Prologue
Slingin’ Hash
Peoria, Illinois
1991
Denny’s Restaurant
The orders of toast looked exactly like toenail clippings as they curled up and hardened beneath the kitchen’s heat lamps. The bread was inedible. Each plate was hot to the touch. There were six plates of white, at least eleven orders of wheat, and three English muffins that had been sitting in the window so long, they resembled ceramic urinal cakes.
Linda’s dentures made a disgusted scowl.
“God dammit, Lucky,” the old waitress snapped. “My whole section is about to walk. What – the fuck – are you guys doing back there? Is Lionel smoking again?” With a swoosh of liver spots, she cleared four plates of toast into a nearby bus tub – crash. Seeing he now had room, Lucky, the expo, an Andy Capp character who could barely see over the window, quickly added four more.
“I see the breakfast rush is going well today,” Alan said, coming up to Linda’s side and helping her clear space. The passover window now resembled a table at a garage sale; it was completely covered with different sized dishes, none of which anyone wanted. The passover was a long, stainless steel rectangle that glowed a warm orange from the cone-shaped heat lamps above. It separated the old kitchen from the old restaurant behind; this was a Denny’s in desperate need of remodel, and Alan couldn’t help but notice that Linda matched the décor –
“Hug?” he asked.
“I can’t serve this shit,” she told him, grabbing a dead pancake and holding it up like dirty Kleenex. “Just look at this. It’s so fuckin’ hard on top, you could light a goddamn match on it.” She slammed down her ticket book, shoving a wet bus tub into Alan’s chest – “Hold this.”
As old men with newspapers watched from the counter behind, Linda flung plates into the bus tub, oblivious to the clatter. It wasn’t that anyone noticed, of course. The restaurant was slammed with the Saturday breakfast crowd, and the crash of dishes could barely compete with the dining room’s forks, knives, chewing and slurped coffee … and gruff Midwestern accents.
“Shouldn’t we be saving the tickets?” Alan asked Linda, as he handed off the heavy tub to a busboy. Though the food in the window was clearly unservable, it all still had to be made again. But Alan saw no tickets. In fact, he didn’t see tickets anywhere. He did a quick inventory of the items in the window and counted eleven partially completed orders. Whatever was happening in the kitchen right now was far worse than cooks in the weeds –
This was bad.
“Coffee?” came the cheerful voice of the youthful girl behind him. Alan turned to face Guinevere, a hostess in her twenties with big sultry eyes and lips, framed within a pile of shiny, shoulder-length hair. She was the kind of young woman who made a brown polyester uniform look good, and the old men at the counter put down their papers as she passed. “Coffee?” she smiled, stopping at every customer to fill their cup. “Coffee?” –
“Would you like some more coffee?” –
“Hey, big guy – how bout’ a refill on that coffee?”
“Stop it,” Alan told her, hiding a grin. “I know what you’re doing.”
“What?” She batted her eyes as though Alan were straight. “I’m just trying to give the best customer service that I can.” Her expression was intentionally doe-eyed.
“I said stop it,” Alan repeated. “You’re gonna’ piss people off.”
“Asking for coffee?” She played dumb.
“By repeatedly asking everyone for coffee. Just…stop it. This is really not a good time.” Gwen cocked her head and ignored him.
More servers approached the kitchen. The dining room’s mood had taken a turn for the worse, and a family of four got up and walked out, followed by a nearby two-top. Somewhere in the front room, a customer complained about waiting forty minutes for a lousy fucking bowl of oatmeal. Elsewhere in the restaurant, a hungry kid screamed at its parents, before throwing Cheerios onto the floor. The waiting area was filling with black women in hats, while the smoking section – two thirds of the building – now resembled a scene from Stephen King’s The Mist. When the cashier added a second page to the wait, Lucky dutifully plated more toast.
“Where the fuck is Onie?” Linda snapped, speaking as though she had a cigarette in her mouth. She had managed to clear enough plates to see into the kitchen.
But there wasn’t any chaos, she realized.
The cooks stood idle at their stations, waiting for Lucky’s direction. The grill was empty, the fry-baskets hovered above the grease, and the motley kitchen crew seemed to take a collective step backward as though the old waitress wanted to grab them by the throats –
“Y’all fuckin’ deaf!?”
Alan went to speak, but a long, slender arm pushed him aside from behind. For just a flashing second, he caught the gleam of diamonds.
“Guys, I need tables 41, 43, and 45 now,” Patrick said firmly, lining three handwritten order tickets directly in front of Lucky. “And where’s Big Tim?”
“He’s talking to Onie,” Lucky piped up. “I think they’re in the office.”
“Tell him we need him on the line right now,” Patrick said, scooting Linda aside. “And where’s Lionel? You guys all know that Lucky shouldn’t expo on a Sunday.” Alan watched Patrick’s eyes dart across the kitchen staff, before fixating on the small electric printer directly above the toaster. His eyes narrowed.
“Lucky?” Patrick asked carefully. “Where are all the orders?”
“There ain’t no orders,” Lucky said. “There ain’t been any since Big Tim went in back.”
“No orders, Lucky?”
“Nope.”
“No orders…at all?”
“Nope.”
“This is Sunday,” Linda snapped. “How can there be no orders?”
Noooo! Alan now realized what was happening.
“Wait – are you saying that you’ve got nothing coming out of the kitchen?” Sally, a nearby waitress asked. By now, all the servers had gathered, searching for overdue tickets. “Cuz, I’ve got two tables about to walk. And another that wants to talk to Onie.”
“Where is Onie?” someone asked.
“And where the hell is Big Tim?”
“Is Lionel even working today?”
“He’s probably smoking in back,” Sally said, making a doobie gesture with her fingers.
“How bout’ a topper on that coffee?” Gwen merrily asked a nearby customer.
As the gang converged around the cooks, Patrick inhaled deeply, forcing calm. Alan watched Patrick gather himself, in a way that was almost too professional for a breakfast diner. Patrick was clearly the best server on the floor, and he took his job more seriously than the managers. Even Linda stepped aside for him, which was surprising considering she was a local Denny’s lifer, and Patrick had only just transferred in from Nevada, running circles around everyone. While the server’s fingers methodically tapped the window, Alan watched Patrick’s diamond rings twinkle brilliantly under the heat lamps -
As if on cue, Big Tim appeared in the kitchen.
“Sorry, folks. Had to talk to the man.” A collective sigh of relief was felt as a light skinned black man the size of a mountain took Lucky’s place in the window. “Good job, buddy…but why don’t you let me take over?”
Big Tim grinned at Patrick before noticing the empty cooks’ side ticket holder. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together. “Oh, that ain’t good.”
“Tim, I need this food now,” Patrick told him, pushing his own tickets forward. His voice was calm, but deadly serious, and Alan could tell he was stressed.
“We all need our goddamn food now,” Linda barked, “and tell Onie to get his little brown ass on the floor.”
“I’m HERE,” Onie announced from somewhere in back. He appeared like a savior, rolling up sleeves. The compact Pakistani was barely out of high school, and Denny’s in Peoria was obviously his first restaurant gig. He adjusted his glasses, clapped his hands loudly, and then made a show of rubbing his palms together. Onie came to Tim’s side. “What do we have? The Sunday crowd? Let’s get ready to sling some hash, people!”
He had absolutely no idea of what he was walking into.
Big Tim shot him daggers.
“Well Onie,” Tim took a moment to explain, “we seem to have a dining room filled to capacity, but our dance card is empty.” His demeanor was identical to Hoke from Driving Miss Daisy. “Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you?”
“That’s because we’re about to get slammed, buddy,” Onie said confidently, turning towards the line cooks. “C’mon, people! Get your game faces on!”
Rolling his eyes at Patrick, Big Tim turned his attention to the printer. He checked the power and paper before opening the unit’s top; the moment he did, a spasm of thermal paper shot out like a snake in a can. The long white spool was crinkled like an accordion, mashed together near the top with an ugly smear of purple. The orders on the floor were somewhat readable, but everything submitted within the last 30 minutes was lost forever. Sighing audibly, Tim looked directly at Patrick – “I’m surprised you didn’t notice this.”
His tone wasn’t accusatory, but it was honest.
Patrick removed his glasses and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Coffee?” –
“Not now, Gwen.”
“All right gentlemen, here’s what we’re going to do.” Without missing a beat, Big Tim took control of the situation. Separating the readable tickets, he turned to the cooks; with a few short commands, the grill was loaded and fry baskets hit the grease. Plates crashed a second time as the window got scooped into bus tubs; it was followed by the hiss of steam as Lucky wiped the hot metal surface with a wet rag while the servers scattered like roaches.
Onie started table visits, beginning with Linda’s section. A good eight more tables walked, with a few waiting at the register, demanding to see the manager.
They’ll be waiting awhile, Alan thought.
Needing a moment before facing his own customers, Alan stepped into the kitchen and headed for the breakroom. He crossed paths with Patrick – who was apparently doing the same – and watched as the hotshot waiter ducked into the stockroom, closing the door behind.
“How about a cup of freshly perked coffee?” Gwen asked Alan, appearing at his side. Alan turned to face her. He couldn’t help but smile. Over the past few months, he and Gwen had been rapidly becoming friends, and on days like today he greatly appreciated her humor.
“Let’s have a cigarette,” he said.
* * * * *
Oblivious to what had just happened, Lionel leaned against the dumpster when Alan and Gwen came out the kitchen’s back door. Despite finishing a Kool, he had clearly been smoking something much stronger; he gave the young hostess an I’ll do you right now look as the April sun caught the synthetic shine of her dress, and shapely figure within.
Gwen wasn’t a supermodel, but she oozed sexuality in a Catholic schoolgirl sort of way. All of the cooks were in lust with her, the black guys in particular, and Gwen knew how to use that fact to her fullest advantage.
“Can I bum a cigarette, stud?”
“You know I’ll give you whatever you want,” the Jamaican told her, holding out his pack.
“One for Alan too?” she added. Lionel didn’t object, but he also wasn’t happy about it. Gwen made sure to thank him.
“You know I’ve got my own cigarettes, right?” Alan asked.
“I wanted a menthol, so I can crystalize my lungs,” Gwen said. Alan smiled. “Let’s go this way,” he told her, gesturing towards the parking lot. “It’s a little too early for a contact high.”
“Should I get some for later?” she asked.
“Err, maybe. Let’s see how this day plays out first. I think I just lost an entire round of tips.”
The Peoria Denny’s had been around since the sixties, and the building had a Brady Bunch shape, common for the time. It was a retro oasis surrounded by parking lots, and the two friends lit up as they walked towards the property’s edge, to a place that overlooked Lake Street – and Northwoods Mall, beyond.
A cloud of smoke slowly expanded around their shoulders.
“I…am…really sick of this place,” Gwen said.
“Sick of Denny’s or sick of Peoria?” Alan asked.
“Denny’s,” she said. “Peoria too. I guess I’m sick of both. But I’m definitely sick of this place.” She gestured towards the restaurant. There were flies buzzing around the dumpster where Lionel had stood, surprising considering it wasn’t even summer yet.
“Yeah, today was rough,” Alan admitted.
“It happens every week,” she said.
“Well, not every week. But it does seem to be happening more frequently.”
Cars whizzed past below as the two puffed in silence, though their serenity was broken when diners piled into a nearby Plymouth, complaining about their experience. Alan looked away when he realized they had been one of his own tables. “Oops.”
“Hey guys! Do you want some coffee!??” Gwen yelled, not caring if they heard. Alan smiled again. The friends watched the car pull away.
“You know that Big Tim is leaving, right?” Gwen said as she flicked her butt into the grass. “That’s why he wasn’t on the line this morning. He was in back, giving Onie his notice.”
“Fuck,” Alan replied, stamping out his own. “Big Tim’s the only thing that’s holding this place together. Lionel’s too stoned to take his place. And Lucky? Seriously? You saw what happened today. Sunday’s without Big Tim are just going to be…awful.”
“And Saturdays, and Fridays, and Thursdays, and Wednesdays…” Gwen added.
“Ugh.”
Alan took a moment to digest this news. He shook his head and pulled out his own pack of smokes, lighting another. “Fuck, seriously? No Big Tim? How are we going to run the kitchen?”
“You sound like Linda. Fuck, fuck, fuck” –
“I pay my rent with this place,” Alan reminded her. “You still live at home.”
“I pay rent,” she protested.
“You give your mom a couple bucks for groceries.”
“That’s rent.”
“That’s not rent.”
“Well, no…but it is something.” Gwen smiled herself and watched an old Impala station wagon heave itself into the lot. It parked on the perimeter that overlooked the mall, which caused her to look upwards at the sprawling shopping center – and the ring of chain restaurants that dotted its own perimeter.
Her attention became fixated, and in a moment so was Alan’s –
It is…something, they both thought at once.
Like a clown car, a family of eight piled out of the Chevy. It expelled a mother, a father, and unhappy kids that looked dirty even from this distance. A stroller was produced and a wailing toddler slammed into its seat. If Alan had to guess, they were killing time while their trailer was being fumigated … and if Linda or Patrick had any say in the matter, the group would end up being seated in the middle of his own section.
It is…something.
“Hey guys?” the little voice called from behind, causing both Alan and Gwen to turn around. Onie was standing in back of the restaurant. He had the facial expression of having just been mugged. “We’re seating your section, Alan. You do still work here, right?”
Alan suddenly felt Gwen’s hand on his own. Their fingers interlocked, and Gwen squeezed tightly. His eyes met hers.
“Do you still work here?” she asked.
“Do you still work here?” he asked back.
“I’ll do it if you do it,” she said. “But only if we get jobs in the same place. I want us to work together.”
Alan thought about this for a moment. “Gwen, I have to pay rent.”
“These jobs are a dime a dozen,” she said. “And you can wait tables anywhere. Do you reeeeeeally want to go back in there after today? Spend another shift with Linda?”
“Alan?” Onie called. “Err, Gwen?” His voice took on a nervous tone. “Are you guys coming back?”
“Are we coming back, Alan?” Gwen had already unpinned her nametag and tossed it on the ground. “Are we really going back?”
“It is hard to get the smell of griddle fry out of these uniforms,” Alan admitted.
“Let’s go,” she prodded, unbuttoning her vest. She yanked it off like a stripper, and twirled it around her head before letting it go. Like foreplay, Gwen pulled herself in close to Alan. She started unbuttoning his own vest, purring. “I love a man in brown polyester.”
“Do you?” he said.
“I do,” she insisted.
“How long do you think it will take us to find a new job?” he asked.
“A week. Tops. Let’s see where Big Tim is going. Maybe he can use his pull to get us hired.”
Alan thought about this as though pretending to weigh his options, but in truth, he’d already made up his mind. He’d actually made up his mind some time ago, but he just needed someone else to say it.
He grinned.
“Okay, Gwen. Lets do it.”
* * * * *
Patrick sat alone in a booth in the far corner of his section. For the first time today, he was able to hear the MUZAK; George Michael’s Freedom droned on from the ceiling’s speakers, in a way that sounded like the final scene of the The Shining … soft, distant, creepy.
The rush was over thank God, and like everyone else who had left for the day, the server was counting his money in solitude, tips far less than expected. He put his ticket book aside when Linda approached. “Shit day,” she said with a sigh. “I’m fuckin’ exhausted. I don’t know why I do this.” She looked at his pile of ones and fives.
“I’m walking with seventy. How bout’ you?”
“About the same,” Patrick told her. “Maybe a little less. It definitely wasn’t our finest hour.”
“You heard the news about Big Tim?” she asked.
“I did,” he said. “That’s a blow.”
“Onie said he’s gonna’ put an ad in the paper,” Linda said. “There ain’t no way that Lionel can fill that fucker’s shoes.” Linda paused before adding, “I think Lionel’s going to jail anyway.”
“Drugs?”
“Yup,” Linda told him. “And if he don’t do time, he’s probably going to skip town anyway. It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s a few little Lionel’s in the oven around here. And I’m not talkin’ about the kitchen.” Patrick winced as her upper plate shifted when she laughed.
“Well I’m off, Linda. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The tall server stood up and tucked his cash into his pocket. He glanced at his Rolex. It was half past three.
“Bright and early as always.”
“You know where to find me,” the old waitress said, waving goodbye.
Gathering his pens, book, nametag, and apron, Patrick left the restaurant in exhaustion. He walked to the back of the parking lot, past employees’ rusty pickups, Chevettes, and K-cars…and then onto his own ride – a 91’ Eldorado with the new Northstar engine – which he’d told coworkers that he’d bought with a settlement. Once inside the vehicle, Patrick removed the four hundreds he’d hidden within his tips and stashed them in his wallet. He drove away with the same thought as everyone:
I didn’t make much money today.