"Then what are you looking for?"
"Because I'm curious, dear."
"Curious about what?"
"How much they... Mazda!"
"You're gonna get his hopes up."
"Oh, stop it. Mazda, Mazda... here. 1979 Mazda RX7. Used. Automatic. Blue. Needs work. $4,100."
"$4,100?!" she said, shocked, like it was an insane amount of money.
"Does it have a stick shift?" I said.
"Nope. It says automatic," he said.
"Oh."
"Here's another. 1980 Mazda RX7. Used. Silver. 5 speed. Excellent shape. $5,999."
"5,999?!" my grandmother said.
"That's what it says, dear," my grandfather said.
"Does it have stick shift?" I said.
"That's what it says, my boy." He looked over at me, a big grin stretched across his face. Pretty quick, the grin turned downward and a look of concern appeared on his wrinkly face. "You know, you need to talk to your dad first about this. Otherwise, it's all pie in the sky."
A feeling of disappointment sunk in my stomach.
"I know," I said.
"I'd love to help you look for Mazdas but it would be like looking through a fashion magazine thinking you're going to get a date. That's not a good thing to do, is it?"
"No," I said.
"Why don't you give your dad a call today and ask him about it?"
"OK."
"That's my boy."
I poured some more cereal in my bowl and started another round. This time, it was Count Chocula. I was still hungry.
***
I sat in my room by myself, on the floor, the newspaper spread out in front of me, the used car section open wide. There seemed to be the same amount of RX7's for sale in Moore as back home, a few in the same price range, $4,000 - $6,000, more or less. I felt a sense of relief for some reason, like an affirmation that my hope to own this car was achievable, because my research would reveal the same thing to my father. I believed my father liked that I did research, looked into things, absorbed some information from various sources, at least tried to be informed. I was still scared to call him, though. I worried that he would say no. He was a dream-crusher. He could be a real sour-puss when he wanted to be, particularly with me. I looked at the rotary phone and sensed my father's dark cloud form in the room. It seeped through the phone line and hung over my head, heavy, dreadful.
I stared at the phone for an hour. Then another hour.
After a deep breath, I picked up the phone and dialed my father's work phone number, the rotary dial grinding back and forth, the numbers clicking in the handset. The line rang and rang. He finally answered.
"Colonel Bennigan," he said.
"Dad? It's me."
"Hello son. What can I do for you?"
"Well, I've been thinking."
"Yes?"
"Ummm..."
"Make it quick. I'm very busy."
"Well..."
"Oh, for Christ's sake," he said. I heard a bang on the other end of the line, like the handset was dropped or tossed or whacked, and some grumbling. "Excuse me, Sam. Can you call back when you have a clear idea of what you are trying to ask?"
"Dad, I know what I want to ask. Next summer, I will be 16."
"Yes?"
"And I was hoping I could talk to you about the kind of car I'm going to get, when I turn 16."
"You're not getting a car for your birthday."
"But..."
"If you want a car, then I suggest you save your money. Get a job. Make lots of money. Save for a car and the cost of owning that car. There's gas. Oil changes. Maintenance. Auto insurance. My god, the auto insurance! Owning a car is a big deal, a huge expense. Are you prepared to pay for these things?"
"No. Where do I get a job?"
"I have no idea. You think you're so smart. If you're so smart, then you can find a job. Are your grandparents feeding you?"
"Yes."
"Good. See you when you get back." He hung up the phone.
I put the handset on the cradle, wadded up the newspaper into a huge crumpled ball, and threw it in a trash can in the corner of the room.
***
I spent the remainder of my time at my grandparents' house formulating a plan for finding a job and a couple of weeks later, I was back in San Antonio. My grandfather advised that I scour the want ads when I got back and I did just that. The want ads were mostly a place for potential salesmen, it seemed to me, and I didn't want to be a salesman. I heard that a lot of kids my age had jobs in restaurants or fast food places but I didn't see ads for jobs at those types of places in the newspaper. I asked my mom where I should look and she suggested I look in the phone book for listings under restaurants. I did that. They were in alphabetical order so I looked for the businesses that were on the road in front of my neighborhood: Blanca Road. I called them one by one and asked the same question when someone answered.
"Are you hiring?" I said.
"No," the mysterious voices all said.
San Antonio was a pretty big city and there were a lot of restaurant listings. When I eventually got to the "D" listings, I came across a Greek restaurant that I had never seen before. It was called Demitri's Greek Restaurant. I tried to imagine where it was on Blanca Road or what the front of it looked like. I couldn't for the life of me imagine it. I called anyway.
"Are you hiring?" I said, gripping the handset tightly.
"What?" a lady said. "Hold on." The phone crackled, a hand over the mouthpiece muffling the sound. I could still hear her yelling a question though, asking if they were hiring or something. The muffling went away. "Yes, we're hiring."
"Really?!"
"I said yes, didn't I?"
"Oh OK. What do I need to do?"
"Are you 16?" she said.
"Yes," I said. I lied. I wasn't 16.
"Then come here and fill out an application. We'll see what happens."
"OK. Thanks!"
She hung up the phone. I jumped up, tossing the phone handset, landing in a triumphant pose, hands stretched to the sky, feet planted to the earth spread wide, a big grin on my face. I called to my mother and explained the good news. She seemed pleased at my enthusiasm.
"Would you like for me to drive you down there?" she said.
"Yes, please," I said.
"OK, then brush your hair, brush your teeth, and put on clean clothes."
I ran to my room to get ready. I was ready in five minutes.
***
I had no idea what I was going to be doing for my first stint as an employed person. Being that I was a young kid, the possibility that I could be doing something meaningful or important seemed plausible in my mind, although the reality was that "meaningful or important" were relative to my experience in the world outside of my parents' home. I was in for an awakening.
"What position are they hiring?" my mom said.
"I don't know."
"Aren't you curious?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you ask then?"
"I don't know."
"Hmmm. You don't know what you are getting yourself into?"
"No."
"I didn't think so."
I sat quietly in my mother's Toyota Camry, the cold, conditioned air enveloping my body, some Top 40 music playing on the radio, Lionel Ritchie or something. I watched the different businesses as we passed by, wondering if they were hiring too, and what it would be like to work there: a convenience store, a sandwich shop, a dry cleaner, a paint store. We also passed my high school, Abraham Lincoln High School. Since it was summer time, it was closed. The parking lot was empty except for one car, a bright red Ford Mustang, somewhat new, with shiny alloy rims and glossy trim, freshly coated with Armor All. A boy I recognized from school stood next to it, leaning in a cool fashion against it, smoking a cigarette by himself. I didn't know his name but I sure did recognize him. He looked cool as fuck. I watched him smoke and he watched me gawk at him until I couldn't see him anymore. I daydreamed about owning a Mazda
RX7 and challenging him to a drag race. I daydreamed about our race the rest of the way to the restaurant.
When we arrived, I recognized the strip mall. We had passed it a hundred times but I didn't ever remember shopping there or parking there before. We went around to the back end of the strip mall and my mom parked in a spot directly in front of the entrance of the restaurant. I had never been inside before and had no idea what to expect or what the interior even looked like. I didn't even know who I was supposed to talk to. My mother handed me a ballpoint pen and my identification card for being a military brat. The photo of me on the card was really embarrassing. I looked like a complete dumb ass.
"Do you want me to go inside with you?" she asked.
"No. I'll be fine."
"OK. Well, call me when you're ready for me to pick you up. OK?"
"OK."
She kissed me on the cheek and I got out of the car. She peeled the car out like the wine at home was sitting on the couch unsupervised. Once her car was gone, I went inside.
The restaurant was sparsely furnished and split into two areas. The first area had a couple of tables with checkerboard tablecloths, a beverage area with a soda fountain, a tea dispenser, and a water dispenser. There was also a counter where you ordered your meals with a huge menu on the wall behind it with an open-air kitchen, a grill, deep-fryer, cutting area, prep area, a lean-in cooler, and a beer / wine cooler. The second area was a dining room that was up two steps and separated from the other area by a low wall. In the dining area were a dozen tables, four tops with checkerboard tablecloths, salt and pepper shakers, and a large white candle on each. There was a painting or two of some Greek landscapes--pastures, the Parthenon, and shit like that--and that was about it. It was pretty minimal. I would find out later that this minimalism was useful for parties or wedding receptions held at the restaurant since Greeks liked to toss dishes around and break them when they were celebrating and getting drunk on wine or ouzo.
After standing around for a minute or two like a dumbass, I was greeted by a woman who was petite with curly dark brown hair, short on top and longer in the back. She wore dirty white jeans and a blue Polo shirt with the name of the restaurant on it: Demitri's Greek Restaurant. The jeans and the polo shirt looked like they had been submerged in olive oil then washed then repeated like that over and over. She had a nice smile but looked very tired, as if she had been working 21 days straight without a day off. She extended her hand to me.
"Hi! My name is Desmona. My brother owns the restaurant but I help him run it. You here to apply for work?"
"Yes, but how do you know that?"
"You have a pen in one hand and an ID card in the other and you don't look like a customer. Am I right?"
"Yes."
"Tell you what. Demitri is busy unclogging a toilet but all employees get one free meal with every shift. Do you want to eat something while you wait?"
I looked at the menu and my eyes glazed over. I had never eaten Greek food before and everything on the menu might as well have been from another planet. I had no idea what any of it was or what it might even taste like. I stared at the menu like an aborigine whose eyes were peeled at the sky, watching a jumbo jet tear through the clouds, stunned.
"I guess you haven't had Greek food before," she said, shaking her head. "I'll get you a gyro. If you like that then you'll be on the right foot. Sound good?" I nodded. "Have a seat over there and fill out the application. I'll get it for you."
I sat down and she quickly brought over a piece of paper, dropped it on the table, then went back into the kitchen to make my meal. Before I could even finish filling out the contact information section, she was back at the table with my food. In a red basket lined with red and white checkered tissue paper was a large gyro sandwich, hand cut fries, and one dolma. It was the most divine smelling food I had encountered in weeks.
"Enjoy! Demitri said he'd be out in a minute," she said then vanished to the back of the restaurant through a door in the kitchen.
I examined my food and took a big whiff. The gyro sandwich was the size of a massive burrito, meat and onions and tomatoes and tzatziki sauce spilling out the front of it. I took one bite of the Mediterranean sandwich and immediately fell in love. What had I been missing all my life so far? My taste buds exploded and I worked on that sandwich like a riding mower taking down an overgrown lawn. I must have been a real sight to see because Demitri was laughing up a storm when I noticed him for the first time, standing next to me, all five feet of him, his hands on his hips, laughing and laughing. He didn't look much different than his sister Desmona, about the same height, similar curly hair but cropped shorter in the back, same dirty white jeans and a blue Polo shirt.
"I love watching people eat my food for the first time. It's like a food baptism," he said, extending his hand to me. "I'm Demitri and this is my restaurant." He saw that I was holding my sandwich with a tight, saucy grip. He put his hand in the front pocket of his jeans. "Nevermind. Well, finish up your meal and meet me in the back so we can get started."
"Don't you want me to fill out the application?" I said, my mouth still half-full of food.
"You want to work, don't you?" I nodded. "Good. We'll finish the paperwork later. Let's go!"
He clapped his hands then vanished to the back of the restaurant.
***
In the back was a storage room, a walk-in cooler, a few prep tables, and a dishwashing station complete with a massive, stainless steel sink and attached dishwasher. It was mostly pretty clean but in slight disarray. There were some shipping boxes to be unpacked and some bussing bins filled with dirty dishes to be unloaded. Demitri seemed very proud of his restaurant. He stood there in a manly stance, his fists firmly pressed into his hips, like a short Superman prepared to take flight. I wasn't all that impressed but what did I know? I didn't know shit.
"So, this is where some of the magic happens. You'll be doing a lot of work back here, washing dishes, cutting fries, unpacking shipments from Greece."
"Your food is from Greece?" I said.
"Most of the ingredients are from Greece. I have family over there. They send me the good stuff, mostly, for cheap. It's not authentic Greek food unless it's from Greece, right?"
That seemed like a reasonable statement to me so I didn't say anything. Demitri had a look about him that reminded me of the actor Tom Selleck, mainly because he had a big, black, bushy moustache and curly dark hair in a similar hair style, but Demitri was barely five foot one and he smelled like olive oil instead of tanning oil.
"All right, kid. Be careful of the water coming out the faucet because it's hot. And when I mean hot, it's hot enough to melt dried tzatziki sauce off the plates so be careful. Got it?" he said, pointing a finger into my chest.
"Got it," I said.
"Follow me."
We walked to the back of the storage room to a door that lead out into a hallway where the one restroom was for the diners, the hallway then lead back out to the dining area. But we didn't go out to the dining area. Demitri used his foot to prop open the door to the co-ed bathroom. The smell of a messy turd wafted out.
"The bathroom is usually very clean except this old man came in here after eating a large Greek salad and three servings of baklava. He was in here an hour and blew a gasket. I like to keep it clean in here... for the ladies. I need you to clean this up before the dinner rush. Got it?"
"Got it," I said.
"Follow me."
We went back into the storage room and stepped in front of a table with three very large tins on it. The tins must have been four or five gallon containers. They looked like humongous tuna fish containers without labels. Demitri slowly turned one around, looking for something.
"These came in today. Feta cheese. I need you to open these, take the cheese out, put the cheese in a plastic bin, pour some of the brine in, and cover the bins with Saran Wrap. Got it?"
"Got it," I said.
"Good. Here's a can opener to open these. Please do
n't cut yourself. Got it?" he said, pointing a finger into my chest. He really liked to do that, point and poke me, even though I was taller than he was. Then he left me alone.
I examined the can opener and didn't recognize its shape from the ones my mother had in our kitchen at home. In fact, it looked more like an antique scalpel that you would see in an old movie than a can opener. I gripped it tightly in my hand and turned one of the large tins around, examining it. There were some indentations on the top that seemed like a logical place to open it so I placed the sharp tip of the can opener there and pressed firmly, trying to puncture the top of the tin. Instead, the impenetrable top rejected the opener and my hand crumpled. The can opener pierced my skin and blood gushed from it, deep crimson red. It dripped on the metal table. I called for Demitri but he didn't respond.
The next thing I knew, I saw black.
***
I opened my eyes and Demitri and Desmona were wrapping my hand with something, like a towel or a rag, and I was sitting at the front of the restaurant. I was out of it and I didn't really understand what was going on. I could see that they were talking to me but I didn't understand what they were saying. I was lightheaded and groggy. To my surprise, my mother appeared in front of me and helped me stand up. She hung my good arm around her shoulders and helped me walk to the car. As she opened the door and helped me sit down, I heard her consoling Demitri and Desmona and they seemed concerned about me. She put the seatbelt on me, rolled the window down, and closed the door. As she went around the car to get in, Demitri leaned on the car door, looking in.
"Don't worry kid, you got the job. You seem like a good kid even though I asked you not to cut yourself. Go home and get better and I'll see you in a few days. I gave your mom your schedule," he said, a big smile on his face, his bushy moustache sitting above his white teeth like a furry hat. I could tell he felt sorry for me though. He slapped the car roof and my mother drove off.
As we went, I looked in the side mirror and saw him waving at us. I heard him call out, "Good night, jerk face!"
My mom looked at me, puzzled, and said, "He must not speak very good English."
We drove home.
***
The next day, I was sitting in my room, the auto classifieds sprawled out in front of me on the floor. I looked for the elusive 1980 Mazda RX7. I held a marker in my left hand because my right was wrapped in ace bandage and gauze, still tender and sore from the cut. I usually wrote with my right hand but my left was good enough to circle ads with a marker. I read the listings under the Mazda section carefully, listed in chronological order from newest year to oldest, and I heard an enthusiastic auctioneer in my head, calling them out with a speedy, Redneck accent. It made reading the ads much more enjoyable that way to me. I then was interrupted by a knock at my door.
Boys Page 3
