by Joseph Souza
Yanni shouts for me in the kitchen. I ignore his entreaties and follow Dalton out the door and into the parking lot. He opens his car door angrily and is about to get in when he sees me standing there. Does he recognize me, despite the fact that Iggy is three inches shorter than Lucy?
“What the hell do you want?”
“Iggy,” I say, holding out my hand. “Just wanted to introduce myself.”
Dalton stares down at my hand as if I’m holding a grenade.
“Stef told me about your girlfriend. I’m real sorry, man.”
“That smart-ass kid should learn to keep her big mouth shut.”
“Is it true what happened to that cook who was here before me?”
“Where the hell you been living? A cave?”
“Up near Bolton Ridge. Don’t watch much news.”
“There’s a lot of meth heads living up in Bolton Ridge. Caught a guy cooking up there last year.”
“Not me. I’m just a regular, old-fashioned cook.”
“How long you been working at The Galaxy?”
“Today’s my first day on the job,” I say. “Better be getting back before the boss gets pissed.”
“You obviously don’t know Yanni. He’ll be pissed no matter what you do.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Look, don’t take this personally, but you’ll never be as good as Lucy. That girl was a gifted chef.”
“Just trying to earn a living and pay some bills, Officer.”
“It’s Detective.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s Detective Dalton, not Officer.”
“Okay, I’ll remember that.”
“You better, Iggy, if you want to stay on my good side.”
I go back inside and see Stefania staring at me as if I’m a child molester, arms crossed and shifting her weight in nervous anticipation of my arrival. Yanni shouts something from the kitchen just as two more customers walk into the diner.
“This place always so busy?” I ask, incredulous at the size of the crowd.
“Hell, no. Denny’s caught fire last night and the place burnt down.”
“It did?”
Stefania laughs. “Are you for real? It’s been all over the news.”
“I don’t listen to the news. Too depressing.” I make a mental note to stay abreast of current events. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Teacher conference,” she says. “So what else you like to do, Iggy?”
I lean over and whisper in her ear, “I like to toke.”
“Excuse me?”
“I got some nice herb we can smoke after breakfast, if you like.”
“You could get fired if I told my grandfather about this,” she whispers.
I know for a fact that she’ll not tell the old man. “Just trying to be friendly.”
“Meet me by the Dumpster at ten. It usually slows down around that time.”
“Sure.”
“And bring the weed.”
Yanni barks out my name so that all the customers in the dining room can hear. It’s so unprofessional that it makes me cringe. What must this look like to diners trying to enjoy their breakfast? I shrug it off and let his comments roll off my back. Keep calm, I tell myself. Don’t let his cruel words or terrible cooking methods get to you.
“Where you been?” Yanni shouts as soon as I walk into the kitchen. Sweat drips off his lined forehead and onto the sheet of phyllo dough he’s rolling out for baklava.
“Sorry, boss. That detective wanted to talk to me.”
“What about?”
“Told him I lived up on Bolton Ridge, and he said there’s been a lot of drug activity up there. Maybe he thought I was dealing or something.”
“Are you?” Yanni slaps his hand down on the moist dough.
“Not on your life, boss! I’m clean as a whistle.”
“I better not catch you doing drugs around here. My young granddaughter works in this diner.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Now get to work.”
I tie an apron around my waist and grab a ticket. Scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. What a surprise. Against all my culinary training, I pour a dabble of liquid eggs on the flattop and try not to vomit. I’m still Lucy Abbott underneath it all, I have to keep reminding myself, despite the bald pate and stoner dude disguise. It wounds my pride to cook like this. And to talk in this raspy, undignified manner. As the day progresses, I repeat my mantra that I’m a highly qualified chef who’s trained for many years. I slow my pace and purposefully make mistake after mistake, which gives Yanni plenty reason to shout at me. He calls me a “fucking moron” and a “redneck hick” and “the worst goddamn chef I’ve ever hired.” Calling me these names, I can tell, makes him happy. Happier than a dining room full of paying customers.
I flip two buttermilk pancakes that I mixed out of a box. A funny thought comes to mind, and I picture Yanni splashing gasoline against the walls of Denny’s and then lighting it on fire. The result: Now all their customers are migrating here.
* * *
“Dude,” Stefania says as we smoke a blunt behind the Dumpster. “Where’d you get this shit? It’s totally amazing.”
“There’s plenty more where this came from,” I say with newfound confidence. “How old are you anyways? Eighteen?”
Stefania blows out a cloud of smoke and laughs. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“I could get in big trouble if you were any younger than that.”
“Chillax, Iggy,” she says, staring at me in an odd manner. “You look familiar for some reason. Have we met before?”
“Don’t think so.” The thought of her recognizing Lucy Abbott makes me nervous.
She shrugs and takes another hit off the joint, staring at me closely.
“How come they didn’t kill that other cook like they did those two kids?” I ask.
“How do I know? Why don’t you go track down the killer and ask him yourself.”
“Not me. I don’t want nothing to do with any of that.” I take another hit.
“Hurry up and pass that shit over.” She grabs it out of my hand and inhales.
“What do you think happened?”
“Don’t you think I’d tell the cops if I knew?”
The glare she gives me tells me I’ve gone too far. I need to play it cool if I’m to be accepted here.
“Some of us are planning on having a little party soon. Why don’t you join us, Iggy?”
“Not sure that’s a good idea.”
“You wanna keep your job, don’t you? I wouldn’t want my grandfather to learn that you’ve been smoking weed out back with his granddaughter.”
“When you put it that way, I guess I could swing by for a few minutes.”
“Cool. Bring some of that killer weed when you come. And a bottle of booze while you’re at it.”
I pinch the roach. “Where do you want me to meet you?”
“I’ll let you know when the time comes.”
“Your mother doesn’t care if you go out and party?”
“My parents don’t give a shit about me. As long as I stay out of their hair, I can do whatever I want. All my mother cares about are those dumb immigrants.”
“What’s she do?”
“She’s a social worker, and her clients are those Afghani refugees. She cares more about them than she does her own kid.”
“Sounds to me like she’s only trying to help them settle in.”
“What the hell does a stoner like you know about helping anyone?”
I shrug helplessly.
“I bet she never even wanted me. Same with my deadbeat dad.”
Stefania heads back to the kitchen and disappears inside. I follow behind and see tickets lined up for lunch service. The difficulty here is cooking down to a level I’m not accustomed to. It’s like an Olympic runner slowing her pace in order to accommodate a much slower partner, but deep down the runner’s burning desire is to take off.
Lunch is busier than I’ve ever seen it. If only they’d patronized this place when Lucy was here, she might have made a difference. That fire at Denny’s has proven to be a real boon for The Galaxy, but it won’t take long before these new customers become disillusioned with the crappy food here and drift someplace else.
I purposefully screw up the first few tickets in order to make Yanni happy. Although he grumbles incoherently, I can tell it gives him purpose. It makes him feel superior and needed. I try not to scream when he places an order of spanakopita in the microwave and sets it out for pickup. His Greek meatballs, shaped like miniature footballs, aren’t half bad. If only he used a better grade of meat, they might even be exceptional. But he won’t, and I can’t help but think that an opportunity is being lost to win over these new customers, especially now that his competition has been temporarily vanquished.
I go out to the parking lot for a smoke after lunch service slows down. The half-smoked joint I shared with Stefania sits in my pocket. I had to pocket a couple from my father’s stash, and I feel guilty about stealing from him. Because of his condition, he’s allowed to possess a certain amount for medical purposes only. He’s even started to cultivate his own crop in a hidden patch behind the house. He claims it eases his pain and helps boost his appetite.
I’m halfway through my first cigarette when a car pulls up and parks in front of me. Dalton gets out of the vehicle and strides toward me.
“Got an extra one of those?” he asks.
My knees go weak as I pull out the box, slap it against my palm like a short-order cook, and watch as he picks the smoke out with the tip of his fingers. I pass him mine, which he uses to light his, and stare at his handsome profile.
“You got a cold?” he asks, squeezing his throat. “Your voice.”
“Nope,” I say, holding up my cigarette. “Too many of these.”
“Sorry about before. Being a dick like that.”
“It’s cool.”
“I have a lot on my mind these days.” He inhales the cigarette and studies me closely. “Women, right?”
I laugh. “Can’t live with ’em. Can’t live without ’em.”
“You too?”
I laugh again because he has no idea.
“You got a girl, Iggy?”
“Guess you could say that.”
“These broads really know how to break a guy’s heart.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Look at you, man. Rocking the concert tee, the do-rag, and skull earrings. Guy like you must be popular with the heavy metal babes.”
“Don’t I wish?”
He takes another hit on his smoke. “There was no one like Lucy. That was one special girl.”
“The one they buried in the woods?”
“That’s the one.”
“She was hot, huh?”
“Being hot has nothing to do with it. There was something different about her. She had class and wasn’t like all the other women around here.”
“Wonder who buried her?”
“Whoever it was, we’ll find them.”
“You really liked this chick, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Thinking about her is driving you crazy.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Big time.”
“Trying to solve these two murders is also stressing me out. The chief and the state police have been on my ass, and none of these Afghani assholes will talk to me.” He takes another long drag on his cigarette. “You can’t believe how much it sucked interviewing that dead kid’s mother and trying not to convince her that one of these immigrant fucks did it.”
I shake my head and stare at him, feigning sympathy.
“I can’t even imagine what that girl went through, being buried and then stoned. Then with that kid having his throat slit like an animal. What kind of person does that to another human being?”
“People sure can be cruel to one another,” I say, wanting to let him talk on.
“Tell me about it,” he says. “I was certainly no angel growing up.”
“I remember this one dude who bullied the hell out of me in grade school. Made my life miserable twenty-four seven.”
“Hate to admit it, Iggy, but I was that bully growing up. Makes me sick thinking about it now.”
“It should. That kinda bullying scars people for life.” It surprises me that he’s expressing such remorse. I want to hug him and extend an olive branch of forgiveness. “Why didn’t you just convince your girl to stay?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t even know if she liked me or not.”
“Then you should call her and find out.”
“Too late. I doubt she’ll ever come back to Fawn Grove after what they did to her.”
“I certainly wouldn’t if I were her.”
“Fucking savages!”
“And she’s the lucky one.”
“How so?”
“She didn’t end up dead like those two poor kids.” I slide my hand across my throat.
Dalton flicks his cigarette to the ground and stomps on it. “So how you like working here?”
“Beats a stick in the eye.”
“Yanni can be a real prick at times.” He smiles knowingly.
“At times?”
“You’re all right, Iggy,” he says, patting my shoulder. “Hey, you wanna grab a beer with me later?”
“Love to, but I’m a little low on funds.” I pull out my pockets so that lint falls out.
He laughs at the sight of my rabbit ears. “No worries. The beers are on me tonight. It’ll be good for us guys to get acquainted and let our hair down.”
“Why not? I got no hair to let down anyway.”
This is too good to be true. Does this guy really have no other friends? And yet I realize this could be my way in with him. A way of getting information without getting too close, and without any fear of another one of those crazy passionate kisses.
Before he disappears into the diner, he tells me where and when to meet him. I head to my father’s van, parked two streets over so no one will see it, and climb inside.
As soon as I get home, my father welcomes me by passing over his bong. Against my better judgment, I take a hit and am soon feeling relaxed. As much as I’m enjoying the occasional blast of weed, it’s a habit I don’t want to cultivate. It’s bad for my health and could trigger a whole host of problems dealing with addiction, mental health, and weight gain. I tell myself that I’ll quit once all this is over. But for the time being it helps make my voice raspy. It also puts me in a better place and helps me forget that I’m this pathetic loser named Iggy. I close my eyes until the memory of being buried alive returns in full force. Then I sit up and catch my breath, and pray for the girl I’d once been. And the woman I hope to become.
23
MY FATHER DROPS ME OFF A BLOCK FROM THE BAR SO THAT THE two of us won’t be spotted. He offers to pick me up afterward, but I tell him I’ll take a cab home instead. I look into his eyes and can see he’s mildly stoned. In a few hours he’ll be in no condition to drive. Then again, neither will I. The combination of hormones and pills limits my tolerance for everything, including alcohol and weed.
Dalton is sitting at the long bar when I enter. He looks as if he’s been on that stool for some time. Overcome by nerves, I want to rush into the ladies’ room and check myself out in the mirror. Powder my face and reapply my makeup. It often took me over an hour before I went out in public to face the world. But this is not a date. Just two dudes getting together for a couple of beers. Crotch grabbing, backslapping, and knocking back shots while talking about chicks, cars, and guns. The thought depresses me as I sit down next to him, my nerves still rattled from that ground-shaking kiss. The sensation of being this close to Dalton strikes me as odd, considering that I’ve been pushing him away since I arrived here as Lucy Abbott. It’s the story of my life.
I remember Dalton back in middle school, constantly shoving me to the dirt and taunting me
while the other kids stood around and laughed. He’d call me a sissy and a queer, although I never came across as overly effeminate. I would get up and try to tackle him, only to watch as he pushed me back down. Sometimes I tried to run away, but he’d eventually catch up to me and double down on the punishment. Then he’d pull my ears and give me a nasty tit twister or stinging wedgie. I was a stubborn kid. I kept getting up until I couldn’t get up anymore, or until one of the teachers or an adult came out and rescued me from his endless cruelty.
Did he detect my inner turmoil back then and exploit it to make himself look good? Or was I merely just a pretty boy with fine-boned features and a slim waist? Could he see into my conflicted adolescent mind and know that I was different from all the other kids? Is that why he bullied me? Because he knew that I stole into my mother’s bedroom whenever she was out and put on her lipstick and makeup? Or begged to go with her to the hairdresser so I could watch as they made her look beautiful, wishing more than anything that it was me sitting under that hair dryer? Wishing it was me getting my nails painted and my long, lustrous hair shampooed, cut, and blown dry? At that young age I didn’t consciously wish to become a girl. I just knew that certain feminine things that most women enjoyed doing were things I also desired.
Dalton turns and shakes my hand. I squeeze back firmly, projecting masculinity and strength. He’s in a good mood, thanks to the drinks he’s already consumed, and he appears happy to see me. He orders two beers and two shots of Jack Daniels, and once they arrive we toast. I must monitor how much I drink so that I don’t slip up, become intoxicated, and say something stupid. Part of me doesn’t understand his motive for wanting a guy like me here. Maybe he’s just lonely and has no friends to blow off steam with him. There are lots of these friend-challenged souls in Manhattan seeking out the company of others, people who will tolerate you as long as you’ll sit and listen to their long list of drunken complaints.
In some ways I feel sorry for Dalton. He’s lived his entire life in Fawn Grove, knowing he’s hurt many people. Maybe that’s why he became a cop, and why I joined the military. Perhaps he’s turned his life around and wants to make amends for the bad things he did as a kid. I’m sure many of his victims will never forgive him for the cruel way he treated them, no matter how drastically he’s turned his life around.