by Drew Blank
Swinging the fire extinguisher in Ray’s direction, I hit him directly on the lower row of his teeth. I heard the red metal clang against his tiny incisors as his mouth filled with blood and his eyes with tears. With the extinguisher comfortably settled in Ray’s skull for the moment, I placed both hands on top and leveraged myself upwards, delivering a kick to Luiz’s chest that set him back three or four feet. Winded but not deterred, Luiz advanced again. Ray’s screams were muffled by a mouthful of blood and his pain was numbed by rage. Swinging his blade at me, I threw blunt force from the extinguisher’s base directly into his chest. He was left stunned long enough for me to grab his right arm with my left and snap it back, weakening his hold on the knife and, hopefully, breaking a bone or two. I released the extinguisher and grabbed it now by the top, relying on the hose as a handle. With my right arm brandishing my makeshift mace, I swung the red metal cylinder directly at Luiz’s skull. The attack was easily deflected by the eighteen inch blade. As it swung back to me, I clasped the nozzle end of the hose in my right hand and forced Ray into a headlock with my left. Weaponless and blind with blood rage, Ray threw aimless kicks and hits, now directed at Luiz as I had Ray tight against me making him a human shield. The hose from the extinguisher easily swung around Ray’s neck as I clenched it tightly.
“I just need to stop some of the bleeding,” I muttered into his ear. Humor. Always a good time for that. His airflow restricted by the rubber tourniquet, Ray very quickly went limp in my arms and passed out. I released the extinguisher from around his neck and threw his unconscious body at my final attacker. With Luiz’s knife fully outstretched, Ray’s chest sheathed its blade nicely. Unconcerned with the status
of his cohort, Luiz shook the body off of his weapon, kicked it aside and advanced.
“You need to know when to mind your own business, you little faggot,” Luiz sputtered at me through his foaming rabid lips.
“Sorry, I just had to take a piss. Men’s room was stopped up,” I laughed. Feeling confident but not cocky, I dropped the extinguisher and grabbed for the long blade. Clutching Luiz’s wrist in my hand I squeezed until he couldn’t keep a grip. The serrated knife dropped to the floor leaving me a small yet hollow victory as his smaller shank that he still triumphantly held in his other hand was plunged deep between my shoulder blades. I immediately collapsed to my knees, feeling blood flow down my arms cupping into my hands.
“I…I think you missed…” I spat at him. Luiz just stood over me like a hunter reveling in his kill.
“Pussy,” the ringleader hissed back at me, following it with a kick to my ribs. “We were originally just going to rough this bitch up, but you had to make it so much worse.” Luiz turned and started walking towards Mema, bending over to retrieve his serrated knife. “You might not want to watch.”
For the first time since I entered the room, there was real terror in Mema’s eyes as she sat crippled by fear on the tile. Luiz, still technically a child at 16 years old and average height, hovered over her like a giant. He gently traced her jaw line with the tip of the knife, playing with her fear like it was a shiny new toy. There was no doubt in my mind he was now planning on killing her. I think he truly figured it was only a matter of time before he ended a human life and this seemed like as good a time as any. He was so entranced by the thought of finally fulfilling his homicidal destiny, he barely noticed me pull the shiv from my back. This killer prodigy was so hypnotized by what he was about to do he wasn’t even fazed that a figure was rising to its feet behind him. Cupping this frightened old woman’s chin in his hand he teased her throat with the rough but sharp edge of his blade. Luiz was so distracted by his potential conquest he barely noticed the deep slice from his own homemade knife along his spine. Immediately losing balance and dropping to his knees, eighteen inch knife still in hand, I am sure he felt nothing as I grabbed him by his filthy black hair and pushed him down onto the blade he had been so eager to use to take my mentor’s life. Luiz’s body fell motionless to the floor, his blood rushing to connect with the crimson pools surrounding his henchmen. I surveyed the carnage, reminded that these lifeless bodies were those of just children. But evil is evil. I felt no remorse. As a matter of fact, as I looked down at Mema, I felt a swelling pride. Whether those monsters lived or died was of no concern to me. The only person who had meant anything to me in that miserable world was safe.
After our experience that afternoon at Donnelly House, Mema had made a commitment to me that I would never go back to that children’s prison. Following much paperwork and red tape, not to mention all the waivers freeing the state from any responsibility linked to my mischievous actions, I was officially in the care of one Carmela Severi. We had discussed the possibility of adoption, but at sixteen years old it seemed unnecessary. For the first time in my life I felt truly welcome somewhere and that was all I needed.
CHAPTER FOUR
The entrance to my apartment was slightly obscured by a beaten plywood plank that may have, at one point in time, actually served as a door. It wasn’t the most welcoming of sights, but it was my corner of the world where I could go and be alone. With a socially limiting 130 square feet beyond the threshold, I didn’t do much entertaining, short of the random late night rendezvous with girls that did not have their own place for us to go. I couldn’t quite touch both walls with my hands outstretched, but I would not be able to host a very enthralling game of Red Rover. Sharing the wall with the door was a twin bed positioned in the corner that had been there when I first moved in and probably had been there when Mema first took residence, as well. Compared to the cot style bunks at Donnelly House, however, it was like lying atop a soft, billowy cloud.
Serving as a footboard to my bed was a rickety, wooden desk I had pulled from the dumpster behind the Chinese restaurant down the street. The desk housed a few library books that were always dependably overdue and a dozen or so journals I had been filling since I first moved out of the group home. I cannot imagine the kind of harassment I would have endured if it had been discovered by my delinquent cohabitants that I kept a diary, so I didn’t bother. Also sitting atop the desk was a laptop I had inherited from a regular at the restaurant. It was plenty slow and froze up from time to time, but it was better than nothing. The computer was primarily used as a stereo for my CD collection, which I kept stacked underneath the desk, considering I really had nowhere to put an actual stereo of any sort.
The desk also served as a dresser for my limited wardrobe. Socks and underwear in the top drawer, five or six t-shirts in the middle and one pair each of jeans and shorts in the bottom drawer. I did own two pairs of jeans, but I was always wearing one. In the summer I typically wore the same pair of cargo shorts all season long. From time to time, while I was out working, Mema would sneak up into my room and steal the shorts to make sure they got cleaned at least once or twice during the warm months, insisting no girl would ever be interested in a man “filthier than a hobo”.
In the far right hand corner was a single person shower stall, like the kind you would see on the beach in an old 50’s surf movie. Its water pressure was just hard enough to assure the bather he or she was actually getting wet. The stall walls were just high enough to guarantee a modest person would blush if walked in on, but not shriek from full exposure. Hanging off the far left wall, held up by rusting pipes, was an ironically stained stainless steel utility sink. Between the sink and the shower sat an antiquated porcelain toilet dimly lit by an opaque yellowed window overhead. This was certainly not a luxurious abode, but I happily called it home. Whenever Moxie would stay the night with me, Mema invited us both to stay in her slightly more lavish apartment two doors down from the restaurant. Although her place wasn’t terribly spacious, the pull out sofa was plenty big for the two of us to cuddle on and the toilet was actually concealed behind walls. That was good enough for us.
I kicked off my sneakers and dropped jeans pair #2 to the floor. The only articles of respectable clothing I owned were supplied by my emplo
yer. A white pinpoint oxford, black cotton vest and matching tuxedo slacks were all accessorized with a shiny charcoal neck tie and gleaming black polished shoes. I took pride in what I wore to work simply because my image is what paid the bills. A sloppy waiter is never tipped as well as a groomed, clean, professional server. One of my uniforms went out every morning with Mema’s tablecloths and napkins and returned by one o’clock the same day. Mr. Chin, the dry cleaner across the street, always delivered the laundry personally at one o’clock sharp. I suspected not every client got such attentive customer service, but since being widowed a decade earlier, I think Mr. Chin harbored some feelings for Mema that went beyond that of cleaner/customer. He was not the only matured shop owner on the street that held a special place in his heart for Miss Carmela Severi. None of Mema’s male admirers had ever stopped to think why after all those years she was still a Miss. Mema had spent her life a recluse, and was relatively happy that way. She had never put out the “leave me alone” vibe, but she certainly never put out the “come get some, boys” vibe, either. That never stopped Mr. Chin from trying, though. He was a clever old fellow, too. Figuring I may be the way to her heart, he always had my clothes pressed and hanging, waiting on my shower rod whenever I got home. Some days my shoes would even be mysteriously polished, as well. Though I am sure it didn’t affect Mema one way or the other, it never went unnoticed by me. Occasionally, Mr. Chin would find a rolled up twenty dollar bill in my shoe with a kind note paper-clipped to it, encouraging him to continue his pursuit of the woman he loved and assuring him I would put in a good word.
I changed into my uniform, mussed my hair in the cracked mirror over the sink and headed back downstairs.
Tully’s was only a ten-minute bike ride from home. Dressed in a pinpoint oxford and a cotton vest, I was always grateful for the cooler autumn days. I rode my bike around to the loading docks out back by the dumpsters to be greeted by half the staff smoking and regaling each other with tales of the previous night’s debauchery. Ignoring the typical chides from co-workers directed towards my less than luxurious means of transport, I latched the back wheel of my bike to the gate surrounding the grease traps. It wasn’t that I didn’t get along with the people I worked with because, for the most part, I did. The issue I had with the majority of the serving crew was that I had nothing in common with them. Aside from being infinitely better than most of them at our chosen profession, I couldn’t help but feel I was just better than them all around. As opposed to living my life simply to land that next fix, I focused on the job at hand. When I got off work I usually spent some quiet relaxing time with friends and then headed home to bed, so I could wake up bright and early and visit my daughter the next morning.
Most servers are nocturnal. To them, the night begins when the dinner shift is over and they can proceed to binge on whatever substances are presented before them to drink, smoke, snort or otherwise consume for the quickest and harshest buzz. Although it wasn’t my scene, I had no choice but to endure their antics, as I was severely outnumbered. To say I was a minority would be an understatement, but to say I was alone would be a lie. I did have a few allies.
I politely greeted anyone that had showed me the courtesy of a wave or a grunt acknowledging my presence. Almost immediately, all of Mr. Chin’s hard work was undone as the smoke attacked my crisp, clean uniform. After locking my bike, I briskly climbed up the four massive concrete steps of the loading dock to make my way inside through the double metal doors. The back entry led to the shipping room, where all the day’s deliveries were sorted and distributed throughout the restaurant. The smell of bleach welcomed me as I pushed my way inside. It felt like entering an indoor pool, the humid air filled with the scent of chemical clean. Although the hygiene of the serving staff was deplorable, the restaurant and its kitchen were always immaculate. Opposite the metal doors was the employee bathroom. It was a single toilet john with a lock that worked as long as the handle was not jiggled from the outside. This had originally been the men’s room, but had gone co-ed due to lack of storage. Gender specifics died when the ladies’ room became overflow for cardboard boxes filled with to-go supplies, such as styrofoam containers, wrapped plastic forks and knives and the plastic bags branded with Tully’s name on the outside, just over the warning THIS BAG IS NOT A TOY.
The uni-toileted co-ed bathroom also served as storage for the servers. An overhead bar installed to the left of the latrine provided the employees a place to hang their coats, bags or anything else they didn’t mind smelling like cigarettes, bong water or feces. Realizing there was no guarantee my property would not be tampered with, rummaged through or permanently altered by ungodly odors, I rarely brought anything to work I could not keep on my person. Although management strictly prohibited it, I always kept my cell phone in my pocket, as did all the rest of the servers.
The shipping room branched off into two sections of the kitchen. To the right was dry storage: a huge room lined with metal shelving erected from floor to ceiling, housing all non-refrigerated food items. This was one of the areas the servers knew to avoid when committing any wrongdoings, as it was constantly being monitored by four security cameras threateningly installed in each corner of the giant store room. An employer can never be too careful that an impoverished employee may take off with a thirty-five pound sack of cornmeal.
Adjacent to the employee restrooms was the entrance to the main kitchen and prep lines. Making my way towards the kitchen to clock in and start my shift, I was distracted by a noise coming from dry storage.
Psssssst
“Hello?” I sang playfully towards the dry foods.
Pssssssssssst.
“Can I help you, sir or madam, whichever the case may be?” I responded to the phantom hissing.
“Pssssssst. Hey you!” The sound was now addressing me, in a gruffly masked woman’s voice.
Switching my route from kitchen to dry storage, I poked my head into the massive hall of shelves.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I questioned the thin air.
“Pssssssssst. Wanna buy some crack?” And with that, a diminutive female server in an identical uniform to mine jumped out from behind the second shelving unit. Her back was to me and her black tuxedo pants were pulled down far enough to expose a good chunk of the aforementioned crack. “Come and get it, big boy. First time’s free!” Along with her taunting came a ridiculous little dance, waving the exposed anal-cleavage in my direction. This was my ally, Christine Bailey, Christy to her customers and acquaintances, Twisty to me and anyone else who called her friend.
Twisty was short, in that adorable elf kind of way. If she crossed the five foot two mark I would have insisted she was on her tip-toes, although that wouldn’t have helped much considering her feet were freakishly small for a person her size and age. She wore a boy’s size two, a fact she reveled in by wearing nothing but children’s shoes with cartoon characters on them. Through the years, Twisty had amassed quite an impressive collection of new and vintage kid’s sneakers, all displayed proudly in her bedroom on shelving comprised of 2x4s and milk crates. R2D2, Pac-Man, Scooby Doo, Hello Kitty, Thundercats, Ronald McDonald, Pee Wee Herman, Ghostbusters, Barbie, The Grinch, Mickey Mouse and a cast of hundreds more were always there to welcome any visitors to Twisty’s domicile. She was actually the only employee not required to wear the standard issue shiny, black, slip-proof shoes provided by Tully’s. Apparently, the shoe manufacturer figured no eight year old children would be working in the service industry, making demand far too low to consider production on a kid’s line. The management did insist she wear shiny black shoes of some sort. I doubt black gym shoes with Darth Vader’s face emblazoned on the side was what they had in mind. However, I don’t think anyone ever noticed them under her flared tuxedo bottoms.
Twisty was the cutest girl I knew. Her appearance could best be described as sexily impish. As short as she was, she did not appear breakable. Just shy of being stocky, Twisty possessed curves not typical in
someone of her stature. She best described her own body shape as “Hourglass… if the hourglass had huge tits and a big round ass”, and this was usually followed with a grab of her breasts or a slap on her ass or some variation of both. Confidence oozed from her every action. To further distance herself from the typical super model image, her hair was always short and spiked in a deranged pixie style cut. Although her original hair color was a mystery to even her, she always stayed with some hue in the red family to keep with her Irish heritage. She did not have the skin of a storybook Irish lass, though her cheeks did sport a few freckles. Instead, she had a creamy, light olive complexion, which she attributed to her mother being one quarter Chinese. Twisty was a true mutt, if ever there was one. I envied her for that. It’s always nice to know where you came from.
Twisty carried herself with an arrogance that rivaled my own. I always attributed our close friendship to our inability to accept that we were not better than every one around us. The day she started, roughly four years earlier, we immediately clicked. Being put in the position of her trainer, I feel I may have cheated her out of the full Tully’s learning experience, as we spent the majority of that weeklong period making fun of anyone that crossed our paths. The three years before Twisty came along, I had a friendly relationship with most of the reprobates that worked with me, but other than the occasions when I would get a table of entertaining guests, work was pretty dull. This elfish sweetheart had actually made me look forward to work. The excitement matched the feelings I would experience on the afternoons I got to leave Donnelly House and work at Mema’s almost a decade earlier. There was no romantic link between Twisty and I, at least as far as I knew. My heart belonged to Moxie and I felt I didn’t have enough left over to share with anyone else. If things had been different, I am sure Twisty would have been exactly what I was looking for, but I never told her that. Although Twisty was not your typical girl, I don’t know how well that information would be processed. We were great friends and I needed that kind of uncomplicated stability in my life.