by Drew Blank
Pulling up her pants, Twisty tucked the tails of her starched white shirt into her slacks beneath the regulation black vest.
“Say no to crack,” she told me as she adjusted her hips back into the tuxedo slacks.
“Indeed,” I said as we both headed to the time clock.
“So, how’s tricks, fella?” Twisty asked while kicking at my heels in an attempt to trip me.
“Tricks? Who the hell talks like that?” I chuckled.
“Me,” she answered very matter of factly, “and newsies.”
“You don’t see a whole lot of newsies around anymore, now do ya?” I pointed out.
“Then I guess tricks ain’t so good for them, now are they?” This was our typical pre-work banter. “But seriously, how are you?” She asked with a more somber tone as she swiped her card through the reader on the time clock.
“I’m fine, I guess,” I shrugged. “I mean, at any moment I feel like I am going to break down and cry like a wee little girl. But besides that, I’m great.” I removed my employee card from my back pocket, slid it through the machine on the wall and then returned it. Without a word, Twisty wrapped her arms around my torso and squeezed with a might one would not expect from someone of her child-like size. She then proceeded to lean backwards, pulling me off my feet and forcing me into a very unstable bear hug.
“It’s okay big fella. Cry it out,” Twisty urged as she awkwardly tried to rock me side to side.
“I am very uncomfortable,” I gasped, “and I think you are going to break my ribcage.” With that, Twisty let go abruptly, forcing me to scramble to my feet, trying to avoid falling on the hard kitchen floor.
“You big baby.” Twisty kicked my ankle and proceeded to run through the swinging doors that led to the bar, instigating a chase. I looked over my shoulder to the main kitchen where all the prep cooks had been watching our display and shaking their heads. Nobody employed at Tully’s believed Twisty and I were just friends. Sometimes I couldn’t believe it myself.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Tully’s is a ship.” This came from DeeDee, the night manager, as she tried to rally the employees by using a very tired and obvious metaphor. In reality, Tully’s was a ship. The outside was decorated with portholes and life preservers, giving the guests that had any question what kind of food Tully’s Seafood Kitchen served a clue that our nautical theme was indeed hinting towards a more sea faring cuisine. As guests walked through the heavy wooden doors with the opaque portholes, they were greeted by rows of antique fishing rods lined atop benches to accommodate customers waiting for a table on a busy night. Those benches had very little wear, as Tully’s had not been at full capacity for years.
Hostesses waited at the Captain’s Table to welcome guests as they entered and inform them that a table would be prepared for them momentarily. The management insisted no one be sat immediately to avoid giving the impression we were not busy. I am sure as the customers were sat in the middle of a vacant dining room they would come to that conclusion all on their own. Beyond the Captain’s Table, leading guests to the main dining room, was a chilled cabinet full of assorted white wines and champagne. Sitting atop the wine cooler was an intricately assembled model boat, similar to countless others strategically placed throughout the restaurant. To the right, as you entered the heart of Tully’s, was the open grill and fry line, visible to any passers by. The dining area branched off into two rooms. To the left was the Port room, aptly named after the nautical term for left. Not surprisingly, to the right of the main dining room one would find the Starboard room, named for the nautical right. Management scolded me time and time again for keeping with the boat theme and referring to the restrooms as the Poop Decks to my customers.
The walls of each room were cluttered with old mini
billboard ads for lures or bait or some other sort of fishing paraphernalia. Intermingled within the wooden ads were small, framed photos of 50’s era fishermen proudly displaying their catch of the day. If someone were to look hard enough among all the photos of fishing wonderment, they would find a black and white 5x7 in a delicate brass frame of me and Twisty having a sword fight with two of the many fishing poles displayed throughout the restaurant. Leaving Twisty and I with too much free time had always proven to be hazardous to the well being of the restaurant. The most prominent decorative fixtures in all three dining rooms were the gigantic stuffed fish scattered all over the walls. Shellacked and painted to look alive, these monsters disturbed most of Tully’s staff, as well as a majority of the customers sitting down to enjoy a nice meal. A guest would be about to bite down on a flaky morsel of halibut or a deliciously charbroiled nibble of salmon and those lifeless, marble eyes would stare down, as if pleading the diner to reconsider. At night, during closing time, the glazed orbs seemed to follow the servers throughout the dining room.
“A ship can not be sailed by only one man. You need an effective crew. Tully’s is very much the same way,” DeeDee went on. I had heard this speech roughly three or four million times before, as had most of the staff. The servers all stood in a circle in the middle of the main dining room, doing everything they could to look attentive.
“We need to work as a team. Without teamwork, our ship will sink.” The constant boat references made me appropriately seasick. The only thing more irritating than the barrage of weak metaphors the management team insisted on using was the management team themselves. Other than Jerry Lee, the general manager, all the managers had at one point been servers. In fact, I had trained every one of the managers when they started as waiters or waitresses. Had I been interested in working longer hours for considerably less pay, I myself would have become a manager. Unfortunately, in the restaurant business, those promoted from lowly servers to high and mighty managers rarely obtained the position by excelling in their field. A truly excellent server could not afford to take the pay cut that came with a leadership position, leaving all the second string servers who couldn’t quite make it waiting tables to fill in the holes of the management team. This is what made our routinely un-motivational pre-shift meetings so comical. What better way to inspire a team than having the crew member that couldn’t cut it try and tell the talented staff how to do their jobs better?
DeeDee droned on for a few more minutes about “teamwork” and “crews”, all the while Twisty and I stood as still as we could while taking turns kicking each other in the shins. The first person to disrupt the meeting with a yelp of pain or to fall down crying, loses. Though I had a far higher pain tolerance, it was usually me taking the title of loser, as I could never build up the courage to kick Twisty terribly hard. She, on the other hand, had absolutely no reservations about leaving a bruise the size of her freakishly tiny feet inches above my ankle.
“Now, let’s get out there and work together to have a great night!” DeeDee clapped her hands to signal to us that she was finished and to wake the few servers that had perfected the art of taking catnaps while standing. Twisty and I immediately headed for our stations in the back of the main dining room. We each had one long table that could fit eight to twelve diners and two four tops. Aware that we worked best together, the managers typically assigned us stations right next to one another. Also weighing into that decision was Twisty’s tendency to berate or verbally assault any incompetent server that may be unlucky enough to be her station neighbor. Twisty was single-handedly responsible for at least five relatively new employees leaving in tears mid-shift.
“I do not want to be here tonight,” Twisty confessed to me as we both rattled our salt and pepper shakers to make sure they were full.
“Do you ever really want to be here?” I asked.
“Good point,” she conceded. “Is it possible for a
speech about a boat to render a person brain dead? And if it were possible, could said person be unaware of their brain-deadedness?”
“Yes,” I answered with no hesitation, as I polished the metal candleholder on one of my four tops. “I think we all get a little
more brain dead every time we hear that speech. So far, I have lost the part of my brain that knows how to ride a bike and wipe after I take a dump.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a ride home,” Twisty offered up. “However, the other part, you are on your own.”
“Dammit. Swamp ass again.” Our banter could go on like this for hours and usually did.
“So, what’s up with Moxie? Did you see her today?” Twisty once again tried to direct the conversation to something a bit more real.
“Yeah,” I shook my head solemnly. “That kid is amazing.” I know Twisty cares for Moxie and me as if we were her family, so I needed to oblige when she asked. However, I would have preferred to not bring myself to tears right in the beginning of a shift. Tears are not a very uncommon thing for me to produce, but during that time, they had certainly flowed more freely. I wiped my right eye with the back of my hand, trying to play off my overpowering sadness.
Twisty walked around her table and over to me. In silence, she gently wrapped her arms around me, nuzzling her head in my chest. In return, I hugged her back and pulled her close, allowing her to comfort me. Although I felt like I needed it, I didn’t sob. I simply released a few tears, hidden from onlookers in her spiky red hair. After a minute embrace, I heard her sniffle into my white pinpoint oxford and say “You pussy. Get to work.”
We spent the beginning of the dinner shift discussing Moxie’s impending procedures and my insurance dilemma. Twisty was a great listener.
CHAPTER SIX
“Hey, are you on your way to the bar?” Twisty called over her shoulder as we passed in the open kitchen during the dinner rush.
“No, but I’ve got time. What do you need?” I offered up help as she was on her way out of the kitchen with plates lined up her arms.
“Long Island for Table 41. Thanks Babe!” she yelled to me turning the corner, blowing a theatrically huge kiss in my direction. I spun around and headed for the bar.
As guests entered Tully’s from the front they were given the option to approach the Captain’s Table and be sat in the dining room or to veer right and have a drink at the Rod ‘n Reel Lounge. The lounge was nothing extraordinary. With the exception of a few neon beer signs and the island bar resting in the middle of the room, the Rod ‘n Reel looked just like the rest of Tully’s. Nautical themed billboards, campy 50’s style framed pictures, collections of fishing poles and big dead waxed fish adorned the walls. A huge life preserver, stamped S.S Tully and wrapped in a fake seaweed substance decorated the front of the bar. Glasses of all shapes and sizes hung over the bartenders’ heads. Dozens of liquor bottles lined an inner well within the bar, all equipped with metal spouts for accurate pours. Sitting atop the wooden bar were four swirling daiquiri machines constantly churning different flavors of frozen liquor treats. The rear of the bar backed into the kitchen, creating a service bar that allowed servers to order drinks for their guests without disturbing the bar crowd.
Years earlier, the Rod ‘n Reel was the place to be for Cross’s elite. Even on nights when the dining room was a tumbleweed shy of being a ghost town, the lounge bustled with activity. Possessing the title of bartender was coveted amongst the servers. My coworkers considered me crazy to turn down the position when management offered to promote me. In my opinion, the decision seemed like a logical one. Possessing a crippling superiority complex over all the pathetic drunks wallowing up to the bar prevented me from feeling I could offer up the service Tully’s would expect me to give. Waiting tables kept me busy and content, and it paid my bills. The Rod ‘n Reel had since lost its buzz and the role of bartender became more of an obligation than a privilege. The position I had been offered instead went to another tenured server, Randy Castillo.
Randy was the bartender on that particular evening. I stepped up to the service bar and waited patiently for him to notice me as he flirted with two female customers at the other end of the lounge. He wore the same uniform the servers wore, but without the tie. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows to not so subtly show off the tattoo he had on his thin bicep, a Mexican flag with the caption ‘VIVA CASTILLO’ underneath. Although Randy had been born in the U.S. he was very proud of his Latino heritage. At least, I construed it as pride. He may have just found it easier to keep up an image for his other profession.
While not serving up the world’s oldest legal drug, Randy was busy selling some relatively younger and certainly more illegal drugs. This fact was common knowledge throughout the restaurant, as Randy was dealing to the majority of the Tully’s employees. I suspected Randy did not even need his job slinging drinks at the Rod n’ Reel, but it served as a great networking device for his enterprise. With Tully’s huge staff and relatively high turnover rate, there were always new customers to be had. On any given night, if you were to pull up a stool and just hang out at the bar, you would witness a handful of shifty characters meander in and out, all ordering one drink from Randy, taking a few sips and then leaving. Tully’s was an ideal place for Randy to conduct business without being noticed. He even began to take credit cards. The managers pretended not to notice customers leaving Randy $250 tips on an $8.50 tab. As long as the managers were given a discount on their personal drug supply, a blind eye was turned to the exorbitant tip outs.
Everybody liked Randy, and I truly believe it wasn’t just his connection to narcotics that made him so appealing. He had always found me a threat when we were both servers, but once he discovered I did not want the position he was so desperately vying for, we got along quite well. Of course, my respect for a peddler of illegal brain killers was very low, but as far as small talk went, we were friendly.
“Hey Paco!” I called over, after his flirting began to show no end in sight and I grew tired of staring at his bald tan head.
“Whatchoo want, chingon?” Randy yelled back, in a very exaggerated Mexican accent.
“Service Bar-o, por favor! And wouldja quit bugging those nice young ladies? They will not marry you to help you get a green card!” The two girls giggled, whispering into their straws, eyes fixed on me.
“You know I’ll cut you, puta.”
“Puta means whore. Quit confusing me with your mother and make me a drink.” At this point the tipsy ladies at the end were laughing with forced, over the top, drunken glee. Defeated, Randy slunk to the service bar.
“Now why you gotta go and do that? I had those girls, man,” Randy whined, any sign of an accent gone.
“Well, once you give them a few more drinks on the house they will forget all about me and you can be their go-to guy. Now can you do some work, you lazy beaner?”
“I don’t work for no maricon.” His fake latino rage rolled the words off his tongue.
“Well good, because it isn’t for me. It’s for Twisty. Long Island.”
“Oooh. Coming right up, sir!” Randy sprang into action. He had never made any attempt to hide the lust he had for Twisty. The two could not be more opposite, but that never discouraged him. With every advance, Twisty would turn him down in the most brutal and vicious ways. Randy was obviously a glutton for Twisty’s punishment, because he would never relent.
“Tell her I made this with extra love,” Randy winked to me as he handed over the finished product.
“Should I do that creepy wink thing, too?”
“The ladies love the wink,” he insisted.
“I am sure they do,” I humored him. “Ladies, you both have a good night!” I waved to the end of the bar. “Make sure to ask Randy about his creative home remedies for cold sores.”
“Goddammit,” is all I heard Randy mutter as I turned my back to him and exited the service bar.
After delivering Twisty’s drink and checking on my tables, I made my way back to the kitchen to see if anyone else was in need of help. DeeDee was standing at the hot window, looking around frantically, as if she forgot where she was and what she was doing. DeeDee was all the Irish that Twisty did not display. Freckles riddled her milky white skin, almost making
her look pink. Bright red ringlets were usually pulled back in a thick ponytail, a few frizzy escapees constantly stuck to her face with sweat. Her management attire always consisted of a button down style blouse and black slacks. With such striking natural redhead features she should have been beautiful, but she wasn’t. Bewilderment was permanently etched in her frazzled face, making her appear to be constantly on the verge of crying. DeeDee started working at Tully’s a few months after I had and very quickly showed little promise as a server. The area she did excel in was kissing the management’s collective ass. That was a skill that could get you pretty far at Tully’s Seafood Kitchen, as was apparent by its incompetent team of leaders. Every night at the restaurant, busy or slow, seemed like too much for DeeDee to handle.
“Hey DeeDee.” I tapped her on the shoulder, causing her to whip around in a panic.
“What?” She snapped at me. Both of her hands were