who were laughing hysterically at some big inside joke. Bill and Jackie shared their own table, while the Bradley Boys, as always, sat together in a circle of hair.
It’s like looking at fucking Stryper, Sharon thought, frowning from a distance.
“He doesn’t look happy,” Ty said to Alan, nodding towards Patrick. The new hire was sitting off by himself, counting his lunch tips with concern. “Someone’s gotten a dose of reality.”
“Huh?” Alan looked up from his chicken sandwich.
“Pat’s first weekend with Sharon.” Ty lit a cigarette. “It’s like waiter hazing. Only the strong survive.” She watched Patrick stand up and straighten his apron. “Think he’ll make it?”
“Patrick? Yes, of course.” Alan wiped his mouth, standing up himself. “He’s as strong a server as all of us. And in a few weeks, he’ll be running circles around Laurie.”
Grabbing his plate, Alan watched Patrick approach the trio in the corner. The new waiter asked if they wanted to give up their dinner shifts, but Kelly said no because the money was too good. Patrick then did the same with the Bradley Boys, who also declined. Ditto, Bill and Jackie.
“Got a sec?” Alan asked, meeting Patrick by the kitchen corner.
“You want to give up your dinner shift?” Patrick asked, hopefully.
“No, but,” – Alan grabbed his arm. “Come with me.” Alan led him into the kitchen, passed the cook’s line, and into the prep area. “In here.” He opened the door to the narrow employee restroom, closing it when they were both inside. Alan inhaled.
So did Patrick.
* * * * *
“Are you a thief?” Alan asked point blank.
“Huh?”
“I asked if you were a thief,” Alan repeated. “It’s a pretty simple question.”
“Where is this coming from?” Patrick asked.
“Very honestly, Linda at Denny’s.”
“I see.”
“Is it true?”
“What?”
“Are you a thief?” Alan wanted an answer. Patrick chose his words carefully.
“No, Alan, I am not a thief.”
“Then why’d you leave Denny’s?”
“For the same reason as you.”
“I quit.”
“So did I.”
“That’s not what Linda said.”
“What did she say?
“She said you got fired. For theft.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“So, you’re saying it’s not true?”
“I’m saying it’s not true because it’s not true.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“Then, how can you afford to drive a Cadillac?”
“Wait – what?”
“The Cadillac, Patrick. How can a Denny’s waiter – or any waiter for that matter– afford to drive a car like that?”
“Wait – you think I’m a thief just because I drive a nice car?”
“Well, yes – that and other stuff.”
“What other stuff?”
“Well, let’s see…how bout’ that fuckin’ Rolex you’re wearing? How much that set you back?”
“Seriously, Alan? All this is because of my watch?”
“And car.”
“The watch is fake.”
“No it’s not.”
“And I suppose the car’s fake too?”
“Alan, my watch is fake. Here, look.” Patrick removed the shiny gold timepiece and passed it over. Alan rolled it around in his fingers, feeling its heft. “This is not a fake.” He passed it back.
“Have you even ever been to Vegas?” Patrick asked, snapping the watch back on. “Everything’s fake. This is costume jewelry.” He waved his wrist around like the watch meant nothing.
“Really?’
“Yes, Alan. Really.”
“So, the rings are fake too?”
“What rings?”
Alan rolled his eyes. “Your fuckin’ diamond rings, you dick. Do you honestly expect me to believe that both your watch and rings are” – he stopped midsentence. Patrick’s diamonds were gone.
“Yes, Alan, my rings were – I mean, are fake. Again, costume jewelry. Do you honestly think I’d wear real diamonds to work with all the disgusting stuff we put our hands into?”
“Well, I…” – Alan stammered.
“And you know I bought my car with a settlement, right?”
“Well, I know that you said a settlement” –
“Oh, I’m lying about a settlement, now?”
“No, Patrick, what I mean is” –
“Seriously, Alan? I cannot believe we’re having this conversation!”
“Again, what I’m saying is” –
“How many people in this restaurant have nice cars?” Patrick asked in the tiny restroom. “Guinevere has a LeBaron, Rob Kinere drives a Mustang. Hell, even your pickup is pretty nice!”
“Yes, but” –
“And how much does all this cost?” – Patrick intentionally mussed Alan’s House Party hair – “All these highlights, all this hairspray. A superstructure like this runs, what? Fifty dollars? Sixty? How much do you tip? How much does all this product cost? And how much is your water bill as you stand in the shower, waiting for the water to finally penetrate this bulletproof shield…?”
“Stop it!” Alan shrieked, batting him away.
“My point is,” Patrick continued, “that all of us spend money on the things that we like. Some people like cars, some people like hair…some people like rings and watches. We find a way to fit them into our budget.”
“You’re an asshole,” Alan told him, turning to the mirror and repairing the dents Patrick had inflicted. “Do not…ever…touch the hair.”
“And whatever Linda might have told you,” Patrick went on, “is complete and total bullshit. There was a shortage in the till one day, and Onie needed a scapegoat. And looky here, Onie says…here comes a new waiter that I can blame my cash shortage on, so corporate doesn’t know how incompetent I am. It’s Patrick’s fault! Blame everything on him. Let’s give the new Denny’s waiter the boot, and everything will be just fine.” Tears appeared in Patrick’s eyes –
“Well, you know what, Alan? It’s not fine! It’s not!”
“Patrick,” Alan stammered. “Listen. I didn’t mean to” –
“Of course you meant it!” Patrick snapped. “God, do you know what its like? To get fired for a bullshit reason? From Denny’s? It’s humiliating! And then to have people like you think that I got fired because” –
“Listen, I’m sorry” –
“No – let me finish.” Patrick shut him down, raising a finger in anger. “You…don’t know…anything. And I don’t give a fuck about what Linda might have said! She’s just some” – he struggled for words – “some cranky old waitress with hair like Hitler who got her feathers ruffled when this guy” – his thumb gestured towards this guy – “transferred in from another restaurant. I moved her cheese. I pissed on her parade. All of the sudden, with a new kid on the block, that…little…wench…felt threatened, and that’s why I got fired!”
Patrick took a breath.
“And did I tell Rodney when I interviewed with him? Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
“Patrick, I” –
The tall, blonde server pushed Alan aside, taking his place in the mirror. Patrick grabbed some toilet paper to wipe his eyes. From his appearance, he was obviously upset.
“Patrick, listen, I’m really sorry” –
THUD! THUD! THUD!
The two waiter’s heads shot towards the door. Alan unlocked it, then swung it open. Sharon was waiting outside like Maximilian from Disney’s The Black Hole. “What’s going on in here?”
“Sharon…we’re in the bathroom,” Alan protested.
“Both of you?” she asked, looking them over.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Alan told her. “We needed a little privacy.”
“For what?” Sharon asked. To suck each other’s cocks?
“What do you need, Sharon?” Patrick asked. Her eyes went from Alan, to himself, then back to Alan. “You got sat,” she told him.
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
Sharon’s black heels lingered for a moment, looking both servers up and down. And then they were gone. Alan looked at Patrick. “Are we still friends?”
“Yes, Alan, of course we’re still friends.”
* * * * *
An hour later, Peoria’s skyline came up fast on the right as Patrick slowed his Eldorado, merging onto Adams Street. He threaded through the downtown stoplights, then gave the Northstar some gas when passing the sleazy Club Peorian, adjacent to the transient Julian Hotel. When the next light turned green, he stepped on the pedal, launching the Caddy into the bad side of town. A few minutes later, he parked at a familiar pawn shop. Gathering himself, the waiter went in.
“He comes again,” the proprietor announced, a shameless rip-off of Taxi’s Danny DeVito. “You got more rings for me today?” Patrick shook his head. He hesitated a moment, then laid his Rolex onto the scratched glass counter.
“How much for this?” Patrick asked. “It’s gold.”
“Gold doesn’t bring much these days,” the fat man explained, “But I’ll give you a good price” – the proprietor did mental math – “How about a hundred fifty dollars?”
“That the best you can do?” Patrick bargained. “It’s a Rolex. How about three hundred?” DeVito stood his ground.
“One-fifty, firm.”
Patrick hesitated, but ultimately accepted the offer.
He was behind on his Com Ed bill…
* * * * *
“WALKING IN…ARTICHOKE!” Laurie screamed, a few days later. Alan and Patrick were working another double, and Sharon – in carnation pink, today – was circling the restaurant, like a vulture.
“I need a side of gravy, white!” Alan yelled, garnishing two platters on a tray by the passover window. Big Tim threw the side under the heat lamps. The gravy bowl was hot to the touch, when Alan placed it on the serving tray. He hoisted the oval platter into the air and disappeared through the bar doors.
The lunch rush continued for three more hellish hours.
Later, during the eye, Alan finally had a moment to breathe. “Let’s get some food,” he told Patrick, taking off his apron. Patrick shook his head. “Not hungry?” Alan asked.
“I don’t want to spend the money,” Patrick said honestly.
“Seriously?” – Alan chuckled – “Get some chicken tenders. Or, get something off the kid’s menu. You have to eat.”
“Alan, I’m broke,” Patrick admitted. “I’ll grab some soup or crackers or something.”
“Soup? Seriously? You sound like a Sally Struthers commercial.”
“I’m good.”
“No, you’re not,” Alan insisted. “Christ, if you’re really that broke, I’ll buy you something.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“What do you want?” Alan asked, as he came up to the Bobcat. “I insist.”
“You’re not going to pay for my lunch,” Patrick told him firmly, coming up to Alan’s side. “Get something for yourself. I’ll sit down with you.”
“Who said I was paying?” Alan laughed, keying in his server’s number. “I’ll show you another little trick, if you promise not to tell.”
“What’s that?” Patrick asked, suddenly interested.
“Wanna’ see how you can get free food from the kitchen?”
“Yes,” Patrick said, suddenly even more interested.
“See this cable?” Alan pointed to the Bobcat’s connection, a telephone-like wire that went to the wall, and then onto to someplace spooky that would eventually be called the Internet. “Watch this” - Alan unplugged it – “Oops.”
“Okay,” Patrick said.
“I seem to have accidentally unplugged the computer from the network, and everything I ring” – Alan keyed in two chicken tender dinners – “has been, sadly, lost forever.”
Patrick’s eyes widened.
“I just print up the ticket” – Alan hit the total button, which caused the Bobcat to print on the ticket – “then, I use the void key” – Alan recalled the order on the screen, immediately voiding it out. “As long as the register isn’t connected to the network, no one knows a thing! Wall-la! Free food! Just remember to plug the cable back into the wall, before you walk away.”
Patrick’s eyes grew as wide as saucers.
“I don’t think I’ve paid for a meal since I was hired,” Alan added.
Patrick watched in stunned silence as his meal ticket turned in his meal ticket.
* * * * *
The following day at Checker’s, Patrick asked Alan a point-blank question.
Seven
Diamonds Are Forever
“Ev’rybody dance now!”
- C+C Music Factory
1991
“I need to ask you something,” Alan said point-blank, coming up to Patrick’s side in the busy Checker’s server’s alley.
“Hold on,” Patrick told him, pushing his way to the cook’s line, where he slapped a soft copy onto the passover plate. “Order in the bowl!” He turned to Alan. “Can it wait?”
“No…it really can’t.”
“Patrick,” Big Tim called from the kitchen. He tapped the paper order, still in the bowl. “You need to ring this up first.”
“I’m ringing it up right now,” Patrick told him, “but I really need you to start making the food.” The cook wouldn’t budge, though his tone was calm as always. “I will make your food. As soon as you ring up the ticket.” Patrick took it back.
“There is NO smoking during rush!” Sharon shouted, as Jackie appeared in the alley as though she’d just been shoved. The waitress expelled a lungful of grey, before scurrying out of the kitchen like a scared cat. Sharon immediately followed, screaming at all the servers. “And if I catch any more of you in back, I’ll lock the fucking breakroom!”
Her heels made deliberate clicks as she went after Jackie.
Alan followed Patrick to the Bobcat. There was a line.
“Come…on!” Patrick said impatiently. Ty was just finishing at the machine, but Rob Vain still had his own turn. “I don’t know why it’s so important to ring things in first,” Patrick complained to Alan. “The cooks still read the paper. They use what’s written down, not what’s printed on the side!” Alan watched the tall man’s Rolex twinkle as he anxiously tapped at his pant leg. “Are you going to be much longer?” Patrick asked Rob.
“Easy, Vanilla. I’m almost done.”
“WALKING IN…ONE FRY, ONE ARTICHOKE!”
Rob finished quickly, so Patrick immediately took his place. He entered his code – deet, deet, deet, deet! Alan waited patiently as the new server hunted & pecked through the submenus. This was going to take awhile.
Sharon returned to the kitchen. She was wearing the lavender blazer today, as though she’d found a style she’d liked and bought a colored case-pack. The black hose & heels are always the same, Alan observed, returning his eyes to the back of Patrick’s neck. Whenever he used the Bobcat, the tall, blonde waiter – once faster than Linda at Denny’s – always ground to a soul-crushing halt, like a secretary who couldn’t type.
“The following sections have been SAT,” Sharon shrieked. “Jennifer! David! Kelly! Brittany!” – she paused to fill her lungs with air – “But don’t think that means you’re excused from running food! WORK! BOTH! WAYS!”
“Dammit,” Patrick muttered, as the Bobcat’s screen inadvertently returned to the main server menu. He put his glasses on, eyes darting between the green screen and plastic buttons. David came up behind them both, but on realizing how long Patrick was taking, rolled his eyes and used the bar register instead.
Alan had enough.
“Let me show you a trick.” Alan scooted Patrick aside. “This is what I used to do, when I first started. Give me your ticket.” Patrick passed it, and Alan read the order. “Do not tell anyone I’m showing you this – understand?”
“Okay.”
“See these items?” Alan pointed to what Patrick had written. “They’re all similar in price. “They all have different product codes on the screen’s menu, but look at the buttons.” – he pointed to the keypad – “There’s only two buttons for burgers. That’s because these two are the most popular, so the keyboard has a shortcut. The same holds true for all the submenus. The top twenty items have shortcut buttons, along with things like soda, and the top ten sides.” Alan looked at Patrick. “You follow?”
“Yes.”
“All the cooks want to see is that a burger has been rung up. Any burger. They don’t care which one it is.” Alan inserted the ticket into the printer, hit the deluxe burger key four times, then pressed total. The Bobcat whirred. The order was now in the system. “Done. Go turn this in.” Alan swiftly keyed in his own order while Patrick was away. But, the new waiter returned with questions.
“The prices aren’t the same,” Patrick said. “Laurie said that each item has to be keyed in correctly, otherwise” –
“Keyed in correctly for inventory.” Alan clarified. “That’s all the Bobcat is. Just an inventory system, so the managers can track food costs. We still hand write tickets like any other restaurant. Honestly, I wish we just had the Denny’s register. It was so much simpler than this.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow.
Natalie popped her head into the kitchen. “We seated your section, Alan. Two Cokes, one root beer, one coffee. They also want fingers for their nasty little hell-child. It wants them to be well-done.”
“Thanks,” Alan told her, grabbing an empty beverage tray. Before he loaded drinks, he shouted at the fry cook: “WALKING IN…KID TENDER, BURNT!” He started scooping ice, but then noticed that Patrick was lingering.
“What?”
“But again, the prices aren’t the same,” Patrick persisted, looking at his ticket. “Won’t the customers know?” Alan took his ticket again, and pointed at the handwritten portion.
“Actually, no, they won’t. Look at what you have here. Deluxe burger, Western burger, Sedona burger, and a regular cheeseburger. The deluxe and Sedona are more expensive, but the western and regular are cheaper.” He did the math in his head.
“The total difference is under a dollar, and you’d be surprised how few people notice that. Plus, the restaurant made an extra seventy cents. And just to make sure they don’t notice the discrepancy” – Alan grabbed a nearby Sharpie and scrawled, “Thanks! Have a great day!” across the ticket’s surface, making it hard to read the prices. He returned the hard copy to Patrick.
“You’re welcome.”
Patrick took a moment to take this all in, but Sharon pulled him out of his head, slapping him when she passed. “Just because you’re new doesn’t mean you can stand there with a thumb up your ass!” Her voice trailed off with her heels. “I need food runners! Now!” Alan hoisted his beverage tray into the air.
“Oh – and I still need to ask you something,” he said to Patrick. “It’s important, so don’t forget.” Ticket still in hand, Patrick watched Alan leave the kitchen –
Thanks! Have a great day, he thought.
* * * * *
Later, in the calm between the lunch and dinner rush, Alan sat with Ty in the sixties, taking a break. The customers were now restricted to the restaurant’s front, and half the dining room was empty, allowing staff to breathe during the eye of the hurricane. There were several groups of servers sitting at tables within the vacant sections, including David, Jennifer, and Kelly – who were laughing hysterically at some big inside joke. Bill and Jackie shared their own table, while the Bradley Boys, as always, sat together in a circle of hair.
It’s like looking at fucking Stryper, Sharon thought, frowning from a distance.
“He doesn’t look happy,” Ty said to Alan, nodding towards Patrick. The new hire was sitting off by himself, counting his lunch tips with concern. “Someone’s gotten a dose of reality.”
“Huh?” Alan looked up from his chicken sandwich.
“Pat’s first weekend with Sharon.” Ty lit a cigarette. “It’s like waiter hazing. Only the strong survive.” She watched Patrick stand up and straighten his apron. “Think he’ll make it?”
“Patrick? Yes, of course.” Alan wiped his mouth, standing up himself. “He’s as strong a server as all of us. And in a few weeks, he’ll be running circles around Laurie.”
Grabbing his plate, Alan watched Patrick approach the trio in the corner. The new waiter asked if they wanted to give up their dinner shifts, but Kelly said no because the money was too good. Patrick then did the same with the Bradley Boys, who also declined. Ditto, Bill and Jackie.
“Got a sec?” Alan asked, meeting Patrick by the kitchen corner.
“You want to give up your dinner shift?” Patrick asked, hopefully.
“No, but,” – Alan grabbed his arm. “Come with me.” Alan led him into the kitchen, passed the cook’s line, and into the prep area. “In here.” He opened the door to the narrow employee restroom, closing it when they were both inside. Alan inhaled.
So did Patrick.
* * * * *
“Are you a thief?” Alan asked point blank.
“Huh?”
“I asked if you were a thief,” Alan repeated. “It’s a pretty simple question.”
“Where is this coming from?” Patrick asked.
“Very honestly, Linda at Denny’s.”
“I see.”
“Is it true?”
“What?”
“Are you a thief?” Alan wanted an answer. Patrick chose his words carefully.
“No, Alan, I am not a thief.”
“Then why’d you leave Denny’s?”
“For the same reason as you.”
“I quit.”
“So did I.”
“That’s not what Linda said.”
“What did she say?
“She said you got fired. For theft.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“So, you’re saying it’s not true?”
“I’m saying it’s not true because it’s not true.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“Then, how can you afford to drive a Cadillac?”
“Wait – what?”
“The Cadillac, Patrick. How can a Denny’s waiter – or any waiter for that matter– afford to drive a car like that?”
“Wait – you think I’m a thief just because I drive a nice car?”
“Well, yes – that and other stuff.”
“What other stuff?”
“Well, let’s see…how bout’ that fuckin’ Rolex you’re wearing? How much that set you back?”
“Seriously, Alan? All this is because of my watch?”
“And car.”
“The watch is fake.”
“No it’s not.”
“And I suppose the car’s fake too?”
“Alan, my watch is fake. Here, look.” Patrick removed the shiny gold timepiece and passed it over. Alan rolled it around in his fingers, feeling its heft. “This is not a fake.” He passed it back.
“Have you even ever been to Vegas?” Patrick asked, snapping the watch back on. “Everything’s fake. This is costume jewelry.” He waved his wrist around like the watch meant nothing.
“Really?’
“Yes, Alan. Really.”
“So, the rings are fake too?”
“What rings?”
Alan rolled his eyes. “Your fuckin’ diamond rings, you dick. Do you honestly expect me to believe that both your watch and rings are” – he stopped midsentence. Patrick’s diamonds were gone.
“Yes, Alan, my rings were – I mean, are fake. Again, costume jewelry. Do you honestly think I’d wear real diamonds to work with all the disgusting stuff we put our hands into?”
“Well, I…” – Alan stammered.
“And you know I bought my car with a settlement, right?”
“Well, I know that you said a settlement” –
“Oh, I’m lying about a settlement, now?”
“No, Patrick, what I mean is” –
“Seriously, Alan? I cannot believe we’re having this conversation!”
“Again, what I’m saying is” –
“How many people in this restaurant have nice cars?” Patrick asked in the tiny restroom. “Guinevere has a LeBaron, Rob Kinere drives a Mustang. Hell, even your pickup is pretty nice!”
“Yes, but” –
“And how much does all this cost?” – Patrick intentionally mussed Alan’s House Party hair – “All these highlights, all this hairspray. A superstructure like this runs, what? Fifty dollars? Sixty? How much do you tip? How much does all this product cost? And how much is your water bill as you stand in the shower, waiting for the water to finally penetrate this bulletproof shield…?”
“Stop it!” Alan shrieked, batting him away.
“My point is,” Patrick continued, “that all of us spend money on the things that we like. Some people like cars, some people like hair…some people like rings and watches. We find a way to fit them into our budget.”
“You’re an asshole,” Alan told him, turning to the mirror and repairing the dents Patrick had inflicted. “Do not…ever…touch the hair.”
“And whatever Linda might have told you,” Patrick went on, “is complete and total bullshit. There was a shortage in the till one day, and Onie needed a scapegoat. And looky here, Onie says…here comes a new waiter that I can blame my cash shortage on, so corporate doesn’t know how incompetent I am. It’s Patrick’s fault! Blame everything on him. Let’s give the new Denny’s waiter the boot, and everything will be just fine.” Tears appeared in Patrick’s eyes –
“Well, you know what, Alan? It’s not fine! It’s not!”
“Patrick,” Alan stammered. “Listen. I didn’t mean to” –
“Of course you meant it!” Patrick snapped. “God, do you know what its like? To get fired for a bullshit reason? From Denny’s? It’s humiliating! And then to have people like you think that I got fired because” –
“Listen, I’m sorry” –
“No – let me finish.” Patrick shut him down, raising a finger in anger. “You…don’t know…anything. And I don’t give a fuck about what Linda might have said! She’s just some” – he struggled for words – “some cranky old waitress with hair like Hitler who got her feathers ruffled when this guy” – his thumb gestured towards this guy – “transferred in from another restaurant. I moved her cheese. I pissed on her parade. All of the sudden, with a new kid on the block, that…little…wench…felt threatened, and that’s why I got fired!”
Patrick took a breath.
“And did I tell Rodney when I interviewed with him? Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
“Patrick, I” –
The tall, blonde server pushed Alan aside, taking his place in the mirror. Patrick grabbed some toilet paper to wipe his eyes. From his appearance, he was obviously upset.
“Patrick, listen, I’m really sorry” –
THUD! THUD! THUD!
The two waiter’s heads shot towards the door. Alan unlocked it, then swung it open. Sharon was waiting outside like Maximilian from Disney’s The Black Hole. “What’s going on in here?”
“Sharon…we’re in the bathroom,” Alan protested.
“Both of you?” she asked, looking them over.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Alan told her. “We needed a little privacy.”
“For what?” Sharon asked. To suck each other’s cocks?
“What do you need, Sharon?” Patrick asked. Her eyes went from Alan, to himself, then back to Alan. “You got sat,” she told him.
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
Sharon’s black heels lingered for a moment, looking both servers up and down. And then they were gone. Alan looked at Patrick. “Are we still friends?”
“Yes, Alan, of course we’re still friends.”
* * * * *
An hour later, Peoria’s skyline came up fast on the right as Patrick slowed his Eldorado, merging onto Adams Street. He threaded through the downtown stoplights, then gave the Northstar some gas when passing the sleazy Club Peorian, adjacent to the transient Julian Hotel. When the next light turned green, he stepped on the pedal, launching the Caddy into the bad side of town. A few minutes later, he parked at a familiar pawn shop. Gathering himself, the waiter went in.
“He comes again,” the proprietor announced, a shameless rip-off of Taxi’s Danny DeVito. “You got more rings for me today?” Patrick shook his head. He hesitated a moment, then laid his Rolex onto the scratched glass counter.
“How much for this?” Patrick asked. “It’s gold.”
“Gold doesn’t bring much these days,” the fat man explained, “But I’ll give you a good price” – the proprietor did mental math – “How about a hundred fifty dollars?”
“That the best you can do?” Patrick bargained. “It’s a Rolex. How about three hundred?” DeVito stood his ground.
“One-fifty, firm.”
Patrick hesitated, but ultimately accepted the offer.
He was behind on his Com Ed bill…
* * * * *
“WALKING IN…ARTICHOKE!” Laurie screamed, a few days later. Alan and Patrick were working another double, and Sharon – in carnation pink, today – was circling the restaurant, like a vulture.
“I need a side of gravy, white!” Alan yelled, garnishing two platters on a tray by the passover window. Big Tim threw the side under the heat lamps. The gravy bowl was hot to the touch, when Alan placed it on the serving tray. He hoisted the oval platter into the air and disappeared through the bar doors.
The lunch rush continued for three more hellish hours.
Later, during the eye, Alan finally had a moment to breathe. “Let’s get some food,” he told Patrick, taking off his apron. Patrick shook his head. “Not hungry?” Alan asked.
“I don’t want to spend the money,” Patrick said honestly.
“Seriously?” – Alan chuckled – “Get some chicken tenders. Or, get something off the kid’s menu. You have to eat.”
“Alan, I’m broke,” Patrick admitted. “I’ll grab some soup or crackers or something.”
“Soup? Seriously? You sound like a Sally Struthers commercial.”
“I’m good.”
“No, you’re not,” Alan insisted. “Christ, if you’re really that broke, I’ll buy you something.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“What do you want?” Alan asked, as he came up to the Bobcat. “I insist.”
“You’re not going to pay for my lunch,” Patrick told him firmly, coming up to Alan’s side. “Get something for yourself. I’ll sit down with you.”
“Who said I was paying?” Alan laughed, keying in his server’s number. “I’ll show you another little trick, if you promise not to tell.”
“What’s that?” Patrick asked, suddenly interested.
“Wanna’ see how you can get free food from the kitchen?”
“Yes,” Patrick said, suddenly even more interested.
“See this cable?” Alan pointed to the Bobcat’s connection, a telephone-like wire that went to the wall, and then onto to someplace spooky that would eventually be called the Internet. “Watch this” - Alan unplugged it – “Oops.”
“Okay,” Patrick said.
“I seem to have accidentally unplugged the computer from the network, and everything I ring” – Alan keyed in two chicken tender dinners – “has been, sadly, lost forever.”
Patrick’s eyes widened.
“I just print up the ticket” – Alan hit the total button, which caused the Bobcat to print on the ticket – “then, I use the void key” – Alan recalled the order on the screen, immediately voiding it out. “As long as the register isn’t connected to the network, no one knows a thing! Wall-la! Free food! Just remember to plug the cable back into the wall, before you walk away.”
Patrick’s eyes grew as wide as saucers.
“I don’t think I’ve paid for a meal since I was hired,” Alan added.
Patrick watched in stunned silence as his meal ticket turned in his meal ticket.
* * * * *
The following day at Checker’s, Patrick asked Alan a point-blank question.
Guinevere & Patrick
Eight
The Work Release Program
My every thought is of this being true
It's getting harder not to think of you
Girl I'm exactly where I want to be
The only thing is I need you here with me
- Marc Anthony
2006
“I find vibrator in sink and used rubber on nightstand. I no clean. You clean.” The supercilious couple at the front desk gasped as Juanita zipped by, while Jim handed them their room key with a gentrified smile. “Isn’t she just a little spitfire?” They shuffled away quickly. Jim’s glasses shot to Alan.
“If you don’t have a talk with that little Mexican cunt about her language in front of guests, I’m going to shove my burrito up her ass.” Alan smiled, reaching for his shaking phone. His boss had the uncanny ability to make the c-word sound like velvet.
“Does your burrito even work anymore, Jim?”
“I have pills.”
Alan looked at Caller ID. He didn’t recognize the number, so he replaced his phone in his pocket. That’s the third time today. Across the lobby, Charlotte walked to the bar with menus. “Genevieve? Party of two? If you’d please follow this way.” Jim ogled from the desk as two stunning older women carrying glasses of white wine were led into the restaurant. Alan noticed this. “Tongue goes in the mouth, Heff.”
“I love the Naperville singles scene,” Jim admitted. “So. Much. Eye candy.”
“They’re Stepford wives, Jim.”
“I didn’t see rings.”
“Do you even know what a Stepford wife is?”
“I do. It’s a lady who does exactly as she’s told.”
Alan rolled his eyes. The ladies – though indeed beautiful – looked as though they’d spent every dime of alimony on plastic surgery, recreating the woman their exes first fell in love with. In the case of these two, Alan thought, we have Judith Light from Who’s the Boss and Joan Collins from Dynasty. From his vantage point behind the desk, Jim could see that the entire bar was teeming with aging Naperville Barbie dolls. He headed for Old Places. Alan looked annoyed.
“Hey – if you told me that I can’t drink on the job, the same goes for you.”
Jim paused, smiling devilishly. “I’m going to send those two cougars a beverage.” His silver pompadour vanished into the bar.
Juanita shot passed the desk with a plunger. Alan tried to stop her, but she was as fast as a cartoon mouse. Jim emerged from the bar a few minutes later, replacing an American Express card into his wallet. He looked at Alan. “Did you know you have a visitor?”
“In the bar?” Jim nodded.
“Who?”
Alan’s phone buzzed again. It was the same out of state number. This was starting to piss him off. “The woman in the bar - what’s her name?” Alan came round the counter. “Oh God, it’s not that bitch from the downtown business association again, is it?”
“Well, the lady in the bar is a little bitch,” Jim admitted.
“We are not sponsoring their team again,” Alan said firmly. “It’s just an excuse for all those horrible women to show off their diamonds, tans, and tits. And who plays croquet on the Riverwalk anyway? The balls keep rolling off the edge.” His phone buzzed again. Alan held back so the bartender could run Jim’s drinks, then angrily snapped it open – “WHAT?”
“Alan? It’s Audrey Williams, Guinevere’s mom,” came the voice in the speaker. She sounded stressed. “Look, I’m sorry for calling like this, but we have a really big problem here.”
“Audrey!” Alan was surprised. “What’s wrong?”
With the booking officer behind her, Audrey stood in the Peoria Heights police station – with a very drunk Dale, in cuffs, being led to the back. Alan could hear him shout, “I didn’t steal dad’s car!” Audrey cleared her throat.
“It appears that my responsible adult son just blew a point one six, after doing sixty in a school zone. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
With the phone to his ear, Alan looked into the dark ambience of Old Places. At the far end of the bar, past two Loni Andersons and one Kate Jackson, he saw a familiar face, drinking root beer from a wine glass.
“The Buick is missing again,” Audrey told him. “The officers found it through OnStar like you said they could, and Alan…it pinged in downtown Naperville.” She paused before asking, “I know this is going to sound strange, but is Stephanie with you?”
“Yes…” Alan said carefully, “And it looks like she’s okay.”
“Oh, thank God!”
“Audrey, listen…let me call you back.”
“They say I need a lawyer,” Dale slurred in the background as Audrey said okay before quickly ending the call. Alan’s phone snapped shut. He entered the lounge slowly, then cautiously came up behind Stephanie. The young girl watched his approach like a cat through the bar’s big mahogany mirror, as the bar’s pianist softly crooned Gary Jules’ Mad World.
“…I find it kind of funny and I find it kind of sad…”
Alan took the seat next to her. A manicured hand moved Stephanie’s glass aside, and carefully placed a grilled cheese and fries in front of her, served on fine white china. She smiled when he presented the ketchup – “A bottle of our finest red.” Alan gestured for the bartender to bring him a scotch. He watched the young girl eat.
“One of us is in trouble,” she said, breaking the silence.
“And whom might that be?” Alan asked, smiling at her audacity.
“My mom used to drink on the job, too. Only, she drank from cans.”
“That’s not good.”
“Have you ever noticed” – Steph shook ketchup as she changed the subject – “how all the women in this bar use the lights?”
“What do you mean?” Alan nodded thanks when a glass of Glenlivet appeared in his fingertips. Gesturing towards a brunette down the way, Stephanie shoved half a sandwich in her mouth, chewing while she spoke.
“Look at Jennifer Hart down there. Then look at the light right above her, in the ceiling.” Alan did as she asked. The bar’s shiny counter was illuminated by a strategic row of discreet spotlights above. The lounge’s designer had done this intentionally, so martinis would twinkle as the bartender poured them. The 68 year old woman to which Steph referred was also quite aware of this, and used the spotlight to her facelift’s advantage.
“See how she stays just right at the edge?” Stephanie chewed. “It lights up her hair and makes shadows in her craters. She thinks she looks younger, but all it really does is make her look like that laughing crypt-keeper puppet.”
Mmph!
Alan nearly spat out his drink as several Goldie Hawns shot them daggers. He wiped his mouth, then noticed two police officers in the doorway, with Jim. “Is that her?” Jim mouthed, pointing at Stephanie. Alan nodded yes. Jim gave him a thumbs-up, and then took the officers out of view. Alan returned his attention to the girl.
“So, you know you scared the hell out of your grandmother, right?”
“That was my intention.”
“And you know that I have to take you home now?”
“Why? This is a hotel.” Stephanie placed Audrey’s Visa on the bar. “I want to order room service, then watch dirty movies on cable.” Alan smirked. That’s exactly what Guinevere would have said.
“Where did you park the car?”
“Across the street. In the parking deck. Behind the bookstore.”
Alan’s phone buzzed again. The Caller ID said Audrey, but he let it go to voicemail. Between Gwen’s death, Jacob’s leg, Dale’s DUI, and now Steph’s little stunt, the old woman must have been spinning. He looked at Stephanie, weighing his options; he polished off his scotch while the young girl finished eating. As the bartender removed her plate, Alan posed a compromise.
“How about if you and I make a deal?”
* * * * *
The lights snapped on as Alan keyed in his alarm code, a bag of cereal, milk, and Funyuns in his teeth – while also attempting to talk on his cell. Stephanie raced into the room in front of him, face-planting on the couch. She rolled over when Alan sat his messenger bag on the coffee table. Behind the two, the red light blinked on the answering machine.
“She’ll spend the night here, then we’ll leave first thing in the morning,” Alan spoke in the phone. “No, that’s not necessary…I’ll have one of my employees drive the truck. I’ll take the Buick with Steph…Yes, okay, I’ll let you pay for gas…Yes, she’s right here…She doesn’t need to sleep on the couch. I have a guest room…Would you like to say goodnight to her?” Alan winced when his ear was smacked by an unexpected explosion of fiery expletives. He snapped the phone shut.
“Your grandmother says goodnight, and that she loves you very much.”
“Liar.”
“Guest room’s that way. It has its own bathroom.”
The young girl snatched the Funyuns and scampered down the hall. Alan heard the light click on. “This is a nice place,” Steph yelled from the bedroom. “Hey – this black light clock is just like moms!”
Alan set the cereal on the counter, then disappeared behind the refrigerator’s door, making room for milk. When he closed the fridge, Steph’s location had changed.
“Wow – your basement is just as clean as your house!” she yelled from downstairs. He retrieved his MacBook, opening it on the counter. He started to type, but stopped cold – the BASEMENT!
“Holy shit! You’ve got a sex dungeon down here!”
Racing to the open basement door, Alan skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs. He arrived just in time to see Steph at the bottom, holding a long black dildo that wiggled. “Why does it need two heads?”
“Please come upstairs,” Alan said firmly. “The basement is off limits.”
She vanished around the corner, but didn’t return right away. Alan heard her yell from the playroom. “What’s a CB-3000? Do guys put their dicks in it?”
“Put that back where you found it!” Alan shouted. “And wash your hands!”
The young girl ran up the stairs and smirked. “Don’t get mad at me. I already said that you were a pervert.”
“Bed!” Alan’s finger shot towards the guest room. “Now.” He snatched away the Funyuns when she passed. “Don’t forget to wash your hands!” He thought for a moment, and then added, “Thoroughly!”
“Cum, he told me…or I’ll whip, whip, whip, whip!” Steph sang from the bathroom. Alan gasped with a sudden Checker’s memory –
So…much…like…Guinevere.
“Oh my God! This room has a Bates Motel theme! Your house is so fucking cool, Alan!” Trying not to choke up, he yelled back –
“Be sure and brush your teeth! There’s new toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet!” He stood in silence as the bathroom faucet squeaked off. The young girl returned, now wearing his black kimono. He stayed quiet while she got a Coke from the fridge, then grabbed the Funyuns from him. She planted herself on the couch, flipping on the TV.
Alan could say nothing.
Joining her on the sofa a few minutes later, Alan dimmed the lights and sipped a whiskey while the two watched The Home Shopping Network. Joan Rivers was on the screen, and her fingers carefully handled a turquoise necklace for the camera. “I like her,” Steph said, popping a yellow circle into her mouth. “She’s really funny.”
“We’re leaving at seven Steph, so you have to go to bed soon.”
“Can we please watch this a little?”
Alan nodded quietly, but chose to watch the girl instead of television. From the side, with the way that her hair had fallen around her shoulders, with the way her eyes widened in the flickering television light, the man saw a ghost in his home, a haunting profile of a woman who knew his every flaw, secret, and dream – and a friend that he was only just realizing how much he now missed.
Migod, Schnookums…why did it take your death to make me realize this?
The two sat quietly as the forgotten answering machine blinked red in the dark.
* * * * *
The following morning, Alan’s pickup screeched to a dusty stop in front of the Williams’ home, as though police had been chasing its driver, Juanita. Alan could almost hear banjos as he followed behind in Jacob’s Buick, parking along the street because the driveway was now clogged with service trucks. Big, corrugated hoses snaked from the trucks, across the yard, and into the house through the open front door. Steph climbed out of the car with Alan, stopped, grinned, covered her nose in her shirt, and read the trucks’ logo aloud, “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.”
“I no clean shit in the basement!” the maid yelled from the street.
“Juanita, stay by the truck.”
“This looks interesting,” Stephanie smirked, heading inside. Alan followed, but recoiled the moment his nose hit the interior’s air. The house stunk like an open sewer. The pulsating hoses – clearly moving waste – ran through the living room, kitchen, and down the basement stairs. The two found Audrey in the middle of the mess, sitting alone at the kitchen table. She had poured herself vodka. She looked as though she’d just completely given up on life.
“Apparently” – the old woman offered before being asked – “Dale, in his inebriation, accidentally nicked a plumbing line in the basement, which caused” – her fingers pointed over her shoulder, towards the back yard – “some type of disturbance within the septic field. The plumber said that the system was installed improperly to begin with, and that the tank should have never been buried where it was, when considering the property’s slope.”
“But I thought shit rolled down hill,” Stephanie joked, peering out the back window; there were just as many hoses leaving the slider as there were going through the front door.”
“Not in our case, Dear,”
Steph’s eyes widened. “My ROOM!” She raced to the basement.
“You should wear boots for that!” Audrey yelled.
Alan was at a loss for words. “Audrey, I’m so sorry…I don’t even know what to say.” A thought occurred to him. “I did bring your car back, though.”
“That’s great because we’ll need to live in it for awhile.”
“It’s ruined!” Stephanie cried from downstairs. “My clothes, my bed, all my things – it’s all ruined!”
“…and then there’s that,” Audrey went on.
“Mrs. Williams?” A contractor holding a clipboard slopped in from outside. “We’ve got a rough estimate – how long has your foundation been sinking?”
“And then, there’s that.”
Alan’s phone buzzed. It was that damn out of state number again.
Stephanie appeared in the doorway, her eyes streaked with tears. “What am I going to wear?” She collapsed into her grandmother’s arms, sobbing.
“I’m going to take this outside,” he told the woman, sensing they needed privacy. Once in the front yard, he took a deep lungful of fresh air before venting his frustrations on the caller. He flipped the phone open.
“Look, I don’t know who the fuck this is, but take me off your goddamn calling list” – he stopped midsentence, now hearing the recorded message.
“…This is a collect call from inmate – Patrick Tyler – in the Las Vegas county Correctional Department…to accept charges, press one…”
Alan pressed one.
“…Please hold for inmate…”
“Alan?” Patrick’s voice sounded tired and distant. “Alan, are you there?
“Yes, Patrick, I’m here” – Alan braced himself – “what’s happened?”
“Alan, listen…I’m in real trouble…”
His friend took his own deep breath before sharing his story.
Still behind the steering wheel, Juanita watched her employer sit down in the mud, a sobering expression on his face.
His phone never left his hear for almost twenty minutes.
* * * * *
The next afternoon, Alan kept Stephanie close as they threaded their way through the busy Midway terminal, carry-ons in hand. Alan’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he opened it by his ear.
“Audrey?” he said. “Yes, we’re about to board now. How are things going at the house with you?”
Bright orange & green tarps were being unrolled over the house when she answered. The Williams family home now looked like a circus tent. Holding her cell phone between her neck and shoulder, Jacob’s cast was hanging out the window as she carefully closed the Lucerne’s passenger door, trying not to injure him further. “Oh, you know, just another day in paradise,” she said. The septic vans had been replaced by ServePro vehicles.
“All I can say is, thank God for homeowner’s insurance.”
“How bad is it?”
“Well now, you’ll have to be a lot more specific with that question.” Alan was happy to hear a little levity in her voice. “How bad is the leg, how bad is Dale’s case? Or are you asking how bad my house is right now, as we try to get rid of the smell?”
Alan smiled slightly. “Hey – at least I got you guys hooked up at a nice hotel, didn’t I?”
“Thank you very much for that, by the way. We really do appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
Audrey lingered outside the car for a moment. Her tone grew grateful. “And listen, Alan…both Jacob and myself genuinely appreciate you taking Stephanie off our hands for a few days. I know the circumstances aren’t the best for either of us, but I think a trip will do her good.”
“You’ve gotta’ admit, the timing’s perfect,” Alan said. “Unfortunate, yes…but also perfect.”
“I hope your friend gets through this,” Audrey said.
“And ditto with you and Dale.”
“Have a safe trip.”
“I’ll text you when we land,” Alan said. “Oh – and don’t go stingy on the room service. That bill’s on us, remember.” He smiled one last time before snapping the phone shut. He looked at Stephanie. “Ready for an adventure?” She nodded.
Boarding passes in hand, the two new friends walked together towards the Southwest Airlines departure gates. Thirty minutes later, they were 36,000 feet in the air, their Boeing 737 gradually banking west.
Eight
The Work Release Program
My every thought is of this being true
It's getting harder not to think of you
Girl I'm exactly where I want to be
The only thing is I need you here with me
- Marc Anthony
2006
“I find vibrator in sink and used rubber on nightstand. I no clean. You clean.” The supercilious couple at the front desk gasped as Juanita zipped by, while Jim handed them their room key with a gentrified smile. “Isn’t she just a little spitfire?” They shuffled away quickly. Jim’s glasses shot to Alan.
“If you don’t have a talk with that little Mexican cunt about her language in front of guests, I’m going to shove my burrito up her ass.” Alan smiled, reaching for his shaking phone. His boss had the uncanny ability to make the c-word sound like velvet.
“Does your burrito even work anymore, Jim?”
“I have pills.”
Alan looked at Caller ID. He didn’t recognize the number, so he replaced his phone in his pocket. That’s the third time today. Across the lobby, Charlotte walked to the bar with menus. “Genevieve? Party of two? If you’d please follow this way.” Jim ogled from the desk as two stunning older women carrying glasses of white wine were led into the restaurant. Alan noticed this. “Tongue goes in the mouth, Heff.”
“I love the Naperville singles scene,” Jim admitted. “So. Much. Eye candy.”
“They’re Stepford wives, Jim.”
“I didn’t see rings.”
“Do you even know what a Stepford wife is?”
“I do. It’s a lady who does exactly as she’s told.”
Alan rolled his eyes. The ladies – though indeed beautiful – looked as though they’d spent every dime of alimony on plastic surgery, recreating the woman their exes first fell in love with. In the case of these two, Alan thought, we have Judith Light from Who’s the Boss and Joan Collins from Dynasty. From his vantage point behind the desk, Jim could see that the entire bar was teeming with aging Naperville Barbie dolls. He headed for Old Places. Alan looked annoyed.
“Hey – if you told me that I can’t drink on the job, the same goes for you.”
Jim paused, smiling devilishly. “I’m going to send those two cougars a beverage.” His silver pompadour vanished into the bar.
Juanita shot passed the desk with a plunger. Alan tried to stop her, but she was as fast as a cartoon mouse. Jim emerged from the bar a few minutes later, replacing an American Express card into his wallet. He looked at Alan. “Did you know you have a visitor?”
“In the bar?” Jim nodded.
“Who?”
Alan’s phone buzzed again. It was the same out of state number. This was starting to piss him off. “The woman in the bar - what’s her name?” Alan came round the counter. “Oh God, it’s not that bitch from the downtown business association again, is it?”
“Well, the lady in the bar is a little bitch,” Jim admitted.
“We are not sponsoring their team again,” Alan said firmly. “It’s just an excuse for all those horrible women to show off their diamonds, tans, and tits. And who plays croquet on the Riverwalk anyway? The balls keep rolling off the edge.” His phone buzzed again. Alan held back so the bartender could run Jim’s drinks, then angrily snapped it open – “WHAT?”
“Alan? It’s Audrey Williams, Guinevere’s mom,” came the voice in the speaker. She sounded stressed. “Look, I’m sorry for calling like this, but we have a really big problem here.”
“Audrey!” Alan was surprised. “What’s wrong?”
With the booking officer behind her, Audrey stood in the Peoria Heights police station – with a very drunk Dale, in cuffs, being led to the back. Alan could hear him shout, “I didn’t steal dad’s car!” Audrey cleared her throat.
“It appears that my responsible adult son just blew a point one six, after doing sixty in a school zone. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
With the phone to his ear, Alan looked into the dark ambience of Old Places. At the far end of the bar, past two Loni Andersons and one Kate Jackson, he saw a familiar face, drinking root beer from a wine glass.
“The Buick is missing again,” Audrey told him. “The officers found it through OnStar like you said they could, and Alan…it pinged in downtown Naperville.” She paused before asking, “I know this is going to sound strange, but is Stephanie with you?”
“Yes…” Alan said carefully, “And it looks like she’s okay.”
“Oh, thank God!”
“Audrey, listen…let me call you back.”
“They say I need a lawyer,” Dale slurred in the background as Audrey said okay before quickly ending the call. Alan’s phone snapped shut. He entered the lounge slowly, then cautiously came up behind Stephanie. The young girl watched his approach like a cat through the bar’s big mahogany mirror, as the bar’s pianist softly crooned Gary Jules’ Mad World.
“…I find it kind of funny and I find it kind of sad…”
Alan took the seat next to her. A manicured hand moved Stephanie’s glass aside, and carefully placed a grilled cheese and fries in front of her, served on fine white china. She smiled when he presented the ketchup – “A bottle of our finest red.” Alan gestured for the bartender to bring him a scotch. He watched the young girl eat.
“One of us is in trouble,” she said, breaking the silence.
“And whom might that be?” Alan asked, smiling at her audacity.
“My mom used to drink on the job, too. Only, she drank from cans.”
“That’s not good.”
“Have you ever noticed” – Steph shook ketchup as she changed the subject – “how all the women in this bar use the lights?”
“What do you mean?” Alan nodded thanks when a glass of Glenlivet appeared in his fingertips. Gesturing towards a brunette down the way, Stephanie shoved half a sandwich in her mouth, chewing while she spoke.
“Look at Jennifer Hart down there. Then look at the light right above her, in the ceiling.” Alan did as she asked. The bar’s shiny counter was illuminated by a strategic row of discreet spotlights above. The lounge’s designer had done this intentionally, so martinis would twinkle as the bartender poured them. The 68 year old woman to which Steph referred was also quite aware of this, and used the spotlight to her facelift’s advantage.
“See how she stays just right at the edge?” Stephanie chewed. “It lights up her hair and makes shadows in her craters. She thinks she looks younger, but all it really does is make her look like that laughing crypt-keeper puppet.”
Mmph!
Alan nearly spat out his drink as several Goldie Hawns shot them daggers. He wiped his mouth, then noticed two police officers in the doorway, with Jim. “Is that her?” Jim mouthed, pointing at Stephanie. Alan nodded yes. Jim gave him a thumbs-up, and then took the officers out of view. Alan returned his attention to the girl.
“So, you know you scared the hell out of your grandmother, right?”
“That was my intention.”
“And you know that I have to take you home now?”
“Why? This is a hotel.” Stephanie placed Audrey’s Visa on the bar. “I want to order room service, then watch dirty movies on cable.” Alan smirked. That’s exactly what Guinevere would have said.
“Where did you park the car?”
“Across the street. In the parking deck. Behind the bookstore.”
Alan’s phone buzzed again. The Caller ID said Audrey, but he let it go to voicemail. Between Gwen’s death, Jacob’s leg, Dale’s DUI, and now Steph’s little stunt, the old woman must have been spinning. He looked at Stephanie, weighing his options; he polished off his scotch while the young girl finished eating. As the bartender removed her plate, Alan posed a compromise.
“How about if you and I make a deal?”
* * * * *
The lights snapped on as Alan keyed in his alarm code, a bag of cereal, milk, and Funyuns in his teeth – while also attempting to talk on his cell. Stephanie raced into the room in front of him, face-planting on the couch. She rolled over when Alan sat his messenger bag on the coffee table. Behind the two, the red light blinked on the answering machine.
“She’ll spend the night here, then we’ll leave first thing in the morning,” Alan spoke in the phone. “No, that’s not necessary…I’ll have one of my employees drive the truck. I’ll take the Buick with Steph…Yes, okay, I’ll let you pay for gas…Yes, she’s right here…She doesn’t need to sleep on the couch. I have a guest room…Would you like to say goodnight to her?” Alan winced when his ear was smacked by an unexpected explosion of fiery expletives. He snapped the phone shut.
“Your grandmother says goodnight, and that she loves you very much.”
“Liar.”
“Guest room’s that way. It has its own bathroom.”
The young girl snatched the Funyuns and scampered down the hall. Alan heard the light click on. “This is a nice place,” Steph yelled from the bedroom. “Hey – this black light clock is just like moms!”
Alan set the cereal on the counter, then disappeared behind the refrigerator’s door, making room for milk. When he closed the fridge, Steph’s location had changed.
“Wow – your basement is just as clean as your house!” she yelled from downstairs. He retrieved his MacBook, opening it on the counter. He started to type, but stopped cold – the BASEMENT!
“Holy shit! You’ve got a sex dungeon down here!”
Racing to the open basement door, Alan skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs. He arrived just in time to see Steph at the bottom, holding a long black dildo that wiggled. “Why does it need two heads?”
“Please come upstairs,” Alan said firmly. “The basement is off limits.”
She vanished around the corner, but didn’t return right away. Alan heard her yell from the playroom. “What’s a CB-3000? Do guys put their dicks in it?”
“Put that back where you found it!” Alan shouted. “And wash your hands!”
The young girl ran up the stairs and smirked. “Don’t get mad at me. I already said that you were a pervert.”
“Bed!” Alan’s finger shot towards the guest room. “Now.” He snatched away the Funyuns when she passed. “Don’t forget to wash your hands!” He thought for a moment, and then added, “Thoroughly!”
“Cum, he told me…or I’ll whip, whip, whip, whip!” Steph sang from the bathroom. Alan gasped with a sudden Checker’s memory –
So…much…like…Guinevere.
“Oh my God! This room has a Bates Motel theme! Your house is so fucking cool, Alan!” Trying not to choke up, he yelled back –
“Be sure and brush your teeth! There’s new toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet!” He stood in silence as the bathroom faucet squeaked off. The young girl returned, now wearing his black kimono. He stayed quiet while she got a Coke from the fridge, then grabbed the Funyuns from him. She planted herself on the couch, flipping on the TV.
Alan could say nothing.
Joining her on the sofa a few minutes later, Alan dimmed the lights and sipped a whiskey while the two watched The Home Shopping Network. Joan Rivers was on the screen, and her fingers carefully handled a turquoise necklace for the camera. “I like her,” Steph said, popping a yellow circle into her mouth. “She’s really funny.”
“We’re leaving at seven Steph, so you have to go to bed soon.”
“Can we please watch this a little?”
Alan nodded quietly, but chose to watch the girl instead of television. From the side, with the way that her hair had fallen around her shoulders, with the way her eyes widened in the flickering television light, the man saw a ghost in his home, a haunting profile of a woman who knew his every flaw, secret, and dream – and a friend that he was only just realizing how much he now missed.
Migod, Schnookums…why did it take your death to make me realize this?
The two sat quietly as the forgotten answering machine blinked red in the dark.
* * * * *
The following morning, Alan’s pickup screeched to a dusty stop in front of the Williams’ home, as though police had been chasing its driver, Juanita. Alan could almost hear banjos as he followed behind in Jacob’s Buick, parking along the street because the driveway was now clogged with service trucks. Big, corrugated hoses snaked from the trucks, across the yard, and into the house through the open front door. Steph climbed out of the car with Alan, stopped, grinned, covered her nose in her shirt, and read the trucks’ logo aloud, “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.”
“I no clean shit in the basement!” the maid yelled from the street.
“Juanita, stay by the truck.”
“This looks interesting,” Stephanie smirked, heading inside. Alan followed, but recoiled the moment his nose hit the interior’s air. The house stunk like an open sewer. The pulsating hoses – clearly moving waste – ran through the living room, kitchen, and down the basement stairs. The two found Audrey in the middle of the mess, sitting alone at the kitchen table. She had poured herself vodka. She looked as though she’d just completely given up on life.
“Apparently” – the old woman offered before being asked – “Dale, in his inebriation, accidentally nicked a plumbing line in the basement, which caused” – her fingers pointed over her shoulder, towards the back yard – “some type of disturbance within the septic field. The plumber said that the system was installed improperly to begin with, and that the tank should have never been buried where it was, when considering the property’s slope.”
“But I thought shit rolled down hill,” Stephanie joked, peering out the back window; there were just as many hoses leaving the slider as there were going through the front door.”
“Not in our case, Dear,”
Steph’s eyes widened. “My ROOM!” She raced to the basement.
“You should wear boots for that!” Audrey yelled.
Alan was at a loss for words. “Audrey, I’m so sorry…I don’t even know what to say.” A thought occurred to him. “I did bring your car back, though.”
“That’s great because we’ll need to live in it for awhile.”
“It’s ruined!” Stephanie cried from downstairs. “My clothes, my bed, all my things – it’s all ruined!”
“…and then there’s that,” Audrey went on.
“Mrs. Williams?” A contractor holding a clipboard slopped in from outside. “We’ve got a rough estimate – how long has your foundation been sinking?”
“And then, there’s that.”
Alan’s phone buzzed. It was that damn out of state number again.
Stephanie appeared in the doorway, her eyes streaked with tears. “What am I going to wear?” She collapsed into her grandmother’s arms, sobbing.
“I’m going to take this outside,” he told the woman, sensing they needed privacy. Once in the front yard, he took a deep lungful of fresh air before venting his frustrations on the caller. He flipped the phone open.
“Look, I don’t know who the fuck this is, but take me off your goddamn calling list” – he stopped midsentence, now hearing the recorded message.
“…This is a collect call from inmate – Patrick Tyler – in the Las Vegas county Correctional Department…to accept charges, press one…”
Alan pressed one.
“…Please hold for inmate…”
“Alan?” Patrick’s voice sounded tired and distant. “Alan, are you there?
“Yes, Patrick, I’m here” – Alan braced himself – “what’s happened?”
“Alan, listen…I’m in real trouble…”
His friend took his own deep breath before sharing his story.
Still behind the steering wheel, Juanita watched her employer sit down in the mud, a sobering expression on his face.
His phone never left his hear for almost twenty minutes.
* * * * *
The next afternoon, Alan kept Stephanie close as they threaded their way through the busy Midway terminal, carry-ons in hand. Alan’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he opened it by his ear.
“Audrey?” he said. “Yes, we’re about to board now. How are things going at the house with you?”
Bright orange & green tarps were being unrolled over the house when she answered. The Williams family home now looked like a circus tent. Holding her cell phone between her neck and shoulder, Jacob’s cast was hanging out the window as she carefully closed the Lucerne’s passenger door, trying not to injure him further. “Oh, you know, just another day in paradise,” she said. The septic vans had been replaced by ServePro vehicles.
“All I can say is, thank God for homeowner’s insurance.”
“How bad is it?”
“Well now, you’ll have to be a lot more specific with that question.” Alan was happy to hear a little levity in her voice. “How bad is the leg, how bad is Dale’s case? Or are you asking how bad my house is right now, as we try to get rid of the smell?”
Alan smiled slightly. “Hey – at least I got you guys hooked up at a nice hotel, didn’t I?”
“Thank you very much for that, by the way. We really do appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
Audrey lingered outside the car for a moment. Her tone grew grateful. “And listen, Alan…both Jacob and myself genuinely appreciate you taking Stephanie off our hands for a few days. I know the circumstances aren’t the best for either of us, but I think a trip will do her good.”
“You’ve gotta’ admit, the timing’s perfect,” Alan said. “Unfortunate, yes…but also perfect.”
“I hope your friend gets through this,” Audrey said.
“And ditto with you and Dale.”
“Have a safe trip.”
“I’ll text you when we land,” Alan said. “Oh – and don’t go stingy on the room service. That bill’s on us, remember.” He smiled one last time before snapping the phone shut. He looked at Stephanie. “Ready for an adventure?” She nodded.
Boarding passes in hand, the two new friends walked together towards the Southwest Airlines departure gates. Thirty minutes later, they were 36,000 feet in the air, their Boeing 737 gradually banking west.
Nine
Strike a Pose
“Hello, you fool, I love you
C’mon join the joyride…”
- Roxette
1991
Alan and Patrick were deep in conversation when Guinevere’s LeBaron – driven by a blonde so buff, he looked like He Man – careened into the Checker’s parking lot, stopping in the aisle, rather than a space. Vogue, Madonna’s latest song, was blasting on the stereo. With the engine still running, Dan, Gwen’s new boy-toy, a meathead who’d clearly chosen gym over college, planted an unsettlingly long kiss on her lips before allowing her to leave, then peeling away in her own car.
Gwen tottered as though she had a dumbell up her hotbox before noticing the two in the server lot’s far corner. She skipped like a schoolgirl towards Patrick’s Eldorado, where Alan had his arms crossed, leaning on the trunk. Whatever these two were talking about, she knew that it was good.
The guys looked up as she neared. Guinevere, as always, delivered her news like a punch line. “Guess who just had sex?” – she brought her thumbs to her chest – “THIS girl!”
“In the car?” Patrick smiled. “I hope you put a towel down first.”
Gwen waited for Alan’s inevitable comeback – “What? My Schnookums pleasured her magical moisture muffin without me?” – and was noticeably taken back when it failed to materialize. Her eyes then narrowed to slits. “You two are as thick as thieves. What are you up to?” Alan lit a cigarette to dodge the question, but she read him like a book.
“Okay…now I know you’re up to something –
“Spill it!”
“Patrick just told me something very interesting,” Alan admitted, exhaling a long trail of silver into the air. As the smoke lingered, Gwen looked at him strangely, but then her eyes widened, when the light bulb got so bright, it exploded. Her face shot towards Patrick, gasping –
“You are a THIEF!” Her words were almost giddy. “That is so fucking…cool!”
“SHH…!!!” Finger to his lips, Patrick quickly glanced down the lot, making sure they weren’t just overheard. “Please, Gwen…please keep your voice down.”
“That is so fucking cool!” she repeated in a comical whisper. “How much did you get? Was it over a grand?”
“Was it OVER a grand…” Alan rolled his eyes so hard, they briefly went white. His tone wasn’t angry, but Patrick did just lie to his face yesterday. And he fucked up his hair. Also, Alan himself still hadn’t finished processing the totality of this indecent proposal – and how it might affect their lives, should they ever get caught. It was a risk.
A big risk.
“Are you going to steal something again?” Gwen asked Patrick excitedly. “Are you guys going to rob a bank? If yes, then I want in.”
“We’re not going to rob a bank,” Patrick assured her. “We’d go to jail for that.”
“Jail?” Alan scoffed. “And what? We won’t go to jail with what you want to rob?”
“A liquor store?” Gwen was almost bouncing now. “Oh-oh-oh – are we going to hold up a liquor store, and then rob a bank?” She playfully punched Alan’s arm. “If I know my Schnookums, he’ll need a drink for that!”
With the Casual Cafe looming over his shoulder, Alan gestured behind, towards the restaurant. “Schnookums, this isn’t brain science.” Guinevere looked up past his blowout, as the Checker’s sign came into focus. She gasped. “We’re going to rob Sharon!”
“Actually,” Patrick clarified, “It’ll be more like a Las Vegas skim.”
“We’re going to rob Sha-ron! We’re going to rob Sha-ron!” Gwen’s breathless excitement sounded more like, I’m going to have a ba-by! I’m going to have a ba-by! Can’t you just tell? – I’m going to have a baby!
“Gwen, you need to calm down,” Alan told her.
“Guys, we start in ten minutes,” Patrick reminded the two, glancing at his Timex. “We should really go inside.”
“Oh – tickets!” Alan remembered something. “Gwen, is my training apron still in your car?” Guinevere forced herself to breathe. “Yes, but…Dan has my car. And he used the apron to” – she caught herself midsentence.
“I should probably wash it before I give it back to you.”
Alan shared a quick glance with Patrick before opening his pickup, then rummaging behind the seat. He then popped back up with a handful of slightly wrinkled tickets in his teeth, which he immediately passed over. “Will these work?”
“What’s the difference between training tickets and real tickets?” Patrick asked, setting the pile on the Cadillac’s trunk. He carefully used his palms to iron creases.
“Nothing,” Alan told him. “They’re just from a different numerical batch.”
“But they’re identical, right? They’re basically the same tickets?”
“They’re exactly the same tickets.”
“And how many do you think you have right now? In your possession, I mean?”
“Well, here, I guess about seven,” Alan said. “But I have more at home.”
“How many more?”
“Dunno. Maybe…eighty? Ninety? I bring home the extras every time I train, then just throw em’ on the pile. I just get new ones when I have a new trainee. I think those are from when I first trained you.”
“It’s the one little mess in his compulsively clean bedroom,” Guinevere said before asking, “So, where do I fit in, in this little grift?” She beamed excitedly, but she noticed the two men hesitate –
“Oh, COME ON!”
“Gwen, now listen to me,” – Alan reached for her arm, but she yanked it away – “there’s a reason for that. And it’s only temporary.” She stormed towards the building in anger. Alan lunged after her with his hand.
“Gwen, listen, Gwen! … God dammit, Gwen!” – he grabbed her waist by the apron, and violently spun her around like a dancer – slap!; he then planted his palms into her midsection, his hands moving slowly upward, passed her breasts, to her shoulders. “Listen to me!” –
- His profile resembled a shark’s, as he forced her to look at his eyes -
Gasp!
“Gwen…Schnookums…this is absolutely nothing personal. Patrick and I have only been talking about this. We haven’t actually done anything yet. And it’s like…it’s like learning to drive. You don’t just jump behind the wheel of the General Lee the moment you hit sixteen…you take a Driver’s Ed class, and start practicing a year in advance.” He paused to hammer this point.
“And that’s what I need you to do. Give Patrick and me time…to practice.”
“For a year?” she growled.
His hands still on her shoulders, Alan’s face remained perfectly still while his eyes shot to Patrick – who made a victory sign with fingers. Alan’s pupils shot back to Gwen’s own. “We’re thinking…two weeks. To iron out all the kinks.” Guinevere considered this.
He felt her shoulders soften.
“All right,” she said begrudgingly. “I’ll give you two your two weeks. But I swear to God, if you two are making money, YOU” – her finger nearly punctured Alan’s chest – “had better be nice to me!” She stormed off in a huff.
“And I’m NOT washing Dan’s cum out of your apron!”
The two men watched her head for the restaurant. Alan turned to Patrick –
“That, actually, went a lot better than I’d expected.”
* * * * *
Strike a pose!
Despite having only hit the charts a month before, Madonna’s Vogue had somehow appeared within Checker’s endless heartbeat of cheery 80s pop. The synthesized dancebeat pulsed high above the restaurant, its volume lowered just enough to accommodate the lunch clientele. Sharon circled the dining room in lemon – a softer shade of cunt today – while a steady flow of servers came in and out of the kitchen, carrying trays. Watching from the side station, the great room was almost three quarters full when Alan and Patrick found the perfect moment to open Pandora’s Box.
“That’s the one,” Patrick whispered to Alan. “They’re in your section. Do you have the ticket ready?” Alan nodded, and then took a nervous breath.
Lights, camera…
Action!
* * * * *
Twirling an empty beverage tray, Alan cheerfully approached a table of three: perky plump wife, dad in a work shirt, and a freckle-faced daughter who was reading a chapter book. The three looked up when Alan greeted the table, using the tray’s backside as a writing surface.
“Hey guys. I’m Alan. Welcome to Checker’s. I’ll be your server today.”
Patrick watched from a distance as Alan took their drink order. Returning to the side station, Alan resembled a bowler with his back to a strike; Patrick’s fingers held out three freshly poured Cokes, and Alan switched trays with him in a single, fast motion, his approaching chest instantly becoming his departing backside.
“Folks, forgive me for saying so, but our burgers are just incredible. They’re great for lunch and they come with fries. And for the little lady?” – he chuckled – “Well, I’ll bet you’d really like those tasty chicken fingers, wouldn’t you?”
From a distance, the four laughed together like an episode of Full House.
And Patrick watched them all like a cat.
“Okay folks, you guys just sit back, relax, and enjoy yourselves. Have some quality family time. And hey, little sport” – Alan pointed at the young girl’s book – “don’t read too much, or you’ll spoil your appetite!”
More canned laughter.
The waiter’s plastic smile vanished the nanosecond he left the table. Grabbing a few empty glasses for appearance, Patrick followed him into the kitchen.
* * * * *
Strike a pose!
“WALKING IN…KID TENDER!”
The kitchen barely seemed real when they entered the alley, and the two executed their roles, as previously rehearsed. Patrick stood guard, filling glasses at the Coke machine, while Alan, by luck of the draw, had the honor of entering state’s evidence exhibit number one.
Two minutes passed as Alan – like a burglar trying keys in a lock – hunted and pecked out of sheer and total nervousness, the printer finally humming when he inserted the ticket. A full two minutes after that, the small transaction was voided, and the Ethernet cable had been replaced.
“We have to get a lot faster than that,” Patrick whispered.
“How many times are you going to empty and refill those glasses?” Jackie demanded loudly, behind. Both Alan and Patrick spun around in unison. “How long have you been standing there?” Patrick asked, a bit too quickly.
“For hours!” Jackie complained. “And you” – she laughed at Alan – “What happened? Did you forget how to use the damn register?” All three chuckled, but Jackie really wanted an answer. Alan thought on his feet.
“It’s those fuckin’ submenus, Jackie. I’ve been here, what? Four months now? And even then, I still forget where things are sometimes.”
One beat, two beats…
“Oh – and the Coke machine is running out of syrup again.” Patrick jumped in. “That’s why I kept dumping the glasses out. The Diet Coke was weak – the mixture, I mean. I had to run the lines a bit, so the syrup could catch up and properly mix with the CO2.”
“Yeah, the mixture,” Alan added, unnecessarily.
Three beats, four beats…
Silence.
“Then what about the Sprite?”
“Huh?”
“The Sprite,” Jackie repeated, suspiciously. “I saw you dumping Sprite, too. I mean, I understand that Diet Coke is brown…and you can see brown…but how could you tell that the Sprite line was empty? The Sprite syrup is clear. How did you know it ran out?”
Gulp.
Again, she waited for plausible explanation.
“UGGGGHHH…this is DISGUSTING!” Guinevere shouted from behind everyone, causing half the kitchen to turn in her direction. Holding a glass of what was obviously pre-bussed water, she covered her mouth and launched for the hand-washing sink, where she spat as though a dentist had just cleaned her teeth. She lifted her head and yelled – “WILL SOMEBODY CHANGE THE SPRITE, PLEASE!”
The four watched Mia jump out from behind the Hobart station, then scurry into the back like a spider.
Jackie casually “hmph’d” before walking away.
Alan’s heart was in his throat. He looked at Gwen in relief, trying to dismiss the tension with a nervous joke. “Oh, please. Like that was the worst thing my Schnookums had in her mouth today.”
Crickets.
“You’re welcome,” she growled, shoving the dirty water glass into his chest before walking away – You guys are idiots.
“She’s pissed,” Alan said, “totally fuckin’ p-pissed.”
“Alan, we really need to get faster for this to work.”
“Patrick, m-m-my hands are shaking.”
“That’s just nerves. Go turn the ticket in.”
“It’s n-n-n-not n-n-n-nerves…”
“Give me that” – Patrick snatched the fake order from Alan’s fingers and ran it to the expo window. “Order in the bowl!” Bill stood back, having just finished garnishing a tray of various items. “Hey Pat, can you run this to forty-seven?”
“No, Bill…Mia can’t lift the post-mix box herself.”
Backtracking towards the prep line, Patrick grabbed Alan’s arm before he lost his shit – “Follow me, now!” He then pushed him through the back prep kitchen, and on passed the tiny post-mix closet – where Mia scaled its big metal rack, carrying a 20lb. box of soft drink syrup; she moved like a monkey, stealing a baby.
On reaching the restroom, Patrick grabbed Alan by the apron and violently spun him around – slap!; Patrick then planted his palms into Alan’s midsection, his hands moving slowly upward, passed Alan’s pecks, to his shoulders –
- Patrick’s profile resembled a shark’s, as he forced Alan to look at his eyes -
Gasp!
And then he threw Alan’s twitchy ass into the restroom, slamming the door behind them.
* * * * *
Strike a pose!
“Alan, you need to calm down…now.”
“P-P-Patrick, I think I’m having-g-g an anxiety attack-k-k…”
“Yes, Alan. Anxiety. That’s all it is. Just take deep breaths.”
“B-b-b-but I can’t breathe-e-e-e…”
“Alan, don’t be silly. You’re breathing right now.”
“P-P-Pat-t-t-t-tric-c-c-ck…”
“Alan?”
“Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa…”
“Alan, you’re spitting on me.”
“p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-…”
“Alan, seriously, if you don’t stop, I’m going to hit you.”
“-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-…”
SLAP! - Alan’s face went sideways.
Silence.
“Better?” Patrick asked.
His friend took a moment. “Yes, I think so.” He rubbed his red cheek.
“Alan, listen to me…there’s a fake ticket in play right now, and there’s no turning back from that. It’s okay if we don’t run the food to the table ourselves, but we have to get that soft copy back. That’s the only piece of evidence. Do you understand me?”
Alan paused before answering. “Yes.”
“And we also can’t stay back here anymore. We have to be on the floor, now, to keep an eye on things. From this moment forward, whenever one of us has a fake ticket in play, we always need two people on the floor – so we can cover each other’s backs. What we’re doing now works best with a partner. Right now, you need to pull yourself together and” – Patrick stopped midsentence. His friend was still shaking, and clearly in need of a few minutes alone. He sighed.
“Tell you what?” Patrick’s tone softened. “Why don’t you stay back here a few minutes? I can watch the floor. It’s only a small ticket.”
“Thanks.”
“But come back out soon, okay?”
“Yeah, sure…I will. Just give me a second.”
Patrick unlocked the door and opened it, but stopped for one last thing.
“Alan, listen…I’ve done this before, and not just at Denny’s. I know what I’m doing. And I’m good at what I do. And if you can just get through today, I promise…it gets a whole lot better. And with my previous experience, and your sense of humor, I think” – he stopped to choose his next words carefully.
“I think that the two of us can really have some fun.”
* * * * *
Strike a pose…
“Jesus, that fucking song is everywhere,” Alan complained nearly two weeks later, as Vogue had somehow infiltrated Lum’s yacht rock playlist. Lum’s was a locally owned 24/7 restaurant on Knoxville, near downtown; it was about a half step above Denny’s, partially because of its decent liver & onions, but mainly due to its close proximity to Bradley University. Its late-night clientele comprised of both student night owls and blackout alcoholics – and all lived in harmony within the soft can lighting, dark vinyl booths, and a cloud of secondhand smoke so thick, it could be seen from space.
“I remember when I was in high school – no, wait, I was in junior high,” Alan corrected himself. “And then Thriller came out. And all the sudden you couldn’t even walk through the halls because every fucking person was moonwalking. Can you guys remember that? Because, that’s what Vogue feels like now.”
“Or, Angel in the Centerfold,” Patrick added, using a menu to wave away smoke. “Remember that? That one was pretty bad, too.”
“Deer, deer, da-deer-deer-deer,” Guinevere added to the conversation half-heartedly, mimicking the J. Geils song’s hillbilly refrain. “I think I still have that 45 with the pink label.”
“Thriller was cool when it first came out,” Alan said, “but after a year of hearing Beat It every time you turned on the radio, it got really old.”
“Took awhile though,” Patrick reminded him, waving smoke.
“I wasn’t a big fan of Thriller itself, though. But, we also didn’t have cable where I grew up, which meant no MTV. So, I never saw the video.”
“Really? Not even Friday Night Videos?”
“Nope. I couldn’t stay up that late.”
“You fell asleep?”
“No, I had to be in bed by ten.”
“So, you never watched Midnight Special, then?”
“Never. Not even once.”
“That’s a shame. You missed some really good” –
“WHY AM I HERE?” Guinevere shouted like the Peanuts’ Lucy, startling surrounding diners enough to make forks clatter across tables. Having achieved the desired effect, she then settled back into the booth, folding her arms. She glared at Alan. Despite the fake wooden table that separated them, he could tell that her legs were crossed.
“Should we tell her?” Patrick coughed, waving smoke.
“I’m kinda’ afraid to,” Alan admitted.
“I strongly suggest that you DO,” Gwen growled, “Cuz’ Dan’s already stood me up tonight and I’m in a foul mood.” Her angry eyes explored the innocent surrounding tables. “I wish I’d brought a machine gun.”
“Wait, what?” Alan looked surprised. “Dan stood you up? I thought he cancelled because he had to work.”
“As far as I’m concerned, that’s the same thing in my book.” Alan now realized Gwen was dressed to the nines, tonight – big hair, sexy black dress, black hose & heels (and I know what you’re thinking, but they looked nothing like Sharon’s), and lots and lots of boobs. She reminded him a bit of Melanie Griffith from Working Girl.
“No, it’s not the same,” Alan told her. “He had to work. Wait – does Dan still have your car?”
“No.”
“Guinevere,” Patrick redirected the topic, “Alan and I have some news.”
“What?” she snapped.
“We’re ready for you now.”
“What does that mean?”
“He means, we’re ready for you now,” Alan repeated, taking her hand. “You can join the skim.”
“It’s safe now,” Patrick added, coughing.
Gwen’s eyes lit up. “Really!?”
“Really!”
“Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache, it’s everywhere that you go,” Alan sang, grinning, in tune with Vogue. “You try…everything you can to escape…those bills and debts that you owe…”
“How much will I make?” she asked excitedly. She watched the two men lock mischievous eyes. “You show her,” Patrick told Alan. “I already put mine in the ATM.”
Reaching for his wallet, Alan opened it for Gwen. Its money compartment was stuffed with over $300 in twenties. He held it open in a fan.
“Holy shit!” Gwen exclaimed.
“For a Tuesday!” Patrick laughed, clapping his hand once.
“I know, right?” she said.
Alan, wallet still fanned open, couldn’t take his eyes off the cash –
“Patrick…this is so sinful.”
Guinevere snatched the wallet from his hands.
“Hey!” Alan said –
“I want” – she removed $80 and placed it in her cleavage – “my cut.”
She threw it back.
“Bluggh-haggh!” Patrick coughed loudly, his eyes tearing up in the smoke. He stood up from the table. “Guys, I’m sorry, but I can’t take this anymore. I have to get out of here.” He threw down a five for coffee.
“No problem,” Alan said, now waving Patrick’s menu, himself. “It’s getting to me, too.”
“Same here,” Gwen said.
“I open tomorrow,” Patrick called to Alan as he headed out. “You?”
“Eleven! I’ll see you then!”
“Nite, Gwen!”
Cough, cough…!
Alan waved for the check.
“It goes without saying that you’re paying,” Guinevere informed him. He grinned, but couldn’t stop staring at her tits. She does look good tonight. “What’s your excuse?” Gwen asked, reading his mind.
“Huh?”
“The Chess King add that you’re wearing right now,” she said. He watched her eyes wander across his trendy tieless tuxedo shirt, stopping at his black leather vest, which he always wore open. Her voluptuous red lips slowly mouthed each syllable of the word “lea-ther” before Alan felt her toe against the heel of his black INXS boot. The two of them often shared an unspoken sort of Dom/sub dynamic, and unfortunately, in the case of Gwen, Alan wasn’t exactly the top.
“Schnookums,” he cautioned.
“Did I say that you could speak?” she asked.
When the plastic check holder arrived, Alan finger-flicked it across the table, proposing a compromise.
“How about if you and I make a deal?”
* * * * *
“STRIKE A POSE!”
Brilliant magenta spotlights sliced across the crowded dance floor, while a growing moonrise of blinding white reduced both Alan and Guinevere to silhouettes. They froze like ghosts in a photograph, keeping time with the beat, two bodies leaning opposite directions, yet still joined by a single hand.
CLAP! With the next bass heartbeat, Alan’s black shadow grabbed Gwen’s by its waist, violently spinning it around –
CLAP! His shape then forced its palms deep into Guinevere’s midsection, its hands creeping slowly upward, caressing her breasts, then shoulders –
CLAP! The black silhouettes now resembled two sharks in profile, each facing the other as the magenta went to red –
CLAP!
“Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache…it’s everywhere that you go…”
CLAP!
Night Faces was, by far, the best dance club in town, so it was busy almost every weeknight – and totally slammed on weekends. It was Peoria’s equivalent to Studio 54, an old three-story cannery, repurposed to accommodate house music. The hall’s exterior entrance had been intentionally moved upstairs, which clubbers had to climb in the weather, if they wanted access. The reasoning was brilliant; a second-story entry caused one’s first view of the dance floor to be high, like a crane shot. Even better, the only stairs descended into the heart of the club, putting people face-to-face with nine big tube-televisions, synchronized to create a single image – which, obviously, displayed Madonna.
CLAP!
“This is so much FUN!” Gwen yelled to Patrick. He leaned as close to her ear as possible, so she could hear his carefully-worded reply – “YES!” The lights went white, then red again, and like the Checker’s server’s alley, it was hard not to slam into other sweaty people.
“So, C’mon…Vogue!”
Alan and Guinevere joined three hundred dancers in mimicking the new song’s distinctive hand, arm, and leg movements. And like those same three hundred dancers, neither Alan nor Guinevere had a goddamn clue of what in the hell they were doing.
CLAP!
Guinevere laughed hysterically. “This is so hard!”
“Who can do this?” Alan shouted. “Nobody’s that limber!”
“My Schnookums needs to spend some time in the gym! That way he can climb on top of me and go” – she thrusted her pelvis – “Bam! Bam! Bam!”
CLAP!
“Oh my God!” Alan shouted. “From this moment on…that’s his nickname! Bam-bam! Like the Rubble’s kid on the Flintstones!”
“Who’s nickname?!”
“Dan’s!”
“You’re an asshole!”
“And you’re fucking a flesh-colored Ninja-Turtle! Can Dan even do basic math?!”
CLAP!
“Well, he did give me three orgasms yesterday, and that’s basic math! One plus two equals – FUCK!” Gwen slammed into Alan’s chest when a mullet with a beer gut staggered into her side. The mullet wore a Black Sabbath jersey, and it’s attempts at Vogue’ing resembled flailing from bees. “Watch it, asshole!” Gwen shouted.
CLAP!
“Fate has brought us together again!” Alan shouted, taking her hand. He brought her close as something shattered on the floor behind him. He felt sudden wet on his leg.
“Ow!” she screamed.
“Wait – did I just hurt you?!”
“No! I think I just got burned by someone’s cigarette!”
Another bottle crashed. The two could now hear a scuffle. The dance was swiftly collapsing into bedlam when the lights went blue with the shift in music. The DJ was clearly changing the mood, which felt as jarring as going from waltz to garage band.
“…It’s at times like this…the great heaven knows…that we wish we had…not so many clothes…”
Alan yelled at the DJ: “WHO follows Vogue with Adam Ant’s Strip?!” He pushed Guinevere away. “Well, this night is obviously over.” He started to leave.
“Are you kidding!?” – she yanked him back to her waist – “I love this song!” He could smell the Amaretto Stone Sours on her breath. Her face was shiny. Her bosom glistened. His will surrendered – as it always did – and their bodies locked together in an elegant ballroom pose.
“…So let’s loosen up…in a playful tease…like lovers did…through the centuries…”
The dance floor cleared in groans while an angry barback appeared with a broom and shovel, loudly dragging a Rubbermaid trashcan. Gwen laughed happily on hearing the sweep of broken bottles, but then laughed hysterically when the shovel was emptied into the big garbage bag – CREESH! The air stunk of beer and cheap cologne. The bartenders yelled “last call” to force the trolls to choose their semen depositories, and the windows facing Jefferson now flashed red and blue, with the customary call for police. The place now felt as magical as Airplane’s “Drambuie Bar” –
And its magic was all for Alan and Gwen, alone.
Over exaggerating each word with red lips, his Schnookums sang along to Strip, comically acting out each song line to be as sleazy as possible.
“When it gets so hot at the end of the day” – Gwen flung sweat off her brow – “you may find your clothes getting in the way” – she unbuttoned his shirt – “if a pretty dress hides your true desire” – she unbuttoned her own dress – “fold it nice and slow, throw it on the fire” – she flung an imaginary Denny’s vest into the trash.
“We’re just fol-ow-ing ancient his-tor-ee, if I strip for you, will you strip for me?...”
It now felt like a camera was circling around them, as Alan and Gwen – their bodies intertwined – danced alone within the blue and white spotlights. The camera went round and round. The song went on and on. They danced and they danced with the smoldering eyes of lovers, soulmates who had found each other, perfect in every possible way –
But one.
Alan kissed her anyway.
* * * * *
The mid summer sky glowed a deep midnight blue, with a dusting of white stars, clouds that looked like crumpled wax paper, and a bright round moon that burned hot in the chill of night, high above Peoria’s downtown skyline. Alan and Gwen were walking to their cars, but the gay man noticed that she wasn’t headed the right direction.
“Aren’t you parked over by me?” Alan asked. She nodded her head, but pointed up the street. “Yes, but, Dan’s bar is right over there.”
“Ah,” Alan realized. “Booty call.”
“Your Schnookums needs” – she yawned – “her pussy pleasured.”
“Bam-bam?”
“Bam-bam,” she repeated, smiling.
“You want me to walk with you?”
“No, it’s just up the street. But thanks.”
“See you at work then?”
“I close tomorrow,” she said.
“I mid,” he said. He remembered something. “Oh, what we talked about at Lums” –
“You guys can tell me tomorrow,” she said. “But I’ve been watching you two, so I’ve kinda’ figured out how it all works.”
“Okay.”
“Nite, then?”
“Nite, Gwen.”
The two walked in different directions, but stopped at the same time – and turned around together. “About the kiss,” they said in unison. She ran up to him.
“Gwen, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Oh God, I hope this doesn’t make things awkward with us. It was late, I’d been drinking, dancing to that stupid song was kinda’ fun and” –
“Alan, I love you.”
“Schnookums, I love you too” –
“No, I didn’t say Schnookums, I said Alan.” Her tone grew tender as she touched him on the cheek. “And I know that we’ll never be together…but I also know that we’ll never be apart.”
He gasped softly.
“And I know that no matter who I marry, or you marry” – she couldn’t resist – “or whoever you tie up and force to marry” –
“…We’ll always be friends. For the rest of our lives. And then with whatever life happens after that, wherever our spirits go.”
Gwen…
“Alan” – tears welled in her eyes – “I will love you until the day I die.”
Silence.
With a million stars in the twinkling Peoria night, the two came together in an embrace that lasted forever. An eternity passed before it was over, and they said their goodbyes, each going separate ways. Alan hesitated at his truck, taking one last look before he climbed inside –
She slowly faded away on the sidewalk, the moon high in the clouds above.
Until the day I die.
Alan's eyes, always on Gwen.
|
A "Night Faces" Business Card
|
Strike a Pose
|
Ten
Two And a Half Men
“Honey came in and she caught me red-handed
Creeping with the girl next door.
Picture this: We were both butt-naked,
banging on the bathroom floor.
How could I forget that I had given her an extra key…?”
- Shaggy
2006
“This is what Las Vegas looks like? Why would anyone want to come here?”
“No, this is actually what the bad part of Vegas looks like,” Alan clarified. “And I think the better question is, why would anyone want to live here?”
Handing the cabbie the fair so far, Alan crouched outside, by the window. “Here’s the fare, the tip, and this” – he passed the driver an additional ten. “Could you stick around for an extra five minutes? Depending on how this plays out, I might need to hire you again to take us to a hotel.”
Nodding, the driver accepted the cash.
“Thanks.”
Suitcases at their hips, Alan and Stephanie stood side by side in the poorly-lit parking lot of the Thunderbird Apartments, a two story, L-shaped, 1960s-era motel that had been repurposed for longer stays. The structure appeared to have once been painted turquoise, though forty years of desert sun had faded it to pastel. The place, for its age, looked surprisingly well maintained, and though it wasn’t particularly nice, it also wasn’t a shithole. The neighborhood however, was.
Alan looked at his small notebook, then up towards the building. “I think its upstairs.” – he squinted in the late evening twilight – “Fourth door…right by the middle.”
“I’ll stay he-” – Steph started to say, but then noticed a junkie shooting up in a nearby alley. Needle in vein, the druggie ogled her like Joliet Jake – How much for the little girl? She pulled her suitcase closer.
“I’ll come with you.”
Climbing the outdoor staircase together, the two rounded the bend and headed down the long metal balcony. They stopped at a door marked 7, and Alan knocked politely. They waited. The door unlocked and opened. The two now found themselves in front of a 29-year-old woman in a bathrobe, wet hair in a towel. She smiled.
“Alan Lavinski?” the woman asked.
“Melody?” he asked back.
“I’ve got the keys right here,” she said, reaching for something near the door. She handed him a key ring with a shiny dollar-sign pendant. “Here you go.” Alan took them. “Thanks.” He started to leave with Stephanie. Melody stopped him.
“Hey,” Melody said. “Tell Patrick that I’m still his friend. I mean, I know what they’re saying…and I’ve obviously seen the news…but I’ll still always like him, no matter what he did. He was always nice to me. Could you tell him that for me?”
“Of course,” Alan assured her.
“Oh – and also tell him that I almost didn’t make it. I think I saw the police looking for me, but at that point, I was already on the run.”
The door closed and locked again.
Alan and Steph retraced their steps to the parking lot. Waving off the taxi, the two pairs of legs – one in leather boots, the other in pink sneakers – walked slowly past a row of parked cars, stopping at a Cadillac emblem. Alan’s hand clicked the dollar sign’s key fob. The car chirped, the taillights flashed red, and the trunk popped open.
“Bingo,” Stephanie said.
A moment later, they were both inside, pulling their doors closed at once. Steph looked impressed as she buckled the soft seat belt. “All right, this is a lot nicer than my mom’s old Chrysler. That thing was a total piece of shit.”
“Language, Stephanie.”
Alan turned the key and the NorthStar roared to life. The vehicle’s Twilight Sentinel snapped on, causing the dashboard electronics to glow a brilliant emerald. Alan was careful not to touch the OnStar button when he adjusted the mirror. He saw Steph smile in the interior’s greenish-glow, holding the notebook with handwritten directions.
“Should we see what this thing can do?” he asked.
She nodded.
A moment later, with his hand on the console’s leather-wrapped gearshift, Alan threw Patrick’s Caddy into Drive.
* * * * *
From the night above, the Vegas Strip twinkled in neon and animated logos as the Eldorado coupe shot down I-15 like a rocket, the illuminated signs of passing hotels reflected within its hood and roof. An unseen camera followed the car along its route, while its voices inside could be heard over the audio.
ALAN: “Now, this is what Las Vegas really looks like. See all the hotels?”
STEPHANIE: (Showing youthful excitement) “My God, they’re so cool! Can we stop at one, please? Can we? Can we?”
ALAN: “Yes, but not tonight. But we definitely will tomorrow. I’ll show you my favorite places. I’ll even take you to a buffet.”
STEPHANIE: “This trip is gonna’ be fun!”
ALAN: (Sound Effects: Interior light clicks on) “Here.” (one beat) “Start from here and read the directions to me.”
STEPHANIE: “East on 215.”
ALAN: “I think that’s coming up soon.”
STEPHANIE: “Can we go faster?”
ALAN: (two beats) “Yeah. I think we have time.”
(Sound Effects: NorthStar engine revving)
Still above, the unseen camera was now behind the Cadillac as the vehicle suddenly punched forward into the darkness, its taillights leaving behind two red smears.
* * * * *
A doorknob jiggled in the darkened living room.
“Hurry up!” Stephanie said from behind the door. “I have to pee.”
“Give me a second,” Alan’s voice said. “I have to find the right key.”
More keys, more jiggles.
“Alannn,” Stephanie whined as the lock clicked. The door swung open, then Alan fumbled for the switch. The lights came on. Steph left her suitcase by the door when she raced deep into the unfamiliar house. Alan brought both bags inside, closing the front door behind. He instinctively locked it.
“Steph, be careful! You don’t know where anything is.”
“So what?” the young girl’s voice called from the hall. “Does that mean that I’ll piss in the closet?” Alan smiled. Setting down his messenger bag, he looked around the house. Does Liberace live here?
A toilet flushed.
“Does Liberace live here?” Stephanie asked, coming into the room, casually picking up a statue of Hercules and Diomedes and studying its hand-on-penis action, playing dumb. “Do you think Pat might be gay?”
“Put that down,” Alan told her. “It’s probably fragile.”
Steph’s eyes narrowed before throwing the figurine at the wall as hard as she possibly could. Alan gasped, but the statue – made of rubber – bounced right back into her hand, like a baseball. Stephanie carefully replaced it to exactly where she found it and smirked. “Just like the things in your basement.” Her eyes widened -
“OH – Does he have a dungeon, too?”
She vanished.
Sighing loudly, Alan walked into the great room and flipped the lights on. He fumbled through the kitchen area’s gilded French-country cabinets, then found a wine glass – with roses etched into the crystal.
Setting the stemware onto a pink granite countertop, he went back to the living room, returning with his messenger bag, and pulling out a fifth of Jack Daniels. Breaking the seal, he poured just five ounces, which, after all, was the proper amount for such glassware – otherwise, he’d seem like a drunk. He downed it, refilled it, downed it a second time…and then held the third serving near his chest as his eyes finally explored their faggy surroundings.
He keeps a candelabra on the television.
“I found the guest room, but the door’s closed to his bedroom,” Stephanie said excitedly, returning to the kitchen. It’s not locked though. I want us to see what’s behind together, at the same time…okay?”
“Mmm,” Alan said, swallowing as he nodded. As Aldobrandini’s Madonna watched from a golden frame above, the two joined hands and stood outside the closed door to Patrick’s bedroom.
“There’s a candelabra on the toilet too, so you know this is gonna’ be good,” Steph told him. They counted to three. She grabbed the knob, then flung open the door while Alan hit the lights. They gasped in unison.
And they almost fell backwards like dominoes.
Holy…Fucking…Shit.
* * * * *
Lights.
The first thing they saw were lights.
“Is that” – Stephanie struggled for words – “Manhattan?”
“Yeah,” Alan said. “I think it is.”
The dwelling’s garish kitsch immediately vanished from memory, as the bedroom door opened into a world void of color. As the two friends stepped inside – like children in a chocolate factory – their eyes and mouths grew wide in wonder, before exhaling slowly, like a kiss. Their backsides became silhouettes as the bedroom unfolded, as though it were actually coming to life.
“It’s all black and white,” Stephanie said in a whisper.
“And grey,” Alan added, not realizing he was whispering, himself.
It wasn’t so much the shape of the room that amazed; it was still just a basic track-house box. But what Patrick had done with it, Alan thought, was no less than absolutely amazing.
Dark grey carpet covered most of the concrete slab, above, what was obviously, thick, expensive padding. But the floor wasn’t all grey. A raised platform had been built into the corner, like a stage; on top of the space was a different color pile – white. The walls were painted a softer shade of grey, and if one looked closely, all four walls were slightly different hues.
A stunning black lacquer bedroom set fit perfectly into the corner, as though the platform had been solely designed for the furniture before them. But the pieces weren’t tacky; indeed, they were astonishingly elegant. The sharp, slender dressers and drawers fit together in an “L”, and unlike common black lacquer pieces, their designer kept the set horizontal, rather than vertical. The low bed fit perfectly, built into the center of the longer portion. There was no headboard, for that would have broken the ascetics –
But there was a skyline.
Behind the furniture, behind the corner housing the platform, an “L” shaped mural of New York at night provided the perfect backdrop for the sophisticated urban lacquer. But, even better, in front of the outer wall – yet behind the actual furniture – a second false wall had been devised, cleverly fashioned to look like windows. The overall effects made one actually feel like they were standing in a penthouse, with one’s bed nestled cozily in the corner, 45 stories in the sky. It was –
“FUCKING COOL!” Stephanie shouted, like The Peanuts Lucy.
Language, Alan thought, giving up completely.
He then stepped forward to see the mural more closely; a long string of Christmas chase lights lay at the windows’ very bottom, out of sight. The lights twinkled like headlights, and gave the city “movement.” Alan had to stretch on his toes to see the mural’s tiny manufacturer’s label, hidden in the very corner. It read, Radio World.
Stephanie face-planted onto the bed’s down comforter. “I want to sleep in here!” Her words were muffled, as though being suffocated.
Alan tried to object, but of course –
He could never deny his Schnookums.
* * * * *
BZZZZZZT!
The following day, Alan looked up when he heard the sound of the jailhouse door buzz open. He watched as a very disheveled-looking Patrick was ushered in wearing chains, which were eventually unlocked once the door buzzed closed, and the accused was safely secured within the guarded visitors lounge. As soon as the two were alone at the steel table, Patrick got to the point. He leaned in close to Alan and whispered –
“In my bedroom, under the bed platform on the left, you’ll find a hidden door. Open it, then get a rake or something. You’ll need something long like that to get to what I need. I purposely didn’t make it easy to find.”
Alan nodded.
“Way in the back, in the farthest corner, you’ll find three old Samsonite suitcases. Do not open them – I don’t want you any more involved than you already are – but take them to my lawyer. His name is Bob Gross. Remember the name…Bob Gross. Can you remember that?”
“Bob Gross,” Alan repeated. “Got it.”
“And I need to do this now. Today. As soon as you leave this facility.”
“As soon as I leave, got it.” Alan arched his back in tension. His friend looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was flat, his face had stubble, and his fingers trembled like a telegraph, tapping anxiously on the table’s hard metal surface –
tap tap tap tap…tap…tap-tap, tap…tap--tap…
They looked naked without diamonds.
“Again, Alan…this needs to happen today.”
“It will. I promise.”
Folding his hands, Alan looked down, in order to choose his next words carefully, He wanted to assemble the next sentence in his head first, in an effort to leave Patrick with some type of hope. He looked up when he got it.
“Hey, Melody wanted me to tell you that” –
BZZZZZZT!
The accused had already gone.
* * * * *
“DID YOU KNOW” – Stephanie yelled from behind sunglasses – “that the two thousand Cadillac Eldorado – in addition to a premium sound system with cassette deck – which, by the way, does not include a CD player – also comes with multi-zone air conditioning and two air bags?” Steph snapped the car’s owners manual shut, returning it to the glove box when she finally saw Alan approach. She had been reading it out of sheer and total boredom, in the hour and thirty minutes that he had been within the Las Vegas County Correctional Facility.
If ya’ can’t leave your kid alone in the car here…
“However will I play my Cradle of Filth CDs?” she added, as Alan got in, pulling the door shut behind. He started the motor, then closed the convertible top so they could actually use the multi-zone AC. He put on his shades. Stephanie sensed that he was preoccupied. She broke the silence.
“They gonna’ hang em’?”
“They don’t do that anymore,” he said quietly, crossing his arms and resting his head on the steering wheel for a moment.
“Why not? They do everything else here in Nevada.” Reaching under the seat, she produced what she had been reading before the Caddy’s manual.
“What’s a Kentucky Klondike Bar?” Alan looked up. Stephanie had somehow acquired a local singles paper – The VegaXXX Files – and was now merrily leafing its personals.
“Hey, this ad for this bar” – she pointed to the paper – “it’s logo is a pair of open scissors with heels. Why would someone want to get their hair cut from a stylist who’s drinking?”
“Give me that!” Alan snatched the paper from her and went to throw it out the window, but on realizing their location, tossed it in the back seat instead. A uniformed officer in mirrored sunglasses glanced their direction as he passed. Alan adjusted the dashboard vents to blow cold air on his face.
“You’re as thick as a thief,” Stephanie told him, noticing how his demeanor had completely changed over just ninety short minutes.
“What happened in there?”
Removing his sunglasses, Alan rubbed his eyes for a moment.
“Is Pat gonna’ be okay?” she added.
Alan sighed. “Yeah, Steph. But we apparently have to go back to the house, then find his lawyer’s office.” Closing his eyes, Alan replayed the brief conversation within his head.
Something wasn’t right about it.
Way in the back, in the farthest corner, you’ll find three old Samsonite suitcases. Do not open them… I don’t want you any more involved than you already are.
His mind then visualized Patrick’s actual sentences, as though the words, themselves, had been carefully arranged to hide some deeper hidden meaning within the story. There was one line in particular that stood out in his head:
I don’t want you any more involved than you already are.
Alan’s eyes snapped open.
“But all I did was come to Nevada.”
And I’m not involved in any of your casino shit, Patrick.
“What?” Stephanie looked up. “I didn’t ask you to come to Nevada. You asked me. Remember?”
“No, wait” – Alan stammered, quickly putting the car in reverse. “Sorry – I was talking to myself.”
Replacing his shades, he spun his head around, while throwing his arm round the girl’s headrest, behind her hair. The transmission whirred as the car shot backwards, out of the space. Stephanie’s shoulders slammed against her seat – What the fuck? – as their tires threw gravel when they stopped.
“You’re acting weird.”
“Yeah, well, your face looks weird.”
He chucked the car into drive, then spun the wheels towards the break in the fence, by the exit. Punching the gas, he seemed to have forgotten they were still within a correctional facility’s parking lot. The shiny Cadillac became a white flash, as it zipped down the aisles of both private and official vehicles, quickly banking a turn.
“What’s the rush?” she asked, holding on.
“There’s something important that we need to do.” He was focused. “Again, we’re going back to the house.”
“Mood swing much?”
“Steph, please just be quiet for a few minutes, okay? I need to think.”
Jesus!
The girl looked forward, out the windshield; one hand gripped the armrest, while the other clutched her ceiling strap. She may have appeared perturbed on the surface, but inside she was terrified.
Her breaths came fast.
The Caddy lurched to a stop at the parking lot’s edge. The light up the street had just turned green, so Alan threw the blinker on and prepared to merge left onto busy Arbitrage Boulevard. His chest tightened on realizing that he had to cross not just one – but two – double lanes of traffic. The timing had to be perfect as this wasn’t a maneuver for inexperienced drivers.
Something her mom would have failed.
“Steph, please sit back so I can see.”
Do not open the suitcases.
Alan leaned over the steering wheel, to better view traffic. His windshield momentarily became a smear of passing cars.
“Steph, I asked you to sit back.”
“Alan, what are we doing?”
“I already told you twice, Stephanie! We have to go back to Patrick’s house.” His black lenses shot back and forth. There was an opportunity coming. “Please! Just…be…quiet!”
He let up on the brakes a little.
Why did Patrick tell me not to open the hidden suitcases?
“Alan?”
Cars sped by so fast, had the Cadillac’s windows not been closed, the two would have felt the passing motorists’ massive displacement of air. The opening he’d seen had vanished, so Alan quickly searched for another. The air brakes hissed when his boot slammed their pedal again, causing the vehicle to lurch forward a second time. The NorthStar growled. The hood ornament rocked up and down.
What could be inside?
“Alan, the lawyer’s n-n-not what I mean,” the young girl stuttered. But he was far too focused on the task at hand to notice the anxiety rapidly rising within her voice.
It has to be more than money…
He spotted another opening. His boot released the breaks.
“Alan-n-n-n-n…” She was fighting to breathe now.
Patrick used to say at Checker’s that information was key to not getting caught.
The opening was coming.
“A-A-Al-l-l-l-an-n-n-n-n…”
Like changes in the managers’ behavior, which could mean their suspicion.
He shut the air conditioner to allow the engine as much horsepower as possible –
…vvvVVVROOOOMM!”
“pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa…”
I mean yes, we’ve been friends fifteen years, but could it be possible that –
His boot hovered over the gas pedal. The next opening was seconds away.
…vvvVVVROOOOMM!”
“p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p…”
Migod, Alan suddenly realized –
Patrick’s got something on ME! –
- “Steph, HOLD ON!” he barked angrily –
- He punched the gas HARD, hurtling them into the road –
The world went sideways again.
And Stephanie screamed so violently, Alan was momentarily blinded.
Act Two
A Potential to Kill
A Potential to Kill
Eleven
The Phantom of the Restaurant
“Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor
Grasp it, sense it tremulous and tender
Turn your face away from the garish light of day
Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light
And listen to the music of the night”
- The Phantom of the Opera
1991
“What are you looking at?” Sharon – finally in all fuckin’ black for once – asked.
But then the MUZAK skipped.
eeeeeeeeeeeeee…
So, she stormed in back to fix it.
It was Saturday night and as always, Checker’s was slammed. The kitchen was loud, the bar was louder, and the line was so far out the front door, Cheryl’s tits could barely keep up. The great dining room had a foggy look about it tonight as every single goddamn customer in smoking had a burning ball of orange in their hands. The eerie cloud of secondhand white was nearly as large as Lum’s, and over the course of the evening, the ghostly haze had gradually expanded throughout the entire restaurant –
eeeeeeeeeeeeee…
It now haunted diners and servers alike, glowing…like a Phantom.
* * * * *
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
Rob Kinere, a Bradley Boy, frequently called Rob Vain, walked down the upper forties, slowly – yet deliberately – snapping his fingers. It looked for a moment he was trying to get someone’s attention, but no one gave a shit. Their country fried steak and sweet restaurant margaritas were far too important to ever look up from their feedbags.
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
Derek Peterson, a Bradley Boy, you haven’t yet met this fun side character (but you totally will later, in an upcoming chapter), mirrored Rob Vain’s movements precisely – directly across the dining room, in the upper twenties. Those fucking pigs couldn’t look up from their troughs, either.
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
Rick Tallguy, a Bradley Boy, don’t bother remembering his name, walked down the lower sixties, slowly – parallel to Rob Vain above. An unseen camera followed the two in tandem, as they moved as though they were the gang from West Side Story, slinking - rather than walking forward while the oblivious chewed away.
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
John Smith, a Bradley Boy, a young James Franco type, waaaaaay across the other side of the restaurant, crept along in tandem with everyone. The four men met in the dining room’s middle, at the top of the steps that separated smoking from nonsmoking. Chuckling…as if there were a difference.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…!
Way up high, from the point of view of a manager’s office shelf, Sharon in black brought her arm out wide, then swung her palm at the MUZAK box with a –
SLAP!
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
“Strike a pose.”
Rodney looked up.
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
“Strike a pose.”
Bill looked up.
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
CLAP!
Brilliant red spotlights sliced across the dining room while a growing moonrise of blinding white reduced those within into a reel of black & white film. Somewhere in the haze, Guinevere’s red lips could be heard in a whisper –
“Void, void, void…”
“Void, void, void…”
CLAP!
The entire Checker’s staff – like Burton’s oompa-loompas – at a glance seemed almost identical; they ran and swooped in outstretched unison, converging within the panorama’s epicenter. The Bradley Boys took their places at four points.
And then… gasp!
CLAP!
The Madonna.
“Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache, it’s everywhere that you go” –
“You try everything you can to escape…those bills and debts that you owe.”
A magnificent celestial twinkle fluttered gently down from above, as the Bradleys lifted Guinevere skywards, to the stars. She was gowned as Sassoferrato’s Madonna, but with exposed breasts that seemed to emanate fire – a stagecraft illusion, devised from penlight, fan, and tiny strips of parchment. Below the Madonna, Alan and Patrick lay splayed – shirtless – one arm reaching for the divine, the other interlocked with someone they couldn’t see.
“If all else fails, and you long to be…something better than you are today” –
“I know a way you can get extra cash, it’s called the Void Key” –
“And it’s all tax-free, so”-
CLAP!
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers make extra money, hey, hey, hey” –
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers feel the cash flow!”
CLAP!
White fluorescents rained down from the ceiling, as Guinevere – in a stunning black Halston pantsuit & heels – now strolled through the busy server’s alley. Like the customers beforehand, neither cooks nor servers gave her a second thought.
CLAP!
“All you need are some extra training tickets, so use them, that’s what they’re for” –
CLAP!
The line cooks’ heads shot UP –
“That’s what they’re for!”
then DOWN.
CLAP!
The Madonna’s lips e-nu-ci-a-ted –
“Ring it in, then-void, then-spin-like-no-thing’s hap-pened” –
“And tables walk out the door!”
(LINE COOKS: “Walk…out the…door.”)
CLAP!
She was now in the dining room, holding a tray of drinks –
“It makes no difference if you’re bottom or top” –
CLAP!
Now in the bar, doing the same –
“Way in back of the bar…”
CLAP!
Now, surrounded by worshipers, stretching to touch her –
“If the sales are hop’pin, and the orders are right”-
CLAP!
“You’re a Superstar!”
CLAP!
“Tips go twice as far, so” –
The staff now in a perfect square chorus, the Bradley Boys in front – their hair flailing in unison – meticulously mirrored the movements within the new Vogue video. The Boys’ hand/arm motions were no less than impeccable, though their eyes contained a subtle – but distinctive – quality of anger. It was as if they were doing this for the umpteenth fucking time, and though their choreography was absolutely flawless, they lock stepped in violent, unified rage.
CLAP!
“So, C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers make extra money, hey, hey, hey” –
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers feel the cash flow!”
CLAP!
The Boys parted for just a millisecond when two tuxedos – Alan & Patrick – briefly emerged from within the chorus, dancing to a different beat that only they could hear; the pair tangoed on through, oblivious to everyone around them, and as soon as they were gone, the Bradleys resumed dancing as though nothing had ever happened –
CLAP!
But their eyes were red and glassy.
CLAP!
The camera dolly-zoomed from above on the Madonna, her open palms crossed below her chin –
Money’s where you Void it! To HELL with food costs, we’ve destroyed it!
Only when the money flows, that’s when I feel so beautiful –
CLAP!
Powerful! –
CLAP!
Heads could roll, so –
Get up on that register and Void!
CLAP!
“So, C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers make extra money, hey, hey, hey” –
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers feel the cash flow!”
CLAP!
Forget fuckin’ glassy, the Bradley Boys were trying to dance while goddamn sobbing –
CLAP!
“Money’s where you find it…”
“Money’s where you find it…”
CLAP!
All eyes on the Madonna, now:
“Cash flow’s high, bill’s are low.
Northwoods mall is where we’ll go.
Sharon, Big Tim, Ty, Laur-e –
Bill and Rodney are a couple of queens!
Corporate, DM’s, and LP: Thank you for the diamond rings.
Alan, Patrick, Guinevere…push the Void, bleach that hair.
We have style. We have grace.
Berman’s Leather, we’ve got taste.
Sears, Wards, Penny’s – EWW!
Patrick’s Caddy? That’ll do.
Waitress with an attitude.
Waiters who aren’t in the mood.
Don’t just stand there, let’s get to it –
Make some bank, there’s nothing to it” –
SLAP!
“GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD AND RUN SOME FOOD!” Sharon yelled at Alan, as loud as she could without angering customers. He brought his hand to his hot, red cheek with a gasp. “Did you just…hit me?” Patrick passed, as Alan followed her heels into the kitchen.
Chuckling…
Patrick hesitated at the landing, paused, checked his table in play, then returned to the alley, where he shadowed Alan’s footsteps exactly.
Eleven
The Phantom of the Restaurant
“Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor
Grasp it, sense it tremulous and tender
Turn your face away from the garish light of day
Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light
And listen to the music of the night”
- The Phantom of the Opera
1991
“What are you looking at?” Sharon – finally in all fuckin’ black for once – asked.
But then the MUZAK skipped.
eeeeeeeeeeeeee…
So, she stormed in back to fix it.
It was Saturday night and as always, Checker’s was slammed. The kitchen was loud, the bar was louder, and the line was so far out the front door, Cheryl’s tits could barely keep up. The great dining room had a foggy look about it tonight as every single goddamn customer in smoking had a burning ball of orange in their hands. The eerie cloud of secondhand white was nearly as large as Lum’s, and over the course of the evening, the ghostly haze had gradually expanded throughout the entire restaurant –
eeeeeeeeeeeeee…
It now haunted diners and servers alike, glowing…like a Phantom.
* * * * *
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
Rob Kinere, a Bradley Boy, frequently called Rob Vain, walked down the upper forties, slowly – yet deliberately – snapping his fingers. It looked for a moment he was trying to get someone’s attention, but no one gave a shit. Their country fried steak and sweet restaurant margaritas were far too important to ever look up from their feedbags.
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
Derek Peterson, a Bradley Boy, you haven’t yet met this fun side character (but you totally will later, in an upcoming chapter), mirrored Rob Vain’s movements precisely – directly across the dining room, in the upper twenties. Those fucking pigs couldn’t look up from their troughs, either.
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
Rick Tallguy, a Bradley Boy, don’t bother remembering his name, walked down the lower sixties, slowly – parallel to Rob Vain above. An unseen camera followed the two in tandem, as they moved as though they were the gang from West Side Story, slinking - rather than walking forward while the oblivious chewed away.
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
John Smith, a Bradley Boy, a young James Franco type, waaaaaay across the other side of the restaurant, crept along in tandem with everyone. The four men met in the dining room’s middle, at the top of the steps that separated smoking from nonsmoking. Chuckling…as if there were a difference.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…!
Way up high, from the point of view of a manager’s office shelf, Sharon in black brought her arm out wide, then swung her palm at the MUZAK box with a –
SLAP!
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
“Strike a pose.”
Rodney looked up.
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
“Strike a pose.”
Bill looked up.
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
CLAP!
Brilliant red spotlights sliced across the dining room while a growing moonrise of blinding white reduced those within into a reel of black & white film. Somewhere in the haze, Guinevere’s red lips could be heard in a whisper –
“Void, void, void…”
“Void, void, void…”
CLAP!
The entire Checker’s staff – like Burton’s oompa-loompas – at a glance seemed almost identical; they ran and swooped in outstretched unison, converging within the panorama’s epicenter. The Bradley Boys took their places at four points.
And then… gasp!
CLAP!
The Madonna.
“Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache, it’s everywhere that you go” –
“You try everything you can to escape…those bills and debts that you owe.”
A magnificent celestial twinkle fluttered gently down from above, as the Bradleys lifted Guinevere skywards, to the stars. She was gowned as Sassoferrato’s Madonna, but with exposed breasts that seemed to emanate fire – a stagecraft illusion, devised from penlight, fan, and tiny strips of parchment. Below the Madonna, Alan and Patrick lay splayed – shirtless – one arm reaching for the divine, the other interlocked with someone they couldn’t see.
“If all else fails, and you long to be…something better than you are today” –
“I know a way you can get extra cash, it’s called the Void Key” –
“And it’s all tax-free, so”-
CLAP!
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers make extra money, hey, hey, hey” –
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers feel the cash flow!”
CLAP!
White fluorescents rained down from the ceiling, as Guinevere – in a stunning black Halston pantsuit & heels – now strolled through the busy server’s alley. Like the customers beforehand, neither cooks nor servers gave her a second thought.
CLAP!
“All you need are some extra training tickets, so use them, that’s what they’re for” –
CLAP!
The line cooks’ heads shot UP –
“That’s what they’re for!”
then DOWN.
CLAP!
The Madonna’s lips e-nu-ci-a-ted –
“Ring it in, then-void, then-spin-like-no-thing’s hap-pened” –
“And tables walk out the door!”
(LINE COOKS: “Walk…out the…door.”)
CLAP!
She was now in the dining room, holding a tray of drinks –
“It makes no difference if you’re bottom or top” –
CLAP!
Now in the bar, doing the same –
“Way in back of the bar…”
CLAP!
Now, surrounded by worshipers, stretching to touch her –
“If the sales are hop’pin, and the orders are right”-
CLAP!
“You’re a Superstar!”
CLAP!
“Tips go twice as far, so” –
The staff now in a perfect square chorus, the Bradley Boys in front – their hair flailing in unison – meticulously mirrored the movements within the new Vogue video. The Boys’ hand/arm motions were no less than impeccable, though their eyes contained a subtle – but distinctive – quality of anger. It was as if they were doing this for the umpteenth fucking time, and though their choreography was absolutely flawless, they lock stepped in violent, unified rage.
CLAP!
“So, C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers make extra money, hey, hey, hey” –
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers feel the cash flow!”
CLAP!
The Boys parted for just a millisecond when two tuxedos – Alan & Patrick – briefly emerged from within the chorus, dancing to a different beat that only they could hear; the pair tangoed on through, oblivious to everyone around them, and as soon as they were gone, the Bradleys resumed dancing as though nothing had ever happened –
CLAP!
But their eyes were red and glassy.
CLAP!
The camera dolly-zoomed from above on the Madonna, her open palms crossed below her chin –
Money’s where you Void it! To HELL with food costs, we’ve destroyed it!
Only when the money flows, that’s when I feel so beautiful –
CLAP!
Powerful! –
CLAP!
Heads could roll, so –
Get up on that register and Void!
CLAP!
“So, C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers make extra money, hey, hey, hey” –
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers feel the cash flow!”
CLAP!
Forget fuckin’ glassy, the Bradley Boys were trying to dance while goddamn sobbing –
CLAP!
“Money’s where you find it…”
“Money’s where you find it…”
CLAP!
All eyes on the Madonna, now:
“Cash flow’s high, bill’s are low.
Northwoods mall is where we’ll go.
Sharon, Big Tim, Ty, Laur-e –
Bill and Rodney are a couple of queens!
Corporate, DM’s, and LP: Thank you for the diamond rings.
Alan, Patrick, Guinevere…push the Void, bleach that hair.
We have style. We have grace.
Berman’s Leather, we’ve got taste.
Sears, Wards, Penny’s – EWW!
Patrick’s Caddy? That’ll do.
Waitress with an attitude.
Waiters who aren’t in the mood.
Don’t just stand there, let’s get to it –
Make some bank, there’s nothing to it” –
SLAP!
“GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD AND RUN SOME FOOD!” Sharon yelled at Alan, as loud as she could without angering customers. He brought his hand to his hot, red cheek with a gasp. “Did you just…hit me?” Patrick passed, as Alan followed her heels into the kitchen.
Chuckling…
Patrick hesitated at the landing, paused, checked his table in play, then returned to the alley, where he shadowed Alan’s footsteps exactly.
The Phantom - both in person AND, if you look carefully, on the SPECIALS board behind!
|
Opera Phantoms leave white gloves, while Checker's Phantoms leave notes on scraps of training tickets.
|
Twelve
Self Control
“Oh, the night is my world
City light painted girl
In the day nothing matters
It’s the night time that flatters
In the night, no control
Through the wall something’s breaking
Wearing white as you’re walkin’
Down the street of my soul..."
- Laura Branigan
2006
Vegas
Like a cat stalking prey, an unseen camera crept silently along the bathroom floor, careful not to make a sound as it cautiously approached the giant porcelain shell. Steam rose noiselessly from within the gilded bathroom’s custom tub, as did the wispy white that arose from a bejeweled cigarette holder – which Alan held nonchalantly over the left side of the bathtub. From the camera’s point of view, Alan’s body was hidden, but his presence was obvious from the occasional splash of water. The cigarette disappeared momentarily, but then quietly returned to its original position; a long, deep exhale was heard as smoke intertwined with the steam, lingering in the air.
A cell phone rang.
The cigarette was placed into a prismatic ashtray before the water gurgled, and Alan’s left hand reached for the phone on the basin’s right side. His phone was next to a drink. The hand disappeared from view as the cell flipped open.
“Hello?”
“…This is a collect call from inmate – Patrick Tyler – in the Las Vegas county Correctional Department…to accept charges, press one…”
Alan did as he was told.
“…Please hold for inmate…”
The voice in the speaker was frantic – “Alan? Alan, is that y-you?” Patrick’s words were so stressed, their cadence resonated throughout the bathroom’s walls and floor. It’s recipient’s however, was not –
“Hey, buddy! How ya’ holdin’ up in there?”
“Alan, w-w-what happened? After we talked, you were supposed to go right to Bob’s! You promised – right to Bob’s office! You were sup-p-posed to bring him the suitcases. That was three days ago, Alan! Bob just came to see me now, and he said he hasn’t heard from you!” –
“Alan,” – the voice was desperate – “What happened!?”
Another mushroom of smoke was exhaled while Alan replaced the burning cigarette into the ashtray. Water burbled as a body shifted within the tub. “Well, I’ve got some bad news for you, buddy,” Alan told him, almost proudly. “I kinda’ wrecked your car.” He reached for his drink – a triple scotch on the rocks – with the hand that had just held his smoke.
“We had an accident. Right after we left the parking lot.”
“What!?” Patrick was flabbergasted. He shrunk against a dirty concrete wall as a tattooed Latino walked past, wearing an orange jumpsuit. The gang-banger gave him a look – I’ll do you right now, maricón – causing the gay prisoner to shrink even further. Instinctively, he covered his mouthpiece for privacy –
“Alan, what happened?”
The tub sloshed with the bloop of displaced water, when Alan replaced his drink onto the ornamental table – inadvertently squeaking his rubber ducky. Hot bubbles slopped onto the floor as he pulled himself to the basin’s edge, leaning over with his phone. His right arm was in a cast, his face was red and burned, and his visible eye was nearly swollen shut. But he definitely had a sense of humor about everything.
“You want to know what happened, Pat? Do you reeeeeally want to know what happened? All right, then – I’ll tell you.”
“And it goes a little something like this” –
* * * * *
“ALAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNN!” Stephanie screamed in the passenger seat, loud enough to momentarily blind him. But that blindness only lasted for a second, just long enough to destroy his timing – and the Cadillac careened into oncoming traffic, swerving over and over and over again.
The big engine roared when its driver instinctively overcorrected, wrenching the steering wheel right. Approaching hoods, grilles, and bumpers suddenly filled Alan’s windshield; they blasted their horns in a terrified chorus, as oncoming vehicles veered both left and right in a frantic effort to get out of the way.
The Eldorado lurched sideways, throwing itself into the correct two lanes of speeding vehicles. But as Alan had startled the traffic pattern, the only path to safety was to turn hard, right, now. Gasping for air, he floored the accelerator and aimed for the far right curb, slamming Patrick’s car into the concrete guard wall –
But they were far from safe.
The windows went bright orange as the Caddy’s exterior paint was ground to cinders. Stephanie’s face – frozen in a silent scream – now looked like a howling cat in profile; it had become a petrified black silhouette against a background of hot, torrential, almost-fluid like…fire.
Alan overcompensated again, jerking left in terror. The NorthStar took the lead and attempted to join the traffic flow, but as panicked drivers were now trying to save themselves, Alan saw nothing but a dangerous, moving asteroid field, and his car was a Millennium Falcon.
The stress, however, was clear in his voice –
“GUINEVERE, HOLD ON!”
Car horns wailed and tires squealed in protest when the damaged Cadillac ricocheted off the wall like an Olympic bobsled. Frantic drivers did their best to clear a path, but their efforts left a trail of dangerous debris, as unsecured cargo went airborne, flying like lost hubcaps. Stephanie covered her ears when their windshield was violently attacked by suitcases, sports equipment, and a ladder that left deep cracks on impact. A hideous metallic crunch echoed throughout the passenger cabin, as the Caddy bulldozed a flying, spinning bicycle, dragging it briefly when caught by the undercarriage, triggering the dashboard’s ABS light.
CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG! went a dolly, before slamming into the Eldorado’s hood, then scraping over its roof, and rolling into the rear view mirror. An SUV swung hard left up ahead which caused its door to fly open, spilling a trail of rolling groceries onto the fast-moving pavement. The bucking Cadillac was now pummeled a second time, as cans of peas and jars of salsa reduced the windshield to a testament in safety glass. The dashboard lit up like Christmas tree lights:
Ding! – ENGINE COOLANT TEMP
Ding! – OIL PRESSURE
Ding! – TRACTION CONTROL
Ding! – SERVICE ENGINE SOON
The NorthStar cried in pain as Alan’s hand flailed for the windshield wipers. The rubber blades grimaced against the broken glass, while angry drivers shouted from all directions, enough to snap Alan into the present. As the green LED’s grew desperate – ENGINE OVERHEATED, STOP ENGINE NOW – he squinted for some sort of exit. There was a blurry sign approaching, but his vision was far too emotional to make out specifics. But he knew where it pointed – GO THIS WAY – and he knew that meant survival, a way to get off the road both quickly and safely.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee –
KA-CLUNK!
An ominous shudder marked the pistons seizing, and the tachometer falling from red. The speedometer immediately followed suit, albeit a little slower, and a chill shot up Alan’s spine on realizing that like merging into traffic, speed was crucial for getting out of this situation –
I’m not going to make it!
But a voice in his head spoke with chilling calm:
Remember…Cadillac engines have a failsafe for emergency. In the event of coolant failure, rather than blowing gaskets, the NorthStar is designed to enter “Limp Mode,” providing the driver with just enough power to find help from another.
As his speed dropped from 65 to 60, Alan white-knuckled one last barrage of horns and insults, while fast-banking right, onto the off-ramp’s safety. He had absolutely no idea where the hell he was, but he could tell he was now within the old part of Las Vegas because the 1950s-era ramp was sharp, and required a 90 degree turn. A 15MPH sign approached, and his anxiety quelled just enough to hear Stephanie’s distant sobbing.
She can wait, he thought, quickly applying the brakes.
CLANG! – But the speed-sign landed squarely on the windshield in front of her.
Their brakes had failed completely.
* * * * *
The billboard was hideous, absolutely…hideous.
It was two-stories tall, mechanized like a bad casino’s, and shaped like a woman doing sexual jumping jacks, with flashing red lights on her tits & twat. She resembled those big-breasted silhouettes one often sees on mud flaps, in chrome, on a semi, taking pigs to slaughter…and stinking of shit as they pass you, causing Interstate drivers to shut the AC. She was an ad for Dysthymia, some sort of topless hell-bar two lights down from the left, and as Alan frantically tried to take the turn like a toboggan, the Cadillac went airborne, its speed causing it to jump the curb and…fly.
* * * * *
From a distance, it all looked like a movie stunt:
A smoking car goes sailing over a cliff, then collides with a tacky billboard, slicing it in half. The shot goes slow-motion – like a fight scene from The Matrix – and as the sign’s top goes one way, the bottom goes another…all while keeping the car in the middle, like an aerial sandwich. Both the head, boobs, and arms spin one way, while the crotch, legs, and heels spin another.
The camera then pulls back to reveal a much larger perspective: as if it all wasn’t bad enough already, the floating car is actually above a big hole in the ground, and in this particular case, it’s an excavation site for a long-forgotten gambling complex.
That’s exactly what I see in my head.
* * * * *
A decade’s worth of erosion had softened the crater’s sharp edges into a sharp, gradual slope. The Caddy hit the incline HARD, then sailed downward, trailing dust like a snow skier’s wake. The construction project had clearly gotten started in the 90s, with just enough funding to dig a hole, pour a floor, and embed the structure’s basement support pillars into concrete. But then the funding dried up, and what lay ahead was an unfinished labyrinth of crumbling obstacles, and dangerous vertical rebar beams just waiting to impale, like a Pygmies’ buried bamboo trap.
Though its NorthStar had died, the Cadillac still had momentum, and it sailed deep into the crater at a speed close to 70. The rebar came up fast, and there was no way to steer and absolutely no way to brake.
Both Alan and Stephanie instinctively went into fetal position.
By some act of God, at the very last possible moment, the car clipped a rusty metal pillar, causing it to avoid a total front-end collision. Like a runaway ramp – the pile of emergency gravel used to stop endangered trucks on mountains – the white Eldorado – or at least, what was left of it – slammed hood ornament-first into a pile of rocks, sand, and bricks, bringing it to a sudden stop, amidst a cloud of expanding dust, causing its air bags to deploy.
Its radio popped on unexpectedly – “Baby, baby, I’m taken with the notion…”
But then it stopped with a bzzt, just as quickly.
The billboard’s lower half – the legs, crotch, and heels – landed just behind the wreck, upside down, in the dirt.
Silence as the dust settled.
Time passed.
* * * * *
Silence.
Alan forced the driver’s side door open.
Silence.
He stumbled out of the car, falling a few feet to the dust.
Silence.
His face now red from air bag chemicals, he staggered around the pile of shit, and climbed up to the passenger door. He saw Stephanie inside. She was unconscious. He tried to open the door with both hands, but the unibody had been pinched, and the door wouldn’t open.
Silence.
He looked around frantically, searching for something to leverage.
Silence.
He found it – a piece of broken rebar.
Silence, except for footsteps on gravel.
Slamming the rebar into the totaled Cadillac, he wrenched the door free, pulling it open with a creak. Steph was still trapped in the seat belt.
Silence.
Locating a piece of broken glass, Alan hurriedly sawed through the nylon belt, allowing the girl to fall into his arms. He took her away quickly, fearing the car might explode, then laid her like Abraham’s son onto a sun-burnt, sideways Port-O-Potty, and tapped at her red face desperately –
“Stephanie!? Stephanie! C’mon, Stephanie…wake up!”
No response.
Silence.
“Stephanie, Wake Up!” he shouted, his voice echoing within the quarry-sized hole. No response, so he screamed again. ‘STEPHANIE, WAKE UP!”
Silence.
Stumbling back from the unresponsive girl, Alan looked around; he wondered why their horrific accident hadn’t attracted anyone’s attention.
We just wrecked our fucking car. How did no one hear that?
But still, silence…
He returned to the girl. He hesitated, but then slapped her face –
“STEPHANIE, WAKE UP!”
Silence.
Slap! –
“STEPHANIE, WAKE UP!”
No response, despite repeated tries. And no worried passerby, either.
Silence.
Alan heard an eagle screech above, from somewhere behind the blinding sun.
Silence.
Staggering backwards, Alan covered his mouth with his bleeding hand. He didn’t know what to do, right now. And his mind was spinning in circles with confusion, as the camera went round and round him, as though emphasizing his desperation by showing viewers how alone he really was. He was in the very heart of goddamn fuckin’ Las Vegas, yet nobody had seen the accident, so no one was there to respond.
Silence.
Steph’s body now lay on a dirty fuckin’ Port-o-Potty, and if Alan didn’t do something soon, she’d be gone forever…just like her mother. So, he tried the only thing left in the arsenal –
“Help,” he croaked, at first too soft to hear.
But then he fell to his knees and screamed –
“HELP!,” he cried – “I NEED SOMEBODY’S HELP!”
He inhaled as deeply as he could, then opened his arms to fill his lungs to capacity. Alan wanted – no, needed – for his voice to travel outside the unfinished casino foundation. It was the only way he might get Stephanie the medical attention she clearly and desperately needed.
“HELP! I NEED HELP! PLEASE, I NEED SOMEBODY TO HELP ME! I’M OVER HERE! I’M RIGHT HERE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU…IN THE CASINO HOLE … AND IT’S NOT A HOLE, IT’S JUST…IT’S JUST…IT’S JUST A LITTLE DEPRESS”- his voice trailed off –
“…un!”
It’s just a little depression.
But his words echoed in the
Silence.
Buzzards circled as he waited; it was clear that no one was coming. So, Alan did what he needed to do to help Guinevere’s memory survive.
Slap! “Stephanie, wake up!” Alan shouted, now standing above her. Slap! Slap! Slap! – “WAKE UP!”
Silence.
“STEPH, I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP!”
Silence.
Gravel was disturbed as Alan stood erect, then attempted to perform CPR – That’s what you do, right? With palm over palm, he frantically tried to pump life into the young girl’s chest, but, like his cry for help, he got no response.
Shit!
His breath now coming in short, fast gasps, he ripped Stephanie’s lavender blouse open, popping buttons in the process. Her nipples were now exposed, revealing the tiny beginnings of what would eventually become his Schnookums’ bosom, and his back arched in hesitation – What if someone sees this? This is child porn.
No, Alan, just use CPR to save her life –
Turning away, Alan pumped hard with his palms and forced air into her lungs, inhaling on the young girl’s lips, as though it were a kiss. But it wasn’t working.
This is not the time to worry about how you might look.
Silence…
Alan’s eyes shot back and forth, in a complete and total act of desperation. He was hyperventilating now, as though his own life was far less important than the one he was saving, a life that was his responsibility – and his responsibility alone.
And then he screamed –
“PLEASE, SOMEBODY…
HELP ME!”
But, his cry was met with silence.
Unbeknownst to Alan, behind, over his shoulders, the giant billboard legs literally farted fire; their mechanized taint had finally succumbed to its situation, and like a dying NorthStar, the sign’s female pleasure palace was in the throws of death. The pussy queefed flames while the legs fell open to the limits of their design. The red crotch light honked one last, final gaseous time, before the billboard’s ad exploded, sending billowing clouds of black into the air, getting people’s attention –
“Hey everyone, look! Her taint is on fire!”
As passerby ran towards the depression, Alan’s eyes frantically searched for something – anything – to bring Stephanie back to life. His eyes quickly settled on a stoner’s forgotten pint of Bud, which he immediately grabbed and twisted open, splashing its sun bleached contents over the dying girl’s face and chest. As he waited, the footsteps came up fast behind him.
“Steph! Wake UP! C’mon, Steph…Wake UP!”
More Bud, more touching, more exposed breasts…
“Stephanie…WAKE UP!”
The young girl stirred slightly.
“Stephanie?” Alan begged, hopeful.
“What the FUCK are you doing to HER?” the first footsteps demanded, yanking him to his feet by his collar. From the footsteps’ point of view, Alan had been leaning over an underage girl with her shirt ripped open, while a goddamn creeper poured beer over her body, trying to kiss her.
“You fucking PERVERT!”
Alan protested, but a fist to the eye brought his world to BLACK –
* * * * *
“…BUT not before I fell backwards when he hit me.” Alan told Patrick on the jail phone, “and then I landed with a goddamn piece of rebar in between my ulna and radius.” He added, “And then the jackass HIT me in the face. Even after he broke my arm.”
Silence.
Patrick, in lockup, didn’t know what to say.
“You there?” Alan asked, now drying his hair in a towel.
Silence.
“Yes, Alan, I’m here,” Patrick told him, cautiously.
“So, that’s what happened,” Alan explained, drying his ears. “So, please forgive me if I’ve been a little busy to go to Bob’s. But I will tomorrow. I promise you that.”
Patrick cleared his throat.
“You promise?” he asked.
“I promise,” Alan said, coming into the kitchen. His wallet was on the counter, bulging with yellow tickets, including reckless driving and property damage. Considering the commotion he’d caused on the street, he’d be sitting in the cell next to Patrick himself had the officers not taken pity on Stephanie’s recent loss, and the fact no other cars had been damaged. Thank God he hadn’t started drinking yet.
“Very honestly, it looks like I need a lawyer myself.”
Twelve
Self Control
“Oh, the night is my world
City light painted girl
In the day nothing matters
It’s the night time that flatters
In the night, no control
Through the wall something’s breaking
Wearing white as you’re walkin’
Down the street of my soul..."
- Laura Branigan
2006
Vegas
Like a cat stalking prey, an unseen camera crept silently along the bathroom floor, careful not to make a sound as it cautiously approached the giant porcelain shell. Steam rose noiselessly from within the gilded bathroom’s custom tub, as did the wispy white that arose from a bejeweled cigarette holder – which Alan held nonchalantly over the left side of the bathtub. From the camera’s point of view, Alan’s body was hidden, but his presence was obvious from the occasional splash of water. The cigarette disappeared momentarily, but then quietly returned to its original position; a long, deep exhale was heard as smoke intertwined with the steam, lingering in the air.
A cell phone rang.
The cigarette was placed into a prismatic ashtray before the water gurgled, and Alan’s left hand reached for the phone on the basin’s right side. His phone was next to a drink. The hand disappeared from view as the cell flipped open.
“Hello?”
“…This is a collect call from inmate – Patrick Tyler – in the Las Vegas county Correctional Department…to accept charges, press one…”
Alan did as he was told.
“…Please hold for inmate…”
The voice in the speaker was frantic – “Alan? Alan, is that y-you?” Patrick’s words were so stressed, their cadence resonated throughout the bathroom’s walls and floor. It’s recipient’s however, was not –
“Hey, buddy! How ya’ holdin’ up in there?”
“Alan, w-w-what happened? After we talked, you were supposed to go right to Bob’s! You promised – right to Bob’s office! You were sup-p-posed to bring him the suitcases. That was three days ago, Alan! Bob just came to see me now, and he said he hasn’t heard from you!” –
“Alan,” – the voice was desperate – “What happened!?”
Another mushroom of smoke was exhaled while Alan replaced the burning cigarette into the ashtray. Water burbled as a body shifted within the tub. “Well, I’ve got some bad news for you, buddy,” Alan told him, almost proudly. “I kinda’ wrecked your car.” He reached for his drink – a triple scotch on the rocks – with the hand that had just held his smoke.
“We had an accident. Right after we left the parking lot.”
“What!?” Patrick was flabbergasted. He shrunk against a dirty concrete wall as a tattooed Latino walked past, wearing an orange jumpsuit. The gang-banger gave him a look – I’ll do you right now, maricón – causing the gay prisoner to shrink even further. Instinctively, he covered his mouthpiece for privacy –
“Alan, what happened?”
The tub sloshed with the bloop of displaced water, when Alan replaced his drink onto the ornamental table – inadvertently squeaking his rubber ducky. Hot bubbles slopped onto the floor as he pulled himself to the basin’s edge, leaning over with his phone. His right arm was in a cast, his face was red and burned, and his visible eye was nearly swollen shut. But he definitely had a sense of humor about everything.
“You want to know what happened, Pat? Do you reeeeeally want to know what happened? All right, then – I’ll tell you.”
“And it goes a little something like this” –
* * * * *
“ALAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNN!” Stephanie screamed in the passenger seat, loud enough to momentarily blind him. But that blindness only lasted for a second, just long enough to destroy his timing – and the Cadillac careened into oncoming traffic, swerving over and over and over again.
The big engine roared when its driver instinctively overcorrected, wrenching the steering wheel right. Approaching hoods, grilles, and bumpers suddenly filled Alan’s windshield; they blasted their horns in a terrified chorus, as oncoming vehicles veered both left and right in a frantic effort to get out of the way.
The Eldorado lurched sideways, throwing itself into the correct two lanes of speeding vehicles. But as Alan had startled the traffic pattern, the only path to safety was to turn hard, right, now. Gasping for air, he floored the accelerator and aimed for the far right curb, slamming Patrick’s car into the concrete guard wall –
But they were far from safe.
The windows went bright orange as the Caddy’s exterior paint was ground to cinders. Stephanie’s face – frozen in a silent scream – now looked like a howling cat in profile; it had become a petrified black silhouette against a background of hot, torrential, almost-fluid like…fire.
Alan overcompensated again, jerking left in terror. The NorthStar took the lead and attempted to join the traffic flow, but as panicked drivers were now trying to save themselves, Alan saw nothing but a dangerous, moving asteroid field, and his car was a Millennium Falcon.
The stress, however, was clear in his voice –
“GUINEVERE, HOLD ON!”
Car horns wailed and tires squealed in protest when the damaged Cadillac ricocheted off the wall like an Olympic bobsled. Frantic drivers did their best to clear a path, but their efforts left a trail of dangerous debris, as unsecured cargo went airborne, flying like lost hubcaps. Stephanie covered her ears when their windshield was violently attacked by suitcases, sports equipment, and a ladder that left deep cracks on impact. A hideous metallic crunch echoed throughout the passenger cabin, as the Caddy bulldozed a flying, spinning bicycle, dragging it briefly when caught by the undercarriage, triggering the dashboard’s ABS light.
CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG! went a dolly, before slamming into the Eldorado’s hood, then scraping over its roof, and rolling into the rear view mirror. An SUV swung hard left up ahead which caused its door to fly open, spilling a trail of rolling groceries onto the fast-moving pavement. The bucking Cadillac was now pummeled a second time, as cans of peas and jars of salsa reduced the windshield to a testament in safety glass. The dashboard lit up like Christmas tree lights:
Ding! – ENGINE COOLANT TEMP
Ding! – OIL PRESSURE
Ding! – TRACTION CONTROL
Ding! – SERVICE ENGINE SOON
The NorthStar cried in pain as Alan’s hand flailed for the windshield wipers. The rubber blades grimaced against the broken glass, while angry drivers shouted from all directions, enough to snap Alan into the present. As the green LED’s grew desperate – ENGINE OVERHEATED, STOP ENGINE NOW – he squinted for some sort of exit. There was a blurry sign approaching, but his vision was far too emotional to make out specifics. But he knew where it pointed – GO THIS WAY – and he knew that meant survival, a way to get off the road both quickly and safely.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee –
KA-CLUNK!
An ominous shudder marked the pistons seizing, and the tachometer falling from red. The speedometer immediately followed suit, albeit a little slower, and a chill shot up Alan’s spine on realizing that like merging into traffic, speed was crucial for getting out of this situation –
I’m not going to make it!
But a voice in his head spoke with chilling calm:
Remember…Cadillac engines have a failsafe for emergency. In the event of coolant failure, rather than blowing gaskets, the NorthStar is designed to enter “Limp Mode,” providing the driver with just enough power to find help from another.
As his speed dropped from 65 to 60, Alan white-knuckled one last barrage of horns and insults, while fast-banking right, onto the off-ramp’s safety. He had absolutely no idea where the hell he was, but he could tell he was now within the old part of Las Vegas because the 1950s-era ramp was sharp, and required a 90 degree turn. A 15MPH sign approached, and his anxiety quelled just enough to hear Stephanie’s distant sobbing.
She can wait, he thought, quickly applying the brakes.
CLANG! – But the speed-sign landed squarely on the windshield in front of her.
Their brakes had failed completely.
* * * * *
The billboard was hideous, absolutely…hideous.
It was two-stories tall, mechanized like a bad casino’s, and shaped like a woman doing sexual jumping jacks, with flashing red lights on her tits & twat. She resembled those big-breasted silhouettes one often sees on mud flaps, in chrome, on a semi, taking pigs to slaughter…and stinking of shit as they pass you, causing Interstate drivers to shut the AC. She was an ad for Dysthymia, some sort of topless hell-bar two lights down from the left, and as Alan frantically tried to take the turn like a toboggan, the Cadillac went airborne, its speed causing it to jump the curb and…fly.
* * * * *
From a distance, it all looked like a movie stunt:
A smoking car goes sailing over a cliff, then collides with a tacky billboard, slicing it in half. The shot goes slow-motion – like a fight scene from The Matrix – and as the sign’s top goes one way, the bottom goes another…all while keeping the car in the middle, like an aerial sandwich. Both the head, boobs, and arms spin one way, while the crotch, legs, and heels spin another.
The camera then pulls back to reveal a much larger perspective: as if it all wasn’t bad enough already, the floating car is actually above a big hole in the ground, and in this particular case, it’s an excavation site for a long-forgotten gambling complex.
That’s exactly what I see in my head.
* * * * *
A decade’s worth of erosion had softened the crater’s sharp edges into a sharp, gradual slope. The Caddy hit the incline HARD, then sailed downward, trailing dust like a snow skier’s wake. The construction project had clearly gotten started in the 90s, with just enough funding to dig a hole, pour a floor, and embed the structure’s basement support pillars into concrete. But then the funding dried up, and what lay ahead was an unfinished labyrinth of crumbling obstacles, and dangerous vertical rebar beams just waiting to impale, like a Pygmies’ buried bamboo trap.
Though its NorthStar had died, the Cadillac still had momentum, and it sailed deep into the crater at a speed close to 70. The rebar came up fast, and there was no way to steer and absolutely no way to brake.
Both Alan and Stephanie instinctively went into fetal position.
By some act of God, at the very last possible moment, the car clipped a rusty metal pillar, causing it to avoid a total front-end collision. Like a runaway ramp – the pile of emergency gravel used to stop endangered trucks on mountains – the white Eldorado – or at least, what was left of it – slammed hood ornament-first into a pile of rocks, sand, and bricks, bringing it to a sudden stop, amidst a cloud of expanding dust, causing its air bags to deploy.
Its radio popped on unexpectedly – “Baby, baby, I’m taken with the notion…”
But then it stopped with a bzzt, just as quickly.
The billboard’s lower half – the legs, crotch, and heels – landed just behind the wreck, upside down, in the dirt.
Silence as the dust settled.
Time passed.
* * * * *
Silence.
Alan forced the driver’s side door open.
Silence.
He stumbled out of the car, falling a few feet to the dust.
Silence.
His face now red from air bag chemicals, he staggered around the pile of shit, and climbed up to the passenger door. He saw Stephanie inside. She was unconscious. He tried to open the door with both hands, but the unibody had been pinched, and the door wouldn’t open.
Silence.
He looked around frantically, searching for something to leverage.
Silence.
He found it – a piece of broken rebar.
Silence, except for footsteps on gravel.
Slamming the rebar into the totaled Cadillac, he wrenched the door free, pulling it open with a creak. Steph was still trapped in the seat belt.
Silence.
Locating a piece of broken glass, Alan hurriedly sawed through the nylon belt, allowing the girl to fall into his arms. He took her away quickly, fearing the car might explode, then laid her like Abraham’s son onto a sun-burnt, sideways Port-O-Potty, and tapped at her red face desperately –
“Stephanie!? Stephanie! C’mon, Stephanie…wake up!”
No response.
Silence.
“Stephanie, Wake Up!” he shouted, his voice echoing within the quarry-sized hole. No response, so he screamed again. ‘STEPHANIE, WAKE UP!”
Silence.
Stumbling back from the unresponsive girl, Alan looked around; he wondered why their horrific accident hadn’t attracted anyone’s attention.
We just wrecked our fucking car. How did no one hear that?
But still, silence…
He returned to the girl. He hesitated, but then slapped her face –
“STEPHANIE, WAKE UP!”
Silence.
Slap! –
“STEPHANIE, WAKE UP!”
No response, despite repeated tries. And no worried passerby, either.
Silence.
Alan heard an eagle screech above, from somewhere behind the blinding sun.
Silence.
Staggering backwards, Alan covered his mouth with his bleeding hand. He didn’t know what to do, right now. And his mind was spinning in circles with confusion, as the camera went round and round him, as though emphasizing his desperation by showing viewers how alone he really was. He was in the very heart of goddamn fuckin’ Las Vegas, yet nobody had seen the accident, so no one was there to respond.
Silence.
Steph’s body now lay on a dirty fuckin’ Port-o-Potty, and if Alan didn’t do something soon, she’d be gone forever…just like her mother. So, he tried the only thing left in the arsenal –
“Help,” he croaked, at first too soft to hear.
But then he fell to his knees and screamed –
“HELP!,” he cried – “I NEED SOMEBODY’S HELP!”
He inhaled as deeply as he could, then opened his arms to fill his lungs to capacity. Alan wanted – no, needed – for his voice to travel outside the unfinished casino foundation. It was the only way he might get Stephanie the medical attention she clearly and desperately needed.
“HELP! I NEED HELP! PLEASE, I NEED SOMEBODY TO HELP ME! I’M OVER HERE! I’M RIGHT HERE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU…IN THE CASINO HOLE … AND IT’S NOT A HOLE, IT’S JUST…IT’S JUST…IT’S JUST A LITTLE DEPRESS”- his voice trailed off –
“…un!”
It’s just a little depression.
But his words echoed in the
Silence.
Buzzards circled as he waited; it was clear that no one was coming. So, Alan did what he needed to do to help Guinevere’s memory survive.
Slap! “Stephanie, wake up!” Alan shouted, now standing above her. Slap! Slap! Slap! – “WAKE UP!”
Silence.
“STEPH, I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP!”
Silence.
Gravel was disturbed as Alan stood erect, then attempted to perform CPR – That’s what you do, right? With palm over palm, he frantically tried to pump life into the young girl’s chest, but, like his cry for help, he got no response.
Shit!
His breath now coming in short, fast gasps, he ripped Stephanie’s lavender blouse open, popping buttons in the process. Her nipples were now exposed, revealing the tiny beginnings of what would eventually become his Schnookums’ bosom, and his back arched in hesitation – What if someone sees this? This is child porn.
No, Alan, just use CPR to save her life –
Turning away, Alan pumped hard with his palms and forced air into her lungs, inhaling on the young girl’s lips, as though it were a kiss. But it wasn’t working.
This is not the time to worry about how you might look.
Silence…
Alan’s eyes shot back and forth, in a complete and total act of desperation. He was hyperventilating now, as though his own life was far less important than the one he was saving, a life that was his responsibility – and his responsibility alone.
And then he screamed –
“PLEASE, SOMEBODY…
HELP ME!”
But, his cry was met with silence.
Unbeknownst to Alan, behind, over his shoulders, the giant billboard legs literally farted fire; their mechanized taint had finally succumbed to its situation, and like a dying NorthStar, the sign’s female pleasure palace was in the throws of death. The pussy queefed flames while the legs fell open to the limits of their design. The red crotch light honked one last, final gaseous time, before the billboard’s ad exploded, sending billowing clouds of black into the air, getting people’s attention –
“Hey everyone, look! Her taint is on fire!”
As passerby ran towards the depression, Alan’s eyes frantically searched for something – anything – to bring Stephanie back to life. His eyes quickly settled on a stoner’s forgotten pint of Bud, which he immediately grabbed and twisted open, splashing its sun bleached contents over the dying girl’s face and chest. As he waited, the footsteps came up fast behind him.
“Steph! Wake UP! C’mon, Steph…Wake UP!”
More Bud, more touching, more exposed breasts…
“Stephanie…WAKE UP!”
The young girl stirred slightly.
“Stephanie?” Alan begged, hopeful.
“What the FUCK are you doing to HER?” the first footsteps demanded, yanking him to his feet by his collar. From the footsteps’ point of view, Alan had been leaning over an underage girl with her shirt ripped open, while a goddamn creeper poured beer over her body, trying to kiss her.
“You fucking PERVERT!”
Alan protested, but a fist to the eye brought his world to BLACK –
* * * * *
“…BUT not before I fell backwards when he hit me.” Alan told Patrick on the jail phone, “and then I landed with a goddamn piece of rebar in between my ulna and radius.” He added, “And then the jackass HIT me in the face. Even after he broke my arm.”
Silence.
Patrick, in lockup, didn’t know what to say.
“You there?” Alan asked, now drying his hair in a towel.
Silence.
“Yes, Alan, I’m here,” Patrick told him, cautiously.
“So, that’s what happened,” Alan explained, drying his ears. “So, please forgive me if I’ve been a little busy to go to Bob’s. But I will tomorrow. I promise you that.”
Patrick cleared his throat.
“You promise?” he asked.
“I promise,” Alan said, coming into the kitchen. His wallet was on the counter, bulging with yellow tickets, including reckless driving and property damage. Considering the commotion he’d caused on the street, he’d be sitting in the cell next to Patrick himself had the officers not taken pity on Stephanie’s recent loss, and the fact no other cars had been damaged. Thank God he hadn’t started drinking yet.
“Very honestly, it looks like I need a lawyer myself.”
Thirteen
One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer
“Yummy, yummy, yummy, I’ve got love in my tummy
And I feel like a-lovin you…”
- Ohio Express
1991
“I need some HELP here!” Alan yelled down the Checker’s server’s alley, causing both cooks and serving staff to look up. He was standing by the corner, motioning for nearby employees to make room. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s all bring our hands together for the one, the only…Derek!”
“DEREK!” everyone yelled at once, like Norm entering Cheers.
Derek came into the kitchen like a rock star joining a stage. He was taller than Alan but shorter than Patrick, and he had one of those bodies that every dude envies: slender, solid, and defined in a way that never seemed to require a gym. The Bradley Boys made no effort to hide their love/hate towards Derek’s perpetual 30” waist, and they all patted his back when he passed, in obvious awe of their idol.
We are not worthy, we are not worthy…
Derek’s hair was a mullet that had evolved into something spectacular, a cross between Cinderella’s Eric Brittingham, and the goddamn MGM lion. He shook coworkers’ hands with genuine empathy, then gave Big Tim a two-fingered salute – which the cook happily returned, from behind the heat lamps.
“Where have you been, Buddy?” Alan asked, taking over the tray that Bill had been garnishing in the expo window.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw you,” Patrick added, procuring the oval platter from Alan, and lifting it high in the air. With all eyes on Derek, Alan discretely pocketed the fake ticket’s soft copy. “I have to get this food to the floor,” Patrick told Derek, “but it’s really good to see you” –
“Welcome back, Derek!”
“Wel-come back, wel-come back, wel-come baaack,” the cooks sang in unison – like the refrain to a 1970s sitcom – before Big Tim shut them down.
“Back to work, people!”
“Can you run this?” Bill asked Jackie, pointing to another completed dinner tray.
“Sure,” she said, taking it. Bill replaced it with an empty one. Alan and Derek garnished it together. “So, seriously…where have you been?” Alan asked him.
Derek smiled, ladling peppercorn as he quoted a country song happily: “I was a highwayman. Along the coach roads I did ride. With sword and pistol by my side…”
The kitchen fell silent as Sharon passed like a prison guard. Her blazer today was the color of headcheese. Derek resumed in a whisper as soon as the heels were out of earshot. “Many a groupie lost her panties to my staid … many a virgin shed her lifeblood as I”-
“Stop!” Alan warned him, grinning. “Do NOT finish that sentence.”
Derek grinned back, pausing for effect:
“Brayed.”
Alan watched him hoist the tray onto fingertips, in a way that made it twirl, like a Globetrotter’s basketball. His eyes then followed Derek’s perfect bubble ass through the kitchen, then disappear around the “CORNER!” The meaning of brayed hit him the moment Derek was gone. “That’s disgusting!” Alan yelled to deaf ears. Derek was a master of time-delayed double-entendres.
“That IS disgusting,” Guinevere said from behind, eating a French fry off Bill’s next tray. “My Schnookums’ brays sound nothing like a donkey’s, and to imply otherwise is simply untrue.” Alan could smell her Glemby conditioner before he turned around. Her hair was stunning today. She had clearly just dropped a solid $140 at A Cut Above in Northwoods.
“My Schnookums’ brays sound more like a stallion’s,” she continued, “a mighty racing steed who can only reach his salty satisfaction within my sweaty, smoldering, smegma-seizing” –
“Language, Guinevere,” Rodney warned when he passed. “WE HAVE A FIVE TABLE TURN, PEOPLE!” He met Sharon with an inventory clipboard, and the two disappeared into the manager’s office. Alan hoisted the next oval tray. Gwen winked at him. “Strike a pose.” She begrudgingly waited to run the following order as he grabbed a tray jack and carried the food into the dining room – “CORNER!”
The restaurant was slammed.
“That fifty-two?” Laurie asked, seeing Alan as she came up the stairs. He nodded. “Tell them I’ll be right back with their soup,” she said, returning to the kitchen. He nodded again, then threaded his way through the dining room. He opened the tray jack in front of the hungry table,
"Dinner's served - OH SHIT!"
The table gasped.
As Alan plopped the heavy tray onto the portable, X-shaped stand, the jack buckled under the weight, sending plates sliding dangerously to the side. Alan hadn’t been expecting this, and his reaction wasn’t nearly fast enough to save food from hitting the floor. But a flash of hair materialized out of nowhere, and propped up the falling tray like Superman grabbing a plane’s wing.
“Whoa, that was close!” Rob Vain exclaimed, somehow balancing a drink tray in one hand, and Laurie’s order in the other. He had overheard Alan’s swearing, and intentionally diffused the situation.
Nearby tables applauded.
“Sorry about the language, folks!” Alan’s heart was in his throat as he threw down the plates. The diners smiled and shrugged. It happens, buddy – just give us our fucking burgers. “You folks need anything else? Oh – Laurie is bringing the soup!”
“We’re good.”
“Enjoy your meals.”
With the empty tray under his arm, Alan returned to the stairs, where Patrick met him halfway. “I saw that,” Patrick said, smiling. “Tell Rob, nice save.”
“This one’s trash,” Alan told him, nodding to the tray jack and noticing Patrick’s open ticket book. His real tables were on one side, the fake orders on another. “We done for the night?” Alan asked.
“Almost,” Patrick told him. “Gwen has one more table in play, but she’s dropping the check now.”
“I’m done,” Guinevere called from the twenties, as though reading their minds. They watched her yell “corner” while entering the kitchen. Cheryl Bennish came out, running a plate of onion rings to the lobby. The two men looked at each other.
“We should get the tape now,” Patrick told him. He was referring to the one piece of physical evidence that required a team effort to retrieve.
* * * * *
Though the Bobcat was clearly a flawed system, it did keep a physical record of every transaction entered – including voids. That came in the form of a continuous spool of register tape that recorded servers’ individual transactions, even when the Interweb cable was removed from the wall. This was a problem that Alan & Patrick had solved early on, and as was often the case at Checker’s, big problems tended to have very simple solutions.
As the computerized system compiled the day’s sales into a tidy, tallied end-of-shift report, the managers saw no need to review the long paper spools – and tossed them into forgotten boxes, like socks into laundry. None of the managers – neither Sharon, Bill, nor Rodney – ever reviewed the daily tapes, which were always discarded when the boxes grew too full, in favor of saving the Bobcat’s far shorter data reports for corporate.
But those spools were still evidence – and they took a good 60 seconds to retrieve – which meant that the best time to get them was when the managers were out of the alley, and handling issues at tables, bar, or the hostess stand. At first the trio watched and waited for such opportunities to happen, but that proved too risky on nights where the restaurant ran smoothly. There were times when it was necessary to get Sharon out of the kitchen, and that meant that something big had to happen…a little disturbance, just large enough to cause misdirection.
It was Alan who got the idea a few weeks back, when The Phantom of the Opera had come to Peoria on tour…
* * * * *
“CORNER!” Ty shouted, coming into the dining room with lesbian brash – and a steaming oval platter balanced on her palm. She nodded to Alan, but stopped on realizing she had forgotten to grab a tray jack in the kitchen – “Fuck!”
“Here,” Alan offered. “Take mine.”
“Thanks, roomie!”
Both Alan and Patrick’s heads cocked in unison, as they watched the unsuspecting server approach her table, and plop the heavy tray onto the broken jack –
CRASH!
One beat, two beats…
“AGGHHHHH!!!” Ty exploded, as diners broke into applause at her expense. Alan beamed triumphantly, though Patrick had to shield his eyes from guilt.
The Phantom strikes again!
Derek appeared from the twenties, a big grin on his face. “Thar she blows! She’s like Old Faithful… you can literally set a watch by her.”
“Did somebody just drop a tray?” Cheryl Bennish asked, popping her tits between the three, surveying the carnage of meat, gravy, and shattered dishes. She dismissed it immediately on seeing the perpetrator: “Oh – it’s just Ty.”
The safety cones vanished.
“The phantom of the restaurant,” Jackie joked, leisurely joining the trio from the bottom sixties. “I swear to God this restaurant has a ghost.”
“A poltergeist,” Derek clarified. “Most ghosts just lurk in the background.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Ty blubbered, her ass – filling out what were clearly men’s jeans – now facing the table while she bent over. The angry diners watched in disgust, as the ass went back and forth, while the temperamental waitress used her ticket book to gather mashed potatoes and fragmented platters into an ugly pile on the floor.
There was broken glass in their kid’s grilled cheese.
“I’m soooooo sorry!” Ty told the customers.
“Can we see the manager, please?” the table’s pissed-off wife demanded.
“That’s our cue,” Alan told Patrick, causing the four gawkers to spin towards the kitchen together –
But they all gasped at once.
Sharon had been standing behind them, God knows how long. In the dim light of the dining room, she looked like she had horns –
“Don’t everyone help at once,” she growled.
As if overhearing, Mia flew round the kitchen corner like a bat leaving a cave, bus tub clutched below. The tiny fetish doll zigzagged between everyone, then flapped towards Ty’s table – and a problem that now required Sharon’s immediate attention.
“But I said I was sorry! I’ve been so depressed lately, and its hard to focus…”
“Ma’am – or Sir – or whatever the fuck you are, just get us the manager!”
The four bolted for the kitchen as Sharon’s black heels descended the stairs, stopped, pivoted, then made deliberate clicks towards the troubled table.
Sixty seconds later, the register spool had been replaced.
* * * * *
“Can you help me zip my dress?” Guinevere asked, a few hours later, standing in the bathroom of Alan’s apartment. She was balanced on one heel – cobalt blue, to match her sleeveless dress – and tugging at her panty hose, before pulling the other shoe on. Alan came up behind her and closed the fabric from behind – zip! He then made her hold her arms outward while he tugged the dress downward and perked up her breasts with his hands. Once finished, he turned her towards the mirror –
“Wa-lah! My Schnookums is ready for Bam-Bam’s bouncing barbell.”
Sipping her zinfandel, Gwen looked at her reflection, frowning at her stomach. The dress looked great, but it was a tad snug in the middle
"Ive put on weight. This didn’t feel this tight the last time I wore it.”
“Buy another one,” Alan said. “Get a size up.”
Gwen choked on her wine. “Okay…that is not helping.”
“Everyone will be looking at your hair,” Alan told her. “No one will notice the dress. Especially in the bar.”
“Oh – so, you are saying I’m fat?”
“No, I’m saying you’re voluptuous.”
“That’s fat.”
“Voluptuous means curvy.”
“So, you’re saying I’m…curvy?”
“In all the right places,” Alan assured her, taking Gwen by the waist and staring at her big eyes. “And, if my Schnookums does feel a little” – he chose his words carefully – “robust, as I said, everyone will be looking at” – he twirled her bangs with his fingers – “this…incredible…mane…of hair.” He mouthed a silent roar towards her lips.
She smiled.
“You’re the only person allowed to talk about my weight,” she told him, pecking his cheek. He took her place in the mirror while she gathered her makeup and disappeared into the living room. He remained in the bathroom for a few minutes, touching up the rooster comb. Alan heard Gwen pop a CD into the player. He smiled when he recognized the selection:
“Arrrrrre you gonna’ take me home tonight?”
Alan brought his drink into the living room, where he found her sitting on the couch, legs crossed, lighting a cigarette. The rack system’s red LED’s bounced in time with the music, which now played Queen’s Fat Bottomed Girls softly. He leaned in the doorway and took in the scene. Guinevere’s features were fluid with moving shadows, caught in the glow of a nearby lava light. Both of them could hear Ty crying behind her bedroom door, unaware of her volume as she was likely wearing headphones.
“I’ve got a chrome plated heart…”
“What time do you want to leave?” Alan asked, coming forward and lighting his own smoke. His apartment took up the second floor of a red brick, Chicago-style two flat, and its rooms were spacious, with dark woodwork and tall ceilings. He could see both his and Guinevere’s reflections within the window glass. He watched Gwen sip her wine.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she told him. “I’m just going to sit at the bar until Dan gets off.”
“When is Bam-Bam getting his own car?” Alan asked.
“Soon, I hope.”
“Why do you keep letting him borrow yours? It feels like he’s taking advantage of you.”
“He is,” she admitted. “But I’m taking advantage of free drinks at his bar, so it’s a wash.”
“Do you think he ever cheats on you?”
“Where did that come from?”
“I mean, Dan’s a good-looking guy and he bartends all these late shifts,” Alan explained. “And if he’s got your car, he knows you’re not going to just show up unexpectedly.” Alan stammered slightly. “I don’t know, Gwen…it just kinda’ feels like a control thing.” He watched her exhale smoke as she thought about this.
“Maybe it is,” she admitted, a grimace crossing her face. Standing up, she set her glass on the coffee table.
“You okay?” he asked.
“This damn dress is making my stomach feel funny,” she admitted. “I need to use the restroom before we go.” He watched her leave, closing the bathroom door behind her. While he waited, he used the dining room window as a mirror to adjust his tuxedo shirt, and straighten his leather vest. Ty stirred in the bedroom, flipping a cassette tape. A toilet flushed, followed by running water in the sink. When she returned, Gwen looked a little queasy, but smiled at Alan anyway.
“Ready?” she asked.
He nodded, grabbing his keys.
* * * * *
The late summer night had just a hint of fall when Alan dropped Gwen off at Gilligan’s Pub, waving goodbye and pulling away. Nelson played quietly on the radio as his pickup threaded through downtown, turning west on Adams Street and heading for his own destination, to what locals just referred to as “the Club.” Ten minutes later, he arrived in the bar’s parking lot and shut the engine. He took a few swallows from a flask before getting out, locking the vehicle behind him.
Alan lit a smoke while the whiskey hit his bloodstream.
* * * * *
The Club Peorian was the biggest gay bar in town, a three-story building in the bad part of Peoria, on the corner of Adams and Oak, across from The Julian Hotel – a well-known flophouse for transients. The Peorian Hotel itself had originally opened in the nineteen-forties, but after closing its doors two decades later, received a second life as a mod concert venue; in the late 1960s, it hosted such acts as Bobby Comstock, Joey Dee & the Starlighters, and even Chicago twice in 67’.
The counter-culture Club reached its pinnacle with Head East in 1973, then quickly faded into history as patrons took showers, stamped out blunts, and joined the Ordinary Average Guys who worked at Caterpillar Inc. Once the beats started squirting out babies – and trading their motorcycles for avocado-colored Vista Cruisers – the old Club Peorian capitulated to the modern world, as quickly as a Burger Chef surrendering to McDonald’s.
In 1978, the venue was remodeled again, this time as a discotheque, with the best dance floor south of Chicago. Throughout the 80s and early 1990s, the Club Peorian became the epicenter of local gay nightlife, ensconcing itself so firmly within the community that three additional gay bars – DJ’s Time Out, The Quench Room, and The Red Fox Den – were able to ride its coattails. Considering the city’s conservative Midwestern attitude, it was amazing that locals never demanded its outright closure; the new Club attracted a late-night clientele, feeding addiction, promiscuity, and a neighborhood filled with hookers, addicts, and bookstores with holes in the walls.
Now, in 91’, the Club was nearing its second, second-life pinnacle; disco was dead, Night Faces blew its dance floor away, and as AIDS had forced homosexuality into the open, more gay men were opting for the newer bars – and shying away from the Club’s unspoken cover charge of needing a good buzz before going in.
Another car pulled into the lot, taking the space next to Alan’s. It’s driver got out – a man in his forties, dressed in full leather – and nodded before crossing the street with confidence, entering the Club Peorian. Alan briefly heard house music when the door opened and closed. The old disco still had a heartbeat –
Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump…
A few minutes later, when his pupils had dilated into cat’s eyes, Alan tossed his cigarette in a puff of orange sparks, and followed the leatherman inside.
* * * * *
CRASH!
“AGGHHHHH!!!”
“The Phantom strikes again,” Laurie grumbled angrily the next day, running passed Alan and Guinevere to find Sharon in the kitchen. Gwen’s eyes shot to Alan’s. He knew what she was thinking –
“Hey – it wasn’t me, this time. Ty just drops trays!”
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry! I had a really bad night at the Club last night…”
The Sunday lunch rush was especially entertaining today, as The Centrality and Supremacy of Jesus Christ – a local Baptist church – had decided to give Checker’s a try for both their post-sermon meal, and after-meal Bible study. Over half of nonsmoking had been taken over by three separate, large party groups – all of whom were dressed to the nines, with men in sharp suits & ties, kids in coordinating colors, and old black women with hats so large, their brims had gravitational pulls.
“Ma’am – or Sir – can we see the manager, please?”
The servers hated the church crowd, not out of racism (though that definitely was an occasional factor), but rather because black people in Peoria just didn’t tip well. A large church party could commandeer a server’s section for hours, preventing profitable table turns, and tipping only once at the lowest possible rate. It was Marty who said it best, when a caravan of Ichthys bumper stickers started unloading spumoni-hued dresses onto the sidewalk: “Danger, Will Robinson! A Klingon Bird of Prey has just de-cloaked in the lobby!”
Sharon – in teal – shot passed Alan & Gwen like a roadrunner, followed by Mia, Laurie, and a hot, steaming bus tub. The black-heeled manager quickly intervened before Ty could tell the parishioners any more about the previous evening’s Richard Marx impersonation. “It went like this: Hold on to the niiiiiights…”
“Hey,” Patrick said from behind. “Now’s a good time.”
The trio vanished around the kitchen corner and circled the Bobcat like soldiers on a target. One beat, two beats, the spool was taken, the deed was done, and the three dispersed amongst the servers.
“WALKING IN…ONE FRY, ONE ARTICHOKE!”
“I have three penis colitis in the window!” Marty yelled from the kitchen’s bar window.
“Those are my STD’s, baby!” Cheryl Bennish yelled back from the cold side passover, grabbing a plate of shrooms. She pushed her way to the bar, then placed the piña coladas onto a drink tray, next to app plates and cocktail napkins. “Hey, Marty…I need more maraschino cherries.”
A large glass jar appeared in the window – thump.
“I love those church people,” Cheryl told Bill, who was nearby at the expo window. She used her fingers to fish a handful of sweet red dots into a ramekin. “I know they tip for shit, but they’re sure fun to talk to.”
“Tip for shit is right,” Laurie complained, slamming an empty oval tray into the pile next to Bill. “Thanks to fuckin’ Ty, that table wants my gratuity removed. They said she made them feel uncomfortable.” Bill looked up on hearing this. “That means I’ll have worked all morning for nothing.”
“Now Laurie,” Cheryl said calmly, wiping her wet hand on a bar towel, “You just can’t look at it that way.”
“And why’s that?” Laurie snipped.
“Because people treat you the way you treat them,” Cheryl told her.
“I treated them well,” Laurie insisted. “I took their order, kept their drinks filled, and made sure their food got out on time.”
“You sure that’s all you did, Laurie?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“People like that don’t want a robot,” Cheryl explained. “They can sense if you don’t like them. They can see it in your face, if you want someone else in your section.” She looked the waitress over. “Very honestly, they can tell if you’re a bigot.”
Laurie scoffed. “And what are you? Some kind of nigger lover?”
Gasp!
“WHOA!” Bill yelled, dropping his tongs as spun towards the women. His eyes shot nervously towards Big Tim, but the line cook stayed neutral – though he was clearly waiting for what Bill was going to do next. The young manager went for Laurie, but Cheryl stopped him with a raised red fingernail – “Wait.”
The kitchen fell silent.
Realizing she had just crossed a line, Laurie chose to double-down.
“I asked you a question,” she told Cheryl. “Do you really like the Sunday crowd? Do you ever go to their church?”
Cheryl’s eyes narrowed –
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Really?” Laurie scoffed.
“Yes, Laurie…really. I don’t attend services – I honestly can’t keep my eyes open, even with all the singing – but I do attend their AA meetings on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the second Sunday each month.” Cheryl paused for effect. “On Sundays, we like to go to a restaurant, like this. And we like to mess with servers like you.”
Silence.
“Cheryl, I…I didn’t mean…”
“Of course, you meant it!” – Cheryl’s chest was in Laurie’s face, now – “And let me tell you something, you wicked little brown-nosing bitch … If I ever hear that word out of your mouth again, I’ll meet you in the parking lot with a mother-fucking baseball bat!” The busty cocktail server twinkled like Jackie Gleason after a laugh –
“Are we clear, Laurie dear?”
The waitress bolted like a humbled dog.
Without missing a beat, Cheryl grabbed her tray, hoisted her jugs, and hummed All God’s Chillung Got Wing as she disappeared through the saloon doors. Big Tim smiled as sound returned to the kitchen. The MUZAK was now playing Tiffany. Sharon pushed Ty towards the office.
Alan raised his eyebrows at Patrick –
“We changed the spool too soon. I kinda’ wish we’d have waited…”
Thirteen
One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer
“Yummy, yummy, yummy, I’ve got love in my tummy
And I feel like a-lovin you…”
- Ohio Express
1991
“I need some HELP here!” Alan yelled down the Checker’s server’s alley, causing both cooks and serving staff to look up. He was standing by the corner, motioning for nearby employees to make room. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s all bring our hands together for the one, the only…Derek!”
“DEREK!” everyone yelled at once, like Norm entering Cheers.
Derek came into the kitchen like a rock star joining a stage. He was taller than Alan but shorter than Patrick, and he had one of those bodies that every dude envies: slender, solid, and defined in a way that never seemed to require a gym. The Bradley Boys made no effort to hide their love/hate towards Derek’s perpetual 30” waist, and they all patted his back when he passed, in obvious awe of their idol.
We are not worthy, we are not worthy…
Derek’s hair was a mullet that had evolved into something spectacular, a cross between Cinderella’s Eric Brittingham, and the goddamn MGM lion. He shook coworkers’ hands with genuine empathy, then gave Big Tim a two-fingered salute – which the cook happily returned, from behind the heat lamps.
“Where have you been, Buddy?” Alan asked, taking over the tray that Bill had been garnishing in the expo window.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw you,” Patrick added, procuring the oval platter from Alan, and lifting it high in the air. With all eyes on Derek, Alan discretely pocketed the fake ticket’s soft copy. “I have to get this food to the floor,” Patrick told Derek, “but it’s really good to see you” –
“Welcome back, Derek!”
“Wel-come back, wel-come back, wel-come baaack,” the cooks sang in unison – like the refrain to a 1970s sitcom – before Big Tim shut them down.
“Back to work, people!”
“Can you run this?” Bill asked Jackie, pointing to another completed dinner tray.
“Sure,” she said, taking it. Bill replaced it with an empty one. Alan and Derek garnished it together. “So, seriously…where have you been?” Alan asked him.
Derek smiled, ladling peppercorn as he quoted a country song happily: “I was a highwayman. Along the coach roads I did ride. With sword and pistol by my side…”
The kitchen fell silent as Sharon passed like a prison guard. Her blazer today was the color of headcheese. Derek resumed in a whisper as soon as the heels were out of earshot. “Many a groupie lost her panties to my staid … many a virgin shed her lifeblood as I”-
“Stop!” Alan warned him, grinning. “Do NOT finish that sentence.”
Derek grinned back, pausing for effect:
“Brayed.”
Alan watched him hoist the tray onto fingertips, in a way that made it twirl, like a Globetrotter’s basketball. His eyes then followed Derek’s perfect bubble ass through the kitchen, then disappear around the “CORNER!” The meaning of brayed hit him the moment Derek was gone. “That’s disgusting!” Alan yelled to deaf ears. Derek was a master of time-delayed double-entendres.
“That IS disgusting,” Guinevere said from behind, eating a French fry off Bill’s next tray. “My Schnookums’ brays sound nothing like a donkey’s, and to imply otherwise is simply untrue.” Alan could smell her Glemby conditioner before he turned around. Her hair was stunning today. She had clearly just dropped a solid $140 at A Cut Above in Northwoods.
“My Schnookums’ brays sound more like a stallion’s,” she continued, “a mighty racing steed who can only reach his salty satisfaction within my sweaty, smoldering, smegma-seizing” –
“Language, Guinevere,” Rodney warned when he passed. “WE HAVE A FIVE TABLE TURN, PEOPLE!” He met Sharon with an inventory clipboard, and the two disappeared into the manager’s office. Alan hoisted the next oval tray. Gwen winked at him. “Strike a pose.” She begrudgingly waited to run the following order as he grabbed a tray jack and carried the food into the dining room – “CORNER!”
The restaurant was slammed.
“That fifty-two?” Laurie asked, seeing Alan as she came up the stairs. He nodded. “Tell them I’ll be right back with their soup,” she said, returning to the kitchen. He nodded again, then threaded his way through the dining room. He opened the tray jack in front of the hungry table,
"Dinner's served - OH SHIT!"
The table gasped.
As Alan plopped the heavy tray onto the portable, X-shaped stand, the jack buckled under the weight, sending plates sliding dangerously to the side. Alan hadn’t been expecting this, and his reaction wasn’t nearly fast enough to save food from hitting the floor. But a flash of hair materialized out of nowhere, and propped up the falling tray like Superman grabbing a plane’s wing.
“Whoa, that was close!” Rob Vain exclaimed, somehow balancing a drink tray in one hand, and Laurie’s order in the other. He had overheard Alan’s swearing, and intentionally diffused the situation.
Nearby tables applauded.
“Sorry about the language, folks!” Alan’s heart was in his throat as he threw down the plates. The diners smiled and shrugged. It happens, buddy – just give us our fucking burgers. “You folks need anything else? Oh – Laurie is bringing the soup!”
“We’re good.”
“Enjoy your meals.”
With the empty tray under his arm, Alan returned to the stairs, where Patrick met him halfway. “I saw that,” Patrick said, smiling. “Tell Rob, nice save.”
“This one’s trash,” Alan told him, nodding to the tray jack and noticing Patrick’s open ticket book. His real tables were on one side, the fake orders on another. “We done for the night?” Alan asked.
“Almost,” Patrick told him. “Gwen has one more table in play, but she’s dropping the check now.”
“I’m done,” Guinevere called from the twenties, as though reading their minds. They watched her yell “corner” while entering the kitchen. Cheryl Bennish came out, running a plate of onion rings to the lobby. The two men looked at each other.
“We should get the tape now,” Patrick told him. He was referring to the one piece of physical evidence that required a team effort to retrieve.
* * * * *
Though the Bobcat was clearly a flawed system, it did keep a physical record of every transaction entered – including voids. That came in the form of a continuous spool of register tape that recorded servers’ individual transactions, even when the Interweb cable was removed from the wall. This was a problem that Alan & Patrick had solved early on, and as was often the case at Checker’s, big problems tended to have very simple solutions.
As the computerized system compiled the day’s sales into a tidy, tallied end-of-shift report, the managers saw no need to review the long paper spools – and tossed them into forgotten boxes, like socks into laundry. None of the managers – neither Sharon, Bill, nor Rodney – ever reviewed the daily tapes, which were always discarded when the boxes grew too full, in favor of saving the Bobcat’s far shorter data reports for corporate.
But those spools were still evidence – and they took a good 60 seconds to retrieve – which meant that the best time to get them was when the managers were out of the alley, and handling issues at tables, bar, or the hostess stand. At first the trio watched and waited for such opportunities to happen, but that proved too risky on nights where the restaurant ran smoothly. There were times when it was necessary to get Sharon out of the kitchen, and that meant that something big had to happen…a little disturbance, just large enough to cause misdirection.
It was Alan who got the idea a few weeks back, when The Phantom of the Opera had come to Peoria on tour…
* * * * *
“CORNER!” Ty shouted, coming into the dining room with lesbian brash – and a steaming oval platter balanced on her palm. She nodded to Alan, but stopped on realizing she had forgotten to grab a tray jack in the kitchen – “Fuck!”
“Here,” Alan offered. “Take mine.”
“Thanks, roomie!”
Both Alan and Patrick’s heads cocked in unison, as they watched the unsuspecting server approach her table, and plop the heavy tray onto the broken jack –
CRASH!
One beat, two beats…
“AGGHHHHH!!!” Ty exploded, as diners broke into applause at her expense. Alan beamed triumphantly, though Patrick had to shield his eyes from guilt.
The Phantom strikes again!
Derek appeared from the twenties, a big grin on his face. “Thar she blows! She’s like Old Faithful… you can literally set a watch by her.”
“Did somebody just drop a tray?” Cheryl Bennish asked, popping her tits between the three, surveying the carnage of meat, gravy, and shattered dishes. She dismissed it immediately on seeing the perpetrator: “Oh – it’s just Ty.”
The safety cones vanished.
“The phantom of the restaurant,” Jackie joked, leisurely joining the trio from the bottom sixties. “I swear to God this restaurant has a ghost.”
“A poltergeist,” Derek clarified. “Most ghosts just lurk in the background.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Ty blubbered, her ass – filling out what were clearly men’s jeans – now facing the table while she bent over. The angry diners watched in disgust, as the ass went back and forth, while the temperamental waitress used her ticket book to gather mashed potatoes and fragmented platters into an ugly pile on the floor.
There was broken glass in their kid’s grilled cheese.
“I’m soooooo sorry!” Ty told the customers.
“Can we see the manager, please?” the table’s pissed-off wife demanded.
“That’s our cue,” Alan told Patrick, causing the four gawkers to spin towards the kitchen together –
But they all gasped at once.
Sharon had been standing behind them, God knows how long. In the dim light of the dining room, she looked like she had horns –
“Don’t everyone help at once,” she growled.
As if overhearing, Mia flew round the kitchen corner like a bat leaving a cave, bus tub clutched below. The tiny fetish doll zigzagged between everyone, then flapped towards Ty’s table – and a problem that now required Sharon’s immediate attention.
“But I said I was sorry! I’ve been so depressed lately, and its hard to focus…”
“Ma’am – or Sir – or whatever the fuck you are, just get us the manager!”
The four bolted for the kitchen as Sharon’s black heels descended the stairs, stopped, pivoted, then made deliberate clicks towards the troubled table.
Sixty seconds later, the register spool had been replaced.
* * * * *
“Can you help me zip my dress?” Guinevere asked, a few hours later, standing in the bathroom of Alan’s apartment. She was balanced on one heel – cobalt blue, to match her sleeveless dress – and tugging at her panty hose, before pulling the other shoe on. Alan came up behind her and closed the fabric from behind – zip! He then made her hold her arms outward while he tugged the dress downward and perked up her breasts with his hands. Once finished, he turned her towards the mirror –
“Wa-lah! My Schnookums is ready for Bam-Bam’s bouncing barbell.”
Sipping her zinfandel, Gwen looked at her reflection, frowning at her stomach. The dress looked great, but it was a tad snug in the middle
"Ive put on weight. This didn’t feel this tight the last time I wore it.”
“Buy another one,” Alan said. “Get a size up.”
Gwen choked on her wine. “Okay…that is not helping.”
“Everyone will be looking at your hair,” Alan told her. “No one will notice the dress. Especially in the bar.”
“Oh – so, you are saying I’m fat?”
“No, I’m saying you’re voluptuous.”
“That’s fat.”
“Voluptuous means curvy.”
“So, you’re saying I’m…curvy?”
“In all the right places,” Alan assured her, taking Gwen by the waist and staring at her big eyes. “And, if my Schnookums does feel a little” – he chose his words carefully – “robust, as I said, everyone will be looking at” – he twirled her bangs with his fingers – “this…incredible…mane…of hair.” He mouthed a silent roar towards her lips.
She smiled.
“You’re the only person allowed to talk about my weight,” she told him, pecking his cheek. He took her place in the mirror while she gathered her makeup and disappeared into the living room. He remained in the bathroom for a few minutes, touching up the rooster comb. Alan heard Gwen pop a CD into the player. He smiled when he recognized the selection:
“Arrrrrre you gonna’ take me home tonight?”
Alan brought his drink into the living room, where he found her sitting on the couch, legs crossed, lighting a cigarette. The rack system’s red LED’s bounced in time with the music, which now played Queen’s Fat Bottomed Girls softly. He leaned in the doorway and took in the scene. Guinevere’s features were fluid with moving shadows, caught in the glow of a nearby lava light. Both of them could hear Ty crying behind her bedroom door, unaware of her volume as she was likely wearing headphones.
“I’ve got a chrome plated heart…”
“What time do you want to leave?” Alan asked, coming forward and lighting his own smoke. His apartment took up the second floor of a red brick, Chicago-style two flat, and its rooms were spacious, with dark woodwork and tall ceilings. He could see both his and Guinevere’s reflections within the window glass. He watched Gwen sip her wine.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she told him. “I’m just going to sit at the bar until Dan gets off.”
“When is Bam-Bam getting his own car?” Alan asked.
“Soon, I hope.”
“Why do you keep letting him borrow yours? It feels like he’s taking advantage of you.”
“He is,” she admitted. “But I’m taking advantage of free drinks at his bar, so it’s a wash.”
“Do you think he ever cheats on you?”
“Where did that come from?”
“I mean, Dan’s a good-looking guy and he bartends all these late shifts,” Alan explained. “And if he’s got your car, he knows you’re not going to just show up unexpectedly.” Alan stammered slightly. “I don’t know, Gwen…it just kinda’ feels like a control thing.” He watched her exhale smoke as she thought about this.
“Maybe it is,” she admitted, a grimace crossing her face. Standing up, she set her glass on the coffee table.
“You okay?” he asked.
“This damn dress is making my stomach feel funny,” she admitted. “I need to use the restroom before we go.” He watched her leave, closing the bathroom door behind her. While he waited, he used the dining room window as a mirror to adjust his tuxedo shirt, and straighten his leather vest. Ty stirred in the bedroom, flipping a cassette tape. A toilet flushed, followed by running water in the sink. When she returned, Gwen looked a little queasy, but smiled at Alan anyway.
“Ready?” she asked.
He nodded, grabbing his keys.
* * * * *
The late summer night had just a hint of fall when Alan dropped Gwen off at Gilligan’s Pub, waving goodbye and pulling away. Nelson played quietly on the radio as his pickup threaded through downtown, turning west on Adams Street and heading for his own destination, to what locals just referred to as “the Club.” Ten minutes later, he arrived in the bar’s parking lot and shut the engine. He took a few swallows from a flask before getting out, locking the vehicle behind him.
Alan lit a smoke while the whiskey hit his bloodstream.
* * * * *
The Club Peorian was the biggest gay bar in town, a three-story building in the bad part of Peoria, on the corner of Adams and Oak, across from The Julian Hotel – a well-known flophouse for transients. The Peorian Hotel itself had originally opened in the nineteen-forties, but after closing its doors two decades later, received a second life as a mod concert venue; in the late 1960s, it hosted such acts as Bobby Comstock, Joey Dee & the Starlighters, and even Chicago twice in 67’.
The counter-culture Club reached its pinnacle with Head East in 1973, then quickly faded into history as patrons took showers, stamped out blunts, and joined the Ordinary Average Guys who worked at Caterpillar Inc. Once the beats started squirting out babies – and trading their motorcycles for avocado-colored Vista Cruisers – the old Club Peorian capitulated to the modern world, as quickly as a Burger Chef surrendering to McDonald’s.
In 1978, the venue was remodeled again, this time as a discotheque, with the best dance floor south of Chicago. Throughout the 80s and early 1990s, the Club Peorian became the epicenter of local gay nightlife, ensconcing itself so firmly within the community that three additional gay bars – DJ’s Time Out, The Quench Room, and The Red Fox Den – were able to ride its coattails. Considering the city’s conservative Midwestern attitude, it was amazing that locals never demanded its outright closure; the new Club attracted a late-night clientele, feeding addiction, promiscuity, and a neighborhood filled with hookers, addicts, and bookstores with holes in the walls.
Now, in 91’, the Club was nearing its second, second-life pinnacle; disco was dead, Night Faces blew its dance floor away, and as AIDS had forced homosexuality into the open, more gay men were opting for the newer bars – and shying away from the Club’s unspoken cover charge of needing a good buzz before going in.
Another car pulled into the lot, taking the space next to Alan’s. It’s driver got out – a man in his forties, dressed in full leather – and nodded before crossing the street with confidence, entering the Club Peorian. Alan briefly heard house music when the door opened and closed. The old disco still had a heartbeat –
Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump…
A few minutes later, when his pupils had dilated into cat’s eyes, Alan tossed his cigarette in a puff of orange sparks, and followed the leatherman inside.
* * * * *
CRASH!
“AGGHHHHH!!!”
“The Phantom strikes again,” Laurie grumbled angrily the next day, running passed Alan and Guinevere to find Sharon in the kitchen. Gwen’s eyes shot to Alan’s. He knew what she was thinking –
“Hey – it wasn’t me, this time. Ty just drops trays!”
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry! I had a really bad night at the Club last night…”
The Sunday lunch rush was especially entertaining today, as The Centrality and Supremacy of Jesus Christ – a local Baptist church – had decided to give Checker’s a try for both their post-sermon meal, and after-meal Bible study. Over half of nonsmoking had been taken over by three separate, large party groups – all of whom were dressed to the nines, with men in sharp suits & ties, kids in coordinating colors, and old black women with hats so large, their brims had gravitational pulls.
“Ma’am – or Sir – can we see the manager, please?”
The servers hated the church crowd, not out of racism (though that definitely was an occasional factor), but rather because black people in Peoria just didn’t tip well. A large church party could commandeer a server’s section for hours, preventing profitable table turns, and tipping only once at the lowest possible rate. It was Marty who said it best, when a caravan of Ichthys bumper stickers started unloading spumoni-hued dresses onto the sidewalk: “Danger, Will Robinson! A Klingon Bird of Prey has just de-cloaked in the lobby!”
Sharon – in teal – shot passed Alan & Gwen like a roadrunner, followed by Mia, Laurie, and a hot, steaming bus tub. The black-heeled manager quickly intervened before Ty could tell the parishioners any more about the previous evening’s Richard Marx impersonation. “It went like this: Hold on to the niiiiiights…”
“Hey,” Patrick said from behind. “Now’s a good time.”
The trio vanished around the kitchen corner and circled the Bobcat like soldiers on a target. One beat, two beats, the spool was taken, the deed was done, and the three dispersed amongst the servers.
“WALKING IN…ONE FRY, ONE ARTICHOKE!”
“I have three penis colitis in the window!” Marty yelled from the kitchen’s bar window.
“Those are my STD’s, baby!” Cheryl Bennish yelled back from the cold side passover, grabbing a plate of shrooms. She pushed her way to the bar, then placed the piña coladas onto a drink tray, next to app plates and cocktail napkins. “Hey, Marty…I need more maraschino cherries.”
A large glass jar appeared in the window – thump.
“I love those church people,” Cheryl told Bill, who was nearby at the expo window. She used her fingers to fish a handful of sweet red dots into a ramekin. “I know they tip for shit, but they’re sure fun to talk to.”
“Tip for shit is right,” Laurie complained, slamming an empty oval tray into the pile next to Bill. “Thanks to fuckin’ Ty, that table wants my gratuity removed. They said she made them feel uncomfortable.” Bill looked up on hearing this. “That means I’ll have worked all morning for nothing.”
“Now Laurie,” Cheryl said calmly, wiping her wet hand on a bar towel, “You just can’t look at it that way.”
“And why’s that?” Laurie snipped.
“Because people treat you the way you treat them,” Cheryl told her.
“I treated them well,” Laurie insisted. “I took their order, kept their drinks filled, and made sure their food got out on time.”
“You sure that’s all you did, Laurie?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“People like that don’t want a robot,” Cheryl explained. “They can sense if you don’t like them. They can see it in your face, if you want someone else in your section.” She looked the waitress over. “Very honestly, they can tell if you’re a bigot.”
Laurie scoffed. “And what are you? Some kind of nigger lover?”
Gasp!
“WHOA!” Bill yelled, dropping his tongs as spun towards the women. His eyes shot nervously towards Big Tim, but the line cook stayed neutral – though he was clearly waiting for what Bill was going to do next. The young manager went for Laurie, but Cheryl stopped him with a raised red fingernail – “Wait.”
The kitchen fell silent.
Realizing she had just crossed a line, Laurie chose to double-down.
“I asked you a question,” she told Cheryl. “Do you really like the Sunday crowd? Do you ever go to their church?”
Cheryl’s eyes narrowed –
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Really?” Laurie scoffed.
“Yes, Laurie…really. I don’t attend services – I honestly can’t keep my eyes open, even with all the singing – but I do attend their AA meetings on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the second Sunday each month.” Cheryl paused for effect. “On Sundays, we like to go to a restaurant, like this. And we like to mess with servers like you.”
Silence.
“Cheryl, I…I didn’t mean…”
“Of course, you meant it!” – Cheryl’s chest was in Laurie’s face, now – “And let me tell you something, you wicked little brown-nosing bitch … If I ever hear that word out of your mouth again, I’ll meet you in the parking lot with a mother-fucking baseball bat!” The busty cocktail server twinkled like Jackie Gleason after a laugh –
“Are we clear, Laurie dear?”
The waitress bolted like a humbled dog.
Without missing a beat, Cheryl grabbed her tray, hoisted her jugs, and hummed All God’s Chillung Got Wing as she disappeared through the saloon doors. Big Tim smiled as sound returned to the kitchen. The MUZAK was now playing Tiffany. Sharon pushed Ty towards the office.
Alan raised his eyebrows at Patrick –
“We changed the spool too soon. I kinda’ wish we’d have waited…”
Fourteen
Better Call Saul
“I run a comb through my hair and step out in the street
And the city's the color of flame in the mid-summer heat, oh yeah
Jennifer's got her daddy's car, she's playing "Uptown" on the stereo
We go cruisin' so close, the way they did long ago…”
2006
“I’ll be there in the morning,” Audrey’s voice said in the cell phone. “I booked an early flight, it lands at 11:20. If you can have Stephanie ready, we’ll all find somewhere by the airport to have lunch – my treat.”
“And your return flight?” Alan asked, pouring a whiskey-mimosa with the phone between his chin and shoulder. “How long is your layover?”
“The flight back is four-twenty,” Audrey told him. “I figure that will give us about four, four and a half hours to meet, eat, and say our goodbyes.”
“Audrey, I am so sorry about all this.”
“It’s not your fault,” she assured him, begrudgingly. “It is what it is. God knows, this entire family has been chosen for some big, cosmic test of our resolve.” – Jacob was watching Headline News on the hotel room TV as she spoke – “But I am admittedly concerned about Stephanie. The similarities of the accidents, Alan. They’re just…chilling.”
“I understand.”
“And if it wasn’t for Dale’s arraignment yesterday, I’d have been on a plane in a heartbeat. I hope you know that. There's a very good chance that my son is going to jail. That’s the only reason I’m still here now.”
“Again, Audrey, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
“People always say that God has a plan for our lives,” Audrey went on, “but I have to admit – it’s hard for me to see what that plan might be right now.” She watched in frustration as Jacob hobbled towards the suite’s narrow bathroom, where his cast hit the door with a thud. Alan heard him say, “Honey – can you get the toilet seat for me?” The question made him look at his own casted arm.
“…But I do know that bringing Stephanie back is the right thing to do,” the old woman added. “And Steph is already weeks behind in school. If she doesn’t get back to classes Monday, she’ll fall too far behind to catch up. She’ll likely have to repeat the year.”
“I get it, Audrey.” He heard her sigh.
“Could you pass the phone to my granddaughter, please?”
“Of course – just a second.”
Taking a quick gulp of orange juice-colored whiskey, Alan walked through the gilded home and stopped at Patrick’s bedroom door. It was closed. He knocked. There was no answer. “Stephanie? Your grandma’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”
Silence.
“Steph, could you open the door please?”
Silence. He jiggled the knob, but it was locked. He knocked again, louder this time. “How about if I just pass the phone to you?” He heard her stir – “Go away.”
Alan sighed. “Audrey, I’m sorry. She’s okay, but she’s resting.”
The old woman chuckled. “You mean, she’s brooding.”
“Yeah.”
“Then, yes – she is okay,” Audrey told him, having clearly done this dance before. “Leave her a note by food. I’m assuming she’s eating?”
“She is.”
“Good. She’s like a mouse in a hole – she’ll come out when she’s hungry.”
“I’ll make sure she gets packed tonight,” Alan assured her. “And lunch tomorrow sounds great.”
“I’ve been using the lobby computer quite a bit,” Audrey added, the sound of her husband urinating audible in the background. “It’s become a nice little respite to get out of the room, and away from Jacob in the evenings. I’ve been reading up on Las Vegas, and I found one of those Checker’s restaurants near the airport. If we have time tomorrow, I’d like to have lunch there.”
“That sounds great, Audrey.”
“Tell Stephanie to call me.”
“I will.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Ditto.”
The call ended, and Alan flipped the phone closed. He lingered at Stephanie’s door for a moment, then shuffled towards the kitchen, to refill his drink before his shower. He was wearing one of Patrick’s shiny robes, which twinkled in explosive yellow roses whenever the fabric moved. He freshened his mimosa – glug, glug, glug – then carried the beverage into the massive guest bathroom, where he had already laid out clothes. Starting the shower, he avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror as he tugged off the robe with an ugly, angry rip –
The sequins – falling to the floor like dropped change – had gotten caught on his cast.
* * * * *
“In one half mile, turn right onto Coyote Coven Avenue,” the OnStar voice said, echoing through the cabin of Alan’s rented 07’ Equinox. As cars zipped by in the left side windows, it was hard to forget his crash with Stephanie only a few days before. Alan’s heart thumped as he flipped on the blinkers, then cautiously merged onto the off ramp. He passed another 15MPH sign, only this time – thank God – the brakes deployed correctly, and the SUV slowed to a stop on the other side of the bad side of town. His windshield filled with titty bars and liquor stores.
“Turn right onto Coyote Coven Avenue.”
With the lawyer’s sleazy business card sticking out of the CD player – “Just because you did it doesn’t mean that you’re guilty!” – Alan joined the traffic flow, on a street lined with half-dead palm trees and repurposed buildings from the 70s. Sun faded signs advertised strip clubs, tattoo parlors, and cheap prices on both used tires and window tinting; he could hear loud mariachi as he passed a large, pink grocery store, with a meat department so dirty, he could smell it from the street. Even the nearby hookers kept their noses covered.
“In four hundred feet, your destination is on the left.”
Carefully spinning the steering wheel with his good hand, Alan pulled into the Westward Ho! Professional Plaza, a long, low, 1960s-era strip mall whose architect had clearly used cinder blocks like a child playing with Legos. The grey concrete structure had all the warmth of a Pyongyang housing project, and was home to a number of businesses including, Madame Ovaries’ Chinese Buffet, Me Love You Long Time Adult Toys & Novelties, and a surprisingly respectable Auto Techs garage – an oasis of clean, with a mint 67’ T-Bird, parked in front, under a dust cover.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
A big neon sign splashed across his windshield, as Alan parked in front of the offices of Gross, Floyd, and Rabinowitz. The sign – mounted behind dirty storefront window glass – read:
NOT GUILTY !
Birth-Delivery Trauma
Head Injuries
Car Accidents
Whiplash
Injured Children
Walk-Ins Welcome !
The word “NOT” flashed in red, while the rest of the sign glowed an eerie, luminescent purple. A lower white byline added, All Major Credit Cards Accepted. Alan shut the engine, then made sure he’d brought his numerous traffic citations before grabbing his messenger bag and climbing out of the vehicle. As soon as he did, the storefront door burst open, and an unnervingly tall man with a thick brown moustache and hair so full, it almost looked fake pointed his direction and shouted, “YOU! YOU COCK SUCKING PIECE OF GODDAMN SHIT!”
Yellow tickets went flying as Alan gasped, instinctively flattening himself against the hot SUV. The tall man charged forward, rolling up his sleeves with fists; his eyes were wild, his face was red, and his crimson-colored shirt & tie made him resemble the Red Devil logo. He reached for Alan as though about to strangle him, but then raised an angry finger which pointed over Alan’s shoulder, towards the parking lot.
“DON’T YOU LOOK AWAY FROM ME! DON’T YOU FUCKING DISMISS ME!”
Alan whirled around to see a second man – a short, Jewish fellow, clad in a sharp grey suit and tie – angrily throwing a cardboard box of framed diplomas, Rolodex, and a few important files into his Mercedes. He slammed the trunk closed, then flipped the bird before climbing into the car and starting the engine.
The red man stormed back into the office for a moment, quickly returning with a crystal Star of David – a Community Kollel award for Clark County Legal Excellence. As the Mercedes pulled away, the red man winged the heavy plaque like a football; it spun though the air like a Ninja-star, embedding itself into the car’s grill with a thwack. The Mercedes skidded to a stop at the back of Alan’s vehicle. It’s passenger window rolled down –
“You’re due in court in ninety minutes!” the driver yelled, throwing a large file of legal papers onto the blacktop. The court documents filled the air like ticker tape, and the car peeled away in a cloud of dust. A paper stamped with the phrase Third Strike stuck to Alan’s face. He peeled it off as though it were dead skin.
“I’ll take that,” the red man said, snatching the document in one hand and offering his second to Alan. “Bob Gross, Attorney at Law. Are you my eleven-thirty?”
Alan stammered. “I-I-I…yes.” He nervously took Bob’s hand. “Yes, I have an eleven-thirty appointment.”
“Well, come on in!” Gross’s grin was well-rehearsed. Alan hesitated as the lawyer started towards the door. Bob realized this. “What?”
“Err…shouldn’t we get the papers first?” Alan asked. The contents of the tossed file now filled the parking lot like garbage in the wind. Gross shrugged his shoulders –
“Eh. The little prick’s going to jail, anyway. Most of those are just for show in court.”
“Yes, but…I mean, my papers,” Alan pressed. “My tickets – the ones I told your secretary about? The reason why I’m here?” He reached by his boot, where his reckless driving citation had gotten stuck in a piece of gum. He pulled it loose with a snap.
“Oh, shit…right!” Bob quickly adopted a tone of concern, turning towards the blowing mess. “Your tickets are yellow, right?”
Alan nodded.
“Gimmie a second. I’ve got this down to a science.”
As Alan inhaled behind his sunglasses, Gross ran back and forth through the parking lot, like Al Bundy reliving his glory days. Alan watched in amazement as the lawyer somehow managed to gather every fluttering traffic citation, while leaving the rest for nature. A mechanic down the way handed Bob the last one; it had blown into the Auto Tech shop and was now stained with dirty transmission fluid. Gross wiped it in his black pants.
“Got em’,” Bob said, returning with a handful of wrinkled paper. He held the office door open for Alan, and the two went inside.
Maria – the firm’s busty Hispanic secretary – was already scraping Rabinowitz’s name off the window with a razor blade.
* * * * *
Despite its size, the large suite of offices had a temporary feel – as though the whole place could have been packed in a heartbeat, as its occupants absconded a lease in the night. Cheap, stackable chairs circumnavigated the waiting room, while the walls were decorated with the kind of nylon banners one would see at a used car sale: “En-GROSS Yourself in Affordable Legal Representation,” “Gross Pointe Blank Check From Your Insurance Company,” and “A Call Bob, Bob, Bob…If Ya’ Hit n’ Ran!” There were also a number of Successories prints, covering topics like trust, perseverance, and personal accountability.
“Hold my calls, Maria,” Bob said as he led his client through the reception area –
“Lo que llama?”
While following Gross, Alan noticed two additional offices in the place – one that was vacant, and a second that looked as if it had just been ransacked. The air smelled of burnt coffee, Lo Mein takeout, and cigarettes. A small TV/VCR sat in the corner, playing a Mexican soap opera. On the screen, a Latino model in his twenties – his white lab coat clearly that of an experienced physician – was giving a gorgeous patient bad news: “Me temo que tiene tres personalidades diferenties. Y todas ellas estan vinculadas por una depression peligrosa.”
Maria nearly fell off her stilettos as the organ music led to commercial.
“Have a seat,” Bob said in his office, gesturing to a pair of chairs, identical to those in the waiting room. Alan sat down, while the lawyer took his place behind a long, pressed-wood desk, flanked by a pair of green banker’s lamps. Lighting a cigarette, he blotted Alan’s traffic citations with a wad of paper towels. He read them in silence, shaking his head with a chuckle.
“It looks like someone’s in a shit load of trouble,” Gross said.
“That’s why I’m here.” Alan kept his messenger bag close, like a victim clutching her purse. “And I was told that you were the man I should see.”
The twin desk lamps illuminated Bob’s features from both sides. Their placement created a shadow down his face’s center, an effect that was mirrored in the second face behind him – on a large, imposing, wall-mounted advertising banner, like Tommy Wiseau’s old Las Angeles billboard. Alan felt like he was talking to two Bobs at once.
“Damn straight,” Gross said, reading with a cigarette between his teeth. “Reckless driving, improper lane usage, speeding, property damage, and” – the lawyer looked up, almost impressed –
“So, you’re the one who knocked down old Jumpin’ Jenny?”
“I am.”
“Damn, that old bitch has been there since I was a kid.” The lawyer laughed. “You bulldozed a local landmark, buddy. You’re going to jail for that, for sure!”
Alan stammered. “Mr. Gross, the car’s brakes had f-f-failed…”
“Oh, I’m just yankin’ your chain, buddy,” Bob laughed. “That old shake joint has been closed for years. But the sign’s a historical landmark. Or, at least it was…until you cut her in half” – he read from the officer’s account – “at the pelvis.”
“It was an accident, Mr. Gross.”
“And there was a kid in the car?” Bob read.
“Yes.”
“And you claim she started screaming, which is why you lost control of the vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“How much had you been drinking?”
“Pardon?”
“How much did you drink before the accident?” Bob asked. “I’m not judging you, buddy…we all need a little hair of the dog from time to time.” He tapped his Styrofoam coffee cup, which, Alan now realized, wasn’t steaming.
“Mr. Gross, I wasn’t drinking.”
“Sure about that?”
Alan opened his bag and produced a pile of hospital papers, placing them on the desk. “We were taken to the hospital immediately following the accident. Blood was drawn. My BAC was point zero.” This made the lawyer smile again.
“Bee, a, see,” Bob enunciated, flipping through the ER paperwork. Alan watched him nod while confirming the point-zero claim. The lawyer took a moment to skim the doctor’s comments. “Yup. No booze in the blood, for sure.” He pushed the papers aside.
“So, how many DUI’s am I dealing with here? Two? Three? More than that?”
“Mr. Gross, I just told you I wasn’t drinking.”
“Yes, but people unfamiliar with the system don’t use phrases like BAC,” Gross told him bluntly. “And they definitely don’t offer that particular information right out of the gate.”
“Mr. Gross, I” –
“I’m your fuckin’ lawyer, buddy – so cut to the chase. Everything you tell me stays between the two of us, and I can’t get you out of this unless you lay down your cards right now.” Bob puffed his cigarette. “How many DUI’s?”
Alan hesitated. “Two.”
“In Nevada?” Gross asked.
“No. In Illinois.”
“How recent?”
“One in 2003, and one in 1992.”
“So, eleven years apart?”
“Yes.”
Bob thought about this. Alan watched him grin, stamping out his smoke before taking a swig of bourbon-scented coffee. “Then we’re golden, buddy!”
“How so?” Alan asked cautiously.
“DUI’s don’t travel from state to state,” Gross explained. “And even if they did, they typically drop from your record after five years. As far as the state of Nevada is concerned, you’re a fuckin’ tea-toddler…and just out for a Sunday drive with your daughter to visit” – he read from a citation – “the Las Vegas County Correctional Facility.”
“It wasn’t my daughter,” Alan clarified.
“Eh, details.” Bob shrugged, settling into his chair. “I don’t see a single thing here that can’t be explained away. The girl screamed, so you lost control of the vehicle. Your brakes got damaged, so you had no way to stop. Very honestly, I don’t even know where this reckless driving shit is coming from – which is exactly how we’re gonna’ play this. What I see in front of me is a skilled, sober driver who somehow managed to avoid hitting every other motorist in a clear-headed effort to drive as safely as possible, considering the circumstances” –
The lawyer grinned cheek to cheek.
“What I see is a hero, Mr.” – Gross glanced at the tickets – “Lavinski.”
Silence.
“Of course, it’s gonna’ cost you,” Bob went on. “My retainer is five grand, and that doesn’t include fines and legal fees.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Alan said, taken back.
“Money’s the key to getting out of anything,” Gross told him. “No matter how big or small, and no matter how fuckin’ guilty you might be.”
“Guilty?”
“Turn of phrase,” Bob caught himself. “Of course, you’re not guilty. And I’ll file the paperwork making that clear as soon as you give Maria the cash. Oh – and we’re cash-only, by the way. Helps us work faster. Grease the wheels of justice and all that.”
“I understand.”
“You got the cash?” Gross asked.
“Err – no, not on me of course. But I have it in the bank. If I don’t bring it today, I’ll run it by tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” Bob said. “Like I said, we’re golden.” He gathered Alan’s paperwork, and passed it back to him. Alan looked confused.
“Don’t you need those? To make copies or something?”
“Definitely,” the lawyer told him. “Which is why we’ll need your payment as soon as possible.”
Alan sighed. “All right then.” He gathered his things and stood. “Thank you for seeing me. I’ll be in touch shortly.”
Gross lit another cigarette. He glanced at his schedule binder, confused. “Hey, buddy – was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?”
Alan froze. “Why do you ask?”
“Eh, it’s that damn Maria. She blocked out ninety minutes for you, today.” Cigarette in hand, Bob walked to the door and opened it. “Maria?” he called. Alan could see her in the reception area, rummaging through a box of neck braces to find the right size for a waiting client. From Gross’s office, the receptionist’s breasts looked like two jiggling balloons, threatening a wardrobe malfunction. “Estoy ocupado, Senor Bob.”
Bob smiled at Alan again. “Maybe she blocked off time for a nooner.”
“I thought you had to be in court,” Alan told him.
“Fuck…court!” The lawyer darted to his desk and threw some items into a briefcase. “Maria!” he yelled, tugging on a suit coat. “Where’d that Heeb put the Bizzle file?”
“Es en el estacionamiento, Senor Bob.”
Gross paused as though remembering this. Shrugging his shoulders again, he straightened his tie and finished his coffee. Alan watched him open a desk drawer to pour another cup –
“I’ll see myself out,” Alan said.
“Mmm,” Bob nodded, swallowing. “Maria’s here til’ five. I’ll start your case as soon as we have payment.”
“Got it.” Alan bolted for the door. A group of gang-bangers now stood in the waiting room, staring into Rabinowitz’s vacated office in confusion – What the fuck, man? The glass door jingled when Alan hurried towards his car. He could hear Gross yelling from behind him –
“Remember – Money is the key to getting out of anything!”
Slamming into reverse, Alan couldn’t find his flask fast enough.
* * * * *
Forty minutes later, the soft sound of the guest bathroom shower echoed through the now-open door to Patrick’s bedroom, where Stephanie had been hiding for what seemed like days. As the young girl washed her hair, Alan yanked open the hidden compartment’s door, under the bed. He had brought a fireplace poker to retrieve the mysterious suitcases, but found them near the opening, within arm’s reach. He threw them onto the unmade bed, one by one.
He opened the first with a click –
Gasp!
Green money reflected in his eyes as the suitcase was packed with tens of thousands of dollars, in bundles of hundreds. Alan’s fingers combed through the stacks, his brain overwhelmed by the gravity of it all: There must be over two hundred thousand dollars here!
Pushing the first suitcase aside, the second was opened to reveal a similar sum. With the fake city mural twinkling in the background above the lacquer bedroom set, Alan’s eyes widened at the sheer amount of cash beneath his palms –
It was close to a half-million dollars.
This is far too much money from just a single Bingo scam.
Click!
Expecting a third suitcase of currency, Alan was surprised to find no cash at all within the last piece of luggage. Rather than bills, it was packed with photos, cards, and scraps of paper – as though someone had been planning a scrapbook, but never found the right moment to put it all on paper.
His eyes then focused on the contents itself, which was obviously a record of Patrick’s own life, up to this point. There were photos from Checker’s, when the trio was together, as well as pictures from a time Alan didn’t remember – photographs spanning 1992-2005, when Guinevere, Patrick, and Alan had gone their separate ways, following Patrick’s arrest.
I remember this time. Patrick moved to Nevada, Gwen decided to stay with her parents, and I got my first job at a hotel. We all found a way to get on with our lives, but it was still so incredibly sad…
Despite the cash, Alan couldn’t help but feel moved by the pictures, and the memories they held within. Back in 92’, he had lost contact with Patrick for almost a decade – a ten-year span in which Alan struggled with depression, one of the darkest periods of his life. As he looked at Patrick’s photos from that period, he could almost sense a similar melancholy, though the bright lights of late-90s Vegas did their best to hide it.
And Guinevere’s photos, starting with the birth of Stephanie, also simmered with an unfamiliar anxiety as Alan remembered a woman – and a friend forever his Schnookums – who he had the chance to stay in contact with, but chose not to because –
Chose not to because…
“Because there are things that must never be said aloud,” Alan said to himself. Because saying such things will scare the hell out of people, and make them go away forever…
“I’m assuming THIS is one of those things that must never be said aloud,” Stephanie announced, standing in the bedroom’s open door. Her hair was wet. She wore only a pink towel. She was holding a photograph from the suitcase she’d found yesterday, which she showed to Alan.
“What’s the story behind this picture, Alan? I know what it’s about, but I want to hear you say it.”
Alan recognized the dashboard camera screen shot immediately.
“Is this why you’re so afraid to help Patrick?” the young girl demanded. “Does Patrick getting arrested bring back too many memories for you?” She wanted an answer.
Alan’s eyes went red, as adrenalin hit his bloodstream.
Stephanie noticed this.
“Doesn’t feel good to get yanked out of your comfort zone, does it?” she asked.
Alan’s fingers made a fist around the poker. He held it at his side, when he stood up, holding it outward.
Steph’s face went white. The police exhibit photo fluttered from her fingers.
She instinctively stepped backwards.
Alan instinctively stepped forward.
Her towel hit the floor when she ran, but Alan, fueled by unexpected rage, easily overtook her.
A few moments later, glass shattered in the kitchen…
Fourteen
Better Call Saul
“I run a comb through my hair and step out in the street
And the city's the color of flame in the mid-summer heat, oh yeah
Jennifer's got her daddy's car, she's playing "Uptown" on the stereo
We go cruisin' so close, the way they did long ago…”
- - Eric Carmen
2006
“I’ll be there in the morning,” Audrey’s voice said in the cell phone. “I booked an early flight, it lands at 11:20. If you can have Stephanie ready, we’ll all find somewhere by the airport to have lunch – my treat.”
“And your return flight?” Alan asked, pouring a whiskey-mimosa with the phone between his chin and shoulder. “How long is your layover?”
“The flight back is four-twenty,” Audrey told him. “I figure that will give us about four, four and a half hours to meet, eat, and say our goodbyes.”
“Audrey, I am so sorry about all this.”
“It’s not your fault,” she assured him, begrudgingly. “It is what it is. God knows, this entire family has been chosen for some big, cosmic test of our resolve.” – Jacob was watching Headline News on the hotel room TV as she spoke – “But I am admittedly concerned about Stephanie. The similarities of the accidents, Alan. They’re just…chilling.”
“I understand.”
“And if it wasn’t for Dale’s arraignment yesterday, I’d have been on a plane in a heartbeat. I hope you know that. There's a very good chance that my son is going to jail. That’s the only reason I’m still here now.”
“Again, Audrey, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
“People always say that God has a plan for our lives,” Audrey went on, “but I have to admit – it’s hard for me to see what that plan might be right now.” She watched in frustration as Jacob hobbled towards the suite’s narrow bathroom, where his cast hit the door with a thud. Alan heard him say, “Honey – can you get the toilet seat for me?” The question made him look at his own casted arm.
“…But I do know that bringing Stephanie back is the right thing to do,” the old woman added. “And Steph is already weeks behind in school. If she doesn’t get back to classes Monday, she’ll fall too far behind to catch up. She’ll likely have to repeat the year.”
“I get it, Audrey.” He heard her sigh.
“Could you pass the phone to my granddaughter, please?”
“Of course – just a second.”
Taking a quick gulp of orange juice-colored whiskey, Alan walked through the gilded home and stopped at Patrick’s bedroom door. It was closed. He knocked. There was no answer. “Stephanie? Your grandma’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”
Silence.
“Steph, could you open the door please?”
Silence. He jiggled the knob, but it was locked. He knocked again, louder this time. “How about if I just pass the phone to you?” He heard her stir – “Go away.”
Alan sighed. “Audrey, I’m sorry. She’s okay, but she’s resting.”
The old woman chuckled. “You mean, she’s brooding.”
“Yeah.”
“Then, yes – she is okay,” Audrey told him, having clearly done this dance before. “Leave her a note by food. I’m assuming she’s eating?”
“She is.”
“Good. She’s like a mouse in a hole – she’ll come out when she’s hungry.”
“I’ll make sure she gets packed tonight,” Alan assured her. “And lunch tomorrow sounds great.”
“I’ve been using the lobby computer quite a bit,” Audrey added, the sound of her husband urinating audible in the background. “It’s become a nice little respite to get out of the room, and away from Jacob in the evenings. I’ve been reading up on Las Vegas, and I found one of those Checker’s restaurants near the airport. If we have time tomorrow, I’d like to have lunch there.”
“That sounds great, Audrey.”
“Tell Stephanie to call me.”
“I will.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Ditto.”
The call ended, and Alan flipped the phone closed. He lingered at Stephanie’s door for a moment, then shuffled towards the kitchen, to refill his drink before his shower. He was wearing one of Patrick’s shiny robes, which twinkled in explosive yellow roses whenever the fabric moved. He freshened his mimosa – glug, glug, glug – then carried the beverage into the massive guest bathroom, where he had already laid out clothes. Starting the shower, he avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror as he tugged off the robe with an ugly, angry rip –
The sequins – falling to the floor like dropped change – had gotten caught on his cast.
* * * * *
“In one half mile, turn right onto Coyote Coven Avenue,” the OnStar voice said, echoing through the cabin of Alan’s rented 07’ Equinox. As cars zipped by in the left side windows, it was hard to forget his crash with Stephanie only a few days before. Alan’s heart thumped as he flipped on the blinkers, then cautiously merged onto the off ramp. He passed another 15MPH sign, only this time – thank God – the brakes deployed correctly, and the SUV slowed to a stop on the other side of the bad side of town. His windshield filled with titty bars and liquor stores.
“Turn right onto Coyote Coven Avenue.”
With the lawyer’s sleazy business card sticking out of the CD player – “Just because you did it doesn’t mean that you’re guilty!” – Alan joined the traffic flow, on a street lined with half-dead palm trees and repurposed buildings from the 70s. Sun faded signs advertised strip clubs, tattoo parlors, and cheap prices on both used tires and window tinting; he could hear loud mariachi as he passed a large, pink grocery store, with a meat department so dirty, he could smell it from the street. Even the nearby hookers kept their noses covered.
“In four hundred feet, your destination is on the left.”
Carefully spinning the steering wheel with his good hand, Alan pulled into the Westward Ho! Professional Plaza, a long, low, 1960s-era strip mall whose architect had clearly used cinder blocks like a child playing with Legos. The grey concrete structure had all the warmth of a Pyongyang housing project, and was home to a number of businesses including, Madame Ovaries’ Chinese Buffet, Me Love You Long Time Adult Toys & Novelties, and a surprisingly respectable Auto Techs garage – an oasis of clean, with a mint 67’ T-Bird, parked in front, under a dust cover.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
A big neon sign splashed across his windshield, as Alan parked in front of the offices of Gross, Floyd, and Rabinowitz. The sign – mounted behind dirty storefront window glass – read:
NOT GUILTY !
Birth-Delivery Trauma
Head Injuries
Car Accidents
Whiplash
Injured Children
Walk-Ins Welcome !
The word “NOT” flashed in red, while the rest of the sign glowed an eerie, luminescent purple. A lower white byline added, All Major Credit Cards Accepted. Alan shut the engine, then made sure he’d brought his numerous traffic citations before grabbing his messenger bag and climbing out of the vehicle. As soon as he did, the storefront door burst open, and an unnervingly tall man with a thick brown moustache and hair so full, it almost looked fake pointed his direction and shouted, “YOU! YOU COCK SUCKING PIECE OF GODDAMN SHIT!”
Yellow tickets went flying as Alan gasped, instinctively flattening himself against the hot SUV. The tall man charged forward, rolling up his sleeves with fists; his eyes were wild, his face was red, and his crimson-colored shirt & tie made him resemble the Red Devil logo. He reached for Alan as though about to strangle him, but then raised an angry finger which pointed over Alan’s shoulder, towards the parking lot.
“DON’T YOU LOOK AWAY FROM ME! DON’T YOU FUCKING DISMISS ME!”
Alan whirled around to see a second man – a short, Jewish fellow, clad in a sharp grey suit and tie – angrily throwing a cardboard box of framed diplomas, Rolodex, and a few important files into his Mercedes. He slammed the trunk closed, then flipped the bird before climbing into the car and starting the engine.
The red man stormed back into the office for a moment, quickly returning with a crystal Star of David – a Community Kollel award for Clark County Legal Excellence. As the Mercedes pulled away, the red man winged the heavy plaque like a football; it spun though the air like a Ninja-star, embedding itself into the car’s grill with a thwack. The Mercedes skidded to a stop at the back of Alan’s vehicle. It’s passenger window rolled down –
“You’re due in court in ninety minutes!” the driver yelled, throwing a large file of legal papers onto the blacktop. The court documents filled the air like ticker tape, and the car peeled away in a cloud of dust. A paper stamped with the phrase Third Strike stuck to Alan’s face. He peeled it off as though it were dead skin.
“I’ll take that,” the red man said, snatching the document in one hand and offering his second to Alan. “Bob Gross, Attorney at Law. Are you my eleven-thirty?”
Alan stammered. “I-I-I…yes.” He nervously took Bob’s hand. “Yes, I have an eleven-thirty appointment.”
“Well, come on in!” Gross’s grin was well-rehearsed. Alan hesitated as the lawyer started towards the door. Bob realized this. “What?”
“Err…shouldn’t we get the papers first?” Alan asked. The contents of the tossed file now filled the parking lot like garbage in the wind. Gross shrugged his shoulders –
“Eh. The little prick’s going to jail, anyway. Most of those are just for show in court.”
“Yes, but…I mean, my papers,” Alan pressed. “My tickets – the ones I told your secretary about? The reason why I’m here?” He reached by his boot, where his reckless driving citation had gotten stuck in a piece of gum. He pulled it loose with a snap.
“Oh, shit…right!” Bob quickly adopted a tone of concern, turning towards the blowing mess. “Your tickets are yellow, right?”
Alan nodded.
“Gimmie a second. I’ve got this down to a science.”
As Alan inhaled behind his sunglasses, Gross ran back and forth through the parking lot, like Al Bundy reliving his glory days. Alan watched in amazement as the lawyer somehow managed to gather every fluttering traffic citation, while leaving the rest for nature. A mechanic down the way handed Bob the last one; it had blown into the Auto Tech shop and was now stained with dirty transmission fluid. Gross wiped it in his black pants.
“Got em’,” Bob said, returning with a handful of wrinkled paper. He held the office door open for Alan, and the two went inside.
Maria – the firm’s busty Hispanic secretary – was already scraping Rabinowitz’s name off the window with a razor blade.
* * * * *
Despite its size, the large suite of offices had a temporary feel – as though the whole place could have been packed in a heartbeat, as its occupants absconded a lease in the night. Cheap, stackable chairs circumnavigated the waiting room, while the walls were decorated with the kind of nylon banners one would see at a used car sale: “En-GROSS Yourself in Affordable Legal Representation,” “Gross Pointe Blank Check From Your Insurance Company,” and “A Call Bob, Bob, Bob…If Ya’ Hit n’ Ran!” There were also a number of Successories prints, covering topics like trust, perseverance, and personal accountability.
“Hold my calls, Maria,” Bob said as he led his client through the reception area –
“Lo que llama?”
While following Gross, Alan noticed two additional offices in the place – one that was vacant, and a second that looked as if it had just been ransacked. The air smelled of burnt coffee, Lo Mein takeout, and cigarettes. A small TV/VCR sat in the corner, playing a Mexican soap opera. On the screen, a Latino model in his twenties – his white lab coat clearly that of an experienced physician – was giving a gorgeous patient bad news: “Me temo que tiene tres personalidades diferenties. Y todas ellas estan vinculadas por una depression peligrosa.”
Maria nearly fell off her stilettos as the organ music led to commercial.
“Have a seat,” Bob said in his office, gesturing to a pair of chairs, identical to those in the waiting room. Alan sat down, while the lawyer took his place behind a long, pressed-wood desk, flanked by a pair of green banker’s lamps. Lighting a cigarette, he blotted Alan’s traffic citations with a wad of paper towels. He read them in silence, shaking his head with a chuckle.
“It looks like someone’s in a shit load of trouble,” Gross said.
“That’s why I’m here.” Alan kept his messenger bag close, like a victim clutching her purse. “And I was told that you were the man I should see.”
The twin desk lamps illuminated Bob’s features from both sides. Their placement created a shadow down his face’s center, an effect that was mirrored in the second face behind him – on a large, imposing, wall-mounted advertising banner, like Tommy Wiseau’s old Las Angeles billboard. Alan felt like he was talking to two Bobs at once.
“Damn straight,” Gross said, reading with a cigarette between his teeth. “Reckless driving, improper lane usage, speeding, property damage, and” – the lawyer looked up, almost impressed –
“So, you’re the one who knocked down old Jumpin’ Jenny?”
“I am.”
“Damn, that old bitch has been there since I was a kid.” The lawyer laughed. “You bulldozed a local landmark, buddy. You’re going to jail for that, for sure!”
Alan stammered. “Mr. Gross, the car’s brakes had f-f-failed…”
“Oh, I’m just yankin’ your chain, buddy,” Bob laughed. “That old shake joint has been closed for years. But the sign’s a historical landmark. Or, at least it was…until you cut her in half” – he read from the officer’s account – “at the pelvis.”
“It was an accident, Mr. Gross.”
“And there was a kid in the car?” Bob read.
“Yes.”
“And you claim she started screaming, which is why you lost control of the vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“How much had you been drinking?”
“Pardon?”
“How much did you drink before the accident?” Bob asked. “I’m not judging you, buddy…we all need a little hair of the dog from time to time.” He tapped his Styrofoam coffee cup, which, Alan now realized, wasn’t steaming.
“Mr. Gross, I wasn’t drinking.”
“Sure about that?”
Alan opened his bag and produced a pile of hospital papers, placing them on the desk. “We were taken to the hospital immediately following the accident. Blood was drawn. My BAC was point zero.” This made the lawyer smile again.
“Bee, a, see,” Bob enunciated, flipping through the ER paperwork. Alan watched him nod while confirming the point-zero claim. The lawyer took a moment to skim the doctor’s comments. “Yup. No booze in the blood, for sure.” He pushed the papers aside.
“So, how many DUI’s am I dealing with here? Two? Three? More than that?”
“Mr. Gross, I just told you I wasn’t drinking.”
“Yes, but people unfamiliar with the system don’t use phrases like BAC,” Gross told him bluntly. “And they definitely don’t offer that particular information right out of the gate.”
“Mr. Gross, I” –
“I’m your fuckin’ lawyer, buddy – so cut to the chase. Everything you tell me stays between the two of us, and I can’t get you out of this unless you lay down your cards right now.” Bob puffed his cigarette. “How many DUI’s?”
Alan hesitated. “Two.”
“In Nevada?” Gross asked.
“No. In Illinois.”
“How recent?”
“One in 2003, and one in 1992.”
“So, eleven years apart?”
“Yes.”
Bob thought about this. Alan watched him grin, stamping out his smoke before taking a swig of bourbon-scented coffee. “Then we’re golden, buddy!”
“How so?” Alan asked cautiously.
“DUI’s don’t travel from state to state,” Gross explained. “And even if they did, they typically drop from your record after five years. As far as the state of Nevada is concerned, you’re a fuckin’ tea-toddler…and just out for a Sunday drive with your daughter to visit” – he read from a citation – “the Las Vegas County Correctional Facility.”
“It wasn’t my daughter,” Alan clarified.
“Eh, details.” Bob shrugged, settling into his chair. “I don’t see a single thing here that can’t be explained away. The girl screamed, so you lost control of the vehicle. Your brakes got damaged, so you had no way to stop. Very honestly, I don’t even know where this reckless driving shit is coming from – which is exactly how we’re gonna’ play this. What I see in front of me is a skilled, sober driver who somehow managed to avoid hitting every other motorist in a clear-headed effort to drive as safely as possible, considering the circumstances” –
The lawyer grinned cheek to cheek.
“What I see is a hero, Mr.” – Gross glanced at the tickets – “Lavinski.”
Silence.
“Of course, it’s gonna’ cost you,” Bob went on. “My retainer is five grand, and that doesn’t include fines and legal fees.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Alan said, taken back.
“Money’s the key to getting out of anything,” Gross told him. “No matter how big or small, and no matter how fuckin’ guilty you might be.”
“Guilty?”
“Turn of phrase,” Bob caught himself. “Of course, you’re not guilty. And I’ll file the paperwork making that clear as soon as you give Maria the cash. Oh – and we’re cash-only, by the way. Helps us work faster. Grease the wheels of justice and all that.”
“I understand.”
“You got the cash?” Gross asked.
“Err – no, not on me of course. But I have it in the bank. If I don’t bring it today, I’ll run it by tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” Bob said. “Like I said, we’re golden.” He gathered Alan’s paperwork, and passed it back to him. Alan looked confused.
“Don’t you need those? To make copies or something?”
“Definitely,” the lawyer told him. “Which is why we’ll need your payment as soon as possible.”
Alan sighed. “All right then.” He gathered his things and stood. “Thank you for seeing me. I’ll be in touch shortly.”
Gross lit another cigarette. He glanced at his schedule binder, confused. “Hey, buddy – was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?”
Alan froze. “Why do you ask?”
“Eh, it’s that damn Maria. She blocked out ninety minutes for you, today.” Cigarette in hand, Bob walked to the door and opened it. “Maria?” he called. Alan could see her in the reception area, rummaging through a box of neck braces to find the right size for a waiting client. From Gross’s office, the receptionist’s breasts looked like two jiggling balloons, threatening a wardrobe malfunction. “Estoy ocupado, Senor Bob.”
Bob smiled at Alan again. “Maybe she blocked off time for a nooner.”
“I thought you had to be in court,” Alan told him.
“Fuck…court!” The lawyer darted to his desk and threw some items into a briefcase. “Maria!” he yelled, tugging on a suit coat. “Where’d that Heeb put the Bizzle file?”
“Es en el estacionamiento, Senor Bob.”
Gross paused as though remembering this. Shrugging his shoulders again, he straightened his tie and finished his coffee. Alan watched him open a desk drawer to pour another cup –
“I’ll see myself out,” Alan said.
“Mmm,” Bob nodded, swallowing. “Maria’s here til’ five. I’ll start your case as soon as we have payment.”
“Got it.” Alan bolted for the door. A group of gang-bangers now stood in the waiting room, staring into Rabinowitz’s vacated office in confusion – What the fuck, man? The glass door jingled when Alan hurried towards his car. He could hear Gross yelling from behind him –
“Remember – Money is the key to getting out of anything!”
Slamming into reverse, Alan couldn’t find his flask fast enough.
* * * * *
Forty minutes later, the soft sound of the guest bathroom shower echoed through the now-open door to Patrick’s bedroom, where Stephanie had been hiding for what seemed like days. As the young girl washed her hair, Alan yanked open the hidden compartment’s door, under the bed. He had brought a fireplace poker to retrieve the mysterious suitcases, but found them near the opening, within arm’s reach. He threw them onto the unmade bed, one by one.
He opened the first with a click –
Gasp!
Green money reflected in his eyes as the suitcase was packed with tens of thousands of dollars, in bundles of hundreds. Alan’s fingers combed through the stacks, his brain overwhelmed by the gravity of it all: There must be over two hundred thousand dollars here!
Pushing the first suitcase aside, the second was opened to reveal a similar sum. With the fake city mural twinkling in the background above the lacquer bedroom set, Alan’s eyes widened at the sheer amount of cash beneath his palms –
It was close to a half-million dollars.
This is far too much money from just a single Bingo scam.
Click!
Expecting a third suitcase of currency, Alan was surprised to find no cash at all within the last piece of luggage. Rather than bills, it was packed with photos, cards, and scraps of paper – as though someone had been planning a scrapbook, but never found the right moment to put it all on paper.
His eyes then focused on the contents itself, which was obviously a record of Patrick’s own life, up to this point. There were photos from Checker’s, when the trio was together, as well as pictures from a time Alan didn’t remember – photographs spanning 1992-2005, when Guinevere, Patrick, and Alan had gone their separate ways, following Patrick’s arrest.
I remember this time. Patrick moved to Nevada, Gwen decided to stay with her parents, and I got my first job at a hotel. We all found a way to get on with our lives, but it was still so incredibly sad…
Despite the cash, Alan couldn’t help but feel moved by the pictures, and the memories they held within. Back in 92’, he had lost contact with Patrick for almost a decade – a ten-year span in which Alan struggled with depression, one of the darkest periods of his life. As he looked at Patrick’s photos from that period, he could almost sense a similar melancholy, though the bright lights of late-90s Vegas did their best to hide it.
And Guinevere’s photos, starting with the birth of Stephanie, also simmered with an unfamiliar anxiety as Alan remembered a woman – and a friend forever his Schnookums – who he had the chance to stay in contact with, but chose not to because –
Chose not to because…
“Because there are things that must never be said aloud,” Alan said to himself. Because saying such things will scare the hell out of people, and make them go away forever…
“I’m assuming THIS is one of those things that must never be said aloud,” Stephanie announced, standing in the bedroom’s open door. Her hair was wet. She wore only a pink towel. She was holding a photograph from the suitcase she’d found yesterday, which she showed to Alan.
“What’s the story behind this picture, Alan? I know what it’s about, but I want to hear you say it.”
Alan recognized the dashboard camera screen shot immediately.
“Is this why you’re so afraid to help Patrick?” the young girl demanded. “Does Patrick getting arrested bring back too many memories for you?” She wanted an answer.
Alan’s eyes went red, as adrenalin hit his bloodstream.
Stephanie noticed this.
“Doesn’t feel good to get yanked out of your comfort zone, does it?” she asked.
Alan’s fingers made a fist around the poker. He held it at his side, when he stood up, holding it outward.
Steph’s face went white. The police exhibit photo fluttered from her fingers.
She instinctively stepped backwards.
Alan instinctively stepped forward.
Her towel hit the floor when she ran, but Alan, fueled by unexpected rage, easily overtook her.
A few moments later, glass shattered in the kitchen…
Fifteen
Leviticus 11:21
“I work all night, I work all day to pay the bills I have to pay – ain’t it sad?
And still there never seems to be a single penny left for me – that’s too bad.
In my dreams, I have a plan…if I got me a wealthy man –
I wouldn’t have to work at all, I’d fool around and have a ball –
Money, money, money…must be funny…in a rich man’s world!”
1991
“Do you like cupcakes?” Alan asked Patrick, as the two stood on the dining room stairs, waiting for the setting sun to bring Checker’s Friday night rush. Patrick raised an eyebrow –
“Am I talking to Alan, or am I talking to the Phantom?”
The Phantom smiled, passing him a small plastic container that once housed fifty, multi-colored cupcake wrappers, but now contained – once Patrick opened its lid – twelve pair of bright red eyes, twenty-four moving antennas and wings, and seventy-two tiny brown legs that wanted up and out. Patrick gasped –
“Are these…cicadas?”
“Straight from Guinevere’s back yard,” Alan told him, grinning. “We met at her folks, and it took about fifteen minutes to gather close to thirty. I’ve got a container, myself” – he showed Patrick his own cup of glowing red eyes – “Gwen’s got cicadas, and now you have cicadas. I think you know what to do.”
“Actually, I don’t,” Patrick laughed, cringing. The large, golden-winged arthropods were desperate to escape confinement, and one of them crawled onto his hand – which he quickly flicked back into the container. Its forelegs pinched his skin. He was both disgusted and laughing when he spoke –
“What…do you want me to do…with this?”
“Disbursement,” Alan said proudly. “Let’s disperse the cicadas throughout the dining room plants, and then see what happens.”
“Alan, I can’t” –
“Yes, you can!” Alan insisted. “It’s easy. Just pop the lid, stick your fingers into the container, and they crawl right up, onto your arm. Then you let them loose. All you need to do is brush against the plants like this.”
As Patrick watched in nervous horror, Alan opened his own container and allowed three bugs to scurry up his forearm. The Phantom then nonchalantly strolled through the restaurant’s upper thirties, straightening the plants above customer tables, grinning when he returned.
Guinevere was doing the same in the lower sixties, adjusting the hanging philodendrons above vacant tables – while servers checked their own sections before the rush. Patrick watched her help Ty push tables together for a twelve-top reservation, at five; Gwen was careful to move the leafy plants out of the way, so Ty’s party could best enjoy their meal, and its aftermath.
“Twenty down,” Guinevere said, as she joined the two on the stairs, her shirt a little snug in the middle. She looked at Patrick’s white face, and then to Alan’s red one –
“Is my Schnookums’ friend getting cold pincers?”
“He’s grossed out,” Alan admitted, snatching Patrick’s container of insects. “If you want a job done right,” Alan told them, heading for the lower forties. The two watched him scatter critters throughout the remainder of the dining room, returning with an empty cupcake-container – with a stray trochanter & veined wing left behind. He gave it to Mia as she passed.
“This should be a fun shift,” Alan said.
Sharon – in puce – passed the three with a frown, and gathered Alan, Patrick, Guinevere, Jackie, Marty, Rob Vain, Derek, Ty, Cheryl Bennish, Laurie, the miscellaneous Bradley Boys, and all other servers into the kitchen for a pre-shift alley-rally. An unseen camera followed everyone around the corner –
But then it’s point-of-view changed completely, now seen through the eyes of the kitchen staff.
* * * * *
The long, hot, stainless-steel passover window stretched from left to right, beneath the orange glow of heat lamps. The window was clear for the most part, but stacks of white plates, platters, saucers, and serving bowls looked down from a second, upper passover – where dishes were kept warm for hot food.
Big Tim stood in front of all of this, checking temps on sauces, gravies, and a vat of garlic mashed potatoes. He marked items off one at a time on a clipboard, then initialed on the line marked “Kitchen Manager” – a position Sharon had offered him months ago, but he had only just accepted.
“Are you gentlemen ready for the evening?” Tim asked eloquently, looking down the cook’s line, at his motley crew. Zevon raised his “Sprite” from the fry station, then dropped a bin of fresh-cut French fries into a nearby ice bath. Tim noticed that Zevon’s hands were shaking slightly, which likely meant he was dehydrated – He’ll be fine in ten minutes.
At the sauté station to the left of the fryers, Duncan, the sauté-guy, a puffy Irishman with red hair, prison tattoos, and a cigarette behind his ear, gave Tim a nod before opening the refrigerated drawers below the stove – where he checked his stock of uncooked chicken, most cut into pieces for stir fry’s.
Cochise stood next to Duncan, just behind Big Tim’s shoulder. Cochise was a solid black man with darker skin than Tim, dressed all in white, and with a pack of Kools rolled in his sleeve. His head was shaved, his eyes were shiny, and he looked like he could kick the shit out of an elephant – assuming, of course, that elephant was only packing a knife. Cochise was the grill-guy, the most important station on the line. He rubbed his spatulas together like a swordsman sharpening a blade, throwing Tim a nod that said, Yes SIR.
“And how about you, Roger?” Tim asked carefully, to his right.
At the far end of the cook’s line opposite the fry station, a tall, skeletal, cellophane-colored man stood silently at the broiler. The orange flames below reflected in his aviator-style glasses, and “Roger” was short for “Mr. Rogers,” as the cook resembled the popular kid’s show host, albeit in a coffin – ready for a jump scare.
Roger had an unsettling talent for grilling raw meat over open fire, and his steaks & ribs were always cooked right the first time, with flesh that literally fell off the bone, no matter how thick the sinews. Roger scared the shit out of everyone on the staff, and even Big Tim kept a kitchen knife close whenever the two worked in close proximity.
“I’m ready,” Roger whispered, never looking up from his fire.
Tim shuddered in the expo window, as Men at Work sang Down Under from above.
* * * * *
“LISTEN UP, PEOPLE…THIS IS GOING TO BE SHORT AND SWEET!”
The cooks looked up in unison as the passover window filled with hair and faces, while the back of Sharon’s head pushed Bill aside.
“I don’t know WHO…the FUCK…is pulling all these pranks, but it STOPS…RIGHT …NOW!” Sharon’s head shouted. “Whoever is doing this, you’re fucking with my customers – and if I catch you, I’ll fire you on the spot and kick you to the curb, myself! DO I make myself CLEAR?”
“But, it’s the Phantom, Sharon!” Jackie’s head protested. “The restaurant has a ghost!”
“THERE ARE NO SUCH THINGS AS GHOSTS!” Sharon screamed, slamming her fist onto a nearby tray and jack. Her action sent several empty oval trays spilling to the floor. “And I don’t want to hear the word Phantom from any of you people! Do I make myself clear on THAT!?”
Tim watched the servers’ heads nod together, in silence.
“We’re also getting sloppy on our sidework,” Sharon’s head went on. “So, as of tonight, all sidework will be checked – and double-checked – by a manager. Does everyone understand that?”
Nods.
“And also starting tonight, in addition to sidework, every server is to roll a Lexan of silverware – seventy-five rolls apiece. You will NOT be allowed to leave until you show me or another manager that you have rolled seventy-five rolls of silverware!”
Rob’s head did mental math. “But Sharon, that’s one-thousand fifty rolls – not counting what’s being used on the tables, and what might be in the dishwasher. Do we even have enough silverware in the building for a thousand rolls?”
Sharon’s hair shot towards Rob’s. “Did I STUTTER?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“We just sat eight tables!” Rodney’s head popped into the window. “And the lobby’s full. Cheryl – I need you up front!” Tim watched Rodney’s head disappear through the saloon doors with Cheryl’s.
“WALKING IN…TWO FRIES, ONE KID TENDER!” Natalie shouted from the server’s alley corner. “Sharon – we need some help out here!”
Sharon’s eyes narrowed. “Have a good shift,” her head hissed at everyone.
The servers’ heads scattered.
“Order in the bowl!” Bill’s head called to Tim, picking up trays and taking its place at expo. Fry baskets hit the grease with fire and sizzle –
The rush had begun.
* * * * *
“Out where the river broke, the bloodwood and the desert oak…holden wrecks and boiling diesels, steam in forty-five degrees…”
Midnight Oil blasted from above while the cook’s line boiled with smoke, fire, steam, and hot, crackling meat. Flames rose in unison from both Zevon at the fry station and Roger at the broiler, while Cochise – sweat rolling off his face – threw six plated burgers into the window, like a dealer throwing cards. A wet rag now rolled around his neck, Big Tim stood calmly in the epicenter, separating the completed orders as he’d done for years at Denny’s. The window before him was filled with the heads of shouting servers, and the fast-moving hands of Bill in the expo window –
“I need food runners!”
“Got it!” Patrick’s head said, lifting a steaming tray into the air. The tray was replaced with an empty one, and Bill’s hands started pulling the next order from the window.
“Orders in the bowl!”
“COMING IN,” Big Tim called to his staff, “THREE COW PATTIES, ONE SLAB, ONE CFS!” He turned to Duncan while adding the new tickets to the line. “On deck – two chick stir-fry’s, one jizz on the side!”
“Got it!” the sauté cook called back.
“What’s the ETA on forty-two?” Laurie’s head asked Tim.
“Please talk to the Expo!” Bill’s head reminded her, garnishing a tray. He looked at Tim. “Forty-two?”
“On deck, ready in two,” Tim told him.
“WALKING IN…THREE KID TENDERS, ONE SHROOM!” a server yelled.
Whoosh! – the fry station went orange.
“Order in the bowl!”
“Order in the cold side bowl!”
“I need food runners, people!”
“Cochise, I need two Deluxe for table five as soon as you” – the shiny black cook threw the order in the window, before Big Tim could finish his sentence.
“Two stir fry’s,” Duncan called out, adding more items to the passover. Tim pushed them aside, tapping the ticket to a different order so Bill could tray that one first. “This one’s on twenty-two, Bill.”
“Got it,” Bill said from his finished tray, as Alan hoisted it upwards. Replacing the tray, Bill trayed the overdue order. Laurie’s head appeared at his side. She saw her food was up in the window. She reached for it –
“Run this one, Laurie.”
“But that’s my order!” She pointed at the new burgers.
“This one’s on twenty-two,” Bill told her. “It needs to go out now, and then these two” – he pointed to two additional orders, waiting in the heat lamps – “go out next. I’ll tray yours after that.”
“Order in the bowl!” Guinevere’s head yelled.
“Can you run this, Gwen?” Bill asked.
“Sure.” She lifted the tray, and he replaced it with an empty one. Laurie’s head looked pissed.
“What?” Bill asked.
“Just let me run my own damn food, Bill.”
“Laurie, you’re a trainer, you know the rules. Run this ticket, and I’ll have the next server – JESUS!”
Bill jumped backward, dropping a ladle full of ranch in the process.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?” someone yelled from the Coke machine.
Big Tim looked up as a large black insect flew through the server’s alley like a crop duster, bumping against the fluorescent lights, then flying into the bar. The cooks heard customers scream. The saloon doors burst open, and Cheryl’s head shouted, “There’s a flying roach in the bar!”
“You sure it wasn’t a wasp?” Derek’s head asked, coming into the alley behind her. “It sounds like a wasp. And it’s way too big to be a roach.” He grinned at the cooks. “That’s fuckin’ funny!”
“What’s going on?” Cochise asked Tim, adding a grilled halibut to the window. Big Tim looked down the line. All of the cooks had heard the commotion.
“Calm down, gentlemen. It’s just a wasp that came through the front doors.”
“THERE’S ANOTHER ONE!” Cheryl’s head yelled. Big Tim watched her shield her face with an empty beverage tray, as a second flying bug catapulted into the kitchen, hitting the wall with a thump. It fell behind the soup tureen.
“There’s more in the dining room!” Rob Vain shouted from the corner. “I saw like…three. And one landed in a customer’s food!”
“It’s the Phantom!” Jackie yelled from the coffee machine.
“Fuck the Phantom,” Cheryl Bennish screamed. “It’s a goddamn plague!”
“The roach is dead!” Marty called from the bar. “It got caught in one of the ceiling fans!”
“INCOMING!” Zevon shouted from the fry station, as an insect entered the cook’s line, buzzing like a remote-control plane. The smoky air filled with waving spatulas and tongs, as Zevon, Duncan, and Cochise all attempted to knock the winged beast from the sky. Big Tim ducked when the bug clipped his ear, then ricocheted – with a sizzle – onto the broiler, next to a slab of ribs. A bone-chilling grin washed over Roger’s face, as he used tongs to push the insect through the grate into the fire, where he watched it burn –
The horsemen are coming with locusts!
“SHARON!” Guinevere cried, laughing so hard she could barely speak. Tim watched her stagger into the kitchen, an empty tray and jack under her arm. Her cheeks were crimson. She fell against the Bobcat while Patrick came up behind, to comfort her. Gwen’s words could be heard in short gasps –
“I was serving…table twelve…and a roach…flew down a customer’s cleavage! She wants…to talk to Sharon…NOW!”
“Hey, boss?” Cochise tapped Tim’s shoulder, nodding towards the full window of food.
“Not now,” Big Tim said, straining to see what was happening. More bugs had entered the kitchen. From behind the cook’s line, they looked as big as birds.
Sharon burst through the saloon doors. She pushed Bill aside and slammed an empty plate onto the window. Tim watched her fist appear, dropping a dead cicada onto the white circle. She had crushed it in rage, and its eyes had popped – its vertex expelling a blob of yellow juice.
Her head glared at Bill’s. “It’s not…a fucking roach!”
“Sharon, we need you in the dining room.” Laurie’s head said, her cheeks the color of water. “Rodney’s talking to tables in smoking, so he needs you to take nonsmoking.” Sharon shot Big Tim daggers, then pivoted on her unseen heel – crunch.
Tim watched her look down, towards her shoe.
“No, that’s definitely not a roach,” Bill’s head said, looking down as well. Sharon snatched his expo towel and wiped bug guts from her heel. She threw the used rag in the window before following Laurie into the dining room.
Alan’s head appeared. He looked across the overflowing passover window, where food was starting to die beneath the heat lamps. He grinned at Tim – It’s Denny’s all over again!
“Want me to run some food?” Alan asked. The question was enough to snap everyone back into the moment. Bill nodded, then franticly trayed overdue orders with Alan’s help. “We should probably get some free Kookie Monsters started.”
Sighing audibly, Big Tim squashed a nearby cicada with his knife before wiping it on his apron, then pulling dead food from the window.
It would still be hours before his shift was over.
* * * * *
Hours later, after the restaurant had closed, Big Tim watched Zevon finish the last of his Sprite before climbing into the waiting van, joining Roger, Cochise, and Duncan in the back. The driver rolled the door closed – slam – then handed Tim a clipboard, for the Kitchen Manager’s signature. Tim signed, passed it back, and watched the black and white vehicle pull away; he could see the stenciled lettering – Peoria County Department of Corrections – above an official state seal, between its waning taillights. He lit a menthol as the Work Release van squeaked out of the parking lot.
“Hey – I know it was a rough night, so I did the inventory for you,” Bill said as he came out of the restaurant’s propped back door. “You’ll have to do it tomorrow, though. Rodney closes, so he can help if you have any questions.”
“Thanks,” Tim said, offering him a drag. Bill passed –
“Trying to quit.”
“So am I,” Tim admitted.
“Yeah, tonight wasn’t the best night for quitting anything,” Bill said.
“Did you find out where the cicadas came from?” Tim asked.
“Sharon thinks they came from the plants. The service comes tomorrow, so we’ll ask them, then. Cicadas stay in the ground, for what? Seven years? Maybe they were already in the dirt.”
“You mean, in the potting soil?”
“Well, soil, dirt – it’s all the same stuff, right? We think we got all of them, though. Sharon and Rodney had to comp a lot of food tonight.” Bill sighed loudly. “You know what? Maybe I will take a” –
Tim passed his cigarette before Bill finished his sentence. He watched the young manager take a long, deep drag before exhaling a lungful of white, into the quiet night air. Bill passed it back. “Thanks.”
“Want your own?” Tim asked.
“No, I’m fine. But I’m definitely hitting Happy Valley when I leave. Want to come? Everyone’s going to be there.”
Tim shook his head.
“I’ll see you on Monday, then.” Bill gave Big Tim a nod. “Good luck tomorrow and Sunday. I promise – not every shift is like this.”
“Good night, Bill.”
“Night, Tim.”
Bill vanished into the kitchen while Big Tim finished his cigarette. In the silence of the night, a flash of movement caught his attention near the dumpsters – which were just outside the kitchen’s back door. A tiny pair of red eyes appeared, as the night’s first rat came out of hiding to feast. Tim watched as more rats followed from the sewer, and scurried around the trash containers, devouring bits of fallen food.
Flicking his cigarette, Tim returned inside.
He came out a moment later, holding the baseball bat that Sharon kept in the office.
* * * * *
“Crazy in the Night” – in Spanish – blasted from the open kitchen door, as Big Tim arrived to work the following morning, parking his 79’ Bill Blass Continental behind the restaurant. Clean and well-rested, the new Kitchen Manager climbed out of his car, and walked towards the unopen restaurant – where several prep cooks were standing outside, smoking. One of them was leaning on the bat, and as Tim entered the back kitchen, he noticed a pile of gray fur & blood by the wall, from a dumpster diner who’d clearly stayed past the establishment’s closing time.
Nodding to the ladies, Tim took off his sunglasses when he stepped into the manager’s office. He found that Sharon was already there, her aqua-colored blazer draped over the back of her office chair – a cigarette burning in an ashtray, next to coffee.
The desk was covered in open binders. She was transcribing numbers from the office computer to a printed spreadsheet, with a fresh inventory sheet on a clipboard, nearby. She heard Tim enter, but didn’t look up.
“Our food costs are too high,” she said from the desk. “And all the comps we had to do last night did not help at all. It looks like yesterday cost us” – she adjusted her glasses to see the computer screen, where the Bobcat’s Lotus-based program provided data in black and white columns – “almost four hundred and seventy-five dollars, give or take what we lost in the bar with free drinks.”
“That ain’t good,” Tim said.
Sharon looked up. “No…it’s not.”
Leaving her blazer behind, Sharon stood with the clipboard. She brought her cigarette along as she led Tim through the prep kitchen, where four Hispanic women chopped hacked at potatoes and raw fish. She opened the walk-in refrigerator and held the plastic strips aside so the tall black man could enter first. She followed him in, propping the outer door open for more light. Cigarette in hand, she gestured towards the clipboard, and then to its corresponding items on the metro shelves.
“See that?” – she pointed towards the case packs of ribs. “And those?” – she gestured towards the blue cheese wheels and containers of iced shrimp. “Those items are extremely expensive, and if we don’t use them carefully, we lose a lot of money.”
She paused so Tim could take this in.
“And the same holds true for many non-refrigerated items, like olive oil, barbeque sauce, and chocolate.” She puffed into the cold, fanned air. “You follow so far?”
“This isn’t my first restaurant, Ms. Donovan.” Tim said calmly, trying not to be insulted. “I do understand how food costs work.”
“Well, somebody clearly doesn’t,” Sharon informed him, peering into a Lexan of raw chicken portions. It had been stored above the lettuce, ripe for cross-contamination. She frowned, gave Tim the clipboard, and shoved the cigarette between her teeth. “And I’m guessing it’s the same idiots who don’t even know basic health department rules.”
Tim watched her swap the items, putting veggies above the chicken, then kick the meat into place with her heel – as ashes fell to the floor. Once finished, she looked for other violations. He helped her move a few more improperly-shelved items, before following her out the door, and into the long prep kitchen.
“On Monday, I’ll be sitting down with you, Rodney, and Bill,” she continued. “I want to see exactly how you three are doing your inventory counts, and I want all of us to figure out why our food costs have been so high. Something’s not right, here. And it’s either sloppy management or theft.”
She extinguished her cigarette in cold running water, before washing her hands – and drying them with a dirty towel.
A car horn honked outside.
Tim followed Sharon’s heels as she backtracked through the kitchen, and out the open back door. The Work Release van was back. The driver passed his own clipboard through the window, and Sharon counted the inmates as they filed out of the vehicle, heading inside like a chain gang. She signed her name, then returned the paperwork to the driver – who immediately pulled away. Her eyes narrowed at the felons. It’s either sloppy management –
Or theft.
Big Tim lingered behind the restaurant for a moment, while Sharon glanced at the trash before going inside. He was still tired from yesterday, and today had the looming feel of another painful shift. His eyes looked up towards the beautiful late-summer sky, before settling on the server’s lot – where Patrick and Guinevere had just arrived together and were chatting happily before their opening shift.
Turning back to the door, Tim gasped on seeing Sharon coming at him with the bat. A fresh cigarette now dangled from her lips, and the aqua blazer was in place and buttoned – its big, gold buttons twinkling in the sunlight.
Bitch, what the fuck!?
The woman pushed him aside and stormed for the rear of the dumpster, raising the bat as though clubbing a seal. She disappeared behind the filth. Tim heard the bat come down hard onto muscle – Thwack! – followed by an ugly squeal – Eee! Eee! Eee!
The cook had no idea exactly what she was killing, but from the sound of the screams – and the arc of flying arterial spray – it sure as fuck was not a rat.
Thwack!
Thwack!
Thwack!
The squealing stopped dead.
Silence.
Sharon returned with a spotless blazer, though the bat now looked as if it had stirred red paint. Flicking her cigarette, she passed the bat to Tim on her way into the kitchen – “Could you rinse that off, please?”
Bloody bat in hand, Tim stood frozen for a moment.
I wonder if Denny’s would take me back?
Patrick and Guinevere came up from the parking lot but slowed as they neared the cook holding a murder weapon. “Err, is everything okay, Tim?” Patrick asked, cautiously.
Guinevere, however, was completely unphased.
“That happened to me once, but the bat was bigger. That’s why I’m careful whenever I date a black guy” – she paused for effect –
“Their cocks are huge!”
Fifteen
Leviticus 11:21
“I work all night, I work all day to pay the bills I have to pay – ain’t it sad?
And still there never seems to be a single penny left for me – that’s too bad.
In my dreams, I have a plan…if I got me a wealthy man –
I wouldn’t have to work at all, I’d fool around and have a ball –
Money, money, money…must be funny…in a rich man’s world!”
- - ABBA
1991
“Do you like cupcakes?” Alan asked Patrick, as the two stood on the dining room stairs, waiting for the setting sun to bring Checker’s Friday night rush. Patrick raised an eyebrow –
“Am I talking to Alan, or am I talking to the Phantom?”
The Phantom smiled, passing him a small plastic container that once housed fifty, multi-colored cupcake wrappers, but now contained – once Patrick opened its lid – twelve pair of bright red eyes, twenty-four moving antennas and wings, and seventy-two tiny brown legs that wanted up and out. Patrick gasped –
“Are these…cicadas?”
“Straight from Guinevere’s back yard,” Alan told him, grinning. “We met at her folks, and it took about fifteen minutes to gather close to thirty. I’ve got a container, myself” – he showed Patrick his own cup of glowing red eyes – “Gwen’s got cicadas, and now you have cicadas. I think you know what to do.”
“Actually, I don’t,” Patrick laughed, cringing. The large, golden-winged arthropods were desperate to escape confinement, and one of them crawled onto his hand – which he quickly flicked back into the container. Its forelegs pinched his skin. He was both disgusted and laughing when he spoke –
“What…do you want me to do…with this?”
“Disbursement,” Alan said proudly. “Let’s disperse the cicadas throughout the dining room plants, and then see what happens.”
“Alan, I can’t” –
“Yes, you can!” Alan insisted. “It’s easy. Just pop the lid, stick your fingers into the container, and they crawl right up, onto your arm. Then you let them loose. All you need to do is brush against the plants like this.”
As Patrick watched in nervous horror, Alan opened his own container and allowed three bugs to scurry up his forearm. The Phantom then nonchalantly strolled through the restaurant’s upper thirties, straightening the plants above customer tables, grinning when he returned.
Guinevere was doing the same in the lower sixties, adjusting the hanging philodendrons above vacant tables – while servers checked their own sections before the rush. Patrick watched her help Ty push tables together for a twelve-top reservation, at five; Gwen was careful to move the leafy plants out of the way, so Ty’s party could best enjoy their meal, and its aftermath.
“Twenty down,” Guinevere said, as she joined the two on the stairs, her shirt a little snug in the middle. She looked at Patrick’s white face, and then to Alan’s red one –
“Is my Schnookums’ friend getting cold pincers?”
“He’s grossed out,” Alan admitted, snatching Patrick’s container of insects. “If you want a job done right,” Alan told them, heading for the lower forties. The two watched him scatter critters throughout the remainder of the dining room, returning with an empty cupcake-container – with a stray trochanter & veined wing left behind. He gave it to Mia as she passed.
“This should be a fun shift,” Alan said.
Sharon – in puce – passed the three with a frown, and gathered Alan, Patrick, Guinevere, Jackie, Marty, Rob Vain, Derek, Ty, Cheryl Bennish, Laurie, the miscellaneous Bradley Boys, and all other servers into the kitchen for a pre-shift alley-rally. An unseen camera followed everyone around the corner –
But then it’s point-of-view changed completely, now seen through the eyes of the kitchen staff.
* * * * *
The long, hot, stainless-steel passover window stretched from left to right, beneath the orange glow of heat lamps. The window was clear for the most part, but stacks of white plates, platters, saucers, and serving bowls looked down from a second, upper passover – where dishes were kept warm for hot food.
Big Tim stood in front of all of this, checking temps on sauces, gravies, and a vat of garlic mashed potatoes. He marked items off one at a time on a clipboard, then initialed on the line marked “Kitchen Manager” – a position Sharon had offered him months ago, but he had only just accepted.
“Are you gentlemen ready for the evening?” Tim asked eloquently, looking down the cook’s line, at his motley crew. Zevon raised his “Sprite” from the fry station, then dropped a bin of fresh-cut French fries into a nearby ice bath. Tim noticed that Zevon’s hands were shaking slightly, which likely meant he was dehydrated – He’ll be fine in ten minutes.
At the sauté station to the left of the fryers, Duncan, the sauté-guy, a puffy Irishman with red hair, prison tattoos, and a cigarette behind his ear, gave Tim a nod before opening the refrigerated drawers below the stove – where he checked his stock of uncooked chicken, most cut into pieces for stir fry’s.
Cochise stood next to Duncan, just behind Big Tim’s shoulder. Cochise was a solid black man with darker skin than Tim, dressed all in white, and with a pack of Kools rolled in his sleeve. His head was shaved, his eyes were shiny, and he looked like he could kick the shit out of an elephant – assuming, of course, that elephant was only packing a knife. Cochise was the grill-guy, the most important station on the line. He rubbed his spatulas together like a swordsman sharpening a blade, throwing Tim a nod that said, Yes SIR.
“And how about you, Roger?” Tim asked carefully, to his right.
At the far end of the cook’s line opposite the fry station, a tall, skeletal, cellophane-colored man stood silently at the broiler. The orange flames below reflected in his aviator-style glasses, and “Roger” was short for “Mr. Rogers,” as the cook resembled the popular kid’s show host, albeit in a coffin – ready for a jump scare.
Roger had an unsettling talent for grilling raw meat over open fire, and his steaks & ribs were always cooked right the first time, with flesh that literally fell off the bone, no matter how thick the sinews. Roger scared the shit out of everyone on the staff, and even Big Tim kept a kitchen knife close whenever the two worked in close proximity.
“I’m ready,” Roger whispered, never looking up from his fire.
Tim shuddered in the expo window, as Men at Work sang Down Under from above.
* * * * *
“LISTEN UP, PEOPLE…THIS IS GOING TO BE SHORT AND SWEET!”
The cooks looked up in unison as the passover window filled with hair and faces, while the back of Sharon’s head pushed Bill aside.
“I don’t know WHO…the FUCK…is pulling all these pranks, but it STOPS…RIGHT …NOW!” Sharon’s head shouted. “Whoever is doing this, you’re fucking with my customers – and if I catch you, I’ll fire you on the spot and kick you to the curb, myself! DO I make myself CLEAR?”
“But, it’s the Phantom, Sharon!” Jackie’s head protested. “The restaurant has a ghost!”
“THERE ARE NO SUCH THINGS AS GHOSTS!” Sharon screamed, slamming her fist onto a nearby tray and jack. Her action sent several empty oval trays spilling to the floor. “And I don’t want to hear the word Phantom from any of you people! Do I make myself clear on THAT!?”
Tim watched the servers’ heads nod together, in silence.
“We’re also getting sloppy on our sidework,” Sharon’s head went on. “So, as of tonight, all sidework will be checked – and double-checked – by a manager. Does everyone understand that?”
Nods.
“And also starting tonight, in addition to sidework, every server is to roll a Lexan of silverware – seventy-five rolls apiece. You will NOT be allowed to leave until you show me or another manager that you have rolled seventy-five rolls of silverware!”
Rob’s head did mental math. “But Sharon, that’s one-thousand fifty rolls – not counting what’s being used on the tables, and what might be in the dishwasher. Do we even have enough silverware in the building for a thousand rolls?”
Sharon’s hair shot towards Rob’s. “Did I STUTTER?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“We just sat eight tables!” Rodney’s head popped into the window. “And the lobby’s full. Cheryl – I need you up front!” Tim watched Rodney’s head disappear through the saloon doors with Cheryl’s.
“WALKING IN…TWO FRIES, ONE KID TENDER!” Natalie shouted from the server’s alley corner. “Sharon – we need some help out here!”
Sharon’s eyes narrowed. “Have a good shift,” her head hissed at everyone.
The servers’ heads scattered.
“Order in the bowl!” Bill’s head called to Tim, picking up trays and taking its place at expo. Fry baskets hit the grease with fire and sizzle –
The rush had begun.
* * * * *
“Out where the river broke, the bloodwood and the desert oak…holden wrecks and boiling diesels, steam in forty-five degrees…”
Midnight Oil blasted from above while the cook’s line boiled with smoke, fire, steam, and hot, crackling meat. Flames rose in unison from both Zevon at the fry station and Roger at the broiler, while Cochise – sweat rolling off his face – threw six plated burgers into the window, like a dealer throwing cards. A wet rag now rolled around his neck, Big Tim stood calmly in the epicenter, separating the completed orders as he’d done for years at Denny’s. The window before him was filled with the heads of shouting servers, and the fast-moving hands of Bill in the expo window –
“I need food runners!”
“Got it!” Patrick’s head said, lifting a steaming tray into the air. The tray was replaced with an empty one, and Bill’s hands started pulling the next order from the window.
“Orders in the bowl!”
“COMING IN,” Big Tim called to his staff, “THREE COW PATTIES, ONE SLAB, ONE CFS!” He turned to Duncan while adding the new tickets to the line. “On deck – two chick stir-fry’s, one jizz on the side!”
“Got it!” the sauté cook called back.
“What’s the ETA on forty-two?” Laurie’s head asked Tim.
“Please talk to the Expo!” Bill’s head reminded her, garnishing a tray. He looked at Tim. “Forty-two?”
“On deck, ready in two,” Tim told him.
“WALKING IN…THREE KID TENDERS, ONE SHROOM!” a server yelled.
Whoosh! – the fry station went orange.
“Order in the bowl!”
“Order in the cold side bowl!”
“I need food runners, people!”
“Cochise, I need two Deluxe for table five as soon as you” – the shiny black cook threw the order in the window, before Big Tim could finish his sentence.
“Two stir fry’s,” Duncan called out, adding more items to the passover. Tim pushed them aside, tapping the ticket to a different order so Bill could tray that one first. “This one’s on twenty-two, Bill.”
“Got it,” Bill said from his finished tray, as Alan hoisted it upwards. Replacing the tray, Bill trayed the overdue order. Laurie’s head appeared at his side. She saw her food was up in the window. She reached for it –
“Run this one, Laurie.”
“But that’s my order!” She pointed at the new burgers.
“This one’s on twenty-two,” Bill told her. “It needs to go out now, and then these two” – he pointed to two additional orders, waiting in the heat lamps – “go out next. I’ll tray yours after that.”
“Order in the bowl!” Guinevere’s head yelled.
“Can you run this, Gwen?” Bill asked.
“Sure.” She lifted the tray, and he replaced it with an empty one. Laurie’s head looked pissed.
“What?” Bill asked.
“Just let me run my own damn food, Bill.”
“Laurie, you’re a trainer, you know the rules. Run this ticket, and I’ll have the next server – JESUS!”
Bill jumped backward, dropping a ladle full of ranch in the process.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?” someone yelled from the Coke machine.
Big Tim looked up as a large black insect flew through the server’s alley like a crop duster, bumping against the fluorescent lights, then flying into the bar. The cooks heard customers scream. The saloon doors burst open, and Cheryl’s head shouted, “There’s a flying roach in the bar!”
“You sure it wasn’t a wasp?” Derek’s head asked, coming into the alley behind her. “It sounds like a wasp. And it’s way too big to be a roach.” He grinned at the cooks. “That’s fuckin’ funny!”
“What’s going on?” Cochise asked Tim, adding a grilled halibut to the window. Big Tim looked down the line. All of the cooks had heard the commotion.
“Calm down, gentlemen. It’s just a wasp that came through the front doors.”
“THERE’S ANOTHER ONE!” Cheryl’s head yelled. Big Tim watched her shield her face with an empty beverage tray, as a second flying bug catapulted into the kitchen, hitting the wall with a thump. It fell behind the soup tureen.
“There’s more in the dining room!” Rob Vain shouted from the corner. “I saw like…three. And one landed in a customer’s food!”
“It’s the Phantom!” Jackie yelled from the coffee machine.
“Fuck the Phantom,” Cheryl Bennish screamed. “It’s a goddamn plague!”
“The roach is dead!” Marty called from the bar. “It got caught in one of the ceiling fans!”
“INCOMING!” Zevon shouted from the fry station, as an insect entered the cook’s line, buzzing like a remote-control plane. The smoky air filled with waving spatulas and tongs, as Zevon, Duncan, and Cochise all attempted to knock the winged beast from the sky. Big Tim ducked when the bug clipped his ear, then ricocheted – with a sizzle – onto the broiler, next to a slab of ribs. A bone-chilling grin washed over Roger’s face, as he used tongs to push the insect through the grate into the fire, where he watched it burn –
The horsemen are coming with locusts!
“SHARON!” Guinevere cried, laughing so hard she could barely speak. Tim watched her stagger into the kitchen, an empty tray and jack under her arm. Her cheeks were crimson. She fell against the Bobcat while Patrick came up behind, to comfort her. Gwen’s words could be heard in short gasps –
“I was serving…table twelve…and a roach…flew down a customer’s cleavage! She wants…to talk to Sharon…NOW!”
“Hey, boss?” Cochise tapped Tim’s shoulder, nodding towards the full window of food.
“Not now,” Big Tim said, straining to see what was happening. More bugs had entered the kitchen. From behind the cook’s line, they looked as big as birds.
Sharon burst through the saloon doors. She pushed Bill aside and slammed an empty plate onto the window. Tim watched her fist appear, dropping a dead cicada onto the white circle. She had crushed it in rage, and its eyes had popped – its vertex expelling a blob of yellow juice.
Her head glared at Bill’s. “It’s not…a fucking roach!”
“Sharon, we need you in the dining room.” Laurie’s head said, her cheeks the color of water. “Rodney’s talking to tables in smoking, so he needs you to take nonsmoking.” Sharon shot Big Tim daggers, then pivoted on her unseen heel – crunch.
Tim watched her look down, towards her shoe.
“No, that’s definitely not a roach,” Bill’s head said, looking down as well. Sharon snatched his expo towel and wiped bug guts from her heel. She threw the used rag in the window before following Laurie into the dining room.
Alan’s head appeared. He looked across the overflowing passover window, where food was starting to die beneath the heat lamps. He grinned at Tim – It’s Denny’s all over again!
“Want me to run some food?” Alan asked. The question was enough to snap everyone back into the moment. Bill nodded, then franticly trayed overdue orders with Alan’s help. “We should probably get some free Kookie Monsters started.”
Sighing audibly, Big Tim squashed a nearby cicada with his knife before wiping it on his apron, then pulling dead food from the window.
It would still be hours before his shift was over.
* * * * *
Hours later, after the restaurant had closed, Big Tim watched Zevon finish the last of his Sprite before climbing into the waiting van, joining Roger, Cochise, and Duncan in the back. The driver rolled the door closed – slam – then handed Tim a clipboard, for the Kitchen Manager’s signature. Tim signed, passed it back, and watched the black and white vehicle pull away; he could see the stenciled lettering – Peoria County Department of Corrections – above an official state seal, between its waning taillights. He lit a menthol as the Work Release van squeaked out of the parking lot.
“Hey – I know it was a rough night, so I did the inventory for you,” Bill said as he came out of the restaurant’s propped back door. “You’ll have to do it tomorrow, though. Rodney closes, so he can help if you have any questions.”
“Thanks,” Tim said, offering him a drag. Bill passed –
“Trying to quit.”
“So am I,” Tim admitted.
“Yeah, tonight wasn’t the best night for quitting anything,” Bill said.
“Did you find out where the cicadas came from?” Tim asked.
“Sharon thinks they came from the plants. The service comes tomorrow, so we’ll ask them, then. Cicadas stay in the ground, for what? Seven years? Maybe they were already in the dirt.”
“You mean, in the potting soil?”
“Well, soil, dirt – it’s all the same stuff, right? We think we got all of them, though. Sharon and Rodney had to comp a lot of food tonight.” Bill sighed loudly. “You know what? Maybe I will take a” –
Tim passed his cigarette before Bill finished his sentence. He watched the young manager take a long, deep drag before exhaling a lungful of white, into the quiet night air. Bill passed it back. “Thanks.”
“Want your own?” Tim asked.
“No, I’m fine. But I’m definitely hitting Happy Valley when I leave. Want to come? Everyone’s going to be there.”
Tim shook his head.
“I’ll see you on Monday, then.” Bill gave Big Tim a nod. “Good luck tomorrow and Sunday. I promise – not every shift is like this.”
“Good night, Bill.”
“Night, Tim.”
Bill vanished into the kitchen while Big Tim finished his cigarette. In the silence of the night, a flash of movement caught his attention near the dumpsters – which were just outside the kitchen’s back door. A tiny pair of red eyes appeared, as the night’s first rat came out of hiding to feast. Tim watched as more rats followed from the sewer, and scurried around the trash containers, devouring bits of fallen food.
Flicking his cigarette, Tim returned inside.
He came out a moment later, holding the baseball bat that Sharon kept in the office.
* * * * *
“Crazy in the Night” – in Spanish – blasted from the open kitchen door, as Big Tim arrived to work the following morning, parking his 79’ Bill Blass Continental behind the restaurant. Clean and well-rested, the new Kitchen Manager climbed out of his car, and walked towards the unopen restaurant – where several prep cooks were standing outside, smoking. One of them was leaning on the bat, and as Tim entered the back kitchen, he noticed a pile of gray fur & blood by the wall, from a dumpster diner who’d clearly stayed past the establishment’s closing time.
Nodding to the ladies, Tim took off his sunglasses when he stepped into the manager’s office. He found that Sharon was already there, her aqua-colored blazer draped over the back of her office chair – a cigarette burning in an ashtray, next to coffee.
The desk was covered in open binders. She was transcribing numbers from the office computer to a printed spreadsheet, with a fresh inventory sheet on a clipboard, nearby. She heard Tim enter, but didn’t look up.
“Our food costs are too high,” she said from the desk. “And all the comps we had to do last night did not help at all. It looks like yesterday cost us” – she adjusted her glasses to see the computer screen, where the Bobcat’s Lotus-based program provided data in black and white columns – “almost four hundred and seventy-five dollars, give or take what we lost in the bar with free drinks.”
“That ain’t good,” Tim said.
Sharon looked up. “No…it’s not.”
Leaving her blazer behind, Sharon stood with the clipboard. She brought her cigarette along as she led Tim through the prep kitchen, where four Hispanic women chopped hacked at potatoes and raw fish. She opened the walk-in refrigerator and held the plastic strips aside so the tall black man could enter first. She followed him in, propping the outer door open for more light. Cigarette in hand, she gestured towards the clipboard, and then to its corresponding items on the metro shelves.
“See that?” – she pointed towards the case packs of ribs. “And those?” – she gestured towards the blue cheese wheels and containers of iced shrimp. “Those items are extremely expensive, and if we don’t use them carefully, we lose a lot of money.”
She paused so Tim could take this in.
“And the same holds true for many non-refrigerated items, like olive oil, barbeque sauce, and chocolate.” She puffed into the cold, fanned air. “You follow so far?”
“This isn’t my first restaurant, Ms. Donovan.” Tim said calmly, trying not to be insulted. “I do understand how food costs work.”
“Well, somebody clearly doesn’t,” Sharon informed him, peering into a Lexan of raw chicken portions. It had been stored above the lettuce, ripe for cross-contamination. She frowned, gave Tim the clipboard, and shoved the cigarette between her teeth. “And I’m guessing it’s the same idiots who don’t even know basic health department rules.”
Tim watched her swap the items, putting veggies above the chicken, then kick the meat into place with her heel – as ashes fell to the floor. Once finished, she looked for other violations. He helped her move a few more improperly-shelved items, before following her out the door, and into the long prep kitchen.
“On Monday, I’ll be sitting down with you, Rodney, and Bill,” she continued. “I want to see exactly how you three are doing your inventory counts, and I want all of us to figure out why our food costs have been so high. Something’s not right, here. And it’s either sloppy management or theft.”
She extinguished her cigarette in cold running water, before washing her hands – and drying them with a dirty towel.
A car horn honked outside.
Tim followed Sharon’s heels as she backtracked through the kitchen, and out the open back door. The Work Release van was back. The driver passed his own clipboard through the window, and Sharon counted the inmates as they filed out of the vehicle, heading inside like a chain gang. She signed her name, then returned the paperwork to the driver – who immediately pulled away. Her eyes narrowed at the felons. It’s either sloppy management –
Or theft.
Big Tim lingered behind the restaurant for a moment, while Sharon glanced at the trash before going inside. He was still tired from yesterday, and today had the looming feel of another painful shift. His eyes looked up towards the beautiful late-summer sky, before settling on the server’s lot – where Patrick and Guinevere had just arrived together and were chatting happily before their opening shift.
Turning back to the door, Tim gasped on seeing Sharon coming at him with the bat. A fresh cigarette now dangled from her lips, and the aqua blazer was in place and buttoned – its big, gold buttons twinkling in the sunlight.
Bitch, what the fuck!?
The woman pushed him aside and stormed for the rear of the dumpster, raising the bat as though clubbing a seal. She disappeared behind the filth. Tim heard the bat come down hard onto muscle – Thwack! – followed by an ugly squeal – Eee! Eee! Eee!
The cook had no idea exactly what she was killing, but from the sound of the screams – and the arc of flying arterial spray – it sure as fuck was not a rat.
Thwack!
Thwack!
Thwack!
The squealing stopped dead.
Silence.
Sharon returned with a spotless blazer, though the bat now looked as if it had stirred red paint. Flicking her cigarette, she passed the bat to Tim on her way into the kitchen – “Could you rinse that off, please?”
Bloody bat in hand, Tim stood frozen for a moment.
I wonder if Denny’s would take me back?
Patrick and Guinevere came up from the parking lot but slowed as they neared the cook holding a murder weapon. “Err, is everything okay, Tim?” Patrick asked, cautiously.
Guinevere, however, was completely unphased.
“That happened to me once, but the bat was bigger. That’s why I’m careful whenever I date a black guy” – she paused for effect –
“Their cocks are huge!”