Angry Jonny

by Joaquin Emiliano

  “Hey, Jessica…”

  Jessica found herself unconsciously searching the ground for a weapon. “Hey.”

  “Just wanted to talk to you before you headed off for the summer.”

  From a few yards away, Dinah called out, “Come on, Jessica, let’s go.”

  Jessica held her ground. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well…” Davenport sent a hand across his forehead, beads of sweat streaking. “Summer’s here. A full three months coming up. Just thought you might like to… spend that time thinking. About things.”

  “Guess I’ll head right home and get started on that summer reading list.”

  Davenport forced a chuckle. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Glen Roberts.”

  “The guy you were talking about earlier, right?”

  “It’s over, all right? You won. He lost. In fact, your little sexual harassment suit cost him his job, reputation, family, and his life, so… yes, lost it all.”

  “Complaint. Not a suit.”

  “It’s more the outcome that bothers me.”

  “See you in September.” Jessica turned to walk away.

  “It’s your first day tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  Jessica stopped in her tracks.

  From far over the hill, car speakers began to blast out heavy, distorted bass.

  Jessica motioned for Dina to stay put. Turned and retraced her steps, toe to toe with Davenport.

  “I know how hard you worked for this,” he began. All fingerprints of his previous smile wiped clean, a treacherous glare muddying his eyes. “And as long as we’re being honest, there is no student in all of Verona more worthy of spending their summer interning for the Verona Observer. You know that. I know that.”

  “But?”

  “But I could know a lot less… I am the one who signed for every entry from this school. Catch my drift?”

  Jessica smacked her lips, mouth turning dry. “I don’t think anyone says catch my drift anymore.”

  “Nevertheless, I think you do.” It was a day destined for whispered words, and Davenport was no exception. “You’ve done your worst. And now that the damage is done, I want Glen Roberts exonerated. I want you to come forward and tell the world that you made it all up. A tearful little confession that sets the record straight.”

  “Otherwise you get my internship at the Observer yanked?”

  His smile resurfaced, complete with a smug, confident nod. “Turns out you do catch my drift after all.”

  Jessica had learned the hard way that extended moments between words had a way of implying weakness. Within one second, and without thinking, she simply shrugged. “Yank away, Mr. Davenport. Print is dead anyway.”

  “Glen Roberts is dead, Jessica!” he yelled, as she turned to walk away. No longer interested in keeping a low profile. “Glen Roberts is dead, and you killed him!”

  Jessica kept walking.

  Joined her aunt and without a word.

  “Fuck that guy,” Dinah muttered, making her way up the grassy slope.

  “Ain’t a problem.” Jessica reached out to grab hold of the vertical incline before her. Dried grass snapping roughly between her fingers. “I just need summer to end. Right now.”

  They reached the top of the hill, now more sweat than skin. Right back where they started. Taking a last look over the same football field, now a very different place than two hours ago.

  “It’s called summer vacation,” Dina reminded her.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Working.”

  “What a plumb-fucking coincidence.” Jessica sighed. “So am I.”

  Check and mate. Facts were facts.

  Somewhere in this sordid world, floods and droughts were reshaping the land. People were losing their jobs. Soldiers were dying in cumulative handfuls. Individuals were getting rich, while entire groups of nobodies were left behind, stuck right where they were. Dreams remained in their planning stage, even as graduates across the country made their way home, with hopes of a brighter future, another chapter of life over and done with.

  In Jessica’s world, it all came down to the few steps from the hill to the parking lot. Nothing but the searing laughter of the sun to help them along as they drew shut the red, rusted doors of a ‘66 Mustang long overdue for the scrap yard.

  Heading home for a few hours’ rest before suiting up for another night of all work, no play.

  And somewhere overseas, Jessica knew, dormant landmines laid waiting for a misplaced footstep to come along. Ready to punish anybody whose only crime was showing up first.

  Chapter 2: Mr. Table Thirteen.

  There was no humanity to be found backstage of a five-star restaurant.

  Beneath the smiles, the grace. Beneath the rehearsed fawning of waiters, waitresses – referred to as servers to better ease the customer’s conscious – beneath the eager expedition of every whim gracing the mind of any customer – referred to as guests to better insure a welcoming environment – beneath the polished repetition of nightly specials, beneath the stoic efficiency of busboys, food runners, beneath the lupine grins of obsessive managers… Lurking just beneath it all lay a factory that ran on the sad reality that a job well done was little more than the sum total of one’s tips.

  And one’s tips were little more than making every customer the center of the universe. Each one ready to snap, lose their mind over any slight that might downgrade their experience from perfect to almost perfect.

  On the night of June sixth, 2009, nobody was more aware of this discrepancy than Jessica Kincaid.

  Second shift kicked off as always, the entire wait staff seated at the far end of Spiro’s. Thirty-foot ceilings stretched out over the thousand-square-foot floor, shaped like a massive kidney. Unoccupied tables set with silverware, water glasses, bread plates and folded napkins all awaited fulfillment beneath soft tract lighting and the blue specter of a fully stocked bar, where Dinah methodically wiped down the stainless steel.

  Save for the ethnic drone of ambient world music, the restaurant was silent.

  Five-thirty pm. In a few hours, the sun would dip behind Main Street’s parallel railroad tracks, putting an end to another day in Verona. For the moment, there were overtures to be dealt with.

  Guy – pronounced Gee, with a short, guttural g – was wrapping up his nightly lecture. Jet-black hair slicked back. Voice smooth as his gunmetal silk shirt and matching tie. “That does it for the casual up-sell. Before we break, somebody give me the specials…” He glanced over the company of uniformly dressed soldiers. Black, button down shirts. Black pants. A pastiche of ties, polkas dot and printed mermaids. “Jessica?”

  Without one glance at her notepad, Jessica launched into monotone: “For the starter, we have a grilled calamari salad, served over baby field greens and jicama. Our catch is a pan-seared, pepper-crusted ahi tuna, white wine and lemon-basil, served with sesame saffron rice and stir-fried local greens. Goes real nice with the Wild Rock sauvignon blanc, but if the opportunity arises, I’d up-sell to the Cloudy Bay. It’s from New Zealand.”

  “OK…” Guy gave a slow nod, prelude to all constructive criticism. “We going to repeat that same magic tonight, only maybe with some actual enthusiasm?”

  “We most certainly are,” Jessica bubbled.

  Guy smiled, trying to suggest her subversion was an inside joke. “All right, everyone, get to work.”

  It wasn’t a particularly busy night. Spiro’s catered to the carriage trade; Pantheon’s more prominent professors, administrators, and undergrads from the upper tax brackets. Always a bit of a dip as summer approached. Most of the student body who could see their way clear to a twenty-eight dollar entrée had already flown the coop; primarily to New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut. Tenured professors, itching to get moving on that next book or speaking tour, were already jumpstarting their vacations.

&
nbsp; Leaving the servers with a patchwork floor. Couples and four-tops spread thin and throughout. Hostess doing her best to ration enough action for all to make the rent, put a dent in those student loans and car payments.

  All quiet on the western front.

  Even the unexpected arrival of Malik and his parents did little to throw Jessica off course. She had already spotted a few elites from Brookside’s class of 2009. And while their passive glares didn’t make her job any easier, fortune had spared her the humiliation of taking their tables. A silver lining extending to her ex, seated a good two sections away. Close enough to see, too far to touch. Stress levels breaking even. Orders taken, punched into touch screens by the bar and kitchen. Starters, position numbers, course lines. Special requests, modifications; medium rare, no peppers, substitutions, extra sides of marinara.

  Steady as she goes.

  But Jessica had been around long enough to know that their shifts were not shaped by the quantity of tables. Quality of the customer, however, could send dominos diving. Bring the whole evening to its knees.

  In this case, that table turned out to be number thirteen.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Jessica began, hands placed reverently behind her back. “Welcome to Spiro’s. My name is Jessica –”

  She was cut off by an under-bite stationed between a pair of jutting, angular cheekbones: “Jim Beam on the rocks, Jessica.”

  When spoken by this comb-over in a three-piece, Jessica found the sound of her name somehow more condescending than any babe or sweetheart he could have thrown her way. His eyes gleamed with a predatory lack of empathy. Aged skin pale and pulled taught over the wiry slouch of a patient vulture.

  “Absolutely, sir.” Jessica turned to his younger counterpart. Same make and model, an unimpressively handsome and well-maintained thirty-something. “And for you, sir, anything to –”

  “No, Jessica,” the vulture interrupted. “I don’t want an Absolute. No vodka. Jim Beam, OK?”

  And so went the first domino.

  “I’m sorry sir, you must have misheard me.” From the moment those words came stumbling from her mouth, Jessica knew she’d fucked herself, but good. “I said absolutely, not –”

  “I know what I heard. You going to tell me what to eat next?”

  Uh-oh. “We do have several excellent specials tonight.”

  “In a minute, Jessica. Right now, Jim Beam on the rocks. OK?”

  She overcorrected with a quick nod, turning tail towards the bar.

  “Hey, Jessica!” His domineering bark sent shockwaves through the entre restaurant.

  She returned to the table, proximity doing little to affect his volume.

  “You want to maybe take my friend’s order, too, Jessica?”

  Each time he used her name in place of punctuation, Jessica could feel another set of nerves short-circuit.

  “I’ll have an Absolute martini,” the younger man said with snide amusement.

  The vulture rolled his eyes, “Don’t encourage her, Chris.”

  They shared a good laugh. Glanced up, looking to spread the mirth.

  Jessica cracked a smile along with her knuckles, hands still hidden safely behind her back. “Jim Beam, rocks. Absolute martini.”

  Halfway across the floor, when she was flagged down by another table.

  “Miss, we’re ready to order now.”

  I’m not your server was not acceptable vocabulary by any manager’s standards. There was also no way to punch in someone else’s order without that server’s PIN. Jessica made do, jotted their starters and entrees, then slipped the note into her apron.

  Jessica slid into the hutch by the bar. Brought up the drink menu on the touch screen. A maze of multicolored squares led to further luminous grids as she slowly narrowed her search. Two more servers waited in the wings for their turn. She punched in her order for table thirteen.

  Dinah was just done serving a whiskey to a dour millennial with tousled, blond hair. She trotted over to the printer, tore the ticket.

  “Hey, Jess.”

  “Sup, Blondie.”

  “One Beam, rocks, one Absolute martini for table thirteen.”

  “Yeah.”

  Dinah did a Zen two-step, eyes distant as she chilled a martini glass, shook up the vodka and vermouth. Drained it. Added a few olives, and paired it a sizable Beam in a rocks glass.

  “Here you go, Jess.”

  “Word.”

  Jessica placed the drinks on a tray, made her way back to table thirteen and served them up.

  Like it was ever that simple.

  “Uhhh…” The vulture’s mock hesitation spilled out like a drum roll for his next complaint. “My friend wanted his martini with a twist.”

  “My apologies, sir. Olives are the default around here.” And again, before she could remind herself that egos were at stake: “You didn’t specify.”

  “You didn’t ask, Jessica. Weren’t doing your job, there.”

  Jessica opened her mouth. For one hot minute, the words floated dangerously close to her tongue:

  Sir, do I got down to your place of business and tell you the proper way to suck dick?

  For the rest of her limited time on earth, Jessica would often wonder whether that one remark might have saved all of Verona from the violent chaos of those hot summer months.

  Instead, she swallowed hard, regurgitating an olive branch: “I can fix this right as rain, sir.”

  “We’re also ready to order, Jessica.”

  “I’ll have the tuna tartar,” said the younger man, Chris. Adding with a smirk: “No olives.”

  Jessica flashed an impressed grin, batted her eyes.

  “And I’ll have the calamari plate,” the vulture announced, pleased by his decisiveness.

  She then took their entrees down next, asked if they would be having any wine.

  “Yeah,” the vulture picked up the list, sent a talon down the reds. “What can you tell me about the Stags’ Leap Merlot?”

  “It’s full. Pretty full. Lot of body, long finish. Intense plum, cherry flavors –”

  “Doesn’t sound like a Merlot to me, Jessica.”

  “Sometimes it’s a problem of vintage,” Jessica explained, catching sight of a table staring her down, anxious to get their own meal going. “It’s a 2007. There have been definite effects on grapes, starting with that year, global warming and climate change being what –”

  “Hey, Jessica. I’m not looking for a lecture on Mother Earth.”

  “Of course…” The two most overused words in the waitress lexicon. “I can recommend another Merlot –”

  “It’s all right, we’ll take the Stag. I trust you, Jessica.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jessica hustled to the bar. Found the hutch crowded with a sudden rush of wait staff. She crossed the room, set herself up at the hutch near the kitchen. Punched in the wine order, table number. Followed through with the starters, adding position numbers, then hit the course button, fingers dancing. Punched in the entrees and hit SEND.

  She stopped to check on a four-top. Fielded a request for more bread, as the restaurant’s babble began to swell around her. She delegated the bread order to a runner. Picked up the Stags’ and darted back to table thirteen. Presented the vulture with his choice. Waited for him to nod, then reached into her apron, fingers wrapping around her wine key. She unsheathed the one and a half inch blade, ran the serrated edge along the top of the seal. Released the corkscrew and dug in. Two quick pulls, and she liberated the cork with a solid pop, laid it down on the table.

  Jessica made as though to pour.

  “Uh-uh, Jessica…” The vulture shook his head, motioning to his guest. “My friend will do the tasting.”

  Jessica dropped an ounce of claret into his glass. Stood by as Chris sniffed the cork; an unnecessary step, the surest sign of a novice. He gave the glass a wimpy swirl, then took it all down. Didn’t swish, savor, or exhale while swallowing. Just smacked his lips,
and proclaimed what nine out of ten posers would: “Yeah. That’s good.”

  Jessica nodded, served the vulture, then topped off Chris. She set the bottle down with assurances that their starters would be out momentarily.

  Halfway towards a fresh table, Jessica was intercepted by Carrie. Wisps of chestnut hair stuck to her lips, demanding to know why Jessica had taken an order without telling her. Jessica pulled the slip from her apron with a rushed apology, then darted into the kitchen to tell the chefs that Carrie needed those starters on the fly.

  No love lost between the kitchen and wait staff; all Jessica received was a disgusted roll of their eyes as food runners and floundering servers scrambled for space in hundred degree heat.

  Somewhere in that exchange, the starters for table thirteen snuck out.

  She flew to a freshly set table, fielded drink orders. Caught a two-top calling for the check. She was on track to place the order and print the bill for fifteen, when Jessica heard the familiar sound of nails on a chalkboard.

  “Hey, you!”

  There was the vulture, summoning her. Worse yet, there was Guy. On standby.

  The vulture didn’t waste any time. “Hey, Jessica. What’s this plate of fried calamari doing here?”

  So now there was the damning stare of two customers, combined with the desperately amiable, conciliatory gaze of her manager. A Bermuda Triangle of chastising glares.

  Because that evening, the starter special had been a grilled calamari salad – what the vulture had taken the liberty of describing as the calamari plate, the very name of their menu’s fried calamari starter.

  “My apologies, sir,” Jessica began. “I heard you order the calamari plate.”

  “What is your obsession with what people do or do not hear? Doesn’t matter what you heard. Interpreted. Assumed. What matters is what I asked for!”

  As with most altercations, Guy’s first order of business was to move on. “Of course, sir. We can bring you the calamari salad right away.”

  “Not much of a point in that now, is there?” The vulture swooped in and dangled a breaded tendril for all to see. “If I asked for the calamari plate, Jessica –”

  “There’s a calamari special, and a calamari plate,” Jessica insisted, pores jumping at the chance to send a little sweat down her back. “ I didn’t –”