by Julia Slavin
I give my time card to How-Weird and remind him about his promise to try me out waitering. He’s been holding that over my head, making me put that stupid chef’s hat back on when the girl comes in, checking my time card to make sure nobody else punched in for me. He also knows I live at Sunrise, which is no great help. How-Weird’s got his assistant in his office, Ellen. Ellen always looks like she’s been crying. Everybody knows How-Weird’s doing her even though he’s married. She’s always in there saying, “Howard, Howard, leave her.” I know because his office is right next to the bar and Tom, our bartender, is always listening and tells everybody what they say and what they do. He says there’s nothing they haven’t done in that office. Nothing.
In the morning Jim and I form the burgers. There’s a barrel of meat and a scale. We put twelve ounces in each patty mold. The meat’s so cold your hands get numb. After touching it so much, it doesn’t seem like meat anymore, from an animal. Jim’s a pretty good artist, and he’ll mold some of the meat into the shape of a chicken or a cow. Once he did a whole tray of cows. Everybody came back to see and thought it was pretty funny. Even Mac came up from downstairs. How-Weird docked Jim an hour’s wage for the time spent making the cows, and Mary didn’t laugh at all because she’s a vegetarian.
I remember that day because I walked Mary home after work, and she asked if I wanted to see where she lived. Her apartment’s filled with lots of Indian print stuff and big pillows. We were kissing on her big pillow couch and I said, “Mary, I like you a lot. I think you’re a great girl, I just can’t get into anything right now. You know my situation at Sunrise and all.”
“And there’s that girl who comes into Sir Arthur’s. Don’t think I don’t see.”
I felt a little buzz go through me. Somebody knew about the girl, mentioned her. I never even wanted to know the girl’s name because I’d have to hear it from somebody else. It would pass over somebody else’s lips before mine.
“It’s okay,” Mary said. “I’m not looking for any big involvement.”
I took Mary at her word and kissed her again. Mary was pretty, but I looked in her shirt and saw that she had strange breasts and lost my erection. I had to close my eyes and think about a girl I met at a party once. It was at a big house with a lot of rich people, and my friend Ron and I crashed. Everybody was doing Placidyl and Jell-O shots. I was leaning against a washing machine drinking a beer, and a girl came up and put her tongue in my mouth and her hand down my pants. Just like that. I was too wasted to get it up and had to think about the first girl I ever loved. Caroline. With Caroline I had to close my eyes and imagine her. I imagined Caroline at the beach with her top off, leaning back on a car looking at me, like a picture I’d seen in a magazine. I think sex is always better with someone you love.
Mary didn’t give me any trouble afterward but I could tell she would have liked things to be different, like if she were the one to leave right after and I was the one wanting her to stay.
I wait all week for the girl. Monday and Tuesday, nothing. Wednesday I’ve got to prepare. Thursday she comes in. I feel clumsy and crazy, looking at her hair, watching her laugh at something her friend said, imagining she’s laughing at something I said. Friday I’m getting used to having her around and I play a little game, pretending we live in a big house, and I’m cooking dinner for her, and all these customers are our kids and our friends. Then the weekend. Group, park cleanup, study for high school equivalency. Most people at Sunrise have a debt to pay, for something they stole or burned down or for holding. Since I’m voluntary, I don’t have to clean up the park, but I walk along with Jim. One day I decide to tell him about the girl.
“What girl?” Jim says.
“She’s kind of cross-eyed. You got to know who I mean.”
“Fuzzy yellow sweater.”
“That’s right,” I say.
“Tight pussy, clean box.”
It’s because of these things he says that nobody wants to talk to Jim. He says that particular thing about every girl. He doesn’t even know what it means. I’m sure he’s never even been with a girl unless he paid her, and I’m pretty certain I would know about it. Jim stabs his poker into a Twinkie wrapper on the grass. At least I got it off my chest.
In rehab they tell you that you wish somebody would turn you in and you put yourself into situations where you know you’ll get caught. I never got caught. One night my friend Ron and I took a car from the Park & Lock on Cordell, a convertible Dodge, and drove to Beltsville, where we heard some people were cooking up base in a farmhouse and we wanted to give it a try. Ron worked for a vet and had a steady supply of dog Valium. We ate nine dog Valiums each and split a six of Ballantine tallboys. I held some meth on the end of a key under Ron’s nose and he drove into the back of a van.
I flew out. All I remember is walking through the woods saying my brother’s name over and over: Barry. I hadn’t even seen him for four years. I came out of the woods and lights were spinning around. I walked around five cop cars to get to Ron. They had him bent over the hood of one of the cars and were treating him pretty rough, picking up his head by his hair and slamming it down on the hood.
I walked over to him, through a circle of six cops, and said, “Ron, man, what do you want me to do with the car?”
Ron said, “I don’t know, man.” He spit some blood.
Then I asked the cops if they’d seen a set of keys. They looked all around with flashlights, under the cars, in the front seat of the Dodge, said they hadn’t seen any keys, and took Ron off.
I had a phone number in my jacket for Helping Hands, a detox clinic. They came and picked me up at a Hardee’s on Route 1.
It’s Thursday, and I try to stay asleep as long as I can. I don’t like having empty time on my hands while I’m waiting for the girl. As always, when I wake up, Jim’s awake, lying in bed smoking. I remind him the meat comes in today and we’ve got to unload it and separate it into bins. I put on jeans, a flannel shirt, and the army jacket I got from my brother Barry. Jim’s been wearing the same black jeans for a week and a half now, a designer brand with yellow stitching somebody donated to Sunrise.
“A little ripe,” I say.
“Yeah,” Jim says.
It’s cold and windy, and Jim and I walk with our hands in our pockets and our heads down. Jim lights a Marlboro and shakes one from the pack for me. I hope it’s not too busy today so I can look at the girl in peace.
The meat delivery’s late so Jim forms the patties while Mac and I unload. Mac is pissed off at having to unload, so he tries to irritate me by singing the same lyrics over and over—“Got the Funk. Got the Funk. Got the F-F-U-N-K. Got the Funk. Got the Funk. Got the F-F-U-N-K”—looking at me the whole time, waiting for me to get irritated. But after a while I’ve heard it so many times I don’t notice anymore.
I check on Jim. He’s worked fast, and he’s got eight trays done already. But I look at the patties, and he’s shaped them all like hearts. One hundred and sixty twelve-ounce hearts.
“For Valentine’s Day, man.”
“Oh, Jim, man.” I think it’s a nice idea, something the customers will really enjoy. Then I remember we work for How-Weird. “Sorry, man,” I say.
We’ve got to start the whole thing over, press the hearts in the molds. Jim doesn’t mind that we have to wreck his work. He’s whistling and singing and working faster than I’ve ever seen. He’s weighing and slapping the meat in the molds and I can’t keep up—if anything, I’m slowing him down—so I step back, have a smoke, let him do the work, and he doesn’t even mind.
“What’s with you, Jim?” I say.
Jim wipes his hands on his pants, opens up his pocket, and shows me a prescription bottle of little yellow pills. It’s got How-Weird’s name on it.
“Bullshit,” I say.
“No shit,” Jim says. “Everybody ate some.”
“If they find out at Sunrise you’re shit-canned,” I say.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Jim says.
“Did you have some of Jim’s Valentine candy?” Alfred asks.
“No, I didn’t have any of Jim’s Valentine candy,” I say, but Alfred’s already leaning over the salad bar, chitchatting with Mary like old friends.
Jim’s filling up the salad bar and looking at me, waiting for me to say I want some of the Desoxyn. I just pay attention to what I’m doing. Get the grill hot. Set up my order board. I came up with the idea for the order board. The girls stick the orders on the nail, and I put them on the board in the exact position where the burger or steak will go on the grill. Just pay attention. One minute at a time. Shit. I’m never going to get through today with all these people speeding. “Jim,” I say.…
At eleven-fifteen the older customers come in. I know what they want, so I can put their burgers on before they order. The place is filling up. Everybody wants to go out to lunch for Valentine’s Day. I look at Alfred and see his forehead sweating. Coldest day of the year so far, and Alfred’s sweating like it’s July. I’m about to rib him for it when I hear my heart. My heart’s pounding so hard I think everybody can hear it. I can’t breathe. I’ve got to slow it down.
I run over to the bar for a shot of something. Tom’s busy. Everybody wants a whiskey sour. Tom tells Mary to tell the customers the blender’s broken so he won’t have to make piña coladas. I’ve got to rush back to the grill and tell Alfred to watch my burgers.
“Alfred, one to seven rare. Eight and nine medium-rare. Ten to twelve well.”
“Eight and nine medium?” he asks. I started to cook before the orders came in so there’s nothing on the board. I’ve got to go through the orders on the nail: MR, MR, MW, MR, R, R, MR, R, R, R, MW.…
“There’s no medium,” I say. “Nothing’s medium.” I run back over to Tom. “Tom,” I say. “Give me something. I’ll pay you tomorrow.” I’ve got my hand over my heart because I think it’s going to pop out of my shirt.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Tom says. “You just got butterflies.” He pours me a shot from the rail. Tom’s a smooth dresser, wears suits with no back vent and a lot of jewelry. He puts Score in his hair and slicks it straight back. He talks about this lady and that lady, and they always want him to take their picture. He’s got pictures of this chick with the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen. Everybody knows he paid her.
The shot is hot going down. I never liked the taste of booze. I have to fight the urge to puke. My heart slows a bit and I feel hot all over.
“You’re okay.” He pats my wrist. “It’s just butterflies.” Tom had some of the Desoxyn too.
I go back to the grill and I’m starting to feel okay. I get a feeling from long ago, a sense of overall well-being. The rare is out and I’m getting ready to take off the medium-rare. I’m really enjoying my work and seeing the customers happy with their meals.
“Corky.” It’s Mary. “Tell Jim the lettuce is low and we never got kidney beans or crackers.”
I push open the door to the back. Jim’s not there. Claudio’s doing dishes. “Claudio. ¿Dónde está Jim?”
“I don’t know,” Claudio says.
“Tell him we need more lettuce.” Nobody eats kidney beans.
It’s noon. People have to wait in line for a table.
“Young man,” an old man says, “is there more lettuce?”
I take the lettuce bowl in the back. “Claudio …”
“Ain’t seen him, man.”
I go in the walk-in. It feels great because the grill’s so hot. I take out five heads of iceberg and break them up in the bowl. “This how Jim does it?” I ask Claudio.
Claudio looks at me, like, How the hell should I know, I just do the dishes.
People are lined up, nearly to the door, when I get back with the lettuce.
“Alfred, my orders,” I say. He didn’t flip my rare. I’m going to have to move them down to medium and start new ones.
“I’ve got my own to worry about,” Alfred says. He’s getting agitated from the Desoxyn.
“Corky.” It’s Ellen. She looks like she’s been crying pretty bad today. “Howard wants to see you.”
“Tell him I’ll be there soon as I can.”
The grill’s filled to capacity and there’s a wait for new orders. Mary points to the lettuce bowl, which is getting low again, and I just hold up my hands. The lettuce bowl gets down to almost nothing and I’ve got to take it in the back. I see the girl waiting in line with her friend. The shot’s worn off and my heart’s starting to pound again. In the walk-in I hold on to my chest. Just relax. Tom keeps a bottle of Finlandia in here, and I throw back a swig. Don’t puke. Five heads of iceberg. I stay in the walk-in while I break them up. I’ve got to rush back to the grill and tell Alfred to watch my burgers.
“Alfred, one to five rare.…”
“I got it, I got it.”
I go back in the walk-in, finish the iceberg, do another shot of Finlandia, bring out the lettuce, flip my mediums.
Mary comes over to the grill. “Corky.”
I know she wants me to go down to Mac.
“Mary, I got a full grill and Jim’s nowhere to be found.”
“Please, Corky.” She’s almost crying. “I just can’t deal with Mac today.”
I can’t deal with Mac today either, so when I clip the order to Mac’s spin-around I just say “Ordering” and head for the stairs.
“Just what is this supposed to be?” Mac says, looking at the order. I knew I wasn’t getting away that easy.
“It’s an order, Mac, just what it looks like. And if I remember correctly it’s an order for stuffed baked flounder.” Mac doesn’t say anything. I bolt up the stairs and stop midway. I had no right to talk to Mac that way. “Mac, I’m sorry,” I say, when I get back down. “It’s crazy up there. Everybody’s getting burgers and salad bar and Jim’s disappeared.”
“Don’t matter,” Mac says. “It’s no different from the way anybody around here treats me.” Mac lays a piece of fish in a dish and dots it with butter.
“What do you want, Mac?” I say. “How about a Coke? How about I bring you a Coke, my treat?”
Mac shrugs and slips the fish in the oven.
“What do you say, Mac?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll take the Coke.”
When I get back to the grill, Mary and Alfred are arguing. “Corky, I put eleven in ten minutes ago and it hasn’t even been put on the grill.”
“I never saw it, I never saw it,” Alfred says.
“Hang on,” I say. I look on the board, I look on the nail. It’s still on the nail. “I got it, Mary. I’ll put it on now.”
Mary runs back to the tables. Alfred says “Cunt” under his breath.
The girl’s wearing a light-green sweater.
“Corky.” Ellen again.
“Shit, Ellen. I forgot. Alfred …”
“Okay, okay, just go,” Alfred says. I high-tail it to How-Weird’s office.
How-Weird doesn’t look up from the papers he’s filling out. I just stand there. I take off my chef’s hat and hold it like I’m a soldier. Then I think how stupid that is and put it back on. Then I think it’s stupid to be standing in an office with a big chef’s hat on.
“Was it worth it?” How-Weird asks, still not looking up.
If you’re going to shit-can me, shit-can me. “Was what worth it?” I say.
“Dishes, stockroom, working the grill, all your hard work?”
I have nothing to say.
“Mary’s leaving,” How-Weird says. “You get your shot at waitering.”
“Pardon?” I say.
“You heard me. Monday. Three-day trial.”
I come out of Howard’s off
ice and Tom claps his hands. Ellen gives me a kiss on the cheek. Someone told the old guy at twelve, and he toasts me with his scotch. Lunch has slowed down a bit. I can relax a little, even smoke a cigarette as long as the customers don’t see.
There’s a hush in the restaurant and then a low buzz of people talking. I think maybe something happened to the grill or Jim walked in the front, but the grill’s fine and Jim’s still missing. Everybody is looking at an old fat guy with a young chick at seventeen. Tom’s away from the bar, walking around with his hands behind his back like he’s the manager, looking all over to make sure the place is running smoothly. One of the waitresses mouths something to me. I can’t make out what she’s trying to tell me, so she comes over to the grill.
“Peter Ustinov,” she says.
She points to seventeen. It’s the actor Peter Ustinov. He’s with a French chick and she wants coffee. He orders a piña colada, and suddenly Tom’s blender is working.
I don’t know any of the movies Peter Ustinov has been in, so I ask the waitress.
“I don’t know any of the names,” she says. “A lot of Roman movies.”
“Mary,” I say, as she’s sticking an order on the nail, “What’s he been in?”
“I can’t remember,” she says. Seventeen is Mary’s and she’s flustered.
The girl is looking over at the actor and talking to her friend. She’s snapping her fingers, trying to figure out what movies he’s been in.
Tom brings the piña colada out himself. “Here you are, sir. On the house.”
I don’t know since when Tom can be giving drinks on the house. He comes over to the salad bar and leans on it. His jacket arm slides up over his wrist and a solid gold ID bracelet. He looks around the place like it’s his.
“Tom,” I say, “what’s he been in?” Tom closes his eyes and holds a finger in the air so that no one will disturb him while he’s trying to remember. He snaps his fingers a few times. He slaps himself on the forehead.
