David Alan Dedin
Ev’rybody Dance Now
Ev’rybody Dance Now
1991
“I need to ask you something,” Alan said point-blank, coming up to Patrick’s side in the busy Checker’s server’s alley.
“Hold on,” Patrick told him, pushing his way to the cook’s line, where he slapped a soft copy onto the passover plate. “Order in the bowl!” He turned to Alan. “Can it wait?”
“No…it really can’t.”
“Patrick,” Big Tim called from the kitchen. He tapped the paper order, still in the bowl. “You need to ring this up first.”
“I’m ringing it up right now,” Patrick told him, “but I really need you to start making the food.” The cook wouldn’t budge, though his tone was calm as always. “I will make your food. As soon as you ring up the ticket.” Patrick took it back.
“There is NO smoking during rush!” Sharon shouted, as Jackie appeared in the alley as though she’d just been shoved. The waitress expelled a lungful of grey, before scurrying out of the kitchen like a scared cat. Sharon immediately followed, screaming at all the servers. “And if I catch any more of you in back, I’ll lock the fucking breakroom!”
Her heels made deliberate clicks as she went after Jackie.
Alan followed Patrick to the Bobcat. There was a line.
“Come…on!” Patrick said impatiently. Ty was just finishing at the machine, but Rob Vain still had his own turn. “I don’t know why it’s so important to ring things in first,” Patrick complained to Alan. “The cooks still read the paper. They use what’s written down, not what’s printed on the side!” Alan watched the tall man’s Rolex twinkle as he anxiously tapped at his pant leg. “Are you going to be much longer?” Patrick asked Rob.
“Easy, Vanilla. I’m almost done.”
“WALKING IN…ONE FRY, ONE ARTICHOKE!”
Rob finished quickly, so Patrick immediately took his place. He entered his code – deet, deet, deet, deet! Alan waited patiently as the new server hunted & pecked through the submenus. This was going to take awhile.
Sharon returned to the kitchen. She was wearing the lavender blazer today, as though she’d found a style she’d liked and bought a colored case-pack. The black hose & heels are always the same, Alan observed, returning his eyes to the back of Patrick’s neck. Whenever he used the Bobcat, the tall, blonde waiter – once faster than Linda at Denny’s – always ground to a soul-crushing halt, like a secretary who couldn’t type.
“The following sections have been SAT,” Sharon shrieked. “Jennifer! David! Kelly! Brittany!” – she paused to fill her lungs with air – “But don’t think that means you’re excused from running food! WORK! BOTH! WAYS!”
“Dammit,” Patrick muttered, as the Bobcat’s screen inadvertently returned to the main server menu. He put his glasses on, eyes darting between the green screen and plastic buttons. David came up behind them both, but on realizing how long Patrick was taking, rolled his eyes and used the bar register instead.
Alan had enough.
“Let me show you a trick.” Alan scooted Patrick aside. “This is what I used to do, when I first started. Give me your ticket.” Patrick passed it, and Alan read the order. “Do not tell anyone I’m showing you this – understand?”
“Okay.”
“See these items?” Alan pointed to what Patrick had written. “They’re all similar in price. “They all have different product codes on the screen’s menu, but look at the buttons.” – he pointed to the keypad – “There’s only two buttons for burgers. That’s because these two are the most popular, so the keyboard has a shortcut. The same holds true for all the submenus. The top twenty items have shortcut buttons, along with things like soda, and the top ten sides.” Alan looked at Patrick. “You follow?”
“Yes.”
“All the cooks want to see is that a burger has been rung up. Any burger. They don’t care which one it is.” Alan inserted the ticket into the printer, hit the deluxe burger key four times, then pressed total. The Bobcat whirred. The order was now in the system. “Done. Go turn this in.” Alan swiftly keyed in his own order while Patrick was away. But, the new waiter returned with questions.
“The prices aren’t the same,” Patrick said. “Laurie said that each item has to be keyed in correctly, otherwise” –
“Keyed in correctly for inventory.” Alan clarified. “That’s all the Bobcat is. Just an inventory system, so the managers can track food costs. We still hand write tickets like any other restaurant. Honestly, I wish we just had the Denny’s register. It was so much simpler than this.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow.
Natalie popped her head into the kitchen. “We seated your section, Alan. Two Cokes, one root beer, one coffee. They also want fingers for their nasty little hell-child. It wants them to be well-done.”
“Thanks,” Alan told her, grabbing an empty beverage tray. Before he loaded drinks, he shouted at the fry cook: “WALKING IN…KID TENDER, BURNT!” He started scooping ice, but then noticed that Patrick was lingering.
“What?”
“But again, the prices aren’t the same,” Patrick persisted, looking at his ticket. “Won’t the customers know?” Alan took his ticket again and pointed at the handwritten portion.
“Actually, no, they won’t. Look at what you have here. Deluxe burger, Western burger, Sedona burger, and a regular cheeseburger. The deluxe and Sedona are more expensive, but the western and regular are cheaper.” He did the math in his head.
“The total difference is under a dollar, and you’d be surprised how few people notice that. Plus, the restaurant made an extra seventy cents. And just to make sure they don’t notice the discrepancy” – Alan grabbed a nearby Sharpie and scrawled, “Thanks! Have a great day!” across the ticket’s surface, making it hard to read the prices. He returned the hard copy to Patrick.
“You’re welcome.”
Patrick took a moment to take this all in, but Sharon pulled him out of his head, slapping him when she passed. “Just because you’re new doesn’t mean you can stand there with a thumb up your ass!” Her voice trailed off with her heels. “I need food runners! Now!” Alan hoisted his beverage tray into the air.
“Oh – and I still need to ask you something,” he said to Patrick. “It’s important, so don’t forget.” Ticket still in hand, Patrick watched Alan leave the kitchen –
Thanks! Have a great day, he thought.
* * * * *
Later, in the calm between the lunch and dinner rush, Alan sat with Ty in the sixties, taking a break. The customers were now restricted to the restaurant’s front, and half the dining room was empty, allowing staff to breathe during the eye of the hurricane. There were several groups of servers sitting at tables within the vacant sections, including David, Jennifer, and Kelly – who were laughing hysterically at some big inside joke. Bill and Jackie shared their own table, while the Bradley Boys, as always, sat together in a circle of hair, rolling silverware.
It’s like looking at fucking Stryper, Sharon thought, frowning from a distance.
“He doesn’t look happy,” Ty said to Alan, nodding towards Patrick. The new hire was sitting off by himself, counting his lunch tips with concern. “Someone’s gotten a dose of reality.”
“Huh?” Alan looked up from his chicken sandwich.
“Pat’s first weekend with Sharon.” Ty lit a cigarette. “It’s like waiter hazing. Only the strong survive.” She watched Patrick stand up and straighten his apron. “Think he’ll make it?”
“Patrick? Yes, of course.” Alan wiped his mouth, standing up himself. “He’s as strong a server as all of us. And in a few weeks, he’ll be running circles around Laurie.”
Grabbing his plate, Alan watched Patrick approach the trio in the corner. The new waiter asked if they wanted to give up their dinner shifts, but Kelly said no because the money was too good. Patrick then did the same with the Bradley Boys, who also declined. Ditto, Bill and Jackie.
“Got a sec?” Alan asked, meeting Patrick by the kitchen corner.
“You want to give up your dinner shift?” Patrick asked, hopefully.
“No, but,” – Alan grabbed his arm. “Come with me.” Alan led him into the kitchen, passed the cook’s line, and into the prep area. “In here.” He opened the door to the narrow employee restroom, closing it when they were both inside. Alan inhaled.
So did Patrick.
* * * * *
“Are you a thief?” Alan asked point blank.
“Huh?”
“I asked if you were a thief,” Alan repeated. “It’s a pretty simple question.”
“Where is this coming from?” Patrick asked.
“Very honestly, Linda at Denny’s.”
“I see.”
“Is it true?”
“What?”
“Are you a thief?” Alan wanted an answer. Patrick chose his words carefully.
“No, Alan, I am not a thief.”
“Then why’d you leave Denny’s?”
“For the same reason as you.”
“I quit.”
“So did I.”
“That’s not what Linda said.”
“What did she say?
“She said you got fired. For theft.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“So, you’re saying it’s not true?”
“I’m saying it’s not true because it’s not true.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“Then, how can you afford to drive a Cadillac?”
“Wait – what?”
“The Cadillac, Patrick. How can a Denny’s waiter – or any waiter for that matter– afford to drive a car like that?”
“Wait – you think I’m a thief just because I drive a nice car?”
“Well, yes – that and other stuff.”
“What other stuff?”
“Well, let’s see…how bout’ that fuckin’ Rolex you’re wearing? How much that set you back?”
“Seriously, Alan? All this is because of my watch?”
“And car.”
“The watch is fake.”
“No it’s not.”
“And I suppose the car’s fake too?”
“Alan, my watch is fake. Here, look.” Patrick removed the shiny gold timepiece and passed it over. Alan rolled it around in his fingers, feeling its heft. “This is not a fake.” He passed it back.
“Have you even ever been to Vegas?” Patrick asked, snapping the watch back on. “Everything’s fake. This is costume jewelry.” He waved his wrist around like the watch meant nothing.
“Really?’
“Yes, Alan. Really.”
“So, the rings are fake too?”
“What rings?”
Alan rolled his eyes. “Your fuckin’ diamond rings, you dick. Do you honestly expect me to believe that both your watch and rings are” – he stopped midsentence. Patrick’s diamonds were gone.
“Yes, Alan, my rings were – I mean, are fake. Again, costume jewelry. Do you honestly think I’d wear real diamonds to work with all the disgusting stuff we put our hands into?”
“Well, I…” – Alan stammered.
“And you know I bought my car with a settlement, right?”
“Well, I know that you said a settlement” –
“Oh, I’m lying about a settlement, now?”
“No, Patrick, what I mean is” –
“Seriously, Alan? I cannot believe we’re having this conversation!”
“Again, what I’m saying is” –
“How many people in this restaurant have nice cars?” Patrick asked in the tiny restroom. “Guinevere has a LeBaron, Rob Kinere drives a Mustang. Hell, even your pickup is pretty nice!”
“Yes, but” –
“And how much does all this cost?” – Patrick intentionally mussed Alan’s House Party hair – “All these highlights, all this hairspray. A superstructure like this runs, what? Fifty dollars? Sixty? How much do you tip? How much does all this product cost? And how much is your water bill as you stand in the shower, waiting for the water to finally penetrate this bulletproof shield…?”
“Stop it!” Alan shrieked, batting him away.
“My point is,” Patrick continued, “that all of us spend money on the things that we like. Some people like cars, some people like hair…some people like rings and watches. We find a way to fit them into our budget.”
“You’re an asshole,” Alan told him, turning to the mirror and repairing the dents Patrick had inflicted. “Do not…ever…touch the hair.”
“And whatever Linda might have told you,” Patrick went on, “is complete and total bullshit. There was a shortage in the till one day, and Onie needed a scapegoat. And looky here, Onie says…here comes a new waiter that I can blame my cash shortage on, so corporate doesn’t know how incompetent I am. It’s Patrick’s fault! Blame everything on him. Let’s give the new Denny’s waiter the boot, and everything will be just fine.” Tears appeared in Patrick’s eyes –
“Well, you know what, Alan? It’s not fine! It’s not!”
“Patrick,” Alan stammered. “Listen. I didn’t mean to” –
“Of course you meant it!” Patrick snapped. “God, do you know what its like? To get fired for a bullshit reason? From Denny’s? It’s humiliating! And then to have people like you think that I got fired because” –
“Listen, I’m sorry” –
“No – let me finish.” Patrick shut him down, raising a finger in anger. “You…don’t know…anything. And I don’t give a fuck about what Linda might have said! She’s just some” – he struggled for words – “some cranky old waitress with hair like Hitler who got her feathers ruffled when this guy” – his thumb gestured towards this guy – “transferred in from another restaurant. I moved her cheese. I pissed on her parade. All of the sudden, with a new kid on the block, that…little…wench…felt threatened, and that’s why I got fired!”
Patrick took a breath.
“And did I tell Rodney when I interviewed with him? Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
“Patrick, I” –
The tall, blonde server pushed Alan aside, taking his place in the mirror. Patrick grabbed some toilet paper to wipe his eyes. From his appearance, he was obviously upset.
“Patrick, listen, I’m really sorry” –
THUD! THUD! THUD!
The two waiter’s heads shot towards the door. Alan unlocked it, then swung it open. Sharon was waiting outside like Maximilian from Disney’s The Black Hole. “What’s going on in here?”
“Sharon…we’re in the bathroom,” Alan protested.
“Both of you?” she looked them over.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Alan told her. “We needed a little privacy.”
“For what?” Sharon asked. To suck each other’s cocks?
“What do you need, Sharon?” Patrick asked. Her eyes went from Alan, to himself, then back to Alan. “You got sat,” she told him.
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
Sharon’s black heels lingered for a moment, looking both servers up and down. And then they were gone. Alan looked at Patrick. “Are we still friends?”
“Yes, Alan, of course we’re still friends.”
* * * * *
An hour later, Peoria’s skyline came up fast on the right as Patrick slowed his Eldorado, merging onto Adams Street. He threaded through the downtown stoplights, then gave the Northstar some gas when passing the sleazy Club Peorian, adjacent to the transient Julian Hotel. When the next light turned green, he stepped on the pedal, launching the Caddy into the bad side of town. A few minutes later, he parked at a familiar pawn shop. Gathering himself, the waiter went in.
“He comes again,” the proprietor announced, a shameless rip-off of Taxi’s Danny DeVito. “You got more rings for me today?” Patrick shook his head. He hesitated a moment, then laid his Rolex onto the scratched glass counter.
“How much for this?” Patrick asked. “It’s gold.”
“Gold doesn’t bring much these days,” the fat man explained, “But I’ll give you a good price” – the proprietor did mental math – “How about a hundred fifty dollars?”
“That the best you can do?” Patrick bargained. “It’s a Rolex. How about three hundred?” DeVito stood his ground.
“One-fifty, firm.”
Patrick hesitated, but ultimately accepted the offer.
He was behind on his Com Ed bill…
* * * * *
“WALKING IN…ARTICHOKE!” Laurie screamed, a few days later. Alan and Patrick were working another double, and Sharon – in carnation pink, today – was circling the restaurant, like a vulture.
“I need a side of gravy, white!” Alan yelled, garnishing two platters on a tray by the passover window. Big Tim threw the side under the heat lamps. The gravy bowl was hot to the touch, when Alan placed it on the serving tray. He hoisted the oval platter into the air and disappeared through the bar doors.
The lunch rush continued for three more hellish hours.
Later, during the eye, Alan finally had a moment to breathe. “Let’s get some food,” he told Patrick, taking off his apron. Patrick shook his head. “Not hungry?” Alan asked.
“I don’t want to spend the money,” Patrick said honestly.
“Seriously?” – Alan chuckled – “Get some chicken tenders. Or, get something off the kid’s menu. You have to eat.”
“Alan, I’m broke,” Patrick admitted. “I’ll grab some soup or crackers or something.”
“Soup? Seriously? You sound like a Sally Struthers commercial.”
“I’m good.”
“No, you’re not,” Alan insisted. “Christ, if you’re really that broke, I’ll buy you something.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“What do you want?” Alan asked, as he came up to the Bobcat. “I insist.”
“You’re not going to pay for my lunch,” Patrick told him firmly, coming up to his side. “Get something for yourself. I’ll sit down with you.”
“Who said I was paying?” Alan laughed, keying in his server’s number. “I’ll show you another little trick, if you promise not to tell.”
“What’s that?” Patrick asked, suddenly interested.
“Wanna’ see how you can get free food from the kitchen?”
“Yes,” Patrick said, suddenly even more interested.
“See this cable?” Alan pointed to the Bobcat’s connection, a telephone-like wire that went to the wall, and then onto to someplace spooky that would eventually be called the Internet. “Watch this” - Alan unplugged it – “Oops.”
“Okay,” Patrick said.
“I seem to have accidentally unplugged the computer from the network, and everything I ring” – Alan keyed in two chicken tender dinners – “has been, sadly, lost forever.”
Patrick’s eyes widened.
“I just print up the ticket” – Alan hit the total button, which caused the Bobcat to print on the ticket – “then, I use the void key” – Alan recalled the order on the screen, immediately voiding it out. “As long as the register isn’t connected to the network, no one knows a thing! Wall-la! Free food! Just remember to plug the cable back into the wall, before you walk away.”
Patrick’s eyes grew as wide as saucers.
“I don’t think I’ve paid for a meal since I was hired,” Alan added.
Patrick watched in stunned silence as his meal ticket turned in his meal ticket.
* * * * *
The following day at Checker’s, Patrick asked Alan a point-blank question.