Grand Opening

by T. F. Pruden

  His fear grew and the anger that always accompanied it sparked to life.

  “Fuck!” he said, dropping the note onto the table in front of him and staring out into the empty dining room.

  “Tabernac!” Rene replied.

  With his head down he stared at the note lying on the table.

  “That’s a sonofabitch Rene.”

  “For sure for sure Tabernac!” the older man replied without raising his head.

  “Cocksucking sonofabitching motherfucker!”

  Wayne’s outburst was loud enough to cause Rene to raise his head and stare with a raised eyebrow at his young partner.

  Wayne rose from the bench and paced first toward the kitchen. He shook his head as he walked. He mumbled to himself in a voice Rene could not hear. The older man said nothing, watching his young partner and waiting for him to speak loud enough to be heard.

  Rene was unwilling to interrupt what appeared to be a quietly unfolding rage.

  “It’s that goddamn breakfast service!” Wayne barked from the kitchen door, “That’s why he decided to leave!”

  “Tabernac!” Rene replied with a sigh and a nod of his head, “‘Dat would seem to be ‘is problem, oui.”

  Wayne turned to face his partner, a cruel smile occupying his face.

  “Your brilliant plan,” he said in a voice he fought to control, “has cost us our chef.”

  “C’est la vie,” Rene answered his partner, “a man mus’ make ‘is choice.”

  “Plainly our chef has made his,” Wayne replied, still pacing with anger bitter in his tone, “and how will his departure affect our stock distribution?”

  “The stock transfer doesn’t take place until the six months of operations has been completed,” Rene said, with his accent gone and relieved to discover the trouble would not extend to his younger partner, “exactly as he pointed out in his note.”

  “That’s a relief,” Wayne said, drawing near the booth as he crossed the dining room, “because I’ll need a one third share of the stock and half of the profits now that I’m handling his end of the business.”

  “I’ll arrange for the contracts to be prepared on Monday,” Rene replied, “but what are we going to do about the kitchen?”

  “As he said in his note, we’ll promote J.D. to head chef,” Wayne said, “with Ron moving up to sous chef ‘til I can find a replacement for him.”

  “Will that affect our costs?” Rene asked.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Wayne replied.

  He now returned to sit across from Rene in the booth.

  “With any luck we can get the young fella to accept half of what we had been paying Maurice,” he said, “as a raise acknowledging the new position and then pay a part time guy with the balance.”

  Rene grinned at his young partner. Wayne had apparently restored himself to a state of good natured and cool equilibrium.

  “Tabernac! You are an excellent tactition mon frere,” Rene said, his accent returned and relief in his voice, “some’ow I don’ t’ink ‘dat you are too surprise’ ‘dat our chef ‘e ‘as lef’ us, non?”

  “I’m shocked by his leaving in fact,” Wayne answered, “and thank you. Business is business and life goes on. Like you say, ‘c’est la vie’, and that’s all there is to it. We change the plan and carry on, or we get run over and left for dead. There’s no in between and no time for mourning.”

  “Tabernac!” Rene said, “our business is in good ‘ands wit’ you in fron’ of ‘eet mon frere!”

  “Hard ones anyway Rene and that’s for sure.” Wayne replied, fixing his partner with a haunted glance, “With a death grip on the bottom line.”

  Maurice stepped with care onto the stairway leading into the Greyhound.

  He followed his new friend Ronnie past the drivers’ seat and down the narrow aisle between the seats. His steps placed with caution, and with a vacant smile occupying plainly impaired features, he searched for a destination.

  The bus was yet empty of passengers and as they neared the rear seats, he was pleased to note they would have their choice of window or aisle position.

  His drinking partner sat in the seat across from the washroom entrance. He gestured for the tall chef to take the space across from his in front of the restroom. The tall chef nodded to him before sitting.

  “It’ll fill up as we go along but we can sit across from each other ‘til it does an’ then we can share if ‘at works for you my friend,” Ronnie said.

  “Tabernac! ‘Dats perfec’ ‘appiness mon ami,” Maurice replied, “but why are we whisper’ang, eh?”

  Ronnie chuckled as he surveyed the seats in front of them before looking into the bleary eyes of his now drunk traveling companion.

  “We’re not whisperin’,” he said, “it’s just hard to hear over the engine noise.”

  “Tabernac! ‘dats correc’ for sure for sure,” Maurice raised his eyebrows in surprise at his friends’ astute appreciation of their surroundings, “we are on ‘da bus an’ ‘da diesel she makes ‘da big noise, eh?”

  “Yuppers,” Ronnie replied, a little sick of the tall chef and knowing a long night awaited him, “an’ we’ve gotta be careful ‘cuz there’s no drinkin’ allowed on the bus.”

  “Tabernac! I know we mus’ be careful, eh?” Maurice leaned into the aisle to answer his new friend in a conspiratorial tone, “but ‘dats why we pick up ‘dese orange juice jars, non?”

  “You bet,” Ronnie said, “but we can’t fill ‘em up ‘til after we get out on the highway, remember?”

  “For sure for sure mon ami!” the tall chef spoke in the voice of a drunken spy, “we mus’ wait until ‘da bus she ‘as lef’ ‘da station to ‘ave our drinks, non?”

  Ronnie smiled at the tall man seated across from him and nodded in agreement. He hoped to keep the fellow from getting them both thrown off of the bus until they made it to Regina. It would be a long night and he didn’t want him passing out before they got there. If he were to sober up, he was unlikely to join them for breakfast.

  That would render the tiresome effort in vain.

  Though a little out of practice due to the long stretch in the provincial jail he had been hustling since he was a teen. The tall man was aching to be taken for a ride. Ronnie made a long distance telephone call to his older brother; reversing the charges by using the instructions printed on the front of the payphone and warning him to be prepared for company. He would need to keep the tall man from losing control until they reached the distant Queen city in the early hours of the morning.

  A while later they would reach their final destination.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, “gonna hit the head ‘fore we start movin’.”

  “Tabernac!” Maurice replied, “for sure for sure ‘dats a good idea mon frere, I w’eel go when you return!”

  “Saves a fellow from pissin’ on his pants after we get movin’,” Ronnie said as he stood and opened the tiny restroom door, “but it stinks in here.”

  Maurice shook his head in sympathy. He stared through the tinted glass of the window at his side. There an assortment of people loaded luggage into the hold beneath the floor of the bus and prepared for the overnight trip.

  He noted the old and young people who would be his fellow passengers.

  Aside from the driver the only riders of middle age seemed to be himself and Ronnie.

  Outside the window of the coach stood parents and children either saying goodbye or preparing to depart. The raw emotions on display reminded him of the lack of attending well-wishers seeing him off as he departed on the long journey. Surely his leaving must be cause for some outpouring of emotion somewhere. Though he couldn’t think of who might mourn him in the event he was to disappear into the ink of the night now surrounding the enormous machine where he sat.

  He shook his head to clear it of the maudlin thoughts, forcing a grin onto his lips as he remembered he was in good company. A job waited for him at the end of this trip. No matter what he was l
eaving behind he was sure whatever adventure awaited him would be worth the price of discovering it.

  The bottles in his coat pocket would shorten the distance while cheering him onward.

  A beep from the back door alarm alerted Wayne and Rene of their soon-to-be-promoted chef arriving for work.

  The partners passed a pensive glance and prepared for the meeting soon to follow.

  Wayne was confident the young chef would not only accept the new role but be pleased to take on the responsibility. He noticed arrogance in the young fellows’ bearing that previously concerned him. That he would now be free from supervision by the tall chef he might view as positive.

  As he was both experienced and possessed the certification Maurice lacked Wayne now hoped to find the attitude justified.

  The most significant concern Wayne could think of would be J.D.’s willingness to accept the salary he planned to offer him. If he were to ask for a higher sum, it would be difficult to argue for long as the grand opening was now only a week away. Without a qualified chef the new restaurant would be in serious difficulty.

  “I need you to follow my lead on this,” Wayne spoke in a low voice to his partner seated across from him, “what I tell him won’t match what we know about Maurice leaving. Got it?”

  “Whatever you say goes, mon ami,” Rene replied.

  The travelers filed onto the Greyhound bus as it readied for departure.

  Each handed a printed ticket to the uniformed driver. He stood at the open door, greeting them with a smile and a nod of reassurance or a hand of assistance to those needing it. With practiced ease he punched the tickets, confirmed the destination, and handed them back to his passengers.

  One after another they filled the uncomfortable seats. As they entered and selected places along the narrow aisle they stowed carry-on bags in the shelves above them. Most were silent and did not notice the two men seated across from one another and talking near the rear of the compartment.

  The snow carried by the approaching Alberta Clipper fell outside the terminal now, and the long trip across the prairies would be slowed by it. The travelers once inside the coach however at once ignored life outside the bus.

  They focused instead on preparing a seat for the overnight passage and the distant end of the long road waiting ahead of them.

  Part Seven:

  Placing Bets

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Wayne signed his name on the line marked with the ‘x’ in blue ink.

  It was near the bottom of the form lying open on the tabletop in front of him. He pushed it over to To-Le-Do Foods sales rep Paul Mitchell seated across from him in the empty restaurant dining room.

  The weekend sales meetings were a regular occurrence for the meat salesman. With deliveries filling the weekdays of a busy calendar Sunday was his only day off aside from statutory holidays. With a new restaurant opening only monthly in the territory it was imperative he made available whatever time might be required by a new customer.

  At least, if he wanted to hold onto the salary plus commission based job it was.

  With ‘Rene’s at the Marlene’ planned as a steakhouse he was grateful to secure the account. He had supplied meats to the revolving cast of owner/operators of the restaurant at the Marlene Hotel as long as he worked at To-Le-Do Foods. The latest grand opening was now only a week away.

  It pleased Paul, and doubtless thrilled his boss, to hold onto business created by a new set of dreamers taking over the historically disastrous facility.

  Of average height, and with the unconcerned perspective bred by limited dreams to protect him, Paul Mitchell was a High School graduate and a restaurant meat salesman known for moderate success. His career so far extended five years. A pleasant enough and attractive fellow despite a narrow mind, his physique had softened with good living. Few discordant thoughts matched a vacuous and disarming smile.

  His primary gift was making conversation both charming and funny.

  The talent made him a hit at parties since high school.

  Paul was married, more than less happily, for the better part of a decade to an unfaithful wife who worked in real estate. There were as yet no children to impinge upon his time and the salesman was free to enjoy the good life.

  He remained unsure of how he secured it.

  The business blessed him with an extensive roster of clients and his wife arranged a small mortgage on a large house. Astutely purchased on her advice in a gentrifying neighborhood beyond the city limits, he believed himself in control of a comfortable and successful destiny. A fellow of limited imagination, Paul so far experienced few instances of either troubled conscience or unfulfilled expectations.

  He was as happy with his life as he always suspected he would be.

  A new set of owners at the Marlene meant at least another year of supplying the old restaurant. He expected the six months beyond to be occupied with chasing payment for an overdue account.

  Until a new set of fresh-minted and optimistic owners arrived. The pattern would then repeat. As it had through the five years he held the territory and would for as long as the place remained open.

  The eventuality seemed near to inevitable as far as he could tell.

  It pleased him to open a new account for the latest set of owners. An indulgent Richie Pallento again guaranteed the credit extended to them. The approach was routine at the hotel.

  They would keep the latest operators of the restaurant in blissful ignorance of the arrangement.

  As both Pallento and the managers of To-Le-Do Foods believed operators of the restaurant best kept unaware of the guarantee.

  Business at the restaurant was too limited to justify opening anything other than a cash account. They extended the convenience of a bi-weekly credit account to the hotel restaurant only as result of Richie Pallento’s personal guarantee provided as owner of the Marlene Hotel.

  Only the food supplier and the hotelier appreciated this.

  The practice made it easier for Richie to continue to entice dreamers to seek their fortune by operating the old restaurant. It also allowed To-Le-Do Foods to supply a business sure to fail.

  Without fearing the damage caused by an unpaid bill.

  Paul Mitchell as sales representative for the meat supplier knew of the gentleman’s agreement between the Marlene Hotel and To-Le-Do Foods. His paycheck depended on the deal being maintained in secrecy. He suffered little by making sure customers operating the restaurant remained ignorant of it.

  With each new operator that moved through the Marlene he learned the stock requirements of a different style of restaurant. The experience gained allowed him to better serve those customers whose businesses experienced success within his territory. This enabled him to become a trusted supplier to his long-term clients. Paul provided them advice both valuable and appreciated and guarded his position as trusted confidante to the chefs and owners he served with jealousy.

  It was an arrangement that worked to the benefit of all parties save the operators of the restaurant at the Marlene Hotel. They were in most cases inexperienced newcomers and thus considered suitable for sacrifice at the altar of continued profits earned by the businesses leveraging their ignorance.

  Paul Mitchell felt no remorse for his complicity in the repetitive scheme.

  The meat salesman believed it showed the reality of the hyper-competitive hospitality industry.

  “So you’ll deliver on Monday mornings?” Wayne asked the well-fed fellow seated across from him.

  “Yup,” Paul replied, “be here by nine a.m., right as rain.”

  “That sounds like it’ll work just fine,” Wayne replied, “what about short notice deliveries in the event we run out of something during the week?”

  “No probs usually,” the meat salesman answered, “I’m generally able to get to you before the end of the day if you call the shop before lunch ‘cuz all of our trucks are radioed.”

  “That’s convenient,” Wayne said, “and we’ll try to
keep the short calls to a minimum, better to have some extra stock on hand than to be calling you all the time but that’s how it is at the start, we’ll probably need a couple of weeks or maybe even a month of operating to gauge our actual requirements.”

  “Again that’s no probs,” the salesman replied, “most new places take a few weeks to get a handle on what they’re going to need regular so don’t worry ‘bout callin’ in ‘til you get a handle on it, I’m happy to drop in and help out that way.”

  “I think J.D. has gone pretty heavy with the first order because of the grand opening at the end of next week,” Wayne said, “so we’re likely to be a lot lighter with the order for the one after.”

  “That’s what it looks like on the sheets here,” Paul replied as he looked over the stock order pages in front of him, “and you’ve got a good freezer there so nothing will spoil by next week, regardless.”

  “Will you be able to attend the opening next Friday evening Paul?” Wayne asked the meat salesman, “You’re welcome though we’ll have to seat you in the lounge as we’re booked in the dining room already I’m afraid.”

  “Congrats’ on fillin’ the place for your grand opening!” the salesman answered with a look of surprise, “I’ll be here and a table in the lounge will be just fine for myself and the wife.”

  “That’s great!” Wayne said, “Rene will be pleased to meet you and to see you here.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Paul replied, “and my wife loves trying out a new restaurant. What’s the menu gonna be looking like? Is it a tasting or will you be serving full meals?”

  “We’re doing both,” Wayne said, smiling as he thought of the upcoming night and the payoff for his hard work, “with dinner for our reserved customers beginning at eight and a full selection of appetizers available after the service. We’re expecting a full house and have ninety two booked for dinner with yourself and your wife.”