David Alan Dedin
You Have to Believe We Are Magic
Nineteen
You Have to Believe We Are Magic
1991
“I love what you’ve done with your backyard,” Alan joked in the autumn sunset, looking over the tiny square of land whose only attempt at landscaping was a silver cyclone fence from Sears, at least a decade old. White smoke rose from the Weber tabletop grill – on the ground – as four filets sizzled over charcoal and fire. As Alan flipped them with tongs, he noticed that the only ornamentation within the entire yard were two mismatched folding lawn chairs, each a slightly different shade of gross.
He smiled and sang –
“Let’s…take a ride…and run with the dogs tonight…in suburbia!”
“Knock it off,” Patrick smiled, popping out the small home’s back door and handing Alan salt, pepper, and garlic in a shaker. “I’ve barely been here six months. The yard is low on the priorities. I’m lucky to keep the grass cut.”
Alan grinned, shaking spices onto the meat. His eyes burned in the smoke, so he took a step back and looked over the modest space. Patrick’s home was located in a quiet East Peoria neighborhood, on a short cul-de-sac with twelve small homes built in the late seventies. The yard was tidy, but the grass was patchy. Alan noticed a big spot of dirt in the corner, where the previous owner had obviously kept a dog, tethered to a chain.
“Where’s your wine opener?” Guinevere called from the open kitchen window. The two men heard her rifling through a drawer of utensils.
“My Schnookums shouldn’t be drinking,” Alan told her. “We don’t want her baby to get intoxicated.” She scoffed –
“Why not? Her mother was drunk when she was conceived.”
Patrick smiled at the window. “How can you possibly know the sex this early?”
“Because I can feel her tiny pointy heels kicking my uterus.” Gwen popped a cork, imitating a zombie, begging for brains: “Al-co-hol…al-co-hol! Must…have…alcohol!”
“She’s Guinevere’s kid, that’s for sure,” Alan said, flipping the steaks. They were almost done. “Schnookums, can you bring me out a plate?”
A black heel kicked the garage door open, and Guinevere emerged holding an empty plate in one hand, an open bottle of White Grenache in the other, and an unopened pack of cigarettes in her teeth. She was starting to show. Patrick quickly met her at the door – “Let me take that.” He passed the platter to Alan.
“My Schnookums shouldn’t be smoking either,” Alan told her.
“Pfft,” Gwen scoffed, unwrapping the pack and tossing the wrapper on the ground. Patrick quietly retrieved it. “At this point, what does it matter?” She handed Alan the liter-sized bottle of wine. It had cork floating in it.
Alan and Patrick stared at her quietly – Seriously, Gwen…you shouldn’t be smoking. She noticed this – “Guys, give me a break. This is my first one today, and I bought ultra-lights.” She plopped into one of the chairs as Alan plated the steaks, adding garlic bread to the grill for a moment. Gwen lit up, took a little puff and winced.
“It’s like smoking air.”
Alan flipped the bread before it singed. Patrick popped inside, then returned with three empty juice glasses. Alan poured them wine – a big glass for himself, medium for Patrick, and a little taste for Guinevere. She glared at him when he handed it to her. “This is all I get?”
“For the next six months,” he said.
“Guys, let’s eat inside,” Patrick told them. “I don’t have a picnic table yet.”
Alan shuddered at the thought of this. Patrick noticed.
“As I told you, I’ve only been here six months.”
“Six long months,” Gwen complained, though not about Patrick’s stay.
“Hey – if you don’t like my house, then go buy your own,” Patrick joked, sort of.
“My Schnookums is just a little cranky tonight,” Alan told him, keeping the peace. “Her body is filling with baby juices, so she needs some nourishment.” He waited for her softball comeback – My Schnookums’ jubilant juices are all the nourishment I need – but Guinevere shot him a glare instead, downing her meager swallow of wine while he finished plating the food.
She flicked her cigarette into the grass.
Patrick grabbed the bottle, then held the door so everyone could enter.
Alan took a breath –
The way Patrick’s house had been decorated made him think of…
* * * * *
“Does Liberace live here?” Gwen asked in obvious irony, as the home’s interior looked anything but a gay man’s abode. Rather, as Alan had pointed out almost every time he came over, it looked like a place that a gay man would run from.
* * * * *
Patrick’s cul-de-sac was the epitome of blue-collar, and it was populated by ordinary, average people who lived their lives – and maintained their nearly identical houses – in ordinary, average ways. “Conformity” seemed a requirement for residence, and every homestead on the street had a station wagon, pickup or work truck, and a 1970s muscle car in the garage. Yards had to be cleared of toys before weekend mowing, and so much beer was consumed by moms & dads, second garbage cans were added years before anyone recycled.
Each house was beige or white.
Each roof was brown or slightly-different brown.
Each pet dog barked at every other pet dog, on identical leashes, in identical back yards, with identical piles of crap. Even its name was boring: Meadow Lane Estates.
When Patrick had rolled into town seven months ago, he purchased the home with a pile of Denny’s cash. At the time he’d been thinking “investment” rather than “do the neighbors like Madonna,” and as the waiter had no barefoot wife or favorite football team, gossip quickly spread that the street now had “one of those west coast boys,” oblivious to the fact that Nevada hadn’t the proper geography. Of course, in their defense, neither had their educations.
The neighbor’s attitude didn’t bother Patrick, though. With the Denny’s – and later, Checker’s – money rolling in, he had set to work remodeling his little castle, ripping out carpeting, knocking down walls, and swapping wicker ceiling fans for track lighting. He had started with the bedrooms upstairs, and was now at the tri-level’s kitchen, where the cabinets were neat – but missing doors. As the three entered through the garage, they bypassed the kitchen table and went straight into the living room.
Still, it was hard for Alan not to wince.
* * * * *
“I saw that,” Patrick told him, smiling, setting the wine down on the coffee table without a coaster. Alan did the same with the meat and bread, pushing aside the baked potatoes and salad that were already there. He grabbed plates and silverware from the kitchen.
“Why aren’t we eating at the table, again?” Gwen complained, pouring herself another small shot of wine. Alan returned and gave her a soda, doling out Styrofoam plates, plastic utensils, and paper towels for napkins. The three sat together on the scratchy sofa and loveseat.
“It’s just a card table,” Patrick told her. “It shakes when you cut meat.”
“You ordered your furniture though, right?” Alan asked.
“From Cohen’s,” Patrick said. “And it’s nice – wanna’ see?”
“Totally.”
As Patrick retrieved a glossy brochure, Alan glanced around the room – a study in country blue. Country blue furniture sat on country blue carpeting, and the walls were painted, papered, and bordered with almond and country blue geese. It was as though the previous owner had found a Penny’s catalog from 1985, turned to the Home is Where the Heart is pages and pointed – Make my house THAT house. The result was cringe-worthy. No two blues or patterns were the same. To make matters worse, the last owner smoked heavily, so the entire room had a faint yellow hue. It made the blues look green in places.
“This is all going in the dumpster, right?” Gwen asked, hoping.
“On Monday,” Patrick said happily, sitting down and handing Alan an open brochure. “Derek’s actually helping me. I offered to pay him, but he told me no.”
“And the last people just left this here?” Alan wiped his hand after accidentally touching the nicotine-stained armrest. “How does anyone just up and walk away from their stuff?”
“Would you want to take it?” Patrick asked.
“I like Derek,” Gwen said, opening a potato. “I wish that he was the one who knocked me up. That way I’d know that the baby would be born with a full head of hair.”
“And a guitar,” Patrick added.
Alan watched Gwen swallow a mouthful of food and sigh in relief. “Feel better?” he asked, squeezing her knee. She nodded with her eyes closed.
“It’s the black one,” Patrick told Alan, pointing at the brochure while grabbing a filet. “It’s the one with the little stripes. I’m getting the tables, too.”
“Nice,” Alan said. The picture displayed a stylish three-piece living room set, soft black cloth, subtle vertical pinstripes, and elegant coffee and end tables made of dark wood. Alan laid the brochure open on the current golden-oak eyesore.
“That’s really nice of Derek to help,” Gwen told Patrick.
“I think he builds sets for his band,” Alan added. “Puts them up, then takes them down.”
“Which means he should be pretty fast,” Patrick said, chewing. “The dumpster gets delivered Monday morning, and Derek wants to get started right away.”
“You should buy him a case of beer or something,” Alan said, sipping his wine.
“I will.”
“And you’re off next week, right?”
“I am…begrudgingly.”
“Why say it that way?”
“I can’t afford to take that much time off,” Patrick told him honestly. “But look at this place. I’ll literally go crazy if I don’t at least get the living room started. I don’t mind if the floors are bare, but I have to get this furniture out of here…and then, these walls.” The three looked up at the wallpaper. The homey pattern resembled blue candy dots on rolling paper.
“I thought about steaming it off, but honestly – we’re just going to replace the drywall.”
“Need my truck?” Alan asked. “You can always loan me your Caddy.”
“Helllllo,” the chilling voice purred from the stairs, as a man who looked like a 4’9” Rick Springfield impersonator slowly slunk into the room. Gwen dropped her fork. Alan inhaled, as he’d been through this once before. Patrick’s smile was astonishingly well-rehearsed, as he effortlessly feigned friendship, “Hey, Stephen! Where are you off to tonight?”
“The cllllllub,” Stephen said, pulling up the collar on his Silverman’s jacket. His skin-tight pants had far too many zippers. His light brown chest hair poofed out from an open red shirt, as though it had been styled. He wore a single, dangly earring. He smelled like baby powder.
“Kinda’ early for the club, isn’t it?” Alan nodded at the twilight.
Stephen blinked his eyes waaaaay too slowly –
“I liiiiiike to get there early. That way I’ll get my spa-tah.” The three went rigid when Stephen over-enunciated his T. Their eyes followed him politely as he quietly minced out the door, and into the remains of an old Chevette, which belched blue smoke when started.
Silence.
“Okay, THAT was creepy!” Guinevere shuddered, slamming her wine. Patrick discreetly took the glass from her. “Is that really your roommate?”
“You definitely win the bad roommate contest,” Alan told him. “And that’s coming from me, the guy who lives with Ty.”
Patrick smiled. “He pays good rent, even with the place in this condition. That’s also why I want to get the house finished. The place will be nicer, I can ask for more money, and hopefully find a different renter.”
“Well,” Alan said, touching Guinevere’s knee again. “Schnookums and I will hold the fort down for you, and keep the restaurant running in your absence. And you’re only going to be gone for what? Five days? –
“What could possibly happen in that time?”
* * * * *
FIRE billowed from the Checker’s roof as Alan and Guinevere watched from the parking lot, the next evening. Bright orange flames rose from the kitchen’s ventilation units, while red Spartan trucks raised their ladders into the bluish-purple sky, and firemen aimed their hoses in a coordinated effort to contain the damage.
The staff had gathered a safe distance away, while the last gawking customers were ushered on by police. The restaurant was surrounded by flashing red and blue lights as Sharon, in orchid, approached the servers like an angry nun. She was flanked by EMT’s.
“Does anyone need medical attention?” she asked the staff coldly. Everyone shook their heads – “Good.” She gave the paramedics a militant nod, signaling them to leave.
They did so quickly.
“LISTEN UP!” she shouted, her face blinking red and blue. “We think the fire started in the hoods above the cook’s line! It’s a grease fire, obviously…and probably caused by poor cleaning!” She glared at the cooks, who had gathered in their own group by Big Tim. They all looked frightened with the exception of Roger – whose aviator glasses were turned towards the burning restaurant, his hand moving disturbingly beneath his grease-stained apron. Cochise, standing next to him, took a long step to the side.
“We’re clearly going to be down a few days,” Sharon went on, “So you can all go home after you turn in any tickets or media you have to Rodney. He’s over there” – she pointed towards the lobby, where the disheveled manager stood with hostesses and police – “so be sure you see him before you leave.”
“We won’t know the full extent of the damage until tomorrow, but luckily it seems to be contained to the kitchen, which will make the cleanup easier.” She raised a finger as though saying something else…but stopped. Alan watched her sigh in complete frustration.
“Just…leave.”
Lighting a cigarette, Sharon returned to the restaurant.
The servers dispersed, as the Work Release truck appeared early.
Alan turned to Guinevere. “Denny’s?”
She shrugged. “Why not? This night couldn’t get any worse.”
* * * * *
A few days later, Alan stood in the checkout of Handy Andy Home Improvement Center, clad in jeans and a Frankie Goes to Hollywood T-shirt, as well as yellow work boots. He was helping hold a full lumber cart of drywall, with additional supplies – tape, spackle, nails, screws – stacked carefully on the bottom. Derek manned a nearby lumber cart – more drywall, 2x4’s, paint, brushes, caulk – as Patrick paid for both with a credit card. The receipt was almost twenty inches long. The total was over two thousand dollars.
Thirty minutes later, Alan’s pickup stopped in front of Patrick’s home, Our House blasting on the radio. All three men climbed out of the cab, then went to work bringing supplies into the house.
It would ultimately take them hours.
* * * * *
Two hundred and forty hours later, Alan, Patrick, and Guinevere sat at the table finishing off their steak, potatoes, bread, and salad. The cabinets were completed, the drywall replaced and painted, and a beautiful hardwood floor had supplanted the worn blue carpet and cheap linoleum. The table on which they ate was as stylish as the living room furniture, and the filets had been cooked to perfection over a new Genesis grill. In just ten days the home had gone from prairie shack to showplace, with granite countertops, fresh light fixtures, and – in Alan’s words, which he’d meant as a compliment – “just the right touch of West Hollywood faggot.”
“Your neighbors are going to hate this place,” Alan said, looking at all the improvements. He noticed a guy with a mullet passing on the sidewalk with a dog. “Do you always leave your blinds open like that?”
“Mmm.” Patrick shook his head no, then wiped his mouth as he stood to close them.
“That was delicious,” Guinevere said, pushing away her plate.
“Is my Schnookums satisfied?” Alan asked, clearing their plates. He felt Gwen’s heel rub against his leg. “Almost,” she said.
“Guys, come look at this,” Patrick called from the tri-level’s basement. Alan and Gwen got up, then followed Patrick’s voice down the short lower staircase, which led to a den. The new hardwood became cement as they entered, and though the den had been gutted, it wasn’t yet completed. It smelled like sawdust.
“This is going to be my room,” Patrick told them. “I’ll have the whole downstairs to myself.”
“What’s wrong with the master bedroom upstairs?” Gwen asked.
“Nothing,” Patrick said. “But once this room is done, I’ll switch, then rent the big room out. It will be more privacy for both of us. And we won’t have to share a bathroom.”
“You’re gonna’ do something weird with this though, right?” Alan gestured towards the beginnings of a false wall in the corner. There was also an outline on the floor, for some type of platform. “You said you were going to make it look…like a penthouse?”
“In the basement!” Patrick grinned ear to ear.
“Can I rent your upstairs room?” Guinevere asked.
Patrick smiled devilishly, then playfully patted her baby bump. “Only if you leave this little guy at the hospital in six months.”
“Little girl.”
“You could always throw yourself down the stairs,” Alan suggested. “Patrick wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Patrick said. “Just do it now, before I put the carpet in. It’s going to be white.”
“Okay, you two are the only people allowed to make abortion jokes,” Guinevere said, shoving an unlit cigarette into her mouth. “Although, I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t thought about it.” The two men followed her upstairs and out the front door, where she lit up her ultra-light – gag!
“Seriously?” Alan asked, seriously.
“Yeah.” Gwen tapped into a coffee can. “My mom and I had a long talk last night. We discussed…the options.”
“Oh my god,” Patrick said softly.
“No, not that.” Gwen closed her eyes, crossing her arms in the chilly fall evening. “Mom understands, but it would break my dad’s heart if I had an abortion. And I don’t think I could handle it myself, killing something that’s growing inside me.”
“So, what do you mean by options?” Alan asked. “Adoption?”
“Maybe,” – Gwen took a small drag – “Or the other one.”
“Keep it?”
She nodded.
“Where would you live? With Dan?”
She shook her head. “No, sadly, Bam-Bam has made it clear that’s not going to happen.” She stared at the approaching stars. “And I’ve also found out that I’m not the first girl he’s gotten pregnant. Apparently, he has a kid already.”
“What an asshole,” Alan muttered.
“So, the option that my mom suggested is that I have the baby, keep the baby, and raise it at their home,” Gwen said. “That’s the only way I can afford it, really. My folks can help watch the kid while I work and go to school.”
“Is Dan going to help?” Patrick asked.
“I doubt it,” Gwen said. “And I’m not even going to ask.”
“I think staying with your parents is the right decision,” Patrick told her.
“It is the right decision,” Gwen said, “though it’s definitely not an easy one. And my dad wants to have – what did he call it? – a conversation this week about the direction of my life.” She took another drag, then extinguished the cigarette half-finished. “That’s going to be fun.”
The three nodded “hey” as another neighbor passed with a dog.
Patrick cleared his throat – “You guys feel like Dairy Queen?”
“You buying?” Alan asked.
“Why not?” Patrick said. “What’s another ten bucks with all I’ve spent on the house this week?” He nudged Guinevere. “Want some ice cream?”
Gwen touched her stomach. “No, but my baby does.”
“I’ll buy if we can take your car,” Alan told him. “And not the new one.”
Patrick cocked his head, gesturing towards his driveway. “You mean Olivia?” With the garage packed with construction supplies, Patrick’s play car – an 80’ Eldorado, rather than the neighborhood’s typical Camaros and Trans Ams – had been temporarily parked in the driveway. His 91’ was parked at the curb.
“Yeah,” Alan said. “I’ve always wanted to drive one of those.”
“I’ll get the keys.”
“You okay?” Alan asked Gwen, as Patrick was inside.
“Yeah,” she said quietly, leaning on his shoulder.
“Here you go,” Patrick said on return, handing keys to Alan. He also gave Guinevere her jacket – “Thanks.”
“Where’d you get this thing again?” Alan asked, as the three came up to the vehicle. Alan unlocked it, then held the seat so Patrick could get in the back. Gwen took the passenger seat.
“Some old lady who died,” Patrick said. “The car was sold with her estate sale.”
“Was her name Olivia?” Alan asked, climbing in.
“No.”
“Then why’d you name the car Olivia?”
“Because,” Patrick said, pointing through the seats towards the Cadillac’s first-generation instrument cluster, a trio of amber LED’s that flickered to life when Alan started the engine. Rather than a buzzer, the seatbelt chime rang elegantly: Ding! Ding! Ding!
“Turn on the radio, then push the tape into the deck.”
Hummmmmmm…
The three watched a silver telescopic antenna rise from the hood, while the Delco stereo played Olivia Newton John’s Magic – “Come take my hand…you should know me…I’ve always been in your mind…”
“That was the first song I heard on her radio,” Patrick explained. “It felt like a voice was talking to me through the car.”
“That’s so cool,” Guinevere said, adjusting her electric seat.
The Twilight Sentinel popped on as the black Caddy backed into the street. Alan threw the car in Drive and the old Eldorado rolled slowly down the lane, a third dog-walker looking up when they passed, music just audible through the open windows –
“You have to believe we are magic, nothing can stand in our way…”
* * * * *
“My name is Stan Arini, and I’m the director of operations for Phaedra Restaurant Corp, which owns and operates the Checkers brand,” the short man said loudly, introducing himself to the all-staff servers meeting. Two weeks had passed since the restaurant had closed for repair, and now, with the fire marshal’s approval, the place was an hour from reopening for business.
“I wanted to take this opportunity to welcome you all back, as well as what I understand are a few new faces?” –
He glanced at Sharon, in Windex blue, who nodded his direction before pointing and snapping at a group of new servers, who were still completing paperwork at the bar – “Get up. Introduce yourselves.”
“Hi, guys – I’m Kristen!” A bubbly pile of hair came forward. “I love Checkers! And I’m just soooo excited to be here…”
“I give her a week,” Cheryl Bennish whispered to Patrick, who smiled. “Ten days, max.”
“I’m Eugene, with an E.” The next trainee was as stiff as a farmer’s pig shit rake, an item he had clearly grown up using with regularity. “That’s Eugene. With an E.”
“Eee-eye-eee-eye-oh,” Patrick whispered.
“And I’m…Jonah,” the next new-hire said, clearly uncomfortable with being put on the spot. He noticed Sharon’s eyes look him up and down with distain. “You know what? Fuck this shit. I’m outta’ here…” The staff stirred uneasily as the server threw his apron on the floor, storming towards the lobby.
“See, I’d have guessed that Jonah would make it,” Cheryl whispered. “I could totally see him giving Rodney head in the bathroom.”
Arini looked down as he cleared his throat –
“Well, I guess working at Checker’s isn’t for everyone. But I’m pleased that you’re all here because, despite our little incident a few weeks back, Checker’s is back – and better than before!”
“Jesus,” Rob Vain muttered.
“You’re going to see some changes going forward,” Arini continued. “Most of them procedural…some of them small, some of them big.” He chuckled at Sharon. “I’ll tell you the first change we’re making – we’re going to do a much better job, cleaning those hoods over the grills and fryer stations, am I right?”
“Yes, Mr. Arini,” Sharon seethed in subordination. “We’ll do a better job cleaning.”
“She does have a boss,” Gwen whispered to Alan. “I thought that Satan didn’t report to anybody.”
“We also seem to have a growing problem with food costs,” Arini went on. “Going forward, not only will your managers be watching portions and inventory more closely, they’ll also be auditing your tickets to make sure all food items have been rung up correctly.”
“That’s gonna’ suck,” Alan whispered.
“I had you all come in early today, so Sharon could walk you through these new procedures before we officially reopen at five,” Arini said. “There’s nothing that will come as any surprise to you, but it will be a good opportunity to revisit some basic food handling and service standards. Refresh everyone’s memory, so to speak.”
Arini smiled. “And I’ll be here through the weekend, if any of you have any questions or concerns.” He paused for a moment. “Any questions or concerns right now?
Looking up from watches, the serving staff shook their heads no.
“All right then,” Arini said, stepping aside so Sharon could take over. The waitstaff watched him disappear into the kitchen, so he could give a similar pep talk to the cooks. All eyes fell to Sharon, now. Lighting a cigarette, her words caught the trio completely off guard –
“First up, the Bobcats are gone. We have a new register system.”