David Alan Dedin
Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad
Twenty-Five
Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad
1991
Brilliant pink and blue spotlights sliced across the crowded dance floor, while a growing moonrise of shimmering white reduced both Alan and Guinevere to silhouettes. They froze like ghosts in a photograph, keeping time with the easy-to-follow beat, two bodies leaning back to back, their palms outstretched with fluttering jazz-hands.
CLAP! With the next wild drumbeat, Alan’s black shadow – reminiscent of Sha-na-na’s Bowser – pushed Gwen’s away, as though it were angry at her –
CLAP! Gwen’s shape – seven months pregnant, in heels – adopted a pose, as if to say “Are you fucking kidding me?”
CLAP! The black silhouettes now resembled two bickering teenagers in profile, each facing the other as the spotlights flashed like a carnival ride –
CLAP!
“Well, I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday,” Alan lip-synched with impressive accuracy to Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Lights on the dancefloor of Chantilly Lace, Peoria’s new 50s/60s-themed nightclub. Guinevere looked shocked, like a high school girl whose best friend had just stolen her prom date, while she mimicked Ellen Foley’s vocals to exaggerated perfection, as nearby dancers watched and cheered.
CLAP!
“Well, it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark night” –
“I can see paradise by the dashboard light!”
CLAP!
Holy shit, will you look at those two? –
He knows she’s already pregnant, right?
CLAP!
Seven minutes later, as the song neared its climax, Alan and Guinevere had successfully cleared the dance floor – Alan with a gay man’s flair, and Gwen with her shockingly sexual pantomime. Completely abandoning all efforts to lip-synch, the two finished their impromptu-performance with something that resembled the leap from Dirty Dancing – a very bad decision that, surprisingly, involved no alcohol whatsoever –
“NOBODY PUTS SCHNOOKUMS IN THE CORNER!” Alan yelled.
Gasp!
The crowd watched in horror as Guinevere charged at Alan with the force of an oncoming truck, both of them realizing at the last possible moment that hoisting a pregnant woman in her third trimester probably wasn’t the best of ideas – OOMPH!
Onlookers were unsure whether to help or applaud as Alan and Guinevere – laughing hysterically – lay splayed on the dance floor, having somehow saved the baby.
The crowd cheered anyway.
* * * * *
“What time is your court appearance?” Guinevere asked, buttoning her chinchilla in the parking lot’s cold November air. Alan helped her off the sidewalk – a light snow was falling, and the blacktop was slick – and the two headed for their cars together, which, as always, were parked side by side. They stopped in front of Gwen’s LeBaron.
“Nine o’clock,” Alan told her, gesturing for her keys. She found them in her purse and passed them over. She tugged on her leather gloves as he started the car for her.
“My Schnookums takes such good care of me,” she said.
“That’s because someone didn’t think about winter when she bought a convertible,” Alan joked, standing and closing the door. He came up to her.
She smiled –
“I had a good time tonight. Thanks for coming out with me.”
“Thanks for asking,” Alan said. “I needed the diversion.” He went to light a cigarette but stopped. It had been a month since Gwen had tossed her last pack of ultra-lights, and he didn’t want to tempt her. She sensed this –
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Nodding gratefully, Alan shoved a smoke into his mouth. His face went bright orange as he lit it in the dark parking lot. He was careful to exhale away from her.
“Are you nervous?” Gwen asked.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Very.”
“You’ve got a lawyer though, right?”
“The best that Checker’s can buy,” Alan told her. “He says we’ll be fine because this is my first offense. I’m still nervous, though.” Guinevere noticed that his hand was shaking when he brought the cigarette to his mouth. They could hear the music from within the bar. The DJ was playing The Drifters –
“Come here,” Guinevere told Alan, motioning him forwards with black fingers –
“Mmm” – he gestured no, as his lungs were full of smoke –
“Right here,” she said firmly, pulling him close with one hand and tapping her cheek with the other. He hesitated, but slowly blew white into her face’s perfect makeup. She inhaled the secondhand smoke deeply, as though it were something beautiful –
“…You can dance” –
“…Every dance with the guy who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight…”
From above, the two interlocked beneath the club’s ornamental neon and the soft snow falling all around them –
“You can smile” –
“…Every smile for the man who held your hand, against the pale moonlight…”
Alan flicked his cigarette as Gwen brought him in close –
“…But don’t forget who’s taking you home, and in whose arms you’re gonna’ be…”
Cars and patrons came and went, oblivious to the dancing couple. Alan laid his head onto Guinevere’s shoulder, as she took the lead –
“…So, darlin’” –
“…Save the last dance for me…”
* * * * *
“YOU’RE FIRED!” Sharon shouted, her periwinkle blazer glowing like neon in the alley’s harsh fluorescent lighting. Marty stared at her in shock – “Are you fucking kidding me!?”
“You heard me,” Sharon repeated, pushing him away from an oval tray of food as servers fell silent during the Saturday rush – “Get out of my restaurant…NOW.”
“Well, you know what?” Marty told her, throwing his apron to the floor. “You can’t fire me because I quit! I’m sick of all the bullshit in this place!”
“Whatever floats your boat,” Sharon said smugly, taking his place at expo. She grabbed a white apron and tied it around her waist – “I NEED FOOD RUNNERS!”
“I did you a fuckin’ favor by expo’ing tonight!” Marty yelled, heading for the corner to the busy dining room. “Do you realize how much more I make in the bar?”
“Think about that tomorrow, when you wake up without a job!” Sharon yelled back. She stopped to glare at the serving staff in the kitchen, most of whom were momentarily frozen with this latest, unfolding drama – “DID I FUCKING STUDDER?!”
Ty rounded the corner with a tray full of dirty dishes. She stopped when she nearly slammed into Marty, who was standing in the alley’s center, in front of the Coke machine. His eyes narrowed on a near empty ketchup bottle on her tray –
Sharon saw this. “Don’t you DARE.”
“You know what?” Marty shouted, grabbing the ketchup bottle. “I don’t quit! I’m glad you fired me! And you wanna’ know why?” He snatched the bottle from Ty’s tray. Gasping servers ran for cover on realizing what was about to happen –
“Because YOU firing ME means that I got under your SKIN!”
Whoosh – CRASH!
Ty’s ketchup bottle nearly hit Sharon’s face when Marty threw it with the force of a baseball pitch. The action sent the manager tumbling backwards onto the floor, her heel kicking the platter of trayed food in the process – CRASH! Quickly regaining her footing, Sharon jumped back up in time to see Marty reaching for the spare ketchup bottles on a nearby shelf. She had just enough time to use the fallen tray as a shield, this time for a bottle that was full –
Whoosh – SPLAT!
It hit the big tray with the force of a ball in a catcher’s mitt.
Red ketchup and glass splattered everywhere, from floor to ceiling. Sharon lowered her tray in time to realize that Marty had reloaded. He had two shiny new bottles tucked under his arm, with a third locked and loaded in his rapidly-moving fist –
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
SPLAT!
SPLAT!
SPLAT!
“CORNER!” Patrick yelled over the commotion, coming around the Hobart station from somewhere within the back kitchen. He quickly darted into the dining room, where Guinevere was eavesdropping along with several servers and hostesses. She followed him down the stairs to the side station, where Alan was filling drinks. Even in the noisy dining room, the kitchen fight could be easily heard by customers.
Alan grinned. “I need to turn in a ticket, but something tells me I should wait a few minutes.” He looked at Gwen, who was clearly fighting back laughter. He watched her swallow and gather herself. “This…is so…funny!” she finally whispered.
“It’s actually going to get a lot worse,” Patrick told them. “We should finish up our tables in play and keep our heads down for the rest of the night.”
“Why’s that?” Alan asked.
The trio looked up as Marty stormed from the kitchen, giving diners the finger when he headed for the lobby, and then out the front doors.
“Becauuuuuse…”
“RODNEY!” Sharon’s voice shrieked so loud from the back prep line, it echoed throughout the dining room. Laurie shot out of the kitchen, in an effort to find him.
Patrick cleared his throat –
“Because of what’s about to happen next.”
* * * * *
Sharon, now a Pollock of red & blue, stood in the doorway to the small laundry room where the restaurant’s cloth napkins were washed and folded. The dryer was open, revealing a full case of bacon – a box of expensive inventory that had been discreetly stashed.
Rodney came up to her. “What is it, Sharon?”
“THIS,” Sharon seethed, wiping her face with a fistful of clean white linens. “This is why our food costs are so high!” She yanked the heavy box from the dryer as though she were pulling a spare tire from a trunk, slamming it on top of the washing machine.
“Was that…in the dryer?” Rodney was astonished.
“It was covered by clean napkins,” Sharon said. “It was intentionally hidden!”
“And who would do that, Sharon?”
The two looked up as Big Tim approached from the cook’s line. Her face still streaked with red, Sharon looked him up and down in disgust. “Look at what your cooks are doing. If they’re stealing bacon, what else are they stealing?”
“Why would my cooks steal bacon?” Tim asked her calmly.
“To sell it,” she snapped. “To take it out of the restaurant when they run the garbage at night, then come back for it later and sell it for money to buy drugs or something.”
Big Tim raised an eyebrow. “Most of my cooks are incarcerated, Ms. Donovan. They’re dropped off and picked up by the state…and as we both know, they’re checked for contraband. Exactly how would they go about taking a box this size?”
“They probably shove it up their ass like they do everything else,” she snapped, grabbing more clean napkins to blot ketchup from her hair. Both Tim and Rodney watched her unbutton her ruined blazer and toss it into a nearby trash can.
“I’ll bet they have a deal with the driver,” she added. “Give him a cut.”
Rodney cleared his throat uneasily. “Sharon, why don’t you step off the floor for a few minutes. Let’s take a moment to calm down, to gather ourselves before we say something that we might regret” –
“I don’t want to step off the floor!” she barked. “This is it! This! Right here!” The two watched her slam her fist onto the unrefrigerated bacon. “This is seventy-five dollars’ worth of loss, and god knows how much else has gone through the back door like this! All of the missing inventory we’ve had lately…” Her finger shot to Big Tim’s face. “This is on YOU! You’re the kitchen manager!”
“Sharon, please,” Rodney said –
“If you can’t keep your cooks in line,” she told Tim, “then you have no business working in my restaurant!” Untying her soiled apron, Sharon fished through the laundry for a clean one before returning to Tim. “Consider yourself on notice for this. And nobody gets a raise until our food costs improve!”
“This is really not the time to make that decision,” Rodney said.
“Has anyone seen Sharon or Rodney?” the three heard Laurie’s voice in the alley. “I have two tables that want to see a manager!”
“If anyone needs me, I’ll be on the cook’s line,” Tim said coolly, excusing himself.
Rodney lingered a moment. Tying on a fresh apron, Sharon looked at him with an angry – but triumphant – smile. “This is it, Rodney. This is why our food costs are so high.”
“Cover expo for me,” she added –
“I’m going to make a quick phone call to Mr. Arini.”
My servers are stealing from me, my goddamn ass…
* * * * *
“…You can dance” –
“…Every dance with the guy who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight…”
The lights of downtown Manhattan twinkled in the windows above Patrick’s black lacquer furniture as Dolly Parton’s rockabilly cover of Save the Last Dance For Me played softly on his bedroom sound system. He was counting a week’s worth of Checker’s money, preparing a bank deposit. His bills were laid out neatly across his bed, and though he had plenty of cash to cover everything, he still couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that his debt-to-income ratio had grown too high over the past few months.
I put too much money on my credit cards –
I should have waited to complete the house.
A short while later, once the checks were written and the envelopes sealed, Patrick considered taking a quick trip to the boat, to try his luck at the tables. Laying back on his bed with hands folded across his stomach, he closed his eyes and did the mental math –
Even if I got lucky on the Pair-A-Dice, it’s hard for anyone to win that kind of money on a local gambling boat.
Odds be damned, he decided to try his luck anyway.
* * * * *
“…You can dance” –
“…Every dance with the guy who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight…”
The Righteous Brothers’ Save the Last Dance for Me droned from the waiting room’s MUZAK a week and a half later, as Alan waited for his test results. Per the state of Illinois, all drivers accused of driving under the influence had to submit to court monitoring – where it was decided if their DUI was the result of full-blown alcoholism, or a one-time lapse of judgement as Alan’s lawyer assured him was always the case, especially for someone his age.
“You’re twenty-two years old, Mr. Lavinski. How can you possibly be an alcoholic at so young an age?”
“Mr. Lavinski?” the state employee called out to the crowded waiting room. “Alan Lavinski?”
“That’s me,” Alan said, standing up. He followed the employee into one of many dingy offices, then sat in front of a desk as his standardized test was checked against a worn answer key. The employee remained expressionless as he tabulated columns and made notes on a second series of forms.
“There are three levels of alcoholism,” Alan’s lawyer had coached, “Low risk, moderate risk, and high risk. As this is your first offense – especially considering that you were found idling at an intersection – it’s extremely important that when you take this initial test, you answer the questions correctly.”
“Do you consider yourself an alcoholic?” the employee asked Alan, without looking up.
“No Sir, I do not.”
“If you answer these questions exactly as I say, getting through this will be relatively easy – and the DUI will drop from your record, after five years’ time.”
“Does alcoholism run in your family?”
“No Sir, it does not.”
“These are the questions that you’ll be asked. I want you to study them, and to answer as I’ve noted on the sides. Before you take your written test, we’ll rehearse your answers on the phone.”
“On the night of your arrest, did you feel you were impaired before you got behind the wheel?”
“No Sir, I did not.”
“This is the part that we’ve got to nail, because if we do, this will all go away.”
“On the night of your arrest, were there any mitigating circumstances?”
“Well, actually Sir, I was very upset that night. You see, a good friend of mine had just died – her name was Cheryl Bennish – and I had just learned about her death before I decided to go out for drinks with friends.”
“You knew that lady? Oh, that’s perfect. It made the paper, so it’s something tangible we can reference – use it. And make sure that you mention that the two of you were friends, and that you worked together in the same restaurant.”
“Is there anything else that you’d like to add?”
“Only that I understand the gravity of this situation Sir, and that I take full responsibility for my actions. I promise you that this is a one-time lapse in judgement. And I will fully cooperate with any and all requirements of the court.”
“Make sure you wear a shirt and tie.”
His hands folded on his lap below his starched shirt and tie, Alan waited politely in case the court monitor had any follow-up questions –
He did not.
* * * * *
The neon signs of the Las Vegas Strip twinkled above the dashboard lights as Patrick sat alone in a taxi, when it stopped at the entrance of The Imperial Palace Hotel. Grabbing his carry-on bag, Patrick paid his fare, tipped, and climbed out of the vehicle; the cab pulled away as he entered the hotel through the casino, rather than the lobby.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
A thick layer of cigarette smoke hung in the air like car exhaust as Patrick came through the big, polished-brass doors to the sound of coins falling into slot machine trays. The Imperial Palace was an old property, a sprawling labyrinth of low drop ceilings, amber light fixtures, and vast gaming pits that resembled sunken living rooms – and Patrick paused to take it all in. Whenever he came to Vegas alone, he preferred the older hotels as they generally had a more serious vibe, and an atmosphere of gambling to win, rather than playing for fun –
And with his round-trip ticket tucked into his overnight bag, Patrick had roughly 36 hours to see how serious his luck really was.
* * * * *
“Did you know that Patrick’s in Vegas?” Guinevere asked Alan, ending the call on her parents’ cordless phone. Alan looked up from her bed, where he had been helping her unpack a shopping trip’s worth of baby clothes.
So…many…bags.
“Seriously?” he asked. “On a Monday night?”
“He said he got a good deal,” Gwen told him. “He said it’s cheaper to go earlier in the week than it is to go on a weekend.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“My Schnookums has never taken me to Las Vegas,” she complained, plopping down on the bed next to him. “Come to think of it, my Schnookums has never even taken me.”
“That’s because Bam-Bam beat me to it,” Alan joked, patting her stomach. He held up a little pink T-shirt to his chest. It still had its Famous Barr price tag - $12.99. “What do you think? Is it me?”
“It’s stunning,” Audrey told him from the doorway, staring at all the bags. The two looked up to see Guinevere’s mother shaking her head in astonishment. “And how much did all this cost?”
“Less than you’d think, Mrs. Williams,” Alan said. “People are generous when their waitress is pregnant.”
Audrey smiled. “Well, I’m not that generous,” she assured them. “Of course, that’s probably because I’m familiar with all of my daughter’s manipulative little tricks.”
Guinevere looked up with intentional doe-eyes –
“Exactly,” Audrey said, smiling. “Phone, please.” Gwen tossed her the handset. “Alan, are you staying for dinner, tonight?” Audrey asked.
“Actually, my Schnookums is taking me out to dinner,” Guinevere said, before he could answer. She put him on the spot. “And where are we going again?”
“Errr” – Alan thought on his feet. “Jumer’s?”
“Well, hoity-toity,” Audrey said, impressed. “Your father’s only taken me there once, and that was a special occasion.”
“Every night with my Schnookums is special,” Gwen said.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Audrey asked. “I’m making pork steak and onions.”
“We’re good,” Alan told her. He noticed that Gwen was already at her closet, choosing a dress and heels. “But, thanks Mrs. Williams. Another time, I promise.”
The middle-aged woman looked at them suspiciously –
You two are as thick as thieves…
* * * * *
Jumer’s Castle Lodge was a local landmark, a sizeable German-themed hotel nestled at the end of Western Avenue, in the heart of Peoria’s upper historic district. It literally looked like a castle, with towers and Tudor-themed architecture, and its diamond-patterned windows glowed softly from within above a red neon sign that read Jumer’s Restaurant in rich, Bavarian font. It was the kind of place where couples would honeymoon, and Guinevere was dressed entirely in red as Alan escorted her through the lobby and up to the hostess desk – “Table for two, please.”
“If you would follow me, Sir.”
A silver-haired maître D led the two into the cavernous dining room, past baroque wallpapers and jacquard-print chairs and table cloths, then up carpeted stairs to the mezzanine level to a candlelit table that overlooked the grand piano. Alan helped Guinevere sit in her chair, before taking his own seat, himself.
The sommelier approached with a wine list.
* * * * *
At that very moment, 1,650 miles away, the dealer signaled “bust” with his hands, taking Patrick’s cards and chips. A new hand was dealt, and players checked their cards before betting. Patrick eyed his hand – hit me – and three more cards were added before he busted again. Once the round was over, he placed another $300 on the table and watched as the dealer exchanged it for chips.
Hit me…
* * * * *
Two hours later, Alan swirled the last of his wine as Guinevere tried not to laugh hysterically while recounting Checker’s cicada incident to the smiling Jumer’s server. Her story had started with Ty dropping trays, then had segued into stories about Sharon – and the pranks that still plagued her own place of employment. The server smiled politely, offering dessert before handing Alan the check.
Their total with Alan’s generous tip came to $300.
* * * * *
The lights of Fremont Street buzzed loudly in the morning’s wee hours as a taxi dropped Patrick at the Golden Nugget, in downtown Las Vegas. Only the most hardened of gamblers were out this late, and Patrick walked past both drunks and hookers as he entered the storied casino, one of the oldest in the city. His eyes scanned the blackjack tables, and the white-haired men who sat with cards, cigars, and whiskeys.
He sat at a table where the minimum bet was $300 a hand.
* * * * *
Later, Alan’s pickup screeched to a dusty stop in front of the Williams’ home, as though police had been chasing its driver, Guinevere. After two $55 bottles of wine, Alan had been in no condition to get behind the wheel, and Gwen had to drive them both home. She didn’t mind, of course. Alan had done the same for her once before. But he still was far too drunk to drive, so she had to sneak him into the basement without waking her parents – “Shh! Let’s go this way.”
With Alan leaning on her shoulder, Gwen led him through the dark around the house’s side, and down to the sliding glass door near her room. She held her heels as the two crept into the basement – “Shh! I don’t want dad to hear.” – and tiptoed their way towards her room, where Alan all but collapsed onto her waterbed –
She placed a trash can near her nightstand, just in case he got sick.
“You just getting home?” Dale asked sleepily, standing in his bedroom doorway across the hall from her own. Gwen nodded with her finger to her lips and watched as he groggily headed for the downstairs bathroom to pee. Closing her bedroom door, she turned just in time to see Alan starting to heave with the motion of her mattress. She lunged, shoving the trash can into his hands –
Bluggggeh!
He filled it with very expensive puke.
* * * * *
“Where have you been?” Guinevere asked three days later as Patrick climbed out of his Cadillac in the Checker’s parking lot. “You called in yesterday – were you sick?”
“I was out of town, visiting my parents,” he told her. “I stayed an extra day, so I had to miss yesterday’s shift.” He tied on his apron while the two walked in the cold together. “Alan working tonight?”
“He closes,” Gwen said.
“Anything happen while I was gone?”
“Same ole, same ole,” Gwen said. “It was kinda’ slow Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“Anyone hear from Marty?”
“Rob Vain met him for drinks one night, but that’s all. He hasn’t found a job yet.”
A truck honked as Alan’s pickup came up to their side. He rolled his window down. “Feel better?” he asked Patrick, who nodded. “You missed a good night last night.”
Patrick looked at Gwen – I thought you said it was slow.
“Just because it was slow doesn’t mean it wasn’t profitable,” she said. She looked at Alan. “It’s cold. We’ll see you inside.”
Alan nodded and pulled away.
Patrick held the door for Gwen as they entered the Checker’s lobby. The two checked their sections, got their tickets, and waited for Alan, who was coming up the sidewalk. A few moments later, the trio entered the kitchen together. Both Sharon and Laurie were off tonight, and the whole place felt a sigh of relief. Ty and Jackie were turning in the shift’s first few orders, and Derek was running the bar in Marty’s place while Rodney completed pre-shift inventory. The MUZAK was playing some frivolous 80s pop hit.
Bill called the alley-rally – “You folks ready to make some money tonight?”
Same ole, same ole…
In hindsight, it all felt like the calm before a storm…