by Ted Neill
“Put him in a body bag, Doogs!”
“Go Bill!”
Suddenly, Doogs’s plastic jug is empty. He lifts it from his lips, and foamy bubbles drop down. The football players roar. The crowd gives a smattering of applause, drowned out in the immediate vicinity of Doogs by his own teammates. A man in a Bigcorp.com shirt approaches and hands Doogs a certificate. They, Bigcorp.com, organized this. They wanted this. They bought the fourteen jugs of milk when they were cold and sweating on the store shelf. They sat back watching while all this transpired. Why do they want to? Money, you suppose; it gets them publicity, customers, and applicants. Money makes money. Milk makes money. Milk money.
Doogs is still vomiting. The liquid he is expelling is darker, rosy colored. The effort exhausts him, and he leans heavily on the can. But he still looks up between spasms and smiles at his teammates. His teammates slap hands and turn to look at a girl. Doogs cannot think about sex right now, only the white gathering on the bottom of the can engages his consciousness. The smell is overpowering.
Bill vomits long graceful streams, preceded by a tightening of his back and a slight lean downward, like a pushup atop the trash can. Even in sickness he is suave. He finishes, scratches his belly. There is no look of shame on his face, just cool Sean Connery panache. He squints his eyes and shakes his head—that’s all the people get of his defeat dance. A shake of the head, a squint of the eye, as if to say, “Well, that’s a shame.”
“That was great.”
“Wow. That was amazing.”
“Those guys are amazing.”
“Was that for charity or something?”
“I don’t know.”
The great American college students say these words. Inspired, they go off to classes, paid for by distant suburban parents, and prepare to be recruited for ninety thousand dollars a year.
11.
A Favor
At four p.m. I got to the country club and walked in the employee entrance. Actually, it was probably a little after four, ’cause I have to walk kind of far. I park my car on the edge of the employee parking lot, but as close as possible to the members’ lot. It’s my attempt to be more sophisticated by parking near all the Jags, Mercs, and Beamers. But I have to walk farther for it. I said Hola to the dishwashers, who were on a smoke break behind the dumpster. I remember the golf course was looking good—I could see it for a second before I walked behind the dumpster and in through the employee entrance. I clocked in, then walked upstairs to the dining room. No one was there, so I checked the Presidential. It’s the private dining room. Fabian was in there setting up tables.
Fabian is from Paraguay. He hates it when people confuse it with Uruguay. He’s taught me most of my Spanish, which is useful for talking to the back-of-house staff. He’s the stocky guy, square head. He has that birthmark on his face. It’s a weird birthmark. It goes from his lip to his forehead, and his mustache and eyebrow are white where they cross it. He told me he was born with it. Anyway, he said that we were working a birthday party together, and now that I was there, we should go talk to Steve.
Steve is our boss. He was in the storage room smoking a cigarette. Steve is always mingling with the members, blending in with his expensive suits, or he’s in the storage room smoking. He goes, “Rookie, you’re working the Harmin Party with Fabe.” Steve doesn’t like calling anyone by their real names. Rookie was my nickname ’cause on my first day I had knocked over a tray of plates. It was fifty china plates, all smashed on the dance floor. It was so loud my ears rang for a half hour after. They started calling me “Rookie” from then on, and the name stuck.
I told Steve I already knew about the party, and he says, “Good, then what are you talking to me for—set up the goddamn tables.”
I’m not exaggerating. That’s just how he talks. Fabian and I rolled six tables into the Presidential. It was about five o’clock by the time we had them all in there. That was when we saw Mr. Ferguson arrive. He pulled his caddy into the handicapped space right outside the window.
Fabian says to me, “Looks like one of us is going to have drunk duty tonight.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You’ll see,” he says. Fabian has worked at the club for two years. I’ve been there just two months. He likes to gloat when he has knowledge I don’t. “You’ve never heard about Mr. Ferguson?” he asks me.
“No. Should I?”
Fabian laughed and stayed silent again to keep me in suspense. Finally, he let up. “See, Mr. Ferguson is one of the oldest members. The guy is part of the institution. He made his money with a Men’s Only club down in the city.”
“Men’s Only?”
“A strip joint, Sidney. A strip joint,” he tells me.
“Just making sure.”
“He made all sorts of money and even pimped a few of his dancers. He finally married one of his dancers who was way younger than him. Mrs. Ferguson? You haven’t heard of her either?”
“No.”
“Oh, man. Well,” he got close to me, like he was telling a dirty joke. “Mr. Ferguson is too old to fuck her now.”
“Too old?”
“He had a stroke a few years ago. Ever since that, his soldier can’t salute. So Mrs. Ferguson sleeps around with all sorts of members here. She even slept with one of the waiters, Jesus. He was the guy you replaced.”
“Did he get fired cause of that?”
“No. He got fired for being late too much,” Fabian said while he was setting a centerpiece of flowers on a mirror in the center of the table. You see, we have to keep working while we do all this talking. But the talking makes it go faster. Fabian and I work well together that way. He kept talking and said, “Mrs. Ferguson comes here sometimes with Mr. Ferguson, but he doesn’t like her to because he’s afraid she’ll pick up more waiters. Usually she’s out with one of her boyfriends while he comes here and gets drunk. They have this agreement: he comes here while Mrs. Ferguson takes her boyfriends home.”
“Get out.”
“Yeah. He knows better than to go back before eleven o’clock.”
“Does he have friends here?”
“Everybody hates him.”
“What about Steve?”
“Steve hates everybody.”
I guess this next part is important. I asked Fabian if Mr. Ferguson can drive home after he’s been drinking.
“He’s wrecked a few times,” he told me. “One time he drove up on the putting green, and all the golfers went ballistic, and then Steve went out there to settle things down and ended up cussing and yelling at everyone else. It was hilarious, man.”
We set chairs up at all the tables, threw tablecloths on them, set up the buffet, and put the burgundy skirts on it. See, all those tables and stuff are just folding tables. With the right tablecloths and skirts, you can dress them up real nice. Anyway, so we set out the chafing dishes, which are sterling silver, four grand a pop. My Grandfather and I used to fish on Bull Run, the river that borders the golf course. I remember on some afternoons, if the sun was hitting the clubhouse just right, we could see all the silver forks and knives glinting on the tables from across the fairway. He always hoped I would make it big someday and could get the family a membership at the club. I told him I would. I was only five then, so things like that seemed possible. I ended up doing the next best thing: I work there and get to go in the club every day. I know lots of the members. We’re even allowed to use the course once a month. I don’t because I don’t play golf, but I still have time to pick it up. I think of Grandpa when I’m setting up the chafers a lot. He’d be proud if he knew. He doesn’t though, because he died when I was seven. It really broke me up; I couldn’t go to school for a week. I haven’t cast a reel since. I’m sorry, I guess that doesn’t really matter right now.
So we did all the candles; stocked the bar; sliced lemons, limes, and oranges; set the tables; and blew up balloons. We were lighting the flames under the chafing dishes just as the guests began to arrive. We ran down
stairs and changed into our tuxedos. Then we came back and took drink orders.
It was a surprise birthday party for Mr. Harmin. He was fifty. The guy was pretty well preserved. Your typical country club stock, a little stocky, thinning hair, with a sunburned neck from being out on the course. His wife was pretty—most women there are; but she wore too much makeup—most women there do.
It took Mr. Harmin ten minutes to shake hands with everyone and thank them for coming. His wife stuck close to him. She was whispering the names of people in his ear when he forgot them. She thought the other people didn’t notice what she was doing, but we all noticed. Mr. Harmin had squinty eyes when he smiled, and small hands. I got him a martini. The glass looked big in his little hand.
While the guests took their seats, the DJ arrived. He was late. Fabian and I were miffed and let him know, because it would be an inconvenience to bring in his stuff with all the people standing around. It’s just not professional. I decided to seat people. I only brought six menus out at a time. That way I had to make a bunch of trips. This gave Fabian and the DJ ample time to carry in the speakers and set up a table for the CD player. We work well that way. Although the members probably thought it was because I’m some dumb community college graduate. Whatever.
Everyone was seated, everyone had a drink, and the DJ was playing music—finally. I went to Mr. Harmin’s table to get orders. Mr. Harmin was talking really loudly. Everyone at his table was listening to him. I walked up with my pad out so that they would know I was ready to take their orders.
“We were coming into the seventh hole, and I was three strokes down . . . .” Mr. Harmin says.
“Honey, the waiter’s here,” Mrs. Harmin interrupts him.
“Hold on, he’s not going anywhere.”
“It’s his birthday,” she turns to me and says. “He wants to be spoiled.”
“I don’t want to be spoiled. I’m in the middle of a story for Christ’s sake. Why don’t you order?”
“I want to know what you’re having first,” she says.
“Don’t worry about that. Just order. I’m down three strokes.”
Quietly, she says to me, “Why don’t you come back later.”
I said “Sure,” and walked towards the next table. Then I heard Mr. Harmin.
“Dammit June, now he’ll never come back. Waiter! I’ll have the filet, medium rare.”
His wife got upset.
“Mick, you—”
“Shut up. It’s my birthday—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
“I did this all for you. The least you could do . . . .” Now the guests were all looking uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sweetcakes,” he says. “I’m just excited, that’s all. Waiter, can I please have a steak.” Then he kissed her on her temple.
“Fine with me.” She turned her face up to me and asked for the salmon.
I walked by the bar with all the orders. Fabian waved me over and said he needed more Seagram’s and a six-pack of Bud. I dropped the orders off at the kitchen, then went downstairs to the Mixed Grill. It’s the causal restaurant in the club—guys can walk off the course in shorts and golf spikes and sit down for a dinner there. The main bar is in the Mixed Grill. Elias, the bartender, is in charge of the keys to the walk-in refrigerators. Elias wasn’t there, probably in the john, which meant the keys were probably behind the bar. Mr. Ferguson was sitting at the bar alone in a blue blazer with a sailor insignia on the breast pocket. The second he saw me, he lifted his glass up and drained it. The ice was rattling in his glass all the way up to his mouth. I thought he was shaking it on purpose. to let me know he was out of liquor.
He slams, more like drops, the empty glass on the bar top and says, “Vodka tonic double.”
“I’m not the bartender,” I tell him.
“Congrats. You just got promoted.”
I didn’t understand. The Absolut bottle had been left within his reach, as was the soda gun. Most members help themselves when Elias isn’t around. So I thought he was fucking with me.
“Bottle’s there,” I said, nodding at it.
“I see the fucking bottle, now pick it up and pour me one.” He pushed the glass to me with the back of his hand. His hand started shaking the second he lifted it off the bar. I remembered what Fabian had said about the stroke and took his glass. I realized maybe he couldn’t pour. I made him a vodka tonic, heavy on the tonic, then tried to get out from behind the bar.
“What’s your name?” he says.
I lied and told him my name was Bob.
“Well Bob, get back here and make me a real drink before I complain to your boss.”
I went back, took his drink, dumped it in the sink. I got out a big fat water glass, filled it halfway with Absolut—maybe it was a little more than that—then I topped it off with tonic all the way to the rim, stuck four olives on a toothpick, then slid it over to him. Biggest damn vodka tonic ever. It should keep him happy, if he can pick it up with those hands, I thought.
As if I had said something, he says, “Fuck you.”
“Enjoy your drink, sir.” As I left, I got to see him spilling half the drink as he tried lifting it up to his lips.
Dinner went well. Mr. Harmin liked his steak. Mrs. Harmin told us we were doing a good job. She seemed like a nice woman. It always makes your night worth it when the people tell you they like the job you’re doing. The room was loud as people loosened up from Fabian’s drinks. Fabian is a good bartender. His black-and-white facial hair matches his tux. He’s like a walking chessboard. But between him and my eye patch, we’re pretty distinct looking. People either love it or hate it. It’s like they think they are stuck with the freaky rejects or the unique and special snowflakes. Steve had pegged the Harmin’s as the latter. He had been right, as usual. He may hate the members, but he sure knows them.
Anyway, people started setting their forks and knives at the top of their empty plates and leaning back in their chairs. We cleared the plates. They were ready for dessert. Dessert is my favorite part of the meal; people always insist they’re full, but you bring out that cake, and they just can’t help themselves.
I went to the kitchen to get the cake. We used two books of matches lighting all fifty candles. Fabian kept burning himself when his matches would burn down too close to his fingers. He kept saying we should steal one of Steve’s lighters. We both found that really funny, mainly ’cause Steve has these expensive Zippo lighters with his initials engraved on them. We had to compose ourselves before we went back. We turned down the lights and brought out the cake. Mr. Harmin stood up and insisted on giving this long speech while the candles burned. He went on and on, thanking everyone there. Some people twice. Fabe’s martinis had taken effect. Mr. Harmin was a little drunk. Finally, his wife, June, saw that the candles were about to burn into the cake. She stopped him short; she was obviously the brains of the family. He gave her this shitty look but then realized that the candles were melting over the cake and just blew them out. People clapped really loudly, probably because they didn’t want him to start talking again.
Fabian says Mr. Harmin has three daughters. The two grown ones didn’t make it to the party, but he also has an eight-year-old. She’s a little blond fatty. Fabian said she had probably been a mistake. We tripped over her all night. She was hiding under tables, hitting people with balloons, and trying to get behind the bar. Fabian had joked about spiking her Shirley Temples with vodka, hoping to get her tired. He says he does things like that sometimes; I don’t know why, could get us in big trouble. I think he’s mainly joking.
Anyway, the sugar in that drink makes kids bounce off the wall. She ran up to look at the cake and couldn’t see it over the table, so she pulled the tablecloth towards her. Now, I had set the cake at an angle, with two empty candy dishes under one end, so people sitting down could see it. All it needed was a tug, and the whole thing—candles, icing, and all—rolled off the table and plopped onto the floor.
Th
e whole crowd sort of gasped. Mickey Harmin walked over to his daughter, who was crying, and patted her on the back. He sent her over to her mom with some napkins to clean herself up, then he looks at me and says, “Well, I guess that comes out of your paycheck.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re not paying for that,” he says, pointing at his demolished birthday cake.
“Uh, I think your daughter knocked it over, sir.”
“You think it’s her fault? She’s only eight. You don’t set a cake up like that with a kid around.”
He walked away, shaking his head at the guests, his hands out at his sides as if to say, you just can’t get good help these days, can you? It was supposed to be my fault. All my fault. Fabian came over and picked up the cake. I was glad he was there. It took some of the heat off. He was all cool in front of the guests. I walked back to the kitchen. Fabian came in after me. Now that he wasn’t in front of the members, he was all frantic.
“Come on, Sidney, we got to find some more cakes.”
“Let him find his own fucking cake.”
He kept telling me that the customer was always right, and that it wouldn’t come out of our paychecks, but that we had to find some cakes—fast. We found some extra chocolate cakes in the downstairs kitchen, unwrapped them, and served them. I let Fabian serve Mr. Harmin’s table. It was probably better if he just didn’t see me. But when it came time to serve coffee, Fabian told me to take orders for regular or decaf. I didn’t want to.
“Come on, you’ve got to go out there, or Harmin will think you’re scared of him. You’ve got to kiss up now. Think tip.”
I went up to his table. Mr. Harmin’s face was red. He was drunk.
“Leopold Fitz is an asshole,” he was saying.
Mrs. Harmin was the only woman left at the table. The other women were dancing. The men were smoking cigars. She touched old Mickey’s arm and goes, “Honey.” He ignored her. He kept saying, “He is an asshole.” The other guys were laughing. “The biggest asshole I’ve ever met.”