Getting Higher

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "We'll see." Joe crushed his empty beer can and lobbed it into the brown paper garbage bag in the corner.

  'All Burger World employees,' the manager had said, 'must maintain a helpful and clean-cut image.' Joe couldn't picture himself as helpful or clean-cut. He thought about the whole thing, and it was so ridiculous that he had to laugh to himself. This was not going to work out, he thought, this was definitely not going to work out.

  The next morning, Joe woke at about eleven o'clock. The first thing that he did after crawling from his blankets on the floor was to head for the bathroom. Sleepily, he filled the sink with warm water and splashed some on his rumpled, reddened face. He found one of Rocky's razors and some shaving cream and started to remove his shaggy beard.

  There was a lot of hair on his face, the thick foliage of several shaveless months, and it took a while to get rid of it. By eleven-thirty, however, it was gone; he drained the hairy water from the sink, wiped the extra gobs of fur from the basin with a piece of toilet paper, and slapped some of Rocky's shaving lotion on his cheeks and chin and neck.

  Joe gazed into the mirror at his image. He looked completely different, almost unrecognizable, even to himself; for years and years, he'd sported a beard and mustache, and now they were suddenly gone. It was like looking at a different person, somebody else who had replaced Joe Jones in front of the mirror. Befuddled by the change, the new man reached up and ran his hand over his chin, staring.

  "Fuckin' Burger World," he mumbled. "Fuckin' job."

  He stared at the dark pips of fuzz that still stuck to the sink, the last remnants of his old face.

  Then, a little more slowly, he reached for a pair of scissors. His hair was next.

  *****

  By one o'clock, Joe was standing in the manager's office at Burger World. His beard was long-gone and his hair didn't hang below his shoulders anymore; though his barbering had been unprofessional, with too much hair hacked from some patches and not enough from others, the cut was apparently good enough to satisfy the boss. Joe's bangs now ended an inch above his eyebrows, the hair at the nape of his neck had retreated far from his collar, and his ears were visible for the first time in a long time. Though he was glad that the haircut had passed inspection, he still felt uneasy without the mane which had once swaddled him; the hair and the beard had been more than decoration-- they'd become an integral part of Joe's persona over the years.

  The manager of Burger World hovered before him, looking him over and delivering a seemingly endless lecture. "Now that you're a member of our...well, I like to call it our family...you'll find that you have a great deal of responsibility. For instance..." The manager was a middle-aged man with short, black hair and a tall, lanky frame. As the guy rambled on, Joe noticed that he had a very deep voice, booming yet restrained in its tone. He wore a plain white shirt and blue tie, and his name was Mr. Stevens.

  "I think that you'll like it here, Mr. Jones," said Mr. Stevens, checking a sheet of paper on his clipboard, "or may I call you Joe? We like to be informal around here."

  "Yeah, sure," shrugged the fledgling employee. "Joe's fine."

  "Good. Well, I guess we might as well get you started, Joe. Follow me." Mr. Stevens whisked through the restaurant's small dining room, a cluster of yellow tables between the service counter and the windowed front of the establishment. With Joe trailing after him, he strode through a door marked "Employees Only" and walked out into the long, narrow space behind the counter.

  "This, Joe, is the Customer Service Facility. As you can see, it's basically composed of a counter and cash registers. Since we usually have our girls working out here, I doubt that you'll be at the counter much."

  Joe stared at everything as he followed Mr. Stevens across the floor. There were two cash registers, planted at opposite ends of the shiny, metal counter. One was being operated by a good-looking young brunette, a slim, perky girl who was probably in her twenties. She was talking to an old guy, taking his order and punching keys on the computerized register.

  As Joe and Mr. Stevens strolled through a swinging door, the manager's voice again caught his disciple's attention. "This is the kitchen, the heart of Burger World," he smiled proudly. "This is where we do all the cooking and preparation of our product, whether it be hamburgers, fries, or Captain Burger Matey Meals. It's all here." He waved his arm in a wide arc around the room, displaying the glories of his precious domain.

  A large, flat grill occupied most of one end of the kitchen, separated from the space behind the front counter by a partition that reached to the level of Joe's chest. Atop the partition was a counter where the cooks would place finished food, a metallic surface from which the cashier was at that moment hoisting a paper-wrapped burger. There was a deep-fryer beside the grill, an oven, and a bulky piece of equipment that Joe didn't recognize. One man was running back and forth amid the cooking apparatus, flipping burgers on the grill and slapping food around with hasty skill. He wore the orange Burger World uniform, and glanced up briefly when Joe and Mr. Stevens entered the room.

  "That's Mike," pointed out Mr. Stevens. "You'll be working with him quite often. Mike, meet Joe."

  "Hey," muttered Mike without smiling, giving Joe a cursory nod.

  "Let's get you a uniform," suggested Mr. Stevens.

  The manager led Joe to a cramped closet at the rear of the place, a cubbyhole with a sign on the door marked "Employee Dressing Room."

  "Try this on," he said as he handed Joe a plastic-wrapped bundle. "Let's see if it fits."

  Once he'd entered the dressing room and put the outfit on, Joe felt utterly ridiculous. It was all orange, with a yellow stripe running down either side from his shoulders to his trouser cuffs. There was a short-sleeved, button-down orange shirt, loose-fitting orange slacks, and a floppy orange cap which was supposed to resemble a chef's hat. When he looked in the mirror, he groaned; the uniform was ugly and silly, and he thought that it made him look like a clown. At that moment, he considered taking it all off and quitting, abandoning ship before he could be subjected to any more embarrassment.

  He needed the money, though, so he decided to grit his teeth and give it all a try. Swallowing hard, Joe marched from the nook, his orange circus uniform rustling as he walked.

  "That looks fine," said Mr. Stevens approvingly. "Just fine. Now you're one of us. Welcome to Burger World."

  "So when do I start?" asked Joe.

  "How about now?" smirked Mr. Stevens.

  *****

  "Okay," said Mike. "This is how you flip burgers. Pretty tough, huh?" He spoke to Joe without looking at him, concentrating on the grill instead. At the moment, fifteen hamburger patties lay on its flat, greasy surface, spitting and sizzling as he turned them with a spatula. Joe watched the grill closely while he listened, trying to memorize everything that Mike showed him.

  "You wanna' give it a try?" offered Mike, stepping back from the grill and swinging his spatula toward his student.

  "Yeah, sure. What the hell," angled Joe, moving forward and accepting the utensil. Lowering it to the grill, he slid the flat instrument under a hamburger, then lifted the meat up and threw it back down on its rosy, uncooked side. "How's that?"

  "Oh, man, that was fantastic. You are just too much." Mike's voice was sarcastic yet friendly, a wry but inoffensive tone. Joe noticed that he always talked like that, with a cynical, disparaging edge to his voice; at least, he'd talked like that for the past ten minutes, which was as long as Joe had known him so far. "Do it again. You better get the hang of it, 'cause you'll be doin' it a lot more from now on."

  "Great," said Joe, flipping another patty. "Is this all you do all day, man? Must get kind'a boring."

  "Yeah, it's boring, but it ain't the only thing I do. I make fish, fries, and onion rings too, over there in the fryer." Mike indicated a squat, metal contraption to the right of the grill. It was rectangular, consisting mainly of a vat full of hot grease. Three wire baskets hung on a rod above the molasses-brown grease, baskets which we
re used to lower food into it for frying. One basket was currently submerged, its contents popping and crackling within the bubbling, volcanic depths. "I also gotta' heat up the frozen pies and make sundaes and milkshakes. Best of all, I get to put together the damn Captain Burger Matey Meals." Mike's voice was loaded with sarcastic disgust, a prickly, barbed tone of ironic displeasure.

  "Wow, man. Sounds like fun. Matey Meals, huh?" Joe laughed and shook his head.

  "Hey, don't laugh," contended Mike, raising his eyebrows. "You're gonna' be doin' this shit, too, starting now. Two guys just quit, so Stevens wants you trained and working fast. We're so damn understaffed, it ain't even funny. You're gonna' have your hands full, guaranteed. You're workin' rush tonight, so you better pull your shit together quick." Mike nipped the spatula from Joe and started to work on the grill again. Scooping burgers off the grill and smacking them down onto open-faced buns, he motioned for Joe to lend a hand. "Let's get you in gear, pal. You can start by wrapping these burgers. All you do is put the sandwich on one of these papers, and fold it in. Watch." Mike did one, his able hands flying swiftly over the crinkling wrapper. "There," he grunted, shoving the finished artwork aside. "You do the rest."

  "All right." Slowly and awkwardly at first, Joe began wrapping, trying to adjust his fingers to the simple but brand-new task. As he labored, he noticed that Mike had fallen silent; the Burger World veteran was completely involved in his job, darting around and throwing things to fill the orders which had arrived from the front counter. Joe saw that the guy was sweating; his dark, straight hair was wet where it protruded from under his goofy cap. He was a young guy, maybe in his twenties, with a stocky build and blocky, blunt face. As he hustled, ample muscles bunched and twitched beneath his loose Burger World shirt. To Joe, he seemed out of place in the fast-food joint; he looked more like a construction worker or a bouncer from a bar.

  "Hey," shouted Mike, tossing more burgers on the grill. "I want you to make fries. Take one of those brown bags outta' the cooler over there, and dump about half of it in one of the baskets on the fryer. Dump it and set the timer, okay?"

  "Okay." Joe stopped wrapping and did as Mike requested. "Whatta' I set it on?"

  "Three minutes," replied Mike. "Then get over here and get me some more buns."

  Joe flicked the timer dial to the setting marked "3 Min," then hurried over to Mike's side. Glancing briefly over the partition, he saw that the restaurant was definitely getting busier. It was four o'clock, and the supper crowd was beginning to trickle in. Customers lined up at both cash registers, placing their orders and paying the cashiers.

  "It's gettin' busy," he said, drawing hamburger buns from a sack.

  "No shit," responded Mike. "It gets worse."

  "I can hardly wait," muttered Joe.

  "Hurry up with those buns. Watch the fries. Get me a chocolate shake and one of those Matey Meal boxes."

  As the afternoon wore on, it got worse, just as Mike had predicted. By seven o'clock, when his shift was finally over, Joe was totally exhausted.

  *****

  "How'd it go?" asked Rocky at home that evening, watching T.V. and eating a hoagie.

  "Oh, just great," mumbled Joe, dumped on the floor like a heap of dirty laundry.

  "I figured you'd like workin' again," declared Rocky. "Man, when you're off the job for a while, and you finally go back, it sure feels good."

  "Uh-huh," yawned Joe, nodding tiredly.

  "That's exactly how I felt when I started back at Donaldson, man. I came home after my first day and just felt great. Way to go, Joey-- I'm proud a' you."

  "Thanks." Joe closed his eyes; they felt sore and dehydrated from the hot, smoky air of Burger World.

  "You work tomorrow?" Rocky took a huge bite of his sandwich as he talked, making his words hard to understand.

  "Uh, yeah," supplied Joe. "I work every day this week. Noon to seven."

  "Hey, that ain't bad. You'll really be rakin' in the bucks now, bud." Rocky belched loudly and tugged the hem of his T-shirt up, peeling it away from his belly so that he could use it to wipe his mouth.

  "Yup," continued Rocky as he swabbed at his lips with the shirt. "It sure must feel good, gettin' back ta' work like this. Right, Joey?"

  Joe didn't answer. He was already sound asleep.

  *****

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Joe slogged along the dark sidewalk, sighing wearily as he made his way home from work. Unfortunately, he'd been forced to work late for the third day in a row, and was only now done with his shift. As usual, Joe had been scheduled to work from noon to seven o'clock; today, though, Burger World had been so busy that he'd had to stay until nine.

  It had been a full week since he'd started working at the restaurant. For Joe, the time had raced by, seeming more like one day than five. Now that he wasn't just hanging around on the street all the time, things seemed to speed up like an old Keystone Cops movie. He woke at about ten o'clock each morning, went to work at noon, returned home by seven or eight, and went to sleep; it was the same process every day, and it all seemed to blend together after a while.

  After the first two or three days, Joe had mastered most of his duties at Burger World, he'd learned all that he needed to learn about cooking and he'd gotten to know most of his co-workers. Most of the people working there were friendly, and more importantly, younger than him. In fact, a lot of them were high school and college students who were only working part-time at the place. For a change, Joe had the upper hand in years and experience; he was twice as old as most of the other employees, and they seemed to look up to him a little because of that age difference. For once, and in the most unexpected circumstance-- working in a cheap fast food joint with a bunch of kids--Joe had a measure of respect from other people. Nobody made fun of him for working there, either, or gave him a hard time because he had to flip burgers for a living at his age; in places like Bartlett and Brownstown, where the steel mills were all closed or closing and unemployment was high, it was no longer unusual for older men to work in restaurants or other low-paying jobs. Many times, they simply had to, just so that they could pay the bills and feed their families.

  And so, Joe had managed to fit in at the restaurant. He didn't even mind working there anymore--much. The work was hectic, but not difficult; the pay was only minimum wage, but it would allow him to contribute to Rocky's rent; the managers seemed to be satisfied with his work, and they didn't hassle him often; and the other employees seemed to like him.

  He was even starting to get used to his horrible orange Burger World uniform. At first, he could hardly stand to wear the thing; after a while, though, he became preoccupied with his work and forgot about it. When he was in the middle of an early-evening dinner rush, with dozens of orders waiting to be filled and the grill covered with burgers, Joe didn't have much time to think about what he was wearing.

  He missed his beard and long hair, of course, but even that was becoming bearable. He didn't like to shave every morning, but if he didn't, he would lose his job. That was all there was to it; at the moment, his job and his paycheck were more important to him than his hair.

  As he walked down the street, Joe felt tired, and wanted to get home quickly. Burger World was on Wayne Avenue, about three blocks away from Rocky's apartment; it wasn't a long walk, but after an arduous day of work, it seemed to stretch into miles.

  The street remained silent as Joe traveled onward. Like Brownstown, Bartlett retired early each night; by seven o'clock, all the shops and many of the restaurants were empty, their lights doused and their doors locked tightly. Only an occasional car rolled down the street, sliding through the rows of golden oblongs cast down by the orchards of streetlights. Nobody but Joe occupied the sidewalk, and the air was empty and still like the solemn atmosphere of a church.

  Joe turned a corner, then suddenly heard a shout from across the street; it was a loud, foghorn voice, and sounded familiar. For a flicker, he thought that it belonged to Crank.

  "Hey, J
oey! Wait up, man!"

  Quickly, he realized that the voice was Rocky's, and turned to see the big man standing on the opposite curb, shouting through cupped hands at him.

  "Yo, buddy!" barked Rocky. "Wait up!" Joe stopped walking and watched as his friend jogged across the street toward him. Rocky's brawny body shifted as he ran, his thick arms swinging like cables and his chest flicking slightly beneath his dark blue T-shirt. "Hey, man!" grinned Rocky, panting a little from his dash. "We're doin' the town tonight! Are you ready to party?" Playfully, he slapped Joe's arm.

  "Uh, I don't know," yawned Joe. "I had a long day, y'know? They fuckin' kept me till nine again. I just got outta' that hole five minutes ago, an' I'm pretty pooped."

  "Aw, c'mon Joey boy!" prodded Rocky. "We ain't been to a good party since you got here, man! Is this th' same Joey I used ta' kick ass with back in Brownstown? C'mon!" Jerking Joe's arm, Rocky pulled him away from the path to the apartment.

  "Nah, I don't think so. I think I'll just go home an' hit the hay." Joe started to move toward Rocky's place again, but Rocky's mighty mitt held him firmly, electromagnetically.

  "Joey," urged Rocky persuasively, "let's go! Okay? You're never too tired to party, man! It's over at this babe's place, a couple blocks away. I met her at Donaldson's an' we been gettin' along pretty good. I'm gonna' go for it, man!"

  "What about Agnes?" queried Joe. "Wasn't she gonna' move out here with you in a couple weeks?"

  "She was," snorted Rocky, "but not anymore! That bitch lied to me, man! She never gave a shit in the first place, so the hell with her. Let's get goin', okay? It's gonna' be great, I swear ta' God. At least show up for a few minutes an' meet this babe a' mine. Make me look good, y'know? Then you can leave. C'mon, man."