by Drew Blank
clutching tickets with meal orders printed on them.
“Umm…” I took a moment to keep my cool and not reflect her crazed demeanor. “I just wanted to know if there was anything I can do to help out.”
“Just take care of your tables!” This was like a geriatric heart patient trying to teach an Olympic runner how to sprint.
I glanced over to my tables, making sure they were still fine and asked again, with a little more direction. “My tables are all good. You look like you need some help.” DeeDee’s bloodshot eyes matched the pink hue of her skin. As she stared at me all I could see were her black pupils.
“I need some of this food run!” She exploded, yelling in my direction but projecting her voice for everyone in the restaurant to hear it.
“You got it,” I offered amicably. I began grabbing plates from the hot window and matching them up with their tickets. I ran a good deal of the food that had started bottlenecking in the kitchen. Passing my tables on trips back I would refill drinks, clear away empty plates, flash a forced smile followed with a “How is everything, folks?” and generally keep order in my station.
After a fifth trip around the restaurant with arms full of food, I made my way back to the kitchen and found the chaos had died down, DeeDee looking no less psychotic. Slipping past her I found a small order of spinach dip with chips that needed to go to the bar. Chips in one hand and dip in the other, I headed back to trade quips with Randy.
Entering the lounge through the swinging doors in the back kitchen I found the recipient of the appetizer sitting alone at a two top by the window. I smiled politely as I approached the table and gestured to the lonely old man with a raise of the two plates. Barely acknowledging my presence, he rustled a few sections of the newspaper aside to make room for his food. As I sat the plates on the table, I asked if there was anything else I could get for him. Grumbling something into his scotch, cigarette dangling from his lips, I assumed he said no or some variation thereof and I left him alone.
With the exception of a young couple sitting at the bar stools too into themselves to notice there was anyone around them and the grumpy old bastard I had just delivered spinach dip to, the lounge was dead. The giggly drunk ladies had found themselves a table in the dining room, leaving Randy all alone.
“Hey Pedro, your customer has his comida. No thank you necessary. Just doing my job,” I taunted Randy who had his back turned to me. When he didn’t respond it occurred to me he was on the phone. I leaned against the bar to listen in. If he was just taking a to-go order he’d be off in a minute or two and I could harass him a little more. It didn’t take long for me to realize it was not a customer on the other end.
“Yea…probably two or three…” Randy spoke into the receiver.
“No… no, not the real good shit. There’s no point…. I dunno, I think like a bachelor party or some shit like that…mmhmm…” I had never heard Randy making a drug-related call before. My ignorance showed when it shocked me he would be so nonchalant about it. I suppose he really had no reason to think the phones were bugged or the call was being monitored.
“We have a whole new training class coming through,” Randy chuckled “yeah, a whole new batch of customers.” He continued to laugh as he turned around and gave me a thin smile. I motioned over my shoulder to the old man and mouthed “Food’s up.” Randy nodded, put his hand over the mouthpiece and said “Thanks honkie.” He then continued with his conversation.
Normally, Randy’s second vocation held no interest for me. I really could not have cared less about what he did when he left Tully’s at night. However, that night my curiosity was piqued. I slowly exited the lounge through the double doors into the kitchen and circled around back to the service bar. Under the guise of refreshing the cocktail fruit that sat iced in front of the counter, I continued listening to Randy’s half of the conversation.
“Tonight? I’ll probably be out around one. One thirty at the latest. You gonna be around? … What? No, I got it on me…. I told you, I’m almost dry… Just bring what you got. I’ll move it.” Randy was silent for a few moments, obviously listening to whoever was on the other end. He then broke back into the conversation, “well, if you don’t have time to meet me at my place, just come here… no, man, it’s cool… trust me… uh huh… yeah, in the parking lot… I’ll just wait by my car… cool… yeah, I told you I have it on me… one thirty… yeah… okay, cool… later.” Randy hung up the phone and I continued my charade of disinterest.
“Didjoo need somethin’, white bread?” Randy asked me coyly.
“Yeah. A service bartender that isn’t going to get deported any time soon.”
“You really are a dick. Did you tell Twisty I made that drink just for her?”
“Who the hell else would have made it, you moron?”
“Oh yeah.” Randy realized the folly in his question and followed it up with, “fuck you.”
“See ya later, Pepe.” I yelled as I left the service bar and headed back to the kitchen.
Randy would be meeting with his supplier in the Tully’s parking lot after work. Any other day that might not have meant anything to me, but that night I couldn’t shake the information from my brain. There would probably be anywhere from a few hundred to a few thousand dollars in untraceable cash trading hands in the very parking lot of my place of employment. Drug money. Money taken by the scum of the earth to provide other scumbags a means to an unnatural and unhealthy euphoria. What kind of world do we live in where these losers are living high off of other people’s addictions and misfortune, while the hard workers out there are barely scraping by? All these thoughts raced through my head, along with images of my little girl, as I attempted to justify the plan that was quickly brewing and coming together in my mind.
I wanted that money. I was going to get that money.
CHAPTER SEVEN
We made last call at eleven thirty sharp. The Rod n’ Reel was deserted and the dining room only had a few stragglers chatting over empty coffee cups. Most of the servers had been cut earlier in the evening as business began to dwindle. DeeDee would typically schedule me to be the last server on the floor, confident I wouldn’t need any direction regarding the closing checklist. I didn’t mind because it gave me the chance to stay and make a little extra money. Twisty hung around far after she had been cut, just to keep me company. Normally, we would be discussing our plans for after work. Any given night you could find us at the pancake house across the street gorging on tall stacks smothered in flavored syrups or we’d be eating pizza bagels in Twisty’s basement bedroom watching bad classic sci-fi movies, her passion. Along with her vast collection of novelty children’s shoes, Twisty had hundreds of bad science fiction films on VHS, DVD and even Laserdisc. She insisted on teaching me to appreciate the art of stop-motion creatures or bad blue screen effects making spiders, rats and even lobsters look like giant monsters. I really never understood Twisty’s excitement over these cinematic turds, but I enjoyed hanging out with her and relaxing after a stressful night at Tully’s Seafood Kitchen. This night was different. I had my mind on other plans and they most certainly could not involve Twisty.
“So, what’re we doin’ tonight?” Twisty was sitting on the stainless steel countertop over the bread warmers, watching me roll silverware into clean linen napkins. She kicked her lilliputian feet back and forth, banging the huge metallic drawers of the warmers. “Pannycakes?”
“I don’t think I’m up for anything tonight,” I lied. “I should probably just go home.”
“That’s fridiculous. We have to do something.”
“Fridiculous?” I raised an eyebrow at her made-up word. “But seriously, I really think I should just get my ass to bed.”
“Oh no you don’t, gloomy gus. You are not going home to get lost in that big crazy brain of yours.”
“No, it isn’t that. I am just tired. I really just need some sleep.” This was not a lie. Stress can be tiring and I was exhausted. “Forgive me?”
“Har
umph,” Twisty exhaled as she hopped off the counter. “You sir, are no fun.”
“Oh c’mon. You know I love ya,” I reached out for her waist and she slapped my hand away.
“Nope! No sugar for you. You are tired!” It was never a mystery to me why everybody in the restaurant thought Twisty and I were sleeping together. Even I was shocked sometimes. It was a topic we conveniently avoided time and time again, which was probably for the best. I had never had a friendship with a girl and I was in no hurry to screw it up.
“Tomorrow?” I offered up. “We can do whatever you want.”
Twisty pursed her lips in an expert pout, crossing her arms over her chest. After a few moments she pushed out a labored “fine” as her hands fell to her sides.
“What are you gonna do without me?” I jokingly inquired.
“Probably go out with Randy. Let him do whatever he wants to me. I know he’d appreciate me.” She stood up straight and adjusted her larger than average breasts in her shirt while making a kissy face.
“I hope you like to scratch,” I warned her. “Now go on, get outta here.”
“Okay, but don’t you get all depressed on me. I’m worried about you, dummy.” She got up on her tiptoes and locked her fingers behind my neck. After a big exaggerated kiss on my cheek, she dropped back to her feet. Spinning around on the wet tiled kitchen floor, she strutted towards the time clock, slapping her ass at me, totally aware I was watching.
“See ya, Buddy,” she yelled as she swiped her employee card through the time clock and disappeared towards the back exit. Once I heard the slam of the huge double doors out back, I resumed my closing duties as quickly as possible. I had been formulating a plan in my head for the events that were to come and time would be precious.
After finishing all my chores for the evening, I sat in the manager’s office with DeeDee, going through my paperwork. I watched the clock tick to ten after midnight as she sifted through all my table tickets and charge slips.
“Did you have a good night?” DeeDee always tried to make small talk, but it usually came off as forced and uncomfortable.
“Yeah. But then again, I usually do.” Management resented the servers that did well, knowing we were making more money than they were and dealing with much less stress. I always tried to rub that in any chance I got.
“That’s good,” she said as she looked away and continued counting the money I was turning in.
“It was a good shift tonight, I think,” I tried to cheer her up with some positive reinforcement. My sincerity was frequently questioned, because I was rarely sincere. This was not one of those rare occasions.
“Thanks. I thought it was a fucking disaster.” DeeDee rebutted. “But thank you for your help.” It was a fucking disaster and it would have been worse without my help. I accepted her gratitude.
“No problem. I do what I can.” I sat in the chair next to her, anxiously waiting for her to finish counting so I could go. I had a list in my head of things I needed to do before one-thirty when Randy met his dealer in the parking lot time was running out.
My plan was relatively simple. If I learned anything through my years at Donnelly House, it was always have the upper hand. The element of surprise was priceless in any altercation. I had no idea what to expect of Randy’s dealer, but I suspected neither of these two were fighters, nor would they be expecting some guy to jump out from behind the cars and attack them. My hope was they would go along quietly and simply hand over their money. That was my hope. It reminded me of something Tattoo Tom, the man responsible for all my indelible body art, used to always tell me. “Hope in one hand, shit in the other. See which fills up faster.” No amount of planning or hoping would have prepared me for what came next.
Exiting the manager’s office, I made my way to the Captain’s Table. The hostesses were the first employees to leave at night, so I had no concerns there would be any interruptions for the first part of my plan. The Captain’s Table was a huge oak desk equipped with several drawers, shelves, and nooks and crannies for all the supplies the host staff might need through the course of the evening. Extra menus; crayons wrapped in rubber bands for the kids; a tub of freshly rolled silverware; individual clipboards designated for each dining room, laminated with a seating chart of that room, all had their homes within the enormous desk. On the bottom shelf was a beat up cardboard box that had never been changed out as long as I had been there. Faintly written in permanent marker on the side were the words LOST-N-FOUND. That box was what brought me to the Captain’s Table. I obviously could not follow through with my plan wearing my Tully’s uniform as it may have been a bit of a give away as to my identity, particularly the name badge that read DREW. I needed a disguise.
Rummaging through the old box, I was reminded of browsing at the resale shop down the street from Mema’s. Scents attacked me as the garments and random items got rustled for what may have been the first time in months. It was the stale smell of many different households all culminating in that cardboard crock-pot. Amongst the coats, scarves, gloves and other miscellaneous outerwear I found a black hooded sweatshirt with a zipper up the front. That would work perfectly to cover my telltale tattoos and hide me in the shadows of the parking lot as I waited. My search of the box continued to be fruitful as I found a relatively new pair of navy blue winter gloves. They were the thin and stretchy kind that would not hinder my performance, but would keep me protected and hide my fingerprints from anybody that might be looking. Under a big furry hat of some sort, I found a huge pair of Jackie O-style sunglasses. They were very obviously women’s glasses, but for the purpose of anonymity these would prove to be effective. Big round orbs covered the wearer’s eyes and half their face. With a hood over my head and these shades covering everything else but my mouth and nose, I was confident in the dark I would be unrecognizable. It was my hope to sneak up on Randy and his friend, not allowing them time to even look at me. There I was, hoping again. Hope in one hand, shit in the other. See which fills up faster. Tattoo Tom’s voice resonated through my head. I stuffed the hoody and gloves under my vest and slid the face shielding shades in my back pocket.
In order to remain inconspicuous, I made sure to leave Tully’s as soon as I finished at the Captain’s Table. I made my way to the kitchen to clock out when I ran into Randy, cash drawer in hand, on his way to the manager’s office to check out.
“Whatchoo still doing here, homo?” Randy didn’t always greet me with Spanish insults. Sometimes they were far less creative.
“I heard your sister was hosting an after hours gang bang for the kitchen staff. Thought I’d hang around for a while,” I answered, proud of my ability to keep cool.
“Dude, you are a trip,” Randy shook his head as he carried on. “Later, man.”
“Yeah. Later.” I made it to the time clock undisturbed, swiped my card and headed for the shipping room.
Being fearless may seem to some like a great attribute to have, but in reality it can be very dangerous. It can contribute to a person’s inability to make wise decision’s regarding one’s well-being. I always made a strong effort to be fearless, but smart. I was not concerned about getting hurt, but I did have to be careful not to get caught. I only had one pair of shoes with me and those were Tully’s standard issue service shoes. My pants were restaurant uniform as well, but they looked like any one of a million pairs of black slacks. I needed to replace my shoes. In the corner of the shipping room, hanging on a hook next to the doublewide exit, was a rusty old snow shovel. Resting underneath was a bag of salt to melt away ice on the walkways during the wintry months and a pair of black rubber boots. On my way out the doors, I quickly snatched the boots and left Tully’s for the evening.
I made my way down the mammoth concrete steps of the loading dock that led to my bike, still shackled to the chain link fence surrounding the area. My intentions were not to take the bike far, but I had to get it out of here. I couldn’t risk somebody noticing I hadn’t left yet. As much as I would have l
oved for my plan to go by flawlessly, there is no telling if someone would come around looking for answers. Leaving as few pieces to the puzzle lying around as possible was certainly in my best interest. Unlatching the rear wheel from the chain, I hopped on my bike and headed off the premises.
The backside of Tully’s was visible from Oxford Pines, a small, rundown subdivision across the street. The irony in its name was there were no pines anywhere in the city, let alone this dingy rural neighborhood. Twisty and I had spent many afternoons walking around Oxford Pines in between lunch and dinner shifts. We would always start our excursions with Twisty stating, “there is no better way to brighten up my day than to witness a drive-by”. In reality, it wasn’t a bad area. It was just forgotten. Several of the homes were boarded up with foreclosure signs posted on the overgrown lawns. The houses that did appear inhabited were definitely not cared for. Weeds kept the lawns looking green in the winter, while overgrown infestations of dandelions added color in the spring. Aside from the occasional bum sneaking out from under the boards of an abandoned home, I don’t recall ever seeing anyone walking around the streets of Oxford Pines. I needed somewhere to hide my bike and this neighborhood seemed to be the best place to not be noticed.
I pedaled through the entrance, passing the dilapidated wooden sign that read FOX PENIS, an all too obvious prank played by vandals with the letters of OXFORD PINES years ago that had never been fixed. The discoloration from where the letters once were remained, leaving a shadow of the original sign, reminding people of the community that had once thrived there. Small lanes and cul-de-sacs branched off of the main strip that connected the whole neighborhood, but never too far. I rode down the main road until I came to an area that had once been a bustling community area, I am sure. Now it was just a wasteland surrounding a pool fenced off by broken chain link and police tape. The pool had long been emptied. Only an ankle level of murky black goo brought on by rainwater and stray animals using it as a giant litter box remained. The cement of the pool was cracked and falling apart. Every inch of the concrete had been vandalized with gang signs or crude sayings courtesy of the local youths. There was nothing artistic here. Just angry teens with no healthy outlet. I was confident this would be a safe place to leave my bike. I could not guarantee it would be there when I got back, but I was quite sure nobody in the neighborhood was going to report any questionable behavior I may show by leaving my bike in the middle of the subdivision.