David Alan Dedin
Dark Lady
Five
Dark Lady
1991
The late afternoon sun burned a deep, Brady Bunch orange as it hovered above the tree-lined horizon, threatening to set. The Checker’s parking lot was packed with cars tonight, while the delicious aroma of flame-broiled burgers hung in the air like smoke. A cocktail waitress served drinks to those waiting outside as Patrick’s Eldorado looped around the building, parking in back, Baby Don’t Forget My Number on the radio. A few minutes later, the newly-hired waiter came up to the entrance; he held the door for Cheryl Bennish, the cocktail waitress, a gorgeous red-haired woman of a certain age, with breasts the size of safety cones.
“Make room for the twins!” she announced to all in earshot, expertly balancing a tray of empty glasses on her palm. “Thanks, Patrick,” she said with a wink. He noticed that she somehow managed to walk as though her flats were six-inch heels.
He followed her inside.
“Newhall, party of seven!” Natalie yelled over the crowd, opting to use her voice instead of the intercom. The pretty young hostess stood behind the podium, where she handed a pile of menus to a waiting server who then led the party to his section. The lobby was wall-to-wall people. It reminded Patrick of Sundays at Denny’s, only with a better clientele. He worked his way to the podium.
“Hey Nat,” he said. “Busy night.”
“Hey Patrick,” Natalie said cheerfully, noticing his Rolex. “Nice watch.”
“Thanks. Where am I tonight?” She looked at her laminated map.
“You’re top. Forty-three and forty-four.”
“Only a two-table section?” he asked. “On a Saturday? That doesn’t seem right.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” she said. “Sharon did the line-up instead of Rodney. It’s only your first week, and she doesn’t like giving newbies too many tables on weekends. Besides, she hasn’t even met you yet.”
The hostess paused before adding, “And then…there’s also…a little situation tonight.”
Patrick looked deflated. “What’s that?”
“SHARON GOT DUMPED!” Guinevere shouted over the customers, pushing her way to the podium with a shit-eating grin on her face. She was laughing so hard, she was almost out of breath. When she finally reached Patrick, her words came between gulps of air –
“Sharon…got dumped! And she paid…for everything! She took Lisle…to Florida…and he dumped her…as soon as they…got back…to Peoria!”
“Guinevere, be nice,” Cheryl scolded, overhearing from nearby. She shot Patrick a look that said Gwen’s right, though. Sharon getting dumped is fuckin’ hysterical before calling for someone to hold the door for her tray & tits again. “Big knockers comin’ through, people! Y’all might want to give this lady some room.”
“Eleven and thirty-two are open,” Rodney called to Natalie, poking his head into the lobby. He held back as a group of customers exited the dining room, then gestured for Patrick to clock in. “Patrick, your section is full, but Laurie just dropped the check at forty-four.”
“Got it,” Patrick said.
“Rodney, can you turn up the intercom?” Natalie asked. He nodded, but then noticed Gwen gossiping. “Guinevere, is there a reason you’re bothering the hostesses?”
“I’m just telling Nat that one of my tables is open,” she said innocently.
“No, you’re not,” Rodney snipped, snapping his fingers and pointing towards the kitchen. “Run food. Now.”
“Bye, he told her, bah rum-dump-dump-dump!” Guinevere sang, heading for the kitchen through the bar’s saloon doors, which swung open to drunks shouting at big-screen baseball. Patrick grabbed his tickets and followed. They passed a little alcove, where the bar servers were using their own Bobcat register, separate from the unit behind the bar itself. The two then entered the restaurant’s busy kitchen through a second set of saloon doors, where the blasting 80s MUZAK was almost louder than the cook’s line.
The scene was as chaotic as a sale at Filene’s Basement.
* * * * *
“I’ve been searching high, I’ve been searching low…”
“Wanna’ spend my life” – with yoooooooou…”
“Welcome to Fantasy Island!” Alan greeted Patrick, power-walking passed with a large tray of burgers balanced on his fingertips – then shouting “CORNER!” when he rounded the corner into the dining room. At the exact same moment, Laurie ducked under his tray, coming into the alley. She immediately shouted at the fry station cook: “WALKING IN…TWO FRIES, ONE CHEESE STICK, ONE KID TENDER!”
The fry-station ceiling went fireball-orange, as baskets hit grease with the violent sizzle of frozen food and hot oil.
“I need Bar six and seven!” Marty yelled to the cooks, shouting from the bar’s kitchen access window. “Two tender dinners, and extra peppercorn ranch!”
“Thirty seconds!” Bill, tonight’s server-side expo, shouted back. He was already garnishing two platters of tenders and fries, and he swiftly ladled two ramekins of ranch from containers in the ice baths. Bill passed the food off to one of the Bradley Boys, who in turn passed the food off to Marty.
“Order in the bowl!” a server yelled, placing a white soft-copy onto the hot side’s incoming ticket plate. “Salad in the bowl!” a different server yelled, passing a green soft-copy to cold side.
“Ready to close?” Laurie asked, coming up to Patrick. She looked at her ticket book, then onto the orders hanging on the cook’s side. “We’re going to close by the book tonight. Spick n’ span.”
“I’m ready,” Patrick told her. “But I’m going home now if you don’t give me back my tables.”
“Forty-four just left,” she said. “And I’m about to drop the check at Forty-five.”
“Thanks.”
“I need food runners!” Bill shouted to all in earshot, his voice traveling over an alley teeming with servers, all of who were trying not to bump into each other. Thirty different servers’ hands filled trays, poured drinks, ladled soup, brewed coffee, pre-bussed dishes, scooped ice cream, submitted tickets – and tapped away at the two Bobcat terminals, one on either side of the kitchen.
“Rodney told me that I have to run food,” Gwen said to Bill, her demeanor that of a lost child. “Do I reeeeally have to do that?”
“Take this to thirty-one,” he said, pointing to a tray with three heavy platters of country fried steak. She scoffed at the suggestion, then filled a ramekin with pickles instead.
“You know what, Bill? I just now remembered that a table asked me for this,” she told him. “I’ll be right back.”
The assistant manager watched Gwen walk out of the kitchen, tossing the ramekin into the dishwashing station as she rounded the corner. She passed Alan and Jackie on her way out; they came into the kitchen together, from different parts of the dining room.
“WALKING IN…CHEESE STICKS, MUSHROOMS, KID TENDERS ON THE FLY!” Alan yelled, losing the big tray and getting in line at the Bobcat.
“I got this,” Patrick told Bill, taking the tray that Gwen had refused. With a single, graceful swoop, he lifted the tray over his head on fingertips and navigated the alley with the skill of an experienced waiter. Bill looked impressed.
“Did you hear about Sharon?” Jackie asked Alan, as Patrick approached. The Coke machine was next to the Bobcat, and she talked while scooping ice into glasses. “Lisle gave her the heave-ho. I hear it’s baaaaaaad…”
“Thanks to Gwen, I think everyone’s heard the news – hold on Jack.” Alan looked at Patrick. “You got sat.”
“Thanks,” Patrick told him, clearing his throat. “Corner!”
“Speaking of Sharon, where is she?” Alan asked Jackie. The glassy-eyed waitress pointed to the hallway between the fry and dishwashing stations, where the blinds on the manager’s door were now tightly closed.
“Still in the office,” she said. “I think she’s hiding.”
“That happens when you’re a humiliated, middle-aged woman,” Rob Kinere said bluntly, overhearing the two while he waited for the register. Rob was one of the Bradley Boys, with feathered blonde hair the size of Daryl Hall’s, which was why Guinevere called him Rob Vain.
“What was Gwen singing?”
“I have no gift or ring, bah-rum-dump-dump-dump,” Gwen said on cue, coming round into the kitchen. She walked up the alley to where Bill was standing and handed him a hard copy ticket, with the soft copy still attached. “Bill, we have a little problem. I kinda’ forgot to turn in this ticket.” His eyes grew wide when he saw the Bobcat’s printed time stamp.
“Gwen, this was keyed in forty minutes ago!”
“And I also kinda’ forgot to key it in, too,” she said. “So technically, the table’s been waiting over an hour.” She paused for effect – “For soup and salad.”
“GUINEVERE!” Rodney shouted, bursting through the bar’s saloon doors like an angry woman. “Where is table twenty-two?” She pointed to Bill. He pointed to the ticket. Rodney snatched it from Bill’s fingers, looked it over in disgust, then leaned forward so he could yell through the passover. “I need two soup and salads, NOW! Honey mustard on the side, NOW!”
“And a dick up my ass now,” Jackie whispered to Rob Vain.
“And where is Big Tim?” Rodney added, looking at the cooks. The kitchen was running smoothly yes, but the chances of that going sideways were great without a strong expo – and Big Tim was nowhere in sight.
“He’s in the office talking to Sharon,” Bill told him.
“On a Saturday?” Rodney huffed.
“She’s the boss. She can do what she wants.”
“Two soup and salads!” Zevon, the cold-side cook called out, throwing them into the window. His name was actually Henry, but everyone called him “Zevon” because he was a dead ringer for the Transverse City singer, both in appearance and alcoholism.
Patrick came up to expo to return his empty tray. He then went to use the Bobcat in the bar, but Rodney stopped him cold and shoved the overdue soups and salads into his hands.
“Take these to twenty-two a.s.a.p.,” Rodney told him. “Apologize for the wait and offer them” – he looked at the ticket – “two more glasses of chardonnay, on the house. And tell them we’ll give them a free kooky-monster.” Patrick nodded, then bee-lined for the dining room. “And YOU,” Rodney said to Guinevere. “I swear to God, if this ever happens again” – he stopped midsentence.
She was nowhere in sight. Rodney’s face shot back to Bill.
“Did you hear about Sharon and Lisle?” Bill mouthed softly, intentionally changing the subject. A devious smile crept across Rodney’s lips, but before he could reply, a CRASH of shattering plates brought all eyes towards the alley’s dining room doorway, where a single surviving saucer whirled to a stop like a hubcap –
“You’d better make that a bottle of chardonnay,” Bill told Rodney.
“You didn’t yell corner!” Ty, a server, a waitress as tall as Patrick, cried. Ty was a lesbian who looked more man than woman, but her emotions were as fragile as a child in a well. Her face went hot as she screamed at Patrick –
“You didn’t yell corner! You’re supposed to yell corner! How do I know that you’re coming around the corner if you…DON’T…YELL…CORNER!”
“I’m so sorry,” Patrick quickly apologized, trying to wipe honey mustard off her eyebrows. “It was totally my fault. And you’re right. I didn’t yell corner…”
“Youuuuuu didn’t yell corrrrrrnner!” she blubbered, collapsing to her knees in sloppy, heaving sobs. Ty’s polo was smeared in barbeque sauce. Her crotch had taken a direct cola hit, making it look like she’d pissed her pants. Alan had to look away when he noticed that his roommate now had a chicken wing in her hair. Not again, he thought.
“Thar she blows!” one of the Bradley Boys yelled. “Every goddamn Saturday.”
“Will someone please get her a towel?” Rodney snapped.
“A towel?” someone yelled from the bar. “She needs a fuckin’ shop vac!”
“I thought that dykes were supposed to have balls” –
“She handles problems well. She must be ex-military” –
“The ox and lamb did time, bah-rum-dump-dump-dump” –
“Schnookums, be nice.”
Cheryl Bennish entered the kitchen from the bar, just in time to see Ty being escorted from the floor; she spun on her heels and left the way she came, with a single word – “Nope.” The doors swung back open to reveal Natalie from the lobby – “Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for a fourteen table turn!”
Big Tim appeared behind the cook’s line. A very young Cher could now be heard on MUZAK, singing about a fortune queen, New Orleans, and a cat in a black limousine.
“WALKING IN…TWO CHEESE STICKS, TWO MUSHROOMS, THREE HOT ARTICHOKES, AND SEVEN…I REPEAT, SEVEN FRIES!”
The cook’s line rumbled like thunder.
The ceiling over the grease fryers flashed an angry red.
Mia, the dishwasher, a dark-skinned girl the size of Karen Black’s fetish doll, pressed a button to start the Hobart’s washing cycle, throwing clouds of hot steam into the air. She then crept out from behind her station, where she squatted next to Patrick, helping him clean the mess.
Neither two noticed that in the hallway over their shoulders, a woman had emerged from within the manager’s office. It was hard to see her face. Her figure was silhouetted within the fire & brimstone from the Hobart and deep fryers. The dishwasher hissed steam and the fryers belched smoke as Sharon Donovan, Checker’s general manager, a short, round woman with a yellow blazer over a black skirt, hose, and heels, finally stepped into view. Her appearance coincided with the Cher song’s refrain:
Dark lady laughed and danced and lit the candles one by one…
Everyone in the kitchen fell silent.
Sharon, obviously, did not look happy.
* * * * *
Many hours later, the restaurant’s final customers finished their kooky monster as Patrick topped off their coffee, dropping the check. The two-tiered dining room was almost completely empty, less a few straggling servers who cleaned tables and finished rolling silverware.
Checker’s had a totally different ambience at night, with big, dark windows, stars in the skylights, and an eerie glow from the soft pink bulbs within the schoolhouse lights and fans. Most of the staff had clocked out for the day, with many moving on to Happy Valley, a local dive just down the street, where the mall’s service employees got drunk on cheap draft beer. Aside from the soft voice of Lionel Richie, the dining room was quiet.
Alan emerged from the manager’s office, with the open door giving those in the kitchen a quick glimpse of Sharon’s profile. She was seated at the desk, her pose as rigid as a statue. Her black hose & heels were crossed beneath the chair, and her blazer was still buttoned tight – like Atticus Finch in a shirt, tie, and vest. She didn’t move an inch when Alan stepped into the kitchen, closing the door behind. His eyes locked with Zevon’s as Alan wrapped his apron around his ticket book. “Oh…my…God,” the waiter mouthed. The line cook nodded in agreement, sipping an odd-smelling Sprite while he scraped the deep fryers.
“Nnnnnngggh!” Guinevere grunted like a hunchback, dragging a big plastic bucket of ice through the kitchen from the prep line. She acted as though the bucket were a refrigerator, and she made a show of heaving it onto the Coke machine, dumping ice into the bin. She then dropped the bucket to the floor, and pretended to collapse on the counter. “Now can we go?” she asked Alan. He smiled.
“Laurie!” Alan yelled down the alley. “Can you please check Gwen’s sidework?” Stepping away from wrapping the ice bath’s condiments, Laurie grabbed her clipboard and came up to the soft drink station. “Coke machine?” Laurie asked.
“Yes, it’s a Coke machine,” Gwen said.
“Ice full?”
“It is.”
“Drip tray flushed with hot water?”
“I flushed.”
“Spigots soaking in seltzer?” Laurie asked.
“Yes Laurie, the spigots are soaking in seltzer…as you might actually see yourself, if you looked up from your clipboard.”
Laurie’s eyes became visible above her glasses. “Did you run hot water through them first?” Guinevere rolled her eyes.
“Yes Laurie, I washed them first. I had to wash them because I was masturbating earlier, and I didn’t want to leave behind any traces of my vaginal juices.” The two women locked eyes. “Don’t worry,” Gwen added. “I wasn’t thinking about you.”
“Just let her go, Laurie,” Alan said, coming between them. Laurie initialed her board and stormed off. Alan turned to Gwen and sighed. “Oh, Schnookums…”
“I’m hungry,” she informed him. “Let’s get some food.”
Patrick came round the corner. Alan looked up when he saw him. “Hey – Gwen and I are going to grab something to eat. You wanna’ come?”
“Where?” Patrick asked.
“We’ll probably go to Lum’s on Knoxville,” Alan told him. “That’s on your way home, right?”
Patrick took a quick glance at his tips. “I can do Lum’s”
“I’m sick of Lum’s,” Gwen complained. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Steak n’ Shake?” Patrick frowned. “I don’t know what else is open this late.”
Gwen’s eyes lit up. “Let’s go to Denny’s!”
“Denny’s? Seriously?” Alan frowned. “And by seriously, I mean…yuck.”
“I don’t want to go to Denny’s,” Patrick told them.
“Well, I don’t want to go to Slums again,” Gwen said. “Or Shit n’ Shake. Or the Crappy Valley.” She looked at Alan with narrow, seductive eyes. “Are you reeeeeally going to deny your Schnookums what she wants?” Alan smiled and shook his head again.
“Schnookums always wins,” he said to Patrick. “Sorry buddy, but it looks like we’re going to Denny’s. Come with us.” Patrick declined.
“I’m going to pass, but you two have fun.”
The three looked up as Laurie went by with a frown, then walked up to the manager’s office and gently tapped the door. “Sharon?” she said softly. “My tickets are ready. Is it okay if I come in?” The door opened up, and Laurie took the chair next to Sharon’s. The three watched Laurie lean in close to their jilted boss, taking her hand and whispering.
Sharon kicked the door closed with her heel.
“Well,” Alan said to Patrick, “you know where we’ll be if you decide to change your mind.”
* * * * *
The night was filled with bright summer stars as Guinevere’s convertible sat side-by-side with Alan’s pickup in the old Denny’s parking lot. Looking in from outside, the two friends could be seen amongst the diners, in a booth by the window. Alan exhaled cigarette smoke while Gwen’s arms flailed like broken electricity lines, excitedly recounting their evening’s shift –
“…and the chicken wing in her hair!” Gwen laughed, gasping for air. “A goddamn, fucking chicken wing! And it was covered in barbeque sauce, so it was sticky! Bill had to wash her hair in the prep sink, and he used sanitizer instead of shampoo!”
“That was hysterical,” Alan agreed. “That’s actually why I don’t want to go home right away. I know she’ll be waiting for me, listening to that damn Melissa Etherege song over and over and over…”
“How can you live with her?” Gwen asked, calming down. She lit a cigarette. “I’ll bet she cries in her sleep.”
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
“Do you ever hear her masturbating?”
“What’s up with all the masturbation talk lately? Is my Schnookums not being properly satisfied?”
Guinevere exhaled a long drag of smoke. “I need a boyfriend. I’m tired of being alone.” Alan took her hand. “You’ve got me,” he said seductively.
“Maybe. But if you and I were to ever have sex, I’d have to duct tape a picture of Kiefer Sutherland over my face. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to maintain an adequate erection.”
The two looked up when a skeleton with skin slammed food onto their table. Guinevere recognized the liver spots before she saw the face, and Alan set his burning cigarette in the ashtray as he spoke. “Linda! I thought you only worked mornings.”
“Yeah,” Linda said, her breath reeking of Winston’s. “Lafayette laid his Harley on Route 29. Tore the bike up pretty bad. Got a compound fracture too. He has to wear a catheter bag on his leg now. You guys need ketchup?”
Alan and Gwen shook their heads in unison.
“So I had to pick up some graveyard shifts,” Linda continued. “Fixin’ a hog ain’t cheap.”
“And the hog is the…bike?” Guinevere clarified.
“I’m workin’ twelve to twelve tonight. Graveyard through breakfast.” The old waitress snatched Alan’s cigarette from the ashtray, gummed a long drag, then replaced it where she found it. Alan quietly pushed the ashtray aside. “Hell,” Linda added. “Maybe I should get a job with you guys and Big Tim. What’s that place called again? Cheddars?”
“Checker’s,” Alan corrected, imagining what it might be like if Linda actually worked at the Casual Café. She’d be as out of place as a garbage man serving high tea.
“You guys work with Patrick now, right?” Linda asked.
“We do,” Gwen said. “He just started last week.”
A yellow smile appeared on the old woman’s dentures. “And y’all hired him? Just like that?”
“He’s a great waiter,” Alan told her. “He was on the floor himself, tonight. I forgot how fast he is.”
“I’ll bet he’s fast,” Linda chucked.
“What does that mean?”
“You know why Onie fired him?” Linda smirked, fishing for gossip.
“He didn’t get fired. He quit.”
“That what he tell ya’?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then y’all got lied to,” she said flatly.
“What do you mean?” Alan asked.
The old woman stood back smugly. “Apparently Mr. hot-shot waiter got caught red-handed with his hands in the till. He’d been filling his pockets since the moment he transferred in, and Onie thinks that he stole from that Nevada store he worked at too.”
“That’s absurd,” Guinevere scoffed, popping a French fry into her mouth.
“No, it ain’t,” Linda said. “Ya’ guys hired a thief.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Linda,” Alan offered, “restaurants are full of gossip. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Restaurants are like…well…it’s like there’s a big pool of servers in town, and everyone knows each other. Everyone cycles through the same places. They start at Denny’s, then move to Bob Evans. Some go to the River Station, and others go to places like Checker’s. And everybody talks about everybody…you know that.”
“We talk about you,” Gwen assured her.
“Then he’s got you fooled,” Linda said.
“I’d have heard something,” Alan said.
“Ya’ talk to Big Tim?” she asked. “You know he still drinks with Lucky.”
“Big Tim’s said nothing,” Alan told her. “And he’s been working with Patrick for almost a week. If there were a problem, I’d have seen it. Or, at least I’d have picked up on it.”
“Two orders up, Linda!” the line cook called out, ringing the bell. Linda gave him a nod, then scratched her armpit as she looked at Alan’s truck through the window.
“That’s an awful nice truck you got there, Alan. It’s a 79’, right? I had me one of those, but Lafayette wrecked that, too.”
“It was so good to see you!” Gwen tried to move the old bat along. “We’re going to eat now. Is that okay?”
“But I couldn’t afford to buy a new one.” Linda ignored her. “I had to buy me a beater. It’s a shame I didn’t get a settlement or something, ya’ know, like Patrick did. A little extra cash in my pocket, so I could get me one of those new caddy-lacks.” She paused to let this sink in. “Patrick rolls around in a Caddy, right? Pretty impressive for a Denny’s waiter.”
“A Checker’s waiter,” Gwen growled.
The cook dinged the bell again.
“You two enjoy your meal,” Linda added. Guinevere watched the veins behind her knees as the old woman walked away. “Well, that was delightful,” Gwen said, lighting another cigarette. She gestured to the one that Linda had gummed. “Don’t forget to finish yours.”
“Do you think it’s true?” Alan asked, pushing aside his grilled cheese. “He does drive a nice car.”
“I drive a nice car,” Gwen reminded him.
“Yeah, but you still live at home. You can afford it.”
“She’s just an old witch,” Gwen said. “And she’s jealous that we’ve all moved on to better” – she ran her fingers along the filthy window sill – “and cleaner places.”
Alan sat back in the booth to think, watching the old waitress interact with other tables. At one point she noticed him, and nodded in a way that said, You know it’s true, Alan. And sometimes the truth is hidden in plain sight. Alan thought about this while Guinevere finished her burger, and later after they’d paid the tab, grabbing one last smoke in the parking lot before saying goodbye.
He thought about this his entire ride home.
* * * * *
The following day at Checker’s, Alan asked Patrick a point-blank question.