David Alan Dedin
Thank You For Being a Friend
Twenty-Six
Thank You For Being a Friend
2016
Orlando, Florida
The long, brown conversion van chugged slowly through Hillside Estates, an affluent – and expensive – Orlando neighborhood, with residents as old as God, himself. The van was a twenty-year-old Ford Econoline, a once-robust vehicle that was years past its prime; its tired V-8 rattled like loose change in a dryer, and its rusty chassis wobbled on tires as smooth as black balloons.
The logo on its doors read:
The Heritage House
Smorgasbord
Professional Catering
Sprawling mid-century ranch homes ran the length of both sides of the street; they were grand in a 1970s sort of way, with low roofs, big windows, and manicured yards as green as astro turf. The decrepit truck squeaked to a stop in front of a capacious white cape cod, while Chad, its driver, checked the address on his phone. Confirming the location, he turned with a painful, power-steering whine and heaved the vehicle up towards the house. The van sounded like a rocking horse on springs when it finally stopped in the driveway –
The home’s front door opened.
A woman in her seventies – with a striking white bouffant and flowy peony housedress – met Chad in front of the house, her expression slightly aghast.
“Are you from…the Heritage House?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Chad said politely, climbing out of the vehicle. He was a tall, lean man in his late twenties, and wearing standard catering attire – white shirt, black pants and shoes. His demeanor was almost comically casual, like Shaggy from Scooby Doo. “Where would you like me to set up?”
“I-I-I…” the woman was speechless. Her drawn-on eyebrows looked especially shocked when she noticed something leaking from below the van’s side cargo door. It smelled like a-jus.
“You’re Beverly, right?” Chad checked his phone.
“I am,” the woman said, quickly gathering herself. His face calm and professional, Chad couldn’t help but chuckle inside – I love it when these old rich ladies see the van for the first time.
“We’re serving on the lanai,” Beverly said. “You can enter through the garage.” Chad watched her earrings sparkle as she clearly thought fast in her head. Glancing at a diamond watch, she added, “How about if I move the Mercedes? You can park in the garage, and I’ll close the door.”
“Sounds great, Ma’am.”
Chad waited a moment as the woman retrieved her keys. When she returned, they swapped their vehicles’’ places.
Beverly was careful to park her white CLS over the stain the van had left in her driveway.
* * * * *
“Like a rhinestone cowboy…”
“How the hell ya’ folks all doin’ today?” Libby asked the arriving lunch customers, holding the door open so they could easily pass with their walkers, canes, and oxygen tanks.
“I know y’all have been here before, so just help yourselves!”
The Heritage House Smorgasbord was a derelict of a restaurant, a massive barn-shaped megastructure located just off the old freeway, with enough square footage to host an indoor swap-meet. The place was once the busiest restaurant in town, with over forty tables within its main dining hall, and another forty in any one of three auxiliary dining rooms – not counting the additional banquet rooms for rent, beyond.
“Ya’ folks came on a good weekend,” Libby cackled from the lobby. “It’s all ya’ can eat crab legs for an extra two ninety-nine!”
“Did she say her tumor’s benign?” an elderly woman asked, helping her husband towards the buffet line.
“I think she said they close at nine,” he responded, shuffling behind.
Libby shrugged at the misunderstanding – Ya’ folks will all be dead soon, so I really don’t give a crap what y’all thought I said. The hostess’s inner monologue was indeed ironic, as Libby herself – a slight woman in a sharp black cocktail dress and heels, with the vibe of Ruth Gordon from Rosemary’s Baby – was probably older than all of them combined. She smiled insincerely as more retirees hobbled through the doors and headed for the stacks of cold, wet plates at the base of the salad bar –
I’ll bet this is the highlight of your day, you sorry sons-of-bitches.
* * * * *
The Heritage House’s interior was a study in “folksy” décor, with seizure-inducing wallpaper, big lantern chandeliers, and a hideous yellow, orange, green and brown color scheme that would make even Carol Brady cringe. Its tables were outdated laminate, with heavy brown chairs and cafeteria-style place settings. The ugly auburn carpeting looked “bissell’d,” rather than vacuumed, and the place’s numerous corridors smelled faintly of Pine-Sol and bleach. The whole restaurant had the dark and dingy feel of a cheaply-finished basement, where paneling hid the creeping mold that was growing behind the walls.
“You want roast beef or ham?” Chang asked, rubbing his carving knife and fork together as though he were a real chef. Chang was a Chinese immigrant; he had come to the US legitimately, to experience the American dream.
“Did he say gross teeth exam?”
“No – Do you want chipped beef or Spam?”
“Oh – I’ll have the chipped beef.”
The American dream, indeed…
* * * * *
Back in the seventies and early nineteen-eighties – when chest pain meant that you’d enjoyed your meal – the Heritage House had lines out the door almost every night of the week. In its heyday, the smorgasbord operated two separate buffet lines to accommodate weekend and holiday diners, while The Rotary Club rented out the banquet rooms – which included their own private buffet line. And even then, with as busy as it all was, it was not uncommon for unexpected Interstate tour busses to stop at the restaurant for dinner, with no notice whatsoever.
For a solid twenty-five years, the place was a batter-fried goldmine.
The Heritage House’s business had leveled out in the nineties with the arrival of the Old Country Buffet, then began a slow decline in the sad decades that followed. But as the building was paid in full – and mayonnaise & shortening were cheap, when purchased by the tank truck – the rambling old restaurant had clung to life a good fifteen years longer than it ever should have. The past decade in particular had not been kind, and the smorgasbord had cruised on the last gasps of its former reputation.
And even that reputation is goin’ to crap, Libby thought, as the sound of a backfire in the parking lot signaled the return of Chad’s dilapidated catering van.
That’s one more customer who will never eat our crab legs again…
* * * * *
“Aw, JESUS!” Twiggy yelled in disgust, when Chad opened the catering truck’s cargo door in the hot afternoon sun behind the restaurant. Her nose caught the interior’s stench – a nauseating mixture of spilled food, spoiled dairy, and various other food-related filth – all of which had never been fully cleaned and allowed to bake inside the vehicle like a kiln. She looked at Chad with her nose covered –
“How can you stand driving when it smells like this?”
Chad shrugged, climbing into the back of the van. “It’s not so bad when the windows are down.”
“How’d the luncheon go?” Twiggy asked, taking a handful of dirty table linens from him. She was a woman in her sixties, as plump as a fertility doll, and dressed all in white. “Food okay?”
“Best prime rib you’ve made in a while,” Chad told her.
She smiled.
“You need help?” – Chang popped his head out the back door. Rolling up his sleeves, he instinctively took a deep breath before approaching the vehicle. Chad started handing him bustubs filled with dirty utensils, which he stacked on the ground near the building. “How lunch go?” Chang asked.
Chad grinned – “She made me park in the garage.”
“Van piece of shit,” Chang told him. “Whole restaurant piece of shit.”
Ten minutes later, the van was empty and Chang had lined up the luncheon’s stainless-steel chafing dishes in a row, on the blacktop. Cigarette in mouth, Chad sprayed everything down with a hose. Once the items were clean-ish, he paused a moment, took a long, deep drag, then aimed the hose into the open truck and blasted the empty cargo bay with water. Big chunks of grease and fat rolled out like slugs, falling to the parking lot in shiny, oily blobs.
Frankie, the restaurant manager, a middle-aged man with a shaved head and goatee, appeared from the kitchen. “How’d it go today?”
Chad gave him a look – How do you think it went?
“I mean, how’d it go, aside from The Mystery-Meat Mobile?”
“It went okay, I guess,” Chad told him. “But this thing is getting dangerous to drive. Any chance we can get a new set of tires? Or at least, a different set of tires? I know where we can get them used, cheap.”
Frankie grinned. “I can get you a new roll of duct tape.”
“Well, I’m not taking the freeway anymore.” Chad flicked his cigarette as he shut the water and kicked the hose into a pile of weeds growing alongside the restaurant. “When you get to fifty, it feels like you’re floating.”
“I can relate to that.”
“I’m not kidding, Frank. The van’s a death trap.”
“Well” – Frankie held up a clipboard – “We’ve got one more for tonight.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup. Let’s just leave the chafing dishes outside to dry. And leave the van doors open – maybe it will air out some.”
“Do we have a dishwasher today?” Chad asked, heading inside.
“Why would we have a dishwasher when we have you?”
The two entered the cavernous kitchen, where an ancient dishwashing machine sat idle like an old, octopus-style furnace. It was surrounded by several days’ worth of dirty dishes in bustubs, at least thirty – including those from today – stacked in precarious piles on the floor.
“So…do we not wash dishes anymore?” Chad’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Take a break, grab some food, and then let’s get started on this mess,” Frankie told him. “Twig just finished the salads for tonight’s off-site, and Chang will help you load the truck. How’s the gas?”
“A third of a tank,” Chad said.
“That’s enough,” Frankie told him. “This one’s over by Silky Pines.”
“In the complex?” Chad asked. Silky Pines was a well-heeled retirement community.
“No, but nearby. It’s in a private residence.”
“Okay.”
Chad disappeared into the dining room while Frankie came up to Twiggy, who was preparing baked fish at one of the many long, stainless-steel tables in the big kitchen. The place was designed to accommodate ten cooks at once, but the woman was by herself, listening to a radio as she worked alone.
“…sweeeeeeeet Caroline…”
“So, what’s on the menu tonight, Twig?” Frankie came up to her. He knew the answer already of course, but it never hurt to ask.
“For the off-site?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“The usual – prime rib and ham, mostaccioli, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn…”
“Rocko’s coming in tonight, so we’ll have an extra hand on the line,” Frankie told her. “And it’s Friday, so we’ll have a busboy with the hostess. All hands on deck for the weekend.”
“Three extra people are all hands on deck?” Twiggy asked, retrieving a bag of brown, freezer-burnt crab legs from the old walk-in. “I remember when we used to have three linemen every night.”
“I had three linemen once,” Libby quacked, coming into the kitchen. “In fact, I had them more than once.” Frankie smirked at her raunchy humor. Despite her age, Libby often talked like a horny truck stop waitress.
“What’s going on, Lib?” he asked.
“The health department called again,” she told him. “Asked to speak to you specifically, and said it was a courtesy call.” Both Twiggy and Libby looked at Frankie with suspicion –
And why, exactly, does the Health Department warn you of their visits?
“They said that they’ll be here today, four o’clock on the nose,” Libby added.
Frankie looked at his watch.
Chad came into the kitchen, holding a plate with fried chicken and coleslaw. His mouth was full when he looked at Libby – “Customers out front, Lib.”
“Walkers or wheelchairs?”
“Neither. But it’s taking them time to get out of their car.”
“Duty calls,” Libby said, returning to the dining room.
Chad took another mouthful of chicken before heading for the dishwashing room.
“Hey – I said to take a break,” Frankie yelled.
“I will, but I need to get the Mangler started,” Chad yelled back. The scary old machine had been nicknamed for a Stephen King story. “It takes like thirty minutes for it to fill, and to warm up.”
“What time is he leaving?” Twiggy asked Frankie.
“CHAD, WHAT TIME ARE YOU LEAVING?” Frankie called out.
“WE SERVE AT SEVEN,” Chad called back, “SO I NEED TO BE SET UP BY”-
Crack –
WHOOSH!
The sound of falling dishes preceded the ugly hiss of a broken steam pipe. The air near the dishwashing machine suddenly filled with noisy clouds of gray, as a small river of dirty water shot across the floor. Both Frankie and Twiggy ran towards the commotion.
“What happened?” Frankie asked, coming into the dishwashing room, where a hot, white haze now hung below the lights. Chad was on his hands and knees, cradling one arm while shutting a valve with another –
“I think she blew a gasket,” Chad said, closing the valve with a squeak. Frankie came around the machine and helped him stand. As the steam dissipated, Chad looked at his hand. His wrist and forearm were now bright red, with the beginnings of blisters. Twiggy went for ice.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Frankie asked.
“No, I just need an ice pack.”
“Here you go,” Twiggy said. “Do you want some salt and lemons?”
“How bad is it?” Frankie asked Chad.
“It looks worse than it feels.”
“Well, that looks terrible,” Twiggy said, grimacing at his arm. She turned to Frankie. “He can’t do an off-site like that.”
“She’s right,” Frankie told Chad. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the ER? Or at least to quick-care?”
Chad relented. “Quick-care, probably.”
“I’ll drive you,” Frankie said. “Twig, can you get us some cold, wet towels?”
“Have Chang take him,” Twiggy said. “You’re gonna’ have to do the off-site, yourself.”
“She’s right,” Chad admitted. “Chang needs to run the line.”
“Health Department’s here!” Libby came into the kitchen. “They want to see Frankie.”
Frankie sighed in frustration – “Fine.” As Twiggy wrapped Chad’s arm in cold towels, Frankie followed Libby into the dining room – “Chang, we need you in the kitchen” – then up to the lobby, where the Health Department inspector was waiting by the cash register.
Libby greeted more customers as the manager ducked into the front office, where the safe was located. A few moments later, Frankie returned with a small white envelope, which he passed to the inspector – “I believe this is yours.”
The inspector smiled, glanced at the envelope’s green contents, then tucked it into his pocket before leaving – which was surprising considering the restaurant hadn’t paid for an exterminator visit in eight months. A roach scurried into a corner when Libby came up to Frankie’s side – “The cost of doing business, boss?”
“No, Lib. I’m afraid it’s the cost of staying in business.”
* * * * *
“So, let me get this straight…you’ve been depressed nonstop since nineteen eighty-two?”
“That’s correct.”
“How is that possible?”
“That I’ve been depressed so long?”
“No – how is it possible that you have such a specific date in mind?”
“Because I remember watching Hugh Downs on 20/20 when I was growing up. He was doing a report on mercury fillings in teeth,” Frankie said, “and how that mercury seeped into the bloodstream and eventually caused depression. They listed the symptoms of depression on the broadcast, and even though I was a kid, I was smart enough to recognize those symptoms in myself.” Knife in hand, he thought about this a moment –
“Wait – why are we talking about this again?”
The old man smiled, holding out his plate for prime rib. “Because I asked you about it…and the music made me think about being sad.”
Both men looked up together, towards the big white piano in the home’s candlelit living room. An elderly pianist in a crisp shirt and tie was playing Gary Jules’ Mad World softly, while guests in evening ware stood all around him, chatting and drinking fine wine. A chill crept up Frankie’s back when he recognized the song, and the memory it held within.
“…and I find it kind of funny and I find it kind of sad…the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had…”
“I’ll take a piece, rare,” the old man said.
Rubbing his carving utensils together, Frankie carefully sliced into the meat, cutting the red flesh with purpose. Hot blood bubbled as he placed a slice onto the man’s plate, his face glowing an angry orange above the prime rib’s heat lamp. Narrowing his eyes, he went to cut again.
“How does one live with that kind of depression for so long?” the old man continued. “You must be in your forties now, am I right?”
“Err…yes.” Frankie stirred uncomfortably. “I’m forty-seven.”
“Forty-seven to thirty-seven, thirty-seven to twenty-seven,” the man holding the plate counted out loud. “Twenty-seven to seventeen, and then, what? Six years more?”
“Did you want another slice?” Frankie tried to change the subject.
“That’s over thirty-five years of nonstop depression,” the man pressed. “Thirty-five years of being depressed every day. Thirty-five years of knowing nothing but depression. What does that do to a person? How does living with that kind of sadness change you over time?”
His knife caught the gleam of the lamp as Frankie stared at the old man in silence –
Are you seriously asking me this?
“I imagine it’s like alcoholism,” the man added. “Where you only feel normal if you’re drunk.”
Are you really, seriously asking me about this? Because if you are, I’ll tell you.
A single bead of colorless sweat rolled down Frankie’s face, like a tear. His heart jumped in his chest. His eyes moved slowly from the bloody prime rib to the home’s elegant surroundings, where he had set up his long tables with food arranged on white linens. There were forty or so elderly guests in the place, gathered on beautiful sofas and around neatly-trimmed tables. The air was rich with perfumes and conversations, as diamonds twinkled in the soft ambiance. The pianist tapped away, filling shadows with ghostly melodies when Frankie set his carving utensils down and turned to the man to answer his question.
He quietly cleared his throat –
“It you’re genuinely asking me, living with depression is like” –
“The prime rib looks delicious,” Evelyn, the party’s hostess, cut him off. The wealthy old woman appeared at Frankie’s side, then smiled at Edward, the man who’d asked the question.
“Eunice is waiting for you on the patio, Ed. Why don’t you take your plate and join her?”
Edward smiled at Frankie. “I’ve been summoned.”
“I’ll send the girl out to make sure your drinks are freshened,” Evelyn added, nodding towards the bartender that she’d hired separately from the Heritage House. A middle-aged woman in a tuxedo shirt nodded back, then followed Edward outside. Once they were gone, Evelyn’s head shot towards Frankie’s – “May I ask what that was about?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I do not want to hear any talk about that subject,” she told him. She smiled for her guests, but her tone was sharp.
“I’m sorry Evelyn, but the gentleman asked” –
“Mrs. Addington,” she corrected.
“Err, yes, Mrs. Addington.” Frankie stammered slightly, clearing his throat again. “What I mean is, while I was serving, the gentleman asked me about” –
“I don’t care what he asked you about,” she said firmly. “I hired you to serve food, not to chat up my guests, or to talk about things like…depression.”
Frankie looked crestfallen. “Mrs. Addington, talking to guests is part of the job. And again, I didn’t bring up anything myself. The gentleman asked me a question, and I answered it. It would have been rude not to.”
“If someone asks you a question like that, then you change the subject.”
“Evelyn, I” -
“Going forward, please limit your conversation to food.” The old woman smiled again, nodding to those who approached the buffet line. “And once everyone has served themselves, I’d like you to begin clearing plates” – her eyes twinkled angrily in the dim light – “discreetly.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Silence.
He watched her disappear in a shiny satin huff.
“I’ll take a piece from the end,” an old woman said, coming up to the slab of cow’s ass, holding her plate with yellow, cigarette-stained fingers. Her skin was the color of Lucite, and her purple pant suit – though obviously expensive – looked like it had been wiped, rather than washed. She smelled like Chloe and mothballs. Frankie returned his attention to the job at hand, forcing a smile to the next round of diners.
“And dip it in the grease, so it’s easier to chew.”
* * * * *
The red CHECK ENGINE light glowed brightly on the dashboard as the old catering van returned to the restaurant a few hours later, stopping in a cloud of blue smoke.
“How’d it go?” Twiggy asked Frankie, using a cinder block to prop open the kitchen’s exterior door. The truck coughed like a cat with a hairball after he shut the engine.
Frankie climbed out of the cab. “How’s Chad?”
“Sore,” Twiggy said, reaching for the side door. “He’s got a second-degree burn on his arm.” She pulled the door open and winced at the smell. “I thought he hosed out the back.”
“He did,” Frankie told her, grabbing a worn folder with paperwork. “I’ll take it to the car wash tomorrow. I’ll spray out the inside.”
“They like the prime rib?”
“Loved it, Twig. You still make the best prime rib in the state.” He looked at his watch, then towards the near-empty parking lot. Eight thirty on a Saturday night, and the place is already a ghost town.
“I’ll get Rocko to clean this out,” Frankie said, as Twiggy followed him inside. The two walked through the disgusting dish washing room, where another twelve bustubs had been added to the growing mountain of dirty dishes. The Mangler sat idle, as though daring someone to turn it on. The air smelled musty.
“We’ve gotta’ get all this shit washed tomorrow,” Twiggy told him. “We’ll have to wash it by hand, if we can’t fix the machine.”
“It’s on my list,” Frankie said.
“The grill’s broken, too,” Twiggy told him. “It smells like gas. I think the line is leaking again.”
“Did you turn it off?”
“Chang shut the gas at the wall, but we’ll need to fix it before we open tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
Twiggy stayed behind in the kitchen as Frankie entered the dingy dining room. A handful of guests were finishing up their meals, while Marla, the lone waitress, was walking with a bustub under her arm, loudly clearing plates – clatter! An old Helen Reddy song droned on from above as Chang started wrapping salads with cellophane. Rocco was moving tables in one of the auxiliary dining rooms, setting up for a private party the next day. The Heritage House may have been a dump, but its rooms were inexpensive and used like skid row hotels.
“Can you please not smoke at the front desk?” Frankie asked Libby, who was puffing a Benson & Hedges behind the cash register.
The old woman looked up nonchalantly. “You’re back? Good.” She stamped out her smoke, then came around to greet him. “I’m takin’ off early, boss. I’ve got a date.”
Frankie smirked. “Are you kidding?”
“It’s Saturday night,” she told him. “I ain’t dead yet.”
“Who’s the lucky man, Lib?”
“Who says it’s a man?”
“Go,” Frankie told her, taking her place at the register. He opened the till, then added the check that Evelyn had written him for the evening’s catering. “And don’t be late tomorrow.”
“Don’t wait up,” Libby said, texting on her iPhone while heading out the door.
Frankie watched her leave, then turned his attention towards the cavernous dining room, where the handful of customers looked like ghosts from The Overlook Hotel. Chang was checking his Tinder app while wrapping a bowl of potato salad. Marla entered the kitchen in silence, while Rocco disappeared into the far hallway that led into the rear of the restaurant, towards the unused banquet rooms in back. At this time of night, the Heritage House felt as sad and empty as an indoor shopping mall who’d finally lost its anchor stores.
It’s only a matter of time before all this goes away, Frankie thought. I remember when restaurants like this were busy, back when I was young.
The world has changed so much in forty years…
Ducking into the manager’s office, Frankie glanced at his own phone – a burner – to see if he’d received any messages. There weren’t any, of course. Everyone these days used smartphones with apps, but Frankie couldn’t risk that exposure as modern social media tracked users’ movements through GPS.
His phones were always bought with cash at convenient stores, the small stores off the beaten path where security was poor – if any at all. He purchased his pre-paid VISA cards with cash as well, along with his food, clothes, gas, and all possible bills. Everything was paid in cash, an increasingly-difficult feat in an increasingly-cashless society. Frankie did his best to live in the shadows, but it was only a matter of time before that wouldn’t be possible anymore.
The world was changing too quickly.
And Frankie, as a man nearing fifty, was having trouble keeping up with it.
* * * * *
It seemed like he spent more time in his head, in the past, remembering the glory days of youth, rather than living his life in the present. Frankie remembered how much fun he’d had in his twenties, when he was young, thin, wide-eyed and full of hope. He remembered the early 1990s, the best time of his life, when the radio provided a background of cheery 80s pop – in an era before the Internet and cell phones, when his hair was big and the bars were hopping.
Frankie remembered what that time was like, how much fun he had, how happy he was … and how it all came crashing down, when HIV hit the gay scene hard in 92’ and 93’. He remembered the fear that suddenly overtook his world, and an entire generation of men who vanished one person at a time – all while The Real McCoy sang Another Night, and the bartenders poured drinks with heavy hands – “A cocktail with a cocktail.”
Frankie remembered everything.
Every face, every song, every night sobbing behind the steering wheel as he drove home shit-faced, too frightened to talk to anyone.
And now, at the age of forty-seven – as current millennials hadn’t a clue of what came before them – Frankie had found himself left alone with these memories, as out of step with the modern world as an old smorgasbord with a dying clientele.
I’m so…sad.
Glancing at his watch again, he took a swig of the whiskey that he kept in the safe – a bottle that was hidden for emergencies, which he’d already replaced once this week.
And I don’t know how much longer I can take this…
As the last customers left the Heritage House, Alan locked the door behind them.