Peoria, Illinois 

1991

The hot summer sun caught the highlights of Guinevere’s hair as she pulled into the parking lot, Paula Abdul blasting. Her car did a loop before finding a spot near the other servers’ vehicles; she parked, closed the convertible’s top, then gathered her apron, pens, and ticket book while climbing out of her new Chrysler LeBaron. She wore a crisp pink polo, jeans that enunciated her heart-shaped butt, and a pair of Jackie O sunglasses that she’d bought at Famous Barr. Despite having a nametag on her shirt, Gwen could have easily passed for a catalog model.

Behind her, over her shoulders, the trees around Northwoods Mall glowed a bright, brilliant green, with the tired Denny’s road sign just visible in the distance. More cars rolled into the lot, and Gwen held back as a dented Chevy Citation rattled up, taking the space next to hers –

She could smell marijuana the moment its engine stopped.

“Hey Jackie,” Gwen said cheerfully, waiting for her coworker to get out of the vehicle. Jackie was 40 going on 70 and looked more suited for a Harley than a little hatchback. Gwen smiled patiently as Jackie heaved herself from the seat, dropping a lit cigarette when she slammed the squeaky door closed.

“Careful there,” Gwen added. “You need another one?”

“Nah, this one’s still good.” Jackie scooped up the smoldering Marlboro and shoved it into her mouth without a second thought. It looked like she’d slept in her clothes. “How you doin’ today?” Jackie asked, her voice raspy.

“Great,” Gwen said. “And you?”

“I think I slept funny,” Jackie said, tightening a wrinkled apron around her wrinkled jeans. Her shoes were the color of dirt. “We were up til’ three last night. Got us some good skank.”

“You can’t tell,” Gwen assured her, lighting her own smoke while the two walked towards the restaurant together. Another few cars pulled into the lot behind, and servers emerged and chatted with each other, getting ready for the lunch shift. The younger ones were clearly Bradley students. One of them had a new RX-7.

From above, everyone converged onto a big red brick building, with lots of windows, a tall facade, and a large dormered roof reminiscent of an old fire station. The words “Checker’s Casual Café” were mounted high above the entrance as the servers flicked their butts and entered, putting on their game faces.

Jackie followed Guinevere inside.

*****

Bright ceiling fluorescents reflected in the stainless-steel surfaces along the long, wide servers’ alley within the Checker’s kitchen. The air smelled of coffee as the big urns finished brewing, while the opening crew filled ice, cut lemons, stocked glasses, straws, and silverware, and rolled carts back and forth from the alley to the prep line.

Alan stood in front of the passover, filling ice baths from a large plastic bucket. He had a different haircut today – not as tall as Buster Poindexder’s, but definitely a study in both height & hairspray. His profile resembled a 90210 extra who was having trouble letting go of the 1980s. This was especially true on days like this, when he wore his polo collar up.

“Schnookums!” Guinevere squealed, entering the alley with Jackie. She ran up to Alan and gave him a hug. “I like the new do. It makes me quiver in places that were already moist when I saw your truck in the parking lot.”

“Hey Gwen,” Alan said, bucket still in hand. He looked up to Jackie, who was getting coffee for herself.

“Morning, Jack.” “Mornin’.”

“Watch the time, people,” Laurie said like a buzzkill, intentionally rolling her cart so close, it forced Alan and Gwen to separate. Laurie ripped off the plastic from a tray filled with individual potato condiments and slammed them one by one into the ice water. “Clock is ticking. We open at eleven.”

“Good morning Laurie,” Gwen seethed with sarcasm. Laurie was the equivalent of the restaurant’s “Roz” from 9 to 5, round, mid-40s, and aware of everyone’s business. The greying waitress somehow glared at Gwen without ever making eye contact.

“You’re in the bar today,” Laurie said flatly, returning the cart to the kitchen. The Bradley boys entered the alley in a wolf pack, also stopping for coffee.

“We open in ten, people!” they heard Laurie shout, to no one in particular.

Gwen smiled at Alan.

“Laurie, however, does not make me quiver.”

*****

The Checker’s kitchen was a cavernous place, with a server’s alley, cook’s line, and a large prep area at the rear of the building. It had a dishwashing alcove, and numerous separate passages that led to the bar, breakroom, stock and laundry rooms...as well as a small employee restroom. There was also a little hallway that ended at the managers’ office, squeezed like an afterthought between the Hobart machine and fry station. As Checker’s was currently the busiest restaurant in town, the kitchen staff had arrived earlier in the morning, hours before the opening servers.

“Cigarette?” Gwen asked Alan, straightening her apron. Alan shook his head.

“I haven’t gotten my tickets yet,” he told her.

“I’ll get them for you,” Gwen said when she opened the door to the milk dispenser, checking her hair in the reflective interior surface. “Are you top or bottom today?”

“Don’t know,” Alan said, tying his Shoes for Crews. He noticed Laurie return from the back. “Hey Laurie. Am I top or bottom today?”

“That’s probably something you should have checked when you came in,” she said, avoiding the question. Laurie walked past Jackie as she left the kitchen.

“What a bitch,” Jackie said. “I’ll find out for you,” Gwen said to Alan, following Laurie into the dining room. Gwen left the alley and entered the front of house, a space just as cavernous as the kitchen, only on a much grander scale.

*****

Like its brick exterior, Checker’s dining room had a retro, turn-of-the-century feel. It was clearly a modern restaurant, but its windows and booths were designed to look antique, with plants, polished brass railings, and hanging schoolhouse lights and fans. The “great room” space was divided into two distinct levels: an upstairs smoking section – “the top” – and a downstairs non-smoking section – “the bottom” – with a good sixty tables and booths between the two. A separate bar room held an additional fourteen tables and booths and was connected to the great room by a large foyer/waiting area at the building’s customer entrance.

A long open hallway ran half the upper floor, and Guinevere followed Laurie’s ass as it rounded the corner into the lobby. Upon arrival, Laurie came shoulder-to- shoulder with Natalie, a hostess, a clone of Jennifer Grey from Dirty Dancing, who was passing out tickets to the drooling Bradley boys. She wore a dress that left nothing to imagination. Laurie did not look happy.

“We have an alley rally people, so let’s get this wrapped up,” Laurie said to them. The waiters shot her daggers, but the hostess didn’t miss a beat –

“Actually,” Natalie told Laurie, “there is no alley rally today. Rodney’s still in an interview. I guess we’ll have to open all by ourselves.” The hostess looked at the waiters, bringing a finger to her mouth. “Think you boys can handle that?”

The Bradley Boys howled like dogs.

“Just give me my tickets,” Laurie snapped, snatching them from Natalie’s hands. She looked at the podium’s laminated table map, then counted her bundle, confirming its accuracy.

“I’ll take tickets too,” Gwen said. “For me and for Alan.”

“Don’t you mean Schnookums?” Natalie asked, smiling.

“Servers can’t get each other’s’ tickets,” Laurie reminded them. “It’s a loss prevention issue.”

“Fuck off, Laurie,” Natalie said, smiling harder. She handed Gwen two bundles. “Here you go...Schnookums.” Laurie stormed away in a huff. “Oh no,” Natalie told Gwen. “I think she’s gonna’ tell.”

I love you, Nat,” Gwen said.
“Make lots of money today,” Natalie told her. “Hey – where’s Alan today?”

“Bottom. Forties.”

“And me?”

“Bottom, sixties.”

“Thanks.”

Gwen smiled and backtracked to the kitchen, glancing at her Swatch to see if there was time for a smoke. It was a bit too close, so she joined the other servers in checking on her section. Arriving diners could be seen in the windows as Guinevere came downstairs, into nonsmoking. The tables were empty, less one in a far closing section. Her face lit up when she saw Rodney stand from his interview, shaking hands with a familiar face –

“Patrick!” Gwen said, surprised, coming up to the Denny’s waiter once Rodney walked away. “What are you doing here?”

“I start tomorrow,” he told her. “At least I start training tomorrow.”

“You quit Denny’s?” she asked.

“I did.”

“Well, that’s a surprise. I thought you were a lifer.”

“No, it’s time for a change,” Patrick said, chuckling. “I’ve done my time at Denny’s.”

“We’ve all done our time at Denny’s,” Gwen corrected. “This is a much better option.”

“Places, people!” the two heard Rodney yell. His voice carried the tone of a gay man who had yet to leave the closet. “Come to the lobby and help Natalie seat your sections.”

The MUZAK snapped on. It joined Toto’s Africa mid-song:

“I seek to cure what’s deep inside, frightened of this thing that I’ve become...”

“Gotta’ run,” Gwen told him. “I’m off tomorrow, but I’ll see you soon.” She paused before adding, “I’m really glad you’re here, Patrick.”

“Me too,” he said.

As Guinevere returned to the kitchen, Patrick straightened his table, making sure it was customer-ready. The large windows now revealed a steady march of arriving diners, as well as more big-haired servers, a second slinky hostess, and a couple of Hispanic busboys who spoke to no one but each other. The cooks stood ready at their stations, with Big Tim in the middle – “All right gentlemen, here’s what we’re going to do.”

Diners entered the lobby like cattle, and the Checker’s machine slammed into motion; it was a mighty engine of front and back employees, all overseen by Rodney, who smiled without emotion from a handful of menus, held in front like a shield.

The restaurant was anything but a casual café...

*****

The parking lot was nearly empty the next morning, as Alan rolled up in his 79’ Silverado. He parked in his favorite spot and climbed out of the pickup wearing jeans and a Dr. Frankenfurter T-shirt; he carried his Checker’s uniform, pressed, on a hanger. He had just slammed his door, when a shiny new Cadillac pulled into the lot. Patrick emerged from the vehicle, wearing a polo and jeans so new, they both still had creases. The tall blonde trainee met Alan at his truck, and the two walked into the restaurant together, hours before the first seating. “What’s up, Patrick?” Alan said.

“Good morning,” Patrick smiled.

“Ready for life without Linda and Lucky?”

“I am,” Patrick said, smiling at Alan’s attire.

“What’s on the agenda today?” “Waitering 101,” Alan told him. “Store tour, a couple videos, and we’ll get you a menu to study. They’ll probably have you shadow me today. We’re down six servers, so I think Rodney wants you on the floor by the weekend.”

“I took a menu home to study,” Patrick said.

“That’s great,” Alan said. “Because, I mean, we’re reeeeeally down servers right now. A bunch of people quit before Sharon went on vacation.”

“Who’s Sharon?” Patrick asked.

“She’s the manager,” Alan said.

“Not Rodney?”

“No, Rodney’s the assistant,” Alan explained. “We have Sharon, the general manager...and then Rodney and Bill, who are the assistants.”

“Have I met Bill?”

“I don’t think so. You’d know because he’s kind of a dweeb.”

Alan led them towards the exterior kitchen door in the back, by the dumpsters. The door was propped open, and a few prep cooks were already outside, smoking. Alan pulled Patrick aside before they entered.

“Look,” Alan said. “I know that you’re an incredible waiter, and I actually feel a little awkward having to train you. But it’s all just a formality. Just like Denny’s, once you learn the menu and register system, it’s all the same. We’re just sling’n hash.”

“I figured that,” Patrick told him.

“Seriously,” Alan continued, “We’ll get you trained this week, and then they’ll give you a small section over the weekend. We’ll see how you do – I’m sure you’ll be fine. Once the weekend is over, and the managers see you can handle your shit, you’ll have a regular section.”

“I appreciate that.”
“

Besides,” Alan added, “you’ve already got a secret weapon.”

Patrick smiled. “What’s that?”

“You’ve got me and Gwen,” Alan said. “We’ll tell you all the gossip. Who’s nice, who’s a bitch, who’s got your back, and who to steer away from. The first thing I’ll tell you is to be careful what you say around Laurie.”

“Got it.”

Before the two went inside, Alan added, “Hell, Rodney didn’t even call your references. Apparently, my Schnookums vouched for you.”

*****

Entering Checker’s from the back of house was a completely different experience. A little beige hallway passed the laundry room where linens were washed, and then opened into the long prep kitchen, where the air was thick with vegetables and raw chicken. A sweatshop of Hispanic women worked like robots with knives, chopping, slicing, and moving mechanically between steel tables and walk-in refrigerators. Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” – in Spanish – blared from a boom box cassette deck, as Alan began to explain how the kitchen was organized.

“Prep cooks,” Alan told Patrick, gesturing towards the women. “They get here at 7am every day, and get everything ready for the lunch and dinner shifts.” Patrick noticed that none of them looked up when Alan passed.

“They seem focused on their jobs,” Patrick said.

“Actually, they don’t like gay people,” Alan clarified. “They’ll talk about us as soon as we leave.” Knife in hand, one of the ladies glared at Patrick, as though proving his point. The waiters moved on, into the cook’s line.

"This is the cook’s line,” Alan continued. “It’s empty now because the cooks don’t get dropped off until 9:30 or 10.”

“Dropped off?” Patrick asked.

“Most are incarcerated,” Alan explained. “Well, minimum-security incarceration. Short term offenses, from the Peoria County Jail. Theft, drugs, minor armed assault...things like that. The ones on good behavior have the option for supervised work release during their sentences, rather than sitting in jail. It’s actually a pretty good deal for the restaurant because they’re always on time and they never walk out during shifts. And the managers like them because they’re cheap.”

“I suppose this is a better place than prison,” Patrick said.

“Jail, not prison,” Alan corrected. “And yes, you’d think this was a better place than jail.” They rounded the corner into the empty server’s alley. Alan stopped to pour them both coffee. “Of course, in a way, this place does have bars of its own.” He showed Patrick how to use the timeclock, then walked him to a set of saloon doors at the end of the alley.

“Speaking of bars,” Alan said...

*****

Checker’s customer bar was a tall square room with a dormered ceiling and skylights. The space was paneled top-to-bottom in golden oak, with hunter green carpet, brass & glass dividers between booths, and a large, horizontal, Casablanca-style ceiling fan that rotated slowly above. Rather than a fireplace, the seating was arranged around a Sony projection-TV. Alan sat Patrick at the center table, then retrieved a training video from its bulky, plastic case. He popped the tape into the VCR, which appeared on the big blue screen. The sound was threaded through the room’s audio system. Alan signed loudly –

“I’ll be honest. The hardest thing about working at Checker’s is learning how to use the register system. And this is how it starts. Enjoy!”

“I’ll try,” Patrick said.

Patrick watched Alan leave the bar, then turned to the training video. The blue screen went black, dissolving into a pink and teal haze. The music was early 80s, the kind of tinny techno one would hear within a bad commercial. A hissing cat appeared, back arched, tail curled forward, front paw poised as though ready to strike. The cat became a stylized silhouette, which settled into a circle in the middle of the screen. Below the logo, Patrick read words that looked like Apple II graphics:

The BOBCAT POS System
The latest in professional kitchen technology! Copyright 1983 27

The image dissolved into a futuristic kitchen, as though someone had combined a restaurant with the starship Enterprise. Waitresses came and went wearing shiny silver uniforms, carrying trays of food & drink upon dishware inspired by The Jetson’s. Rather than appliances, the cooks’ line had a wall of cardboard computers, and enough flashing lights to trigger a seizure. The cooks resembled Devo. The busboy wore robot costumes. The camera panned across the set, revealing the video’s hostess – a dead ringer for TV’s Carol Brady – wearing an orange Halston III jumpsuit, collar up. Her shoulder pads were wide enough to injure passerby –

Her heels looked painful.

“Welcome to the future!” Mrs. Brady said to the screen. “And welcome to the team at your wonderful new job, here at” – the image froze. A dubbed voice read over the audio – “Checker’s casual café.” The video resumed.

“And what’s the future like?” Brady continued. “I’ll bet you’re expecting flying cars and robots to do your bidding. Well, I’m afraid that’s not quite the case just yet. That’s just silly!”

“...But I do have something futuristic to show you.” The camera panned to reveal the same registers that were currently in use at Checker’s. “The amazing Bobcat 2000!” Brady squealed, as a chorus of angels sang off camera.

Patrick sank in his chair.

The screen dissolved into a different location, where Mrs. Brady was now walking through what looked like an old Steak n’ Ale. Actors playing diners were pretending to enjoy their meals, while actors playing restaurant staff were pretending to give good service –

Customers eat shitty food while waiters give shitty service.

She continued:

“What’s the hardest part about working in a restaurant? Long shifts? Fussy customers? Working til’ midnight without getting a break, and then walking to your car in the dark, hoping you don’t get mugged?” Brady flashed her pearly whites. “Of course not. The hardest part is having to use an outdated register system. Everybody knows that.”

Another dissolve took the viewer into the kitchen. It was just as staged as the dining room, only the cooks here looked real, angry for having to participate. A few were staring at the camera. Brady stood out like the only woman in a men’s prison, and her orange jumpsuit wasn’t helping.

“Oh, the kitchen. It’s such a busy place. Cooks cursing, servers shouting, and busboys running around, speaking gibberish. And remember how we used to talk to the cooks back in the old days?” – she paused so the viewer could remember the old days – “Pen...and paper! How old fashioned!”

Brady held up a pen with a standard server’s ticket pad, shaking her head as though they were the wrong answer. She quickly scribbled a handwritten order, tore it off, affixed it to the order wheel and spun. The tattooed line cook hesitated, then snatched it like a fistful of owed money, glaring at the cameraman the entire time.

“So...much...writing,” Brady said with a pasted smile. “And sooooooo much wasted paper!”

A jarring jump cut took the viewer to the same kitchen, in what was obviously hours later, after the staff went home. Patrick noticed that Brady’s collar was down, her Halston wasn’t as crisp, and her heels had changed into flats. The camera then focused on the Bobcat 2000 itself, a computer the size of a tabletop television, with a green CRT monitor above a waterproof keyboard. Brady explained how it worked.

“Using the Bobcat is incredibly simple,” she said. “All you do is push buttons. First, you need a server’s key” – she demonstrated as she spoke – “which you insert like this.” She pushed the key in like a car’s ignition. “Turn the key three clicks to the right for the operating menu” – click, click, click – “then enter your restaurant’s six-digit identification code” – deet, deet, deet, deet, deet, deet.

Brady inhaled.

“THEN enter your four-digit server’s code” – deet, deet, deet, deet – “and wait for the menu for your specific location to populate. Once it appears, push the button marked ‘new table.’ Enter your table number, the number of diners, and press YES when the screen asks if you’d like to open a new table. Once the computer accepts your request, just enter your food order using these seven simple groups of category keys, all of which open into corresponding submenus with columns of three-digit product codes that you can use to leave notes for the cooks.” Taking a quick breath, Brady smiled at the camera –

“It’s...so...easy!”
“

Jesus Christ,” Patrick mumbled. “That’s less complicated than paper?”

“It’s actually not that bad,” said the voice over the saloon doors. “The managers open the system when they get in, and just leave it open throughout the day.”

Patrick turned to see Marty, a skinny guy in his late twenties with a nest of curly hair, a John Oates mustache, and flat-toed cowboy boots instead of tennis shoes. Marty was apparently today’s opening bartender and had just arrived to work.

“And you’ll get the hang of the menus with practice, but it helps if you memorize the codes.” He came in and extended his hand. “I’m Marty, by the way.”

“Patrick.”

“First day?”

“First day.”

“Well, welcome to hell,” Marty told him, taking a sip of his own coffee. Patrick watched the young man duck beneath the bar, popping up in front of a mirror, shelves of liquor bottles, and the bar’s own Bobcat unit. “It’s a good place to work if you can keep your cool with all the shit.”

Back on the television, Mrs. Brady was in the dining room again. She walked to the servers’ station, where a waitress with Cher-hair was pretending to having just used the Bobcat. “I can’t believe how EASY it is!” the server exclaimed. Patrick noticed the register still displayed the hissing cat logo, which meant that the system wasn’t even open. Brady turned to the camera and beamed. “I told you it would be!”

“And you’re starting on a good week,” Marty told Patrick from behind the bar. “Sharon’s on vacation.”

“Is she really that bad?” Patrick asked, remembering Alan’s earlier comment.

Marty grinned, ignoring the question. “As I said, it’s a good place to work if you know how to keep your cool.”

Techno started playing again, and both men looked up together to watch the training tape’s end. Servers, who were dancing out of step to the music, now surrounded Mrs. Brady – who brought the video home:

“So, ain’t nothin’ gonna’ break your stride as you learn to use your Bobcat 2000 register system. Modern registers mean faster service. And I think we all know what fast service means” –

The screen cut to a close up of a server’s open palm. Like Bewitched magic, harps played as three singles appeared in the hand. More harps, a five appeared, topped off with some change. The screen then cut back to a waitress holding the money. “I’m rich!” she squealed. Brady nodded in agreement.

“She is rich,” Brady told the viewer. “And with your store’s amazing Bobcat 2000 register system, YOU can be rich too!”

Patrick stared in silence as the music reached a crescendo, the handful of money gradually fading to black. Before he could move, Alan appeared at his side, holding more training tapes. “The next one’s about food sanitation. Mrs. Brady wears a hazmat suit in that one.”

Patrick winced.

“How about a refill on that coffee?”

Next Chapter: The Funeral