David Alan Dedin
The Phantom of the Restaurant
Eleven
The Phantom of the Restaurant
1991
“What are you looking at?” Sharon – finally in all fuckin’ black for once – asked.
But then the MUZAK skipped.
eeeeeeeeeeeeee…
So, she stormed in back to fix it.
It was Saturday night and as always, Checker’s was slammed. The kitchen was loud, the bar was louder, and the line was so far out the front door, Cheryl’s tits could barely keep up. The great dining room had a foggy look about it tonight as every single customer in smoking had a burning ball of orange in their hands. The eerie cloud of secondhand white was nearly as large as Lum’s, and over the course of the evening, the ghostly haze had gradually expanded throughout the entire restaurant –
eeeeeeeeeeeeee…
It now haunted diners and servers alike, glowing … like a Phantom.
* * * * *
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
Rob Kinere, a Bradley Boy, frequently called Rob Vain, walked down the upper forties, slowly – yet deliberately – snapping his fingers. It looked for a moment he was trying to get someone’s attention, but no one gave a shit. The customers’ country fried steak and sweet restaurant margaritas were far too important to ever look up from their feedbags.
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
Derek Peterson, a Bradley Boy, you haven’t yet met this fun side character (but you totally will later, in an upcoming chapter), mirrored Rob Vain’s movements precisely – directly across the dining room, in the upper twenties. Those fucking pigs couldn’t look up from their troughs, either.
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
Rick Tallguy, a Bradley Boy, don’t bother remembering his name, walked down the lower sixties, slowly – parallel to Rob Vain above. An unseen camera followed the two in tandem, as they moved as though they were the gang from West Side Story, slinking - rather than walking forward while the oblivious chewed away.
…snap!...snap!...snap!...
John Smith, a Bradley Boy, a young James Franco type, waaaaaay across the other side of the restaurant, crept along in tandem with everyone. The four men met in the dining room’s middle, at the top of the steps that separated smoking from nonsmoking. Chuckling…as if there were a difference.
(Oh – forgot to mention: The entire front of house staff was doing this, too. Busboys, hostesses, slink, snap, smoke. You get the idea. Let’s fucking move this along.)
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…!
Way up high, from the point of view of a manager’s office shelf, Sharon brought her arm out wide, then swung her palm at the MUZAK box with a –
SLAP!
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
“Strike a pose.”
Rodney looked up.
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
Dun-dun, Da-dun… Dun-dun, Da-dun…
“Strike a pose.”
Bill looked up.
CLAP!
Brilliant red spotlights sliced across the dining room while a growing moonrise of blinding white reduced those within into a reel of black & white film. Somewhere in the haze, Guinevere’s red lips could be heard in a whisper –
“Void, void, void…”
“Void, void, void…”
The Checker’s staff – like Burton’s oompa-loompas – at a glance seemed almost identical; they swooped in outstretched unison towards the Bradley Boys, converging within the panorama’s epicenter. The Boys took their places at four points.
And then… gasp!
CLAP!
The Madonna.
“Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache, it’s everywhere that you go” –
“You try everything you can to escape…those bills and debts that you owe.”
A magnificent celestial twinkle fluttered gently down from above, as the Bradleys lifted Guinevere skywards, to the stars. She was gowned as Sassoferrato’s Madonna, but with exposed breasts that seemed to emanate fire – a stagecraft illusion, devised from penlight, fan, and tiny strips of parchment. Below the Madonna, Alan and Patrick lay splayed – shirtless – one arm reaching for the divine, the other interlocked with someone they couldn’t see.
“If all else fails, and you long to be…something better than you are today” –
“I know a way you can get extra cash, it’s called the Void Key” –
“And it’s all tax-free, so”-
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers make extra money, hey, hey, hey” –
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers feel the cash flow!”
CLAP!
White fluorescents rained down from the ceiling, as Guinevere – now in a stunning black Halston & heels – strolled through the busy server’s alley. Like the customers beforehand, neither cooks nor servers gave her a second thought.
“All you need are some extra training tickets, so use them, that’s what they’re for” –
The line cooks’ heads shot UP, then DOWN:
“That’s what they’re for!”
CLAP!
“Ring it in, then-void, then-spin-like-no-thing’s hap-pened” –
“And tables walk out the door!”
LINE COOKS: “Walk…out the…door.”
CLAP!
She was now in the dining room, holding a tray of drinks –
“It makes no difference if you’re bottom or top” –
Now in the bar, doing the same –
“Way in back of the bar…”
Now, surrounded by worshipers, stretching to touch her –
“If the sales are hop’pin, and the orders are right”-
“You’re a Superstar!”
“Tips go twice as far, so” –
The staff now in a perfect square chorus, the Bradley Boys in front – their hair flailing in unison – meticulously mirrored the movements within the new Vogue video. The Boys’ hand/arm motions were no less than impeccable, though their eyes contained a subtle – but distinctive – quality of anger. It was as if they were doing this for the umpteenth fucking time, and though their choreography was absolutely flawless, they lock stepped in violent, unified rage.
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers make extra money, hey, hey, hey” –
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers feel the cash flow!”
CLAP!
The Boys parted for just a millisecond when two tuxedos – Alan & Patrick – briefly emerged from within the chorus, dancing to a different beat that only they could hear; the pair tangoed on through, oblivious to everyone around them, and as soon as they were gone, the Bradleys’ resumed dancing as though nothing had ever happened –
CLAP!
But their eyes were red and glassy.
CLAP!
The camera dolly-zoomed from above on the Madonna, her open palms crossed below her chin –
Money’s where you void it! To HELL with food costs, we’ve destroyed it!
Only when the money flows, that’s when I feel so beautiful –
CLAP!
Powerful! –
CLAP!
Heads could roll, so –
Get up on that register and Void!
CLAP!
“So, C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers make extra money, hey, hey, hey” –
“C’mon – VOID!” –
“Let your fingers feel the cash flow!”
CLAP!
“Money’s where you find it…”
“Money’s where you find it…”
CLAP!
All eyes on the Madonna, now:
“Cash flow’s high, bill’s are low.
Northwoods Mall is where we’ll go.
Sharon, Big Tim, Ty, Laur-e –
Bill and Rodney are a couple of queens!
Corporate, DM’s, and LP: Thank you for the diamond rings.
Alan, Patrick, Guinevere…push the Void, bleach that hair.
We have style. We have grace.
Berman’s Leather, we’ve got taste.
Sears, Wards, Penny’s – EWW!
Patrick’s Caddy? That’ll do.
Waitress with an attitude.
Waiters who aren’t in the mood.
Don’t just stand there, let’s get to it –
Make some bank, there’s nothing to it” –
SLAP!
“GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD AND RUN SOME FOOD!” Sharon yelled at Alan, as loud as she could without angering customers. He brought his hand to his hot, red cheek with a gasp. “Did you just…hit me?” Patrick passed, as Alan followed her heels into the kitchen.
Chuckling…
Patrick hesitated at the landing, paused, checked his table in play, then returned to the alley, where he shadowed Alan’s footsteps exactly.