I must have looked confused. This wasn’t how I had imagined being fired would go.
“Truth is,” he said, tying his hair back up, “high or not, you’re the best employee I’ve got. You’re methodical and detail-oriented and you know how to sweep the floor. Best of all, you aren’t running around here telling people how to live their lives. I can’t stand the holier-than-thou attitude people have in this town. That other asshole can find a job anywhere. You need help and I want to give you another chance, but don’t get me wrong, if you miss one more shift you’ll be out of here too.”
“That’s fair,” I said.
He turned toward the money. “Each day at the beginning of your shift,” he continued, “you count out four hundred dollars in tens, fives, ones, and coins, and switch it out with the cash tray that’s up there.”
“But I’m the dishwasher.”
“I hired a new dishwasher. Now you’re my assistant. Part-time, of course. Seems you have trouble making it here three shifts a week already, but we have to work with what we got.”
He put the money in a cash tray, flipped the clips down, and led me out into the restaurant. A rotund man sat alone at a table set for six with a plate of corned beef hash and eggs. I had seen him once or twice at the Arlington, hard to forget a man this large, but he wasn’t part of the group of regulars, more a chatty loner. The waitress stood near him, smiling. She mentioned the weather.
“Has it really come to this? I come here every day and all you can say is how nice it is outside?”
“Tammy,” Leon said as we passed, “could you roll some silverware?”
“Right away,” she said and left the man with his afternoon breakfast.
“That guy talks to anyone who walks by and never stops,” Leon said when we got to the cash register. “I sometimes make stuff up to get the waitresses away from him.”
He put a key in a slot on the register and turned it, pushed a few buttons. The cash drawer opened and a long receipt printed. He made it very clear that an internal receipt kept record of the daily transactions as well—“Not that you would be stealing,” he said, “but that’s how I’ll catch you if you are”—then he switched out the trays and ripped the receipt from the printer, folded it, and slid it in with the twenties.
“We make a lot of money from catering,” he said and took an envelope from his pocket. “Three or four days a week there will be one of these in the office, maybe two, that you will need to ring up. Today we have five hundred.” He pressed a few more keys and the drawer popped open again.
“Now we cook,” he said and led me to the kitchen, where we put on white chef’s jackets and tied our hair into ponytails before we pulled on poofy white hats.
Dinner service wasn’t much of a rush, at no point were we preparing food for more than three tables at a time, so it was a good night to learn. Leon showed me how to make pork chops and hamburgers and, since we served breakfast all day, chocolate chip pancakes.
The service window looked out onto the entrance of the café and throughout the shift Leon would see people come in and step off the line to say hello or shake hands. He knew every person who walked through the door, though he avoided some by ducking to the side as they entered. Around seven o’clock someone I recognized walked in, the woman with half a head of long red hair from the laundromat, and Leon took off his apron and joined her. Something about her struck me as I watched them sit down at the same table by the window where Leon had interviewed me. Her face was so familiar, but I was certain I hadn’t seen her since my first day in town. Fortunately, an order came in for a Cajun pita sandwich, a plate I didn’t know how to make, so I walked out to take a closer look.
“They’ve been at each other’s throats for days now,” the woman said as I approached. “It’s a good thing they aren’t living under the same roof anymore, but something has got to be done.”
They both went silent when I got to the table, the woman’s blue eyes cutting to look me up and down but I still couldn’t place her. She looked like someone—maybe she was related to one of the old guys I saw at breakfast at the Arlington—everyone in Holm looked more or less the same anyway. The feature that made her stand out was her hair, but this was also true of Leon and myself. I dropped my gaze to the two coffees and the white envelope on the table between them.
“My new assistant, Shane,” Leon said, introducing me before pointing across the table. “Chelsea.”
We shook hands and said our pleased to meet yous and Leon told me how to make the sandwich.
“Will you throw us on a couple of BLTs while you’re back there?” Chelsea asked as I was about to leave.
“Bacon, lettuce, tomato, mayo on white toast with fries and a pickle,” Leon said, though we had already gone over this one, then he picked up the envelope and handed it to me. “You want to ring this up as well? Catering for four hundred twenty.”
Standing too close to the register, the drawer popped out into my stomach when it opened. I counted the twenty-one twenty-dollar bills and slid them in with the rest of the cash, then went back to work. Watching them from the kitchen while they ate, I saw that what they had was not a romantic relationship. Chelsea did reach out and put her hand on Leon’s for a moment after the waitress cleared their plates, but then she was up and out the door without even a peck on the cheek.
After the restaurant closed for the evening, Leon let out the waitress and dishwasher and locked the door behind them so we could do some after-hours cleaning.
“Did you bring anything with you?” Leon asked. “A joint or something?”
I shook my head.
“I hate cleaning,” he said. “Now would be a good time to smoke one, if you know what I mean.”
He bent down near the deep fryer and opened the door. Threaded a spout onto the drain. He took a paper cone and mounted it into a five-gallon stockpot.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you that you should never use a plastic bucket for this,” he said. “But some people are fucking stupid.”
He pulled the release and the hot brown oil ran out the spout and into the cone. Black fries and burnt shrimp surfed the waves. When it ran dry, he dipped a saucepan into the pot to fill it with oil, then poured it into the fryer to get the last of the blackened crumbs.
“Usually this will clean it enough,” he said, “but once a month we boil it out with floor cleaner and water. Lucky for you, tonight’s the night.”
He handed me a towel. Each of us took a handle and we carried the stockpot out the back door to the grease bin. Back inside, Leon wiped the inside of the pot with paper towels, then filled it with water. While he did that I found the bucket of powdered floor cleaner and brought it to the cook’s line.
“Put that down,” Leon said. “That stuff is straight poison.”
I set the bucket on the floor and helped him carry the pot back to the fryer. He took a box of gloves from atop the microwave and handed me a pair. He put some on himself and added three scoops of powder to the fryer.
I helped him lift the pot and pour the water into the fryer. He turned the temperature gauge to low and we went out to the cash register so Leon could show me again how to run the report. He pulled the cash tray and walked away, leaving the drawer open.
“Always leave the register open if it’s empty,” he said. “Some thieves are so dumb they can’t tell there’s nothing inside when it’s closed.”
We went back to the kitchen and the water was bubbling. Leon took a long brush with a wooden handle and dipped it in the water, scrubbing the greasy sides of the fryer while I counted the money on the cutting board. Aside from the day’s catering charges, we made seven hundred eighty-eight dollars.
“More than half the money comes from catering?”
“Roughly,” Leon said, still scrubbing away with his back to me.
“Where is all the food for that?”
“There’s a warehouse around the way,” Leon said. “I used to have a business partner who ran that end o
f the business for me but now his daughter and two sons have taken over. You met Chelsea tonight. I think you’d be pretty good at what we’re doing over there too.”
“Why do you think that?” I asked. “I just learned how to cook today.”
“Just a feeling,” he said. “But you don’t need to worry about that now—we’ll get you over there once you’ve gotten the hang of this job.”
* * *
The next night Russell was passed out, sitting cross-legged between the dumpsters behind the Aurora with an empty liter of vodka on the ground in front of him. I found him at the end of my shift when I was taking out the trash and assumed he must have fallen asleep waiting for me. He didn’t stir when I swung the last bag of garbage into the dumpster so I shook him awake.
“I hate you,” he said, appearing to rouse a little. Then, standing up, he said: “I throw myself at you and then you tell me you love that dirty klepto. She stole you away from me too.”
He stumbled two steps closer and punched me in the face. I fell into a heap on the ground, then rolled onto my back to find him swaying, staring down at me, eyes blank.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He dropped to his knees, ran his fingers softly over where he had hit me, then leaned in to press his lips to my cheek. He kissed my neck and ears and moved down my body, his hands passing my chest, my stomach, my belt, reaching for what was stirring inside of me. When he got my pants open and found what he found, he must have assumed I wanted what he wanted. And though I couldn’t then say it aloud, I did.
It was over in a few minutes, excited as I was, excited as we both were, our coupling in front of everyone and the whole world before rolling into the long grass behind the dumpsters. Then, light-headed and short of breath, I lifted Russell to his feet and carried him, arm under his shoulder, to a bench around the front of the restaurant where he could wait for me to finish up with the mopping.
“I’ll be right here,” he said, “wide awake.”
But he was sleeping before I made it back inside. I brought him back to my place after I locked up, helped him stumble and stagger down Center and up the stairs and, after I gave him a glass of water, he lay down on my bed and fell asleep again. I slept lightly that night in the space next to him, tossing and turning while Russell lay silent and still long after the sun rose, long after I made my way to the bathroom for my morning shower.
That day, since I was with him when he woke up, was the first time I saw Russell sober, if you can consider a hangover of that magnitude sobriety. The first few things he tried to say came out as groans. I ran him a glass of water and found two headache pills in the bathroom. He swallowed them down and pulled his Twins hat down low over his eyes to block out the sunlight.
“Do you have a cat?” Russell asked me. “It tastes like a cat pissed in my mouth at some point last night. And who was that guy who kept hitting me in the head with that two-by-four?”
“You were passed out by a dumpster when I found you,” I said. “I’ve seen cats over there from time to time.”
Russell let out a laugh that was half groan.
“Get up,” I told him. “Let me get you some breakfast.”
I thought we might get a reaction walking into the Arlington, being two guys having just rolled out of the same bed, but the rednecks at the counter paid even less attention to me when I walked in with Russell. After all, they came to breakfast in pairs too. Looking around, I noticed for the first time the severe lack of women in the Arlington—aside from the waitresses it was all men, and I couldn’t remember ever seeing a female customer.
“Oh, good, I can get french toast,” Russell said. “That’s the only thing I get when I go out to eat.”
Seven
Henry Sibley State Park was built on the twisted hills that bank the Spirit River, tall leafy trees with grassy paths running south along the river for miles. I had somehow missed this place during my initial wanderings around Holm, mistakenly thinking that the only park in town was the thin patch of grass across from the library where Svenson had accosted me for the first time.
Mary led the way, past the pavilion and the sandbox, to a stone path that took us by a small brick building with a pay phone, then along the river through arches of leaning trees a hundred years old. We followed a trail of beer cans and cigarette butts from one clearing to the next, each with a picnic table, a fire pit, and a little dirt path that led down to the river.
We were a ways back when we stopped and sat around a table. J took out a bag of weed and some papers, Russell a small bottle of whiskey that he sipped and then passed. Mary’s eyes shifted between J and Jenny, very obviously scanning for any subtle communication.
“Whhwwwwooooo-eeeeeeeeee,” J said after a long pull from the bottle. “Happy Fourth of July!”
We had no plan beyond going to see the fireworks at sundown and, given the size of the joint that J rolled, that was a good thing. J lit it and passed it to me and, after I passed it to Mary, my attention moved to the park around us. The whispering of the trees, the wind in the long grasses, the river flowing faster in the middle than at the edges, sun glinting off the little peaked waves. The water had risen since the night Russell had nearly fallen in at the double bridges, maybe five miles upstream from where we were. I got up and made my way to the riverbank, barely aware of the conversation continuing around me as a passing cloud blocked out the sun.
“Shane,” Mary called, shaking me out of my trance. “Did you find your mom yet?”
“Nah,” I said and tried to wander back into my thoughts.
A murmur went around the group and then we were all very stoned. Russell yawned. Mary put her head in her hands. A strong wind came up and shuffled the leaves over our silence. I turned back to the river and studied the opposite shore where another dirt trail led up into the woods, just like the one where I stood.
“Hey, Lucky,” J called from the table. “Don’t jump. It’s not worth it.”
The sun was high in the sky when we all walked back through the park, piled in the car, and headed out of town at J’s request. Once we were on the road, he told us the plan: to drive around the country in the afternoon sun with the windows up and the heat on while we smoked another giant joint. I liked the idea but no one else did. Jenny said it was a waste, Russell was indifferent since he didn’t smoke, and Mary was afraid we’d be pulled over.
“That’s too fucking bad,” J said, turning to Jenny and Russell for support. “Mary dragged us to the park and Shane wants to go to the fireworks. We should all get to choose one thing and this is mine.”
Russell and Jenny agreed and soon we were in a cloud, thick and hot. Sitting on the middle seat in the back, I couldn’t see out of any of the windows and there was no way to escape the heat. Leaning in close, I could see rivers of sweat at the temples of whomever appeared in the smoke—Jenny to my left or Russell to my right—or on J’s hand when it popped out from between the front seats. Our wet fingers became a problem when sweat soaked through the paper, so much so that the cherry fell off and J was unable to relight the roach.
“I hope everyone is high,” he said. “Now it’s time for the payoff.”
When Mary turned the car onto the next straightaway J told her to floor it, switched off the heat, and had us crank the windows down as quickly as possible. The wind was so cold and crisp compared to the heat that I couldn’t keep my eyes open, the air suddenly so clean it felt like I had never breathed before. It drove into my eyes, pulling streams of tears down my cheeks. Giggles rose and fell all around, as if it tickled, as if it were funny. Even Russell was a bit giddy. When Mary dropped back down to regular speed and we settled back into our seats, I found Russell’s arm around my shoulders and Jenny’s hand on my leg, each of their heads lolling with the bumps in the road, eyes out opposite windows. J turned around and screamed for some reason, high and excited, then raised his finger and pointed at me.
“Look at him, Mary,” J said, “look at him. Look at Lucky!”<
br />
She adjusted the rearview mirror and squinted into it.
“He’s never been this happy.”
At the time I couldn’t remember when I had been happier so I smiled in stoned silence at J and Mary and settled in deeper in the backseat.
When Russell got his chance, he led us to a rope swing a couple miles south of Holm where everyone but me took turns sailing out over the river and dropping into the Spirit. I took off my shoes and rolled up my pants, watched from the riverbank, ankle-deep in the water. At first they swung and dropped straight in, but once they got a feel for it J and Russell started doing backflips and jackknife kicks, aiming their long splashes at the rest of us. They were taut stomachs and tensed arms fighting against the force of the swing but then, upon release, became weightless over the river, twisting and turning with an unexpected grace, like gymnasts, athletes. They tried to copy these poses and postures for a while and it turned into a game of HORSE with me, Jenny, and Mary as judges, assigning one letter of the word when Russell or J failed to imitate a jump properly.
The sun was low in the sky when J finally won with HOR over Russell’s HORSE and Jenny’s choice led us to the double bridges. Russell and I both sat up sharply as we arrived, as if waiting for someone to tell us that they knew what happened there. I could feel his paranoia, but we had nothing to worry about because Jenny quickly put us to work as her percussion section, seating us cross-legged among the gaping holes in the deck, clapping and slapping our knees in the specific order she prescribed, while she sang:
“While my love was risin’, when I was young and gay, I wrote to the devil, to ask for a delay. But n’one tells the devil how sh’ought to take her debts, now I see the end, now my love it sets.”
The clapping felt odd at first but once I fell into the rhythm it was easy. After she got us all going both singing and clapping, Jenny sat down and joined us. I closed my eyes and let myself go, became one with the rhythm, with the song, with my friends.
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