David Alan Dedin
Every Rose Has Its Thorn
Twenty-Nine
Every Rose has its Thorn
1991
New Year’s Eve
Its Northstar humming like a rocket in the cold, Patrick’s Eldorado headed southeast on I-74, with the cruise control set on a firm 57. It was 4:45 in the afternoon, and the setting sun threw a brilliant arc of red across the snowy white & blue landscape of rural Illinois. The Interstate was busy with New Year’s Eve travelers, which meant lots of cops – and cars adhering to the 55mph limit. Patrick was in the left lane, slowly passing a pickup of good ole’ boys. His pose was perfect – a sharp Vanilla Ice in profile – and Alan’s was intentionally faggy, in the passenger seat to his right. The Bee Gees’ “Night Fever” was playing on the radio.
“What are they doing?” Patrick asked, his eyes locked forward.
“They’re fucking giving you the dirtiest look!” Guinevere laughed, watching from the back seat while keeping down and hidden. She pulled her mink in close to her face – “If there weren’t so many police out tonight, I think they’d run you off the road!”
“Or shoot out the tires,” Alan said.
“Do that thing with your hair,” Patrick told him.
Pulling down the sun visor, Alan opened the illuminated vanity mirror and began to meticulously fuss with his bangs. The Cadillac inched forward, intentionally coming side-to-side with the pickup for a moment; the truck’s redneck occupants – two farm boys and a skank with a spiral perm – stared at the passing car in absolute disgust – Just look at them faggots in that fancy Caddy-lack!
As a state police cruiser watched from ahead, Patrick was careful to signal before merging in front of the truck, resuming the posted speed limit. The trio watched the stares in the rear-view mirror, then turned their attention towards the next audience coming up in the windshield –
This time, it was a minivan with a Jesus Loves You bumper sticker.
* * * * *
As night descended on Champaign, Illinois, the three added their name to the wait in the busy Chi-Chi’s restaurant. The place was packed with the holiday crowd, and Patrick felt a tinge of regret on knowing that Checker’s was just as slammed – and he was missing a profitable night. But Guinevere had insisted that they spend the evening together, as it was likely going to be her last night out in a while; she was due in a few weeks, and it was getting hard to wait tables. She didn’t want to work so long that she accidentally birthed in nonsmoking –
Is tonight’s special fresh, you ask? Well, let me show you – SPLAT!
“For my Schnookums,” Alan said, returning from the bar with drinks. He handed Gwen a nada-rita and Patrick a Sprite. He then took a seat between the two, holding a margarita the size of an aquarium. Guinevere shot him daggers –
“What?” Alan asked innocently, gently patting her stomach. “I’m drinking for two.”
“I wonder what Sharon got for Christmas this year?” Patrick asked.
“A stocking full of coal,” Gwen said. “And a pair of panty hose filled with chicken fat, nailed to the mantle next to it.”
Alan nearly spat out his drink – “Chicken fat? Where did that come from?”
This time Guinevere patted her tummy – “Someone has a sense of humor.”
“Your baby must have a sense of humor if he wanted to come here,” Patrick complained, sipping his drink. The trio watched a waitress walk by in a uniform so garish, she looked like a guest at a bad quinceanera. Her sleeves were the size of open parachutes, trimmed in red and green.
“Excuse me – can I see a menu while we wait?” Gwen raised a finger.
“Here you go, Sugar.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll save you the time,” Alan told Gwen. “Tacos, chimichangas, and deep-fried iced cream.”
“And combo platters,” Patrick added. “Everything comes in a combo platter.”
“Speaking of coming” – Gwen held her menu up while discreetly taking something from her purse. “Does it come with this?” She showed the two a condom in a package, a black French Tickler that she’d bought in a gas station. She was careful to keep it out of view of nearby customers.
“No offense Schnookums, but I think it’s a little late for a condom,” Alan told her.
“What’s that for?” Patrick laughed.
“To help us enjoy our meal,” Gwen said, unrolling the prophylactic and discreetly pressing it into the open menu. She then produced packets of both mayonnaise and ketchup – also from the gas station – which she opened and squeezed, to make sure the condom stayed in place. She closed the menu and smiled – “Dinner and a show.”
“Lavinski, party of three,” a voice called over the intercom.
The trio gathered their things before meeting the hostess at the front desk. The restaurant was packed as the three were led to their table, and the MUZAK screeched a terrible mariachi – Aye-yi-yi-yiii! Ten minutes passed before the server took their order. Alan and Patrick pointed to their items on open menus, but Gwen – having chosen her entrée earlier – handed the waitress a neatly closed menu and recited her order from memory. The server shoved all three menus under her arm and returned them to the hostess stand without a second thought.
The three enjoyed Chi-Chi’s famous chips & salsa while watching every new table that was seated, wondering, will THIS be the one? It was just like pulling a slot machine handle and holding their breath while the wheels spun.
The jackpot hit about twenty minutes later, just as their meals were served.
* * * * *
Rainbow-colored spotlights sliced across the dance floor as Maxine Nightingale blasted from the sound system – “Well, it’s all right and we’re comin’ home, we’ve gotta’ get right back to where we started from … Love is good, love is strong, we’ve gotta’ get right back to where we started from …!”
Chester Street was by far the best bar in Champaign, a large, multi-leveled building that resembled a Chicago dance club. Tuesdays were “Trash Disco Night,” and DJ’s brought in crates of 1970s-era LPs and 45’s. But this was more than a typical Tuesday; it was New Year’s Eve, and the house was packed. There must have been close to 300 people on the dance floor, with another 300 dancing on the balconies that overlooked the main level. The place was an OSHA nightmare, but everyone was too drunk to care. And the trio was in the middle of all of it as the crowd began to count, “TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN…”
Seizing the opportunity, Alan and Patrick hoisted Guinevere high above their shoulders, so her sequined dress could catch the brilliant white spotlights –
“SIX, FIVE, FOUR…”
A thousand tiny white dots filled the smoky air as Guinevere’s belly became the dance floor’s giant, crowd-surfing disco ball – “THREE, TWO, ONE –
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
The club erupted in riotous applause.
Nineteen ninety-one had finally come to an end.
* * * * *
1992
“Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk –
“I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk…”
Sick of Checker’s endless 80s pop, Sharon, in varicose-blue, had changed the MUZAK to the 70s channel for a night. Her black heels clicked as she walked down the alley with purpose, seething at a waitstaff that was clearly hungover from the previous night. Rodney had again shoveled cheese fries onto the to-go station, in an effort to keep his green-faced servers upright for the shift. The kitchen air stunk of burgers, beer, Brut, and barf as a revolving door of waiters & waitresses blew chunks in the employee restroom. Jesus fucking Christ, is everyone in slow-motion? Sharon thought. Her eyes came to rest on Bill, who was clearly falling behind in the expo window –
He looked like he was going to puke, himself.
“ORDER IN THE BOWL!” Patrick yelled, coming to Bill’s side. The waiter started to speak but stopped when Sharon’s heels came up fast. Grabbing a two-top’s order, Patrick vanished through the saloon doors. Sharon took his place.
“Of all the people in his hell-hole of a restaurant, you’re the last person I’d expect to show up hung over,” she scolded Bill, grabbing a white apron for herself.
“I’m sorry,” Bill said. “I normally don’t drink that much. But last night was New Year’s, and some buddies had a bonfire on their farm, with a couple kegs. I guess I didn’t realize how much I had to” – his words stopped abruptly as his hand shot to his mouth – Mmmmph!
“GO!” Sharon pushed him aside, taking his place in the window. She tightened her apron as he sprinted to the restroom. Her eyes then narrowed at the passover full of food. Bill was further behind than she’d realized; half of it was starting to die. She scowled –
“I NEED EVERYONE TO STOP WHAT THEY’RE DOING AND HELP ME CLEAR THIS WINDOW! NO ONE LEAVES THE KITCHEN WITHOUT RUNNING FOOD!”
Servers groaned, approaching the window like zombies.
“What can I run, boss?” Laurie materialized at Sharon’s side.
“Run this,” Sharon told her, gesturing to the tray that Bill had left behind. “But give me a second.” The apple-bottomed waitress held back a moment as Sharon stirred the country fried steak’s gravy, removing its skin. She also swapped out the dead Texas toast and kale. “Okay, go!”
Laurie hoisted the tray and shot down the alley. As soon as she rounded the corner, Guinevere entered the kitchen wearing an expensive Limited pant suit, plus size. As Gwen was far too big to wait tables, Sharon had allowed her to work as a hostess until her due date neared. “WE HAVE A FIVE TABLE TURN,” Gwen shouted to the cook’s line.
“AND I STILL NEED FOOD RUNNERS!” Sharon shrieked, swapping out hard burger buns for fresh ones.
“WALKING IN, CHEESE FRY, ONE SHROOM!” Alan yelled, rounding the corner with an empty tray. He lost the tray, poured three Cokes, then joined the line at the Max – where Jackie was keying in an order. Her hair smelled like skunk weed.
“How was your New Year’s?” Alan asked, making conversation.
“I don’t remember anything past five, so I must have had a good time,” she told him.
“Err…but didn’t you work last night, Jackie?”
“I dunno. Maybe. Like I said, I can’t remember.” Alan watched her print a ticket, then struggle to recall just what to do with it next.
Patrick appeared behind him. “How’s your night?”
“Awesome,” Alan said. “I miss having Gwen on the floor, but at least having her as a hostess means I’m getting seated the best tables. I’ve already made over $250 tonight.” He quickly entered his ticket so Patrick could take his place. “Of course, the down side is that it comes with a price.”
As Guinevere walked passed him, Alan discreetly pressed two twenties into her hands. She thanked him with seductive eyes – and a quick tongue-movement that would have caused a straight man’s cock to twitch. Alan grabbed his Cokes, turned in his ticket, then snagged an armful of salads from the window. His hands were full when he rounded the corner into the dining room. A few minutes later, Patrick joined him in the side station.
“And speaking of Gwen” – Patrick handed her his own twenty as she passed – “I appreciate her help in keeping us seated, but it’s costing us a lot of money.”
“That’s the price of doing business,” Alan reminded him.
“She can’t expect us to give her 30% of what we make,” Patrick said. “That’s unfair.”
“How can you say that? She’s thirty percent of the trio.”
“But she’s not doing as much work as us. And we probably lost a grand apiece from taking yesterday off.”
“Well, give her less if you want,” Alan told him. “Be warned, though – she won’t be happy with you.”
“Are you giving Guinevere a percentage of your tips?” Laurie asked, eavesdropping. “Getting her ready for a late-night Thompson’s run?”
“Last minute baby money,” Patrick said, covering. “We promised Gwen that for the next few weeks, we’d toss her a few bucks to help with her kid.”
“It’s the least we can do because we still don’t know if it’s Patrick’s or mine,” Alan added, turning to Patrick – “You know, we should reeeeally get that paternity test.”
“Okay, I am totally staying out of that one.” Laurie left for the kitchen.
The two followed her, rang in tickets, grabbed more food to run, then reconvened in the side station ten minutes later.
“Okay, seriously…I just voided a $200 check,” Patrick told Alan. “I have about $700 in fake tickets now, and the shift isn’t even half over. I’m expecting to take about $1,200 tonight, more than I’ve ever voided.” His voice grew serious. “I cannot stress enough how important it is that we get the tape out of the register tonight … sooner, rather than later. We need to get rid of the register tape, and allow enough time for it to build back up again. And it can’t be done later than seven o’clock.”
Alan grinned as more servers entered the side station. “Easy, buddy…I’ve got this.”
“What do you mean?” Patrick asked.
“I mean, I can guarantee that Sharon will be out of the kitchen by seven.” He looked at his watch. “That gives us a little more than an hour to get our big voids over with, because once seven rolls around…” Alan intentionally let his words trail off.
“What…did you do?” Patrick asked.
Ignoring Patrick’s question, Alan yelled to all in the dining room – “HEY, EVERYBODY … WHAT’S THE NAME OF SHARON’S EX, THE DUDE WHO DUMPED HER BACK IN CHAPTER FIVE?”
The entire restaurant, both staff and customers alike, looked up and shouted in unison –
“LISLE!”
before returning to their jobs and meals.
“I’d tell you but it’s too late to stop it,” Alan said. “Just be ready by seven. I promise you that once it’s over, the shit will hit the fan.”
* * * * *
At seven on the nose, Guinevere entered the kitchen followed by an FTD deliveryman, carrying a dozen roses. “DELIVERY FOR SHARON DONOVAN!”
“I’m Sharon,” Sharon hissed from the expo window, her apron covered in grease and her face shiny with sweat. “What the fuck are you doing in my kitchen? No deliveries during business hours…and definitely none through the front of house.”
“But he has a delivery for you, Sharon,” Gwen said cheerfully, coming closer. “And I think you’ll want to accept it.” The impeccably dressed hostess stepped aside to allow the man forward. He gave Sharon the roses. She angrily read the card –
To Sharon –
I’m sorry!
Love, Lisle
Sharon’s heart went bang as she bear-hugged the roses, ran for her purse, and tipped the uniformed man twenty bucks – “No change.”
“Thank you, ma’am!”
“No, thank you!” Sharon insisted, returning to the window. She giggled like a schoolgirl as food piled up behind her, her earlier harsh tone changing to the softness of a Prozac commercial. Gasping softly, the staff took a collective step back, as though watching Wednesday Adams smile –
It was…unsettling.
“Did she just get a lobotomy?” Rob Vain whispered.
“Christ, even Sybil had softer mood swings,” Ty whispered back.
“Is that from Lisle?” Laurie reappeared at Sharon’s side. “If it is, you should call him!”
“Right now?” Sharon asked sheepishly.
“I’ll cover the window for you,” Laurie told her. “Take five minutes and go call Lisle. Do you still have his number?”
Sharon scoffed – He was the love of my life. Of course I still have his number. She cleared her throat nervously. “I think so.”
“Then go. Call him. My section’s caught up, so I can take the window for five minutes.”
The staff went silent as Sharon bolted for the manager’s office. As soon as the door was closed, Alan covered Patrick at the Max, who swapped out the register’s journal tape. The window was now overflowing with food, and Big Tim had no more room for new orders. He turned to the cook’s line: “Listen up, people! I need you to drag your tickets another ten minutes – even if they’re already dragging! Do you understand?”
“We got it, boss!” Cochise yelled, moving his burgers to the cooler part of the grill. Duncan and Roger followed suit. Coming around from the cook’s line, Big Tim took Laurie’s place at expo, his eyes taking inventory of the window of dying food – Oh, that ain’t good.
“I NEED FOUR, FIVE, SIX FRESH BUNS, GRILLED, ON THE FLY!” – Tim’s voice boomed at the cooks – “AND I NEED TWO SIDES OF CFS GRAVY, AND SIX – I REPEAT SIX – FRESH ORDERS OF FRIES ON THE FLY!”
The cook’s line slammed into motion.
Servers circled the passover window, waiting for overdue food.
Patrick Hernandez’s “Born to be Alive” blasted from MUZAK as fistfuls of dead fries and burger buns were thrown into bustubs, next to blobs of coagulated gravy. Buffaloware crashed as plates were swapped, burgers & entrees freshened, and drawn butter used to make dried out BBQ look moist and shiny again. A steady stream of servers carried orders out to angry customers, while Rodney made table visits and comp’d drinks and desserts. Thirty minutes later, the kitchen was finally caught up; the staff took a collective sigh as the New Year’s Day rush continued.
Thirty minutes after that, Sharon finally emerged from the office; her eyes were red and puffy, with cheeks the color of magma. She looked like she’d cried a gallon’s worth of tears, then smoked a carton of cigarettes. She was…humiliated…and she knew that whomever had ordered the roses was probably watching her this very moment, basking in the aftermath.
She was pissed…
* * * * *
Later that evening, the passover was full again when Eugene with an E sauntered into the kitchen, looking for an overdue order. The rush was over, but the restaurant was still busy; the cooks were pushing out their final round of food, and like Denny’s on a Sunday, the window was overflowing with at least twelve different tickets. Normally, a manager would have been manning the expo station, pulling servers from their sidework to run this last push of food. But as Bill had left with Rodney – and Sharon was hiding in the office, licking her wounds – only the experienced servers had any sense of urgency, and were hunting & pecking through the hot plates, finding their final orders. At this point of night, most servers didn’t give a shit.
Watching from the Coke machine, Alan saw Eugene approach the window, look at the orders, then to his ticket book. He was waiting for a six-top of burgers, but couldn’t seem to find them. Sensing an opportunity – I got rid of Sharon tonight, so why not get rid of Eugene? – Alan left his sidework and offered assistance –
“Eugene, you look perplexed. Can I help you with something?”
“I can’t find my order,” the cowpoke admitted. “And it’s going on 30 minutes right now.”
“Well, the kitchen has been behind most of the night,” Alan told him. “A thirty-minute wait isn’t surprising. What’s on the order?”
“Burgers mostly. And one chicken sandwich.”
Alan’s eyes scanned the passover, and he immediately saw Eugene’s food under the heat lamps. Its ticket must have fallen out of the window, and the farmhand wasn’t smart enough to recognize his own food, literally in front of his face. A devious smile crept across Alan’s lips –
“Give it another few minutes, Eugene. And make sure your table has enough to drink.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Anytime” – Alan struggled to say the next word – “buddy.”
Eugene left the kitchen and went to check on his table. Once he was gone, Alan rearranged the window, scattering Eugene’s burgers and making sure they were positioned to receive the maximum heat-lamp burn. Alan then busied himself with sidework until Eugene returned about five minutes later. Once again, Alan met him at the passover.
“You said five burgers and one chicken sandwich, right?” Alan said, pretending to look over the window’s dwindling food.
“That’s right,” Eugene said, looking at his ticket book.
“I don’t see it yet, but I’m sure it’s coming out soon.”
“My table’s getting angry, Alan.”
“How long is the order on again?”
“Bout’ forty minutes now. Table says that’s too long to wait for sandwiches.”
“I just had two burgers take 45 minutes,” Alan lied. “Give it another five, but make sure your table has enough to drink. You should bring them another round without asking. They’ll appreciate that.”
“I’m on it!”
The moment Eugene was gone, Alan again rearranged the order. The hot heat lamps had reduced the burger buns to bricks, and the sandwiches’ toppings – mayo, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese – were rapidly turning into inedible mulch, above meat as hard as chew toys.
The hillbilly returned almost seven minutes later. By that point, his order was the only food in the window.
“They’re really pissed, Alan. They want to see the manager.”
“I think your food just came up,” Alan told him. “You should get this out to them as soon as possible.”
“But shouldn’t I get Sharon first?” Eugene asked.
“No,” Alan said firmly, traying up Eugene’s food. The plates were so hot, he had to bite his lip to handle them. “Get the food out first. The table’s mad because they’re hungry. Yeah, you’ll have to get Sharon eventually, but the customers will be happier once they get some food in their stomachs.”
“So, run the food, then get Sharon,” Eugene clarified.
“Yes, exactly. And don’t even ask if they need anything else. Just drop the food, tell them Sharon’s on her way, and go right to the manager’s office to get her. Trust me, this is the best way to handle a late-shift complaint.”
“You’re a good buddy,” Eugene said, hoisting the tray into the air. Alan watched the dumb-ass saunter down the alley, then disappear around the corner.
Alan smiled devilishly, but stopped when he noticed that Big Tim was watching him – I saw what you just did, Alan. Not missing a beat, Alan narrowed his eyes at Tim – Oh, please. Like you don’t want him gone, yourself.
The Kitchen Manager “hmphed,” then returned to his inventory.
Alan watched the corner, one beat, two beats…
Eugene with an E returned, then bee-lined for the manager’s office.
Neither Alan nor Tim had ever seen him move so fast…
* * * * *
Later, in the dining room, Laurie stopped wiping her tables when she heard a commotion in the closing section. She looked up to see Sharon – tired, defeated, barely going through the motions – standing in silhouette as a table of six read her the riot act, then got up and left, yelling the entire time. Laurie then turned her attention to Alan and Patrick, who were restocking the side station together. They seemed to be diligently working, but she could tell they were also watching Sharon –
Both men were laughing.
Both men clearly had pockets bulging with tips.
And both men are as thick as thieves, Laurie realized. I know they’re up to something, and I will make it my mission to find out what it is…
* * * * *
Much later, as the cooks were scrubbing down the kitchen, the phone rang in Sharon’s office. She looked at the time, then at the phone. She winced. There was only one person who ever called the restaurant this late at night. Lighting another cigarette, she brought the receiver to her ear – “This is Sharon.”
“Happy New Years, Sharon! You’re up late again. Giving those hoods another good scrub-down?”
“Mr. Arini, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve had a really long day. Can we cut to the chase?”
“That’s my girl!” Dan Arini said at his desk in Dallas. “She’s quick and efficient, and she doesn’t mince words.” Lighting his own cigarette, Arini adjusted his glasses and stared at Peoria’s numbers on the computer. “We still have a problem, Sharon. Your food costs haven’t gone down.”
“I told you we’ve got that under control, now,” Sharon said. “We’re keeping a very close eye on the kitchen. I’ve frozen the cooks’ raises, we do inventory three times a day, and Tim, my new Kitchen Manager, has a handle on” –
“You’re focused on the wrong door, Sharon.” Arini cut her off. “I’ve seen this before. It’s not your cooks who are stealing. It’s your servers.”
“It’s not the servers, Mr. Arini.”
“The numbers don’t lie, Sharon.”
“Well, neither do I…and let me tell you, I’ve caught the cooks red-handed, taking high-dollar items out the back door.”
“Red handed you say?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve actually seen your cooks take inventory from the stockroom and carry it outside the building?”
“Well, no…but I’ve found food in the dumpster.”
Arini laughed. “That’s exactly what happened in two of my other restaurants, Sharon. The servers were stealing, so to cover their tracks they made it look like the cooks were thieves to throw the managers off. By the time we realized what was happening, a small group of servers had gotten away with thousands.”
Sharon thought about this.
There was a knock at the office door.
“Sharon, I’m going to be blunt again. Your food costs are unacceptable, and if you don’t bring them down, I may have to reconsider your position as Checker’s general manager.”
Sharon fell silent.
Arini’s tone grew sharp and serious:
“Your servers…are stealing. I’ve seen this before. There is probably a group of them, two or three people that are hiding in plain sight. They work as a team, they always work as a team. And they’re probably your favorite employees, the people you give big sections to – and trust to audit tickets and help with inventory.”
The knock was repeated.
“Ms. Donovan, I want you to listen closely…because your job is in jeopardy. Take your eyes away from the kitchen, and look carefully at your serving and bar staff. You have a thief, possibly two or three. You need to find them. Because, if you don’t, I will replace you with someone who will. Do I make myself clear?”
Silence.
“Yes, Mr. Arini.”
“Happy New Year, Sharon.”
The phone went dead.
The knock repeated a third time.
Stamping out her cigarette, Sharon reached to open the door – “What?”
Laurie was outside the office.
“Sharon,” Laurie came forward, “I don’t know if I’m reading too much into things, but there’s something I’ve noticed that I feel I should bring to your attention…”