Given the fact that they’d used almost all the meat they’d cut, Henry Lee should have come in earlier. But he was not in yet. Bill thought, they all thought, they’d have plenty extra, but the extreme busyness of the Friday night proved them wrong. Tommy had already gotten the call from the West side saying they needed meat, a lot of it, and they needed it early.
As soon as he was changed, Bill went into the meat room. First thing, he took out and unwrapped two fresh ribs. These he put on a tray and carried up to Mary. He found Mary mixing and stirring the au jus. Next to the au jus was a pot of Bordelaise sauce. Next to that was the soup of the day, a simple chicken noodle soup.
“Potatoes still need to be washed,” said Mary. “And I need to make rice pudding. I also need to start the rice.”
Together, Bill helped Mary put the ribs into a roasting pan. He took a moment at her cutting board to cut the mirepoix. Once that was cut he covered the ribs with it. While he’d been cutting it Mary rubbed ribs with salt and pepper. Then, each one holding one handle on the roasting pan, they slid the pan into an empty oven.
After Mary had shut the oven door, she tied a towel around the handle. While she was tying it she looked at Bill as if to say “Remember the time, stupid, that you burned up the rib?” What she might have said, what she might have asked, if she were talking about it, was how much more in his life he planned on losing because of substance abuse and pussy. But at this particular point in the day, conversation, except for business talk, was pretty much sidelined. The only thing on the agenda was work.
“If Henry Lee had gotten here on time,” said Bill, “I’d be able to help you with the things you need to do. But as it is, I’m heading back into the meat room to start cutting steaks.”
“What are you cutting first?” Mary asked.
“Tops and Supers. We sell the most of them. By the time I get those cut, Mr. sleepyhead should be in.”
“Maybe he getting lucky,” said Mary. “I wouldn’t mind getting lucky myself.”
“You never know how that luck thing works,” said Bill. “Might be time for a quickie.”
“Might not too,” said Mary. “You’re right about that. You never know how that luck thing works.”
Bill stopped at the coffee urns again and took himself another coffee which he carried down to the meat room. Before he actually started cutting meat, he opened the bourbon drawer and retrieved the bottle. He took a drink for himself, then he poured some bourbon into his coffee cup. He’d just gotten the bottle back into the drawer when Tommy appeared in the doorway.
“Henry Lee said he’ll be in in a bit,” said Tommy.
“No problem,” said Bill. “I’m about to start cutting top butts and will get as much done as I can as quickly as I can. Would’ve been better if I could’ve been upstairs to help Mary, but it is what it is.”
“You gonna stay sober today?” Tommy asked.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Can’t quite see the day yet. But you don’t gotta worry. I’ll make sure I can do my job.”
“All the girls are working,” said Tommy. “My guess is that we set another record today. Someone will be by from the West side in about an hour and a half to pick up whatever meat is ready.”
“Well then,” said Bill, “I’d better get to work.”
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Saturday night could not come fast enough. With the Buckeyes holding top spot in their division in basketball and enjoying a long home stand during which they’d already won the first three games, both East and West were doing record business. That double piece of pie yesterday? Tommy wouldn’t have cared if Bill had given away the whole pie, at least not then or at the moment because he’d just gotten off the phone with Mr. Bowman to discover how really good the numbers had been.
Everyone had dragged themselves home. Bill had found his fiancé awake and waiting for him, something entirely unusual. She was dressed up too: high heels, dark stockings, mini skirt, low-cut blouse showing cleavage, heavy makeup including dark lipstick and eyeshadow. Bill was taken aback.
“No friends tonight?” he had asked. “No Tim?”
“No friends. No Tim. Just you and me. And plenty of time since you don’t have to go in early tomorrow.”
Bill had kissed her, first thing. Then he’d excused himself to go take a shower. Kitchen funk, he’d explained, which was true because, and he was thankful for this, he had not done any fooling around. He and Marie had gone down to change at different times since she was finished before him. He was just starting the second grease when she’d come up in her civvies to say goodnight. Lexi, Lorraine and Victoria were still with tables when he’d gone out to tell Tommy he was leaving.
After his shower, he’d put on sweats and come out to be with his wife-to-be. They popped Quaaludes, smoked a joint and listened by candlelight to soft rock music while drinking white wine. They sat a long while on the sofa, making out and petting before going off to their bedroom.
Then the morning came. Saturday morning. Bill was up at eight. His fiancé was still in bed when he was dressed and ready to head out the door. He took a moment to sit on the edge of the bed where he looked at her. He fixed the covers on her. He leaned over her, stroked her hair, kissed her.
“I love you,” she said to him. “Come home as quickly as you can tonight.”
“I love you too,” said Bill. “I have the sense it’s gonna be a crazy night, but as fast as I can get out the door that’s when I’ll be home.”
He kissed her again, this time a long, loving kiss. She sat up and they hugged.
“Please be safe,” she said.
“I’ll do my best.” Bill got up, said goodbye, headed out the door.
A little after nine, when Bill got in, he found the kitchen already in action. Mary had started the prep work. Bea was long past reading the racing page and was busy setting up her station. They weren’t open for lunch, but they opened at noon for dinner. They still had a few hours to get ready.
Bill went over to the coffee urns by Bea’s station where he took himself a mug of coffee. He stood by Bea a moment and drank it down then refilled the mug. He carried it with him back to where Mary was, to see what she was up to. He stood by her and finished his second coffee. Then he went downstairs to change into his uniform.
Mary came down while he was changing clothes. She caught him half-way done, with his kitchen pants on but not buttoned yet. He was sitting on a chair putting on his work shoes.
“Bring me two ribs soon as you can,” she said. “I see you got a little more than half of one to start with. That should keep us till the fresh ones are done.”
“Soon as I’m changed,” said Bill.
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They got high. This time around, with everyone gone, with no late customers, Bill and Marie went out back of the building to smoke a joint. However, for whatever reason she had in mind, Lexi came looking for Bill. He called to her when he heard her calling to him and she came out the door too. So there they were, the three of them, standing on the side of the building getting high.
Lexi did not have any reason to have come looking for him other than to ask for piece of pie for her and Lorraine. Bill would have given it to her right off the bat if they were in the kitchen. But seeing them getting high, Lexi did not ask. She simply reached out her hand for the joint and told him what she’d come for while she smoked.
It was cold. They did not linger. They smoked the one joint, then a second, and only did the second because there were three of them. Bill didn’t care. He had plenty of weed. Lexi didn’t care. She was done with customers. Marie was happy. She was drinking beer, getting high and finally enjoying the white boy.
Bill would continually ask Marie about this. She would continually tell him that he was different from any of the black men she’d known. She’d tell him she was sure he wasn’t different from black men, just from the ones she’d known. The ones she’d known, like the ones Mary had known, according to what Mary had told Bill, satisfied themselves first and if they satisfied the female it was only a side effect.
Mary had described in detail what the men in her life had done to her sexually. She had done this only to characterize for Bill what her life had been like. As for Marie, Bill knew, everyone knew, Marie’s husband hit her. Bill knew, they all knew, he cheated on her. Payback’s a bitch.
Cheating. Down-low. On the DL. In one way or another, in both the west and east stores everyone was cheating and/or on the DL. Everyone. And people in glass houses…
So Lexi went back out into the dining room without a piece of pie. What she actually did was head out and head right back in, out the out-door and right back in the in-door.
“Almost forgot,” she said. “Can I have that piece of pie?”
Bill thought about it for a moment. What he was actually considering was whether or not he could get away with it without Tommy giving him a hard time. The answer to that was a definite yes. The answer was that Tommy wouldn’t care about a piece of pie after the day they’d just completed. So he gave Lexi a double piece of blueberry pie and asked her to do her best not to let Tommy see it.
“What you giving me?” Marie asked when she and Bill were alone in the kitchen.
Unobstructed by having to do other things, Bill was on his knees doing the first fryer. He was tired and high and feeling like he just didn’t give damn about anything at the moment.
“What you want?” he asked.
“That’s a dangerous question,” said Marie.
“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t,” said Bill.
“What’s my options?”
“Everything’s on the table at this point.”
“Everything?”
“And anything.”
“Well…” Marie walked up beside Bill, leaned over and whispered something in his ear. It was a detailed something because she spoke for a bit. Whatever she said made Bill flush solid red in the face, a full crimson.
“And what do I get?” Bill asked.
“Sky’s the limit,” said Marie.
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By Peter Weiss
Wishing You All A Blessed and Wonderful Holiday
Thank you for all your viewings and for following the blog. Wishing you all the best. See you on the other side of the long weekend.
Peter
A few moments after Lorraine went back out to the dining room Bill started into the cleanup. He was running very late and knew it would easily be almost one o’clock in the morning before he was ready to leave, if not later. Even if there were no more orders, he still had a good hour’s work ahead of him.
Marie was already well into her routine. Bill had watched her for a bit, had seen her change the containers for all the salad dressings, wipe everything clean and make everything in her reach-ins ready for Bea for the morning. Tomorrow was Friday. Today had been crazy-busy. Tomorrow would be a lot busier. No matter how she looked at it, she was working later than usual.
“We’re gonna need rice pudding and chocolate pudding tomorrow,” she told Bill.
Bill was scrubbing down the steam table. She came over by him before he could answer, took up the beer he had left on the shelf and took a drink. She leaned her butt against the counter just past the steam table and crossed her feet at the ankles. She held the beer bottle in both hands and stroked it kind of suggestively, but kind of innocently, Bill thought, thinking she really wasn’t paying any attention to what her hands were doing. He had seen her make suggestive motions with her hands before, and this clearly did not seem as if it were one of those moments.
“How about giving me a beer?” Marie asked. It was more of a suggestion than a question.
“Sure,” said Bill. “Soon as a waitress comes in.”
They were facing different ways. Cleaning the steam table, he was facing the front automatic kitchen doors. Leaning against the counter, she was facing the charcoal grill.
“That heat feels good,” said Marie.
“Nothing I love more than that feeling,” said Bill. “That’s what I was telling Lorraine. I just love it when it passes through me. Ain’t nothing better.”
Marie sipped at Bill’s beer again. She stood there quietly, still did not put the bottle down. Bill, for his part, was scrubbing the steam table and wiping it with a dish towel. He worked more quickly and more sloppily the further he was from her, but as he moved closer to her he slowed his pace and was more careful not to splash any soap water. When he was really close to her, he dried his hands, warmed one over the charcoal grill then slipped it up her dress.
“See how nice that heat feels?”
“Feel better inside me,” said Marie.
“Now that we’ve started this shit, it’s not out of the ballpark. But I have a lot of work to do and not much you can do to help me unless you want to start changing the grease.”
“No thanks,” said Marie. She went back to her station.
“Don’t think there’s gonna be any more customers,” Lexi said a few minutes later when she came into the kitchen. She took a moment and looked around. Things were pretty quiet. She could see Marie futzing around on her station. She could see the dishwashers finishing up the dishes they still had there. From her perspective, all was right with the kitchen world.
Bill knew that the van driver who would be taking the dishwashers back downtown was due at any moment. He was glad they’d be gone when he actually started the grease. He was glad he didn’t have to watch over Jim, who was prone to going near the knife sheath, who always wanted a beer. He was glad he didn’t have to watch over Mickey. Mickey always managed to get himself drunk by emptying bar glasses into one glass and then drinking the contents of that glass. With them gone and with no late orders he would have a clear path to doing the grease quickly and efficiently.
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By Peter Weiss
“Why would she be better off without you?” Lorraine asked. She handed Bill the beer she brought him.
Bill was sitting on the metal milk cases, resting after having served the waitresses and dishwashers their dinners. He was dog tired. They had done more than expected in a dinner rush that started early and ended late. Jimmy and Grandma did not get out until 11:30, and Bill, just sitting down for the first time, knew he should have been cleaning up. He still had over an hour’s work and that didn’t include the grease.
“What are you talking about?” Bill sipped the beer. He was soaked. His underwear had soaked through, his shirt too. The cool night air chilled him immediately as it blew in from the open back door.
“The other night. You said your fiancé would be better off without you.”
“Did I?” Bill stood up. “I can’t stay out here. I’m too wet and I’m getting chilled.” He led Lorraine into the kitchen. She stood by the knife sheath. He stood in front of the Garland and let the heat come out at him to warm him up.
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember everything.”
“So, answer my question.”
“It’s been on your mind all this time?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“Why you care?”
“Cause I care about you. I mean you’re more than just some fun sometimes. I know you care about me.”
“How you know that?”
“You could have had my job but you didn’t go after it. You didn’t pressure me to do anything sexual or anything like that. You even told Tommy to give me good shifts.”
“I should have made you do terrible things.”
“It’s never too late.” Lorraine made a face at him, a face he knew from her, one saying without any words that she might like it if he did. Then she shimmied for him to underscore her point. “If you don’t ask, you don’t get.”
“So you’re saying?”
“I’m not saying anything. I mean, I’m just saying…”
Bill moved away from the Garland, leaned over toward her and whispered in her ear.
“It’s not out of the ball park,” Lorraine said. She smiled. “Be a first for me, but I’m not getting any younger.”
Bill laughed. He told her come around on the line so they stood next to each other over the two-sided charcoal grill. There, the heat from the synthetic charcoals rose up at them.
Not counting alcohol and drugs which were a completely different sort of physical sensation, Bill loved nothing more than this. The intense heat hit him in the face and on his chest. Standing as close as he was, it even warmed his thighs by making his pants hotter than if a steaming iron was passing over them.
“Ain’t nothing feels better than this,” he said. “I love it when the heat just runs through me.”
“I can think of some things I like more.”
“Yeah, well, you know what I mean.”
“I know, sweetie. But you still didn’t answer my question. Second time now.”
“What question?”
“Why she’d be better off without you.”
“No,” Bill said. “I didn’t answer.”
He stood there absorbing the heat. She stood next to him, quiet now, not standing as close to the charcoal grills as he was. She reached for his beer and took a sip.
“What would happen if Tommy saw me drinking from your beer?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Bill said. He reached out and she handed him the bottle. “He might say something to me. Maybe not. Nothing would happen to you.”
“You and Drenovis are at it again, huh?”
“He’s a dick,” said Bill.
Pick up a copy of my published works here:
By Peter Weiss
They Didn’t Mention Papa
Copyright © 1969; 2014 by Peter Weiss
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Nathan cannot think clearly. They walk along row six, watching the signs for path twenty four. The rain falls hard and steady, as it has been for the past hours. Papa is dead, Nathan thinks. Now I know. When I was still working, each night at dinner Papa would say the blessing, and before he would eat, he’d survey the table, making sure there was enough food. He looked deep into my eyes, one night, and said to me “My baby, you’re grown, but you’re still my baby.” I ran to Papa and kissed him.
He extended his hand and said “Squeeze.” I knew what he meant and wrapped my fingers around his hand then squeezed as hard as I could. I knew I hurt him. “You’re getting strong,” he told me. But he didn’t flinch, not once. I held out my hand and said “Your turn.” He laughed and repeated my words. He was weaker that night than ever before and for the first time I had to fake it. “Ouch, Papa,” I said, quickly pulling my hand away from his. He looked at me. He knew. He looked at Mama and said “I’m getting old.”
Nathan and Pearl turn onto path twenty four.
“If I remember,” Pearl says, “it’s not far from here.” But Nathan has already run ahead and when Pearl catches up to him he is kneeling in the mud at the foot of Papa’s grave. Tears slide down his cheeks then fall to the ground mixing with the rain. Pearl stands behind him and rests her hands on his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Papa.” Nathan frees himself from Pearl’s grasp and begins to fuss with the plants which cover the grave. Two years, he thinks, noticing that the plants have grown thick and are green and nourished. He pulls out weeds lightly, removes them without upsetting the soil, then begins to shape the plants by patting here, then there, as if he were a woman shaping her hair.
The rain continues to fall. Satisfied with his work, he turns to Pearl. Her raincoat is almost saturated; the pellets of water are absorbed rather than repelled by the material.
“You’ll catch cold,” he tells her.
He reaches into the mud and pulls out two stones, then places them on top of Papa’s head stone. He puts his arm around his wife, holds her to him and feels her shivering against him.
“Let’s go home,” he says.
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By Peter Weiss
originally posted in December 2016
They can accept 32 different genders. They can accept that Elizabeth Warren is an Indian. Pocahontas! They can accept that a boy of fifteen is allowed to walk into a girl’s dressing room because he says he feels like a girl on that particular morning. They can accept just about anything, no matter how preposterous, as long as it fits in with their narrative, with their beliefs, with their vision of how America should be according to them.
But they can’t accept that maybe, just maybe, their vision of how America should be isn’t the vision shared by the mainstream, Joe Q Average American, that same mainstream Joe Q Average American family who voted for Donald Trump. In not accepting that “maybe,” they’ve become The Election Deniers, those very same people Hillary Clinton was outraged by, those very same people Ms. Clinton was appalled by, those very same people the poor, misunderstood, always-being-attacked Mrs. Clinton who never did anything ever that she’s been accused of, said were challenging the very pillars of our democracy.
Yup. Now, among everything else, she has become an Election Denier. Of course, as is her style, she would never say that. As is her style, she has her front people do all they can to disrupt, discredit and malign the dignity of the election while she gives statements of her deep concern for the well-being of America and the American people. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!
But this isn’t about Hillary per se, as despicable as she is. It’s the story of that naked emperor whose subjects were too afraid to tell him he was naked though everyone could see it but him. He thought he had the most beautiful set of new clothes on. She thought no one could see what she was doing, could see what her MO was and has always been.
So that in-her-pocket president now calls for an investigation into hacking of the election boxes, the effect of [Russia’s] hacking on the election. Now, he calls for it. Why now would Obama call for it? Why now would he become an Election Denier? Why all The Election Deniers?
That answer is simple. It’s because they simply can’t believe that America isn’t the way they say it is and want to force it to be. They simply can’t believe that most Americans, regardless of race and ethnicity, believe in simple, straight-forward old-fashioned American values, like believing in God and being allowed to express such a belief. They simply can’t believe that most Americans want safety, secure borders, good jobs and good education for their kids. They simply can’t believe that most Americans are tired of the PC police and tired of the false narratives (Hands Up, Don’t Shoot, for one) they’ve been yelling at us for over fifty years, narratives that are belied by the results of their failed policies.
So they’ve become The Election Deniers specifically to discredit the President-Elect, to undermine his presidency before it begins by casting doubt on whether or not he is the legitimate president. For Obama, who has consistently shown himself to be petty and spiteful, maybe it’s payback for Trump’s birther-issue stuff even more than trying to protect his legacy, a legacy only he thinks, like that naked emperor, is a good one.
That’s why now. And the more they hold to the moral high ground, the more lowdown they are. The more lowdown they are seen to be.
The Election Deniers : the more they deny, the greater the chance they lose more and more of their support base and their power.
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By Peter Weiss
originally posted in November 2015
We’re getting conned. It’s that simple.
I see the effects of the con on my Facebook page when family members post outrageous political tidbits and comment that such tidbits are realities. And then, our con artists bank on the fact that eventually we will vote based upon the 15-second sound bites they put out. Like the idiots we’ve become, many of us do.
Those sound bites are cons.
I won’t go back to the silly comments some of our esteemed politicians have made, but we can look at the effects. Harry Reid was proud of himself for the net effect of his lying about Mitt Romney’s taxes being that Romney wasn’t elected. We can glean from this that lying is quite okay. Harry Reid, one of our most powerful Senate leaders, thinks so and admits it with a smug grin. That lie he told was a con. He conned a certain amount of people into not voting for Romney.
No matter how you slice it, we still don’t know where Obama was on the night of Benghazi. He was in the White House, but that is all we know. (My guess is that he was prepping for the Debate.) That video story was a con. We were conned for the purpose of his reelection. He conned us about ISIS, or being kind, he was just naïve and underestimated, and he is conning us about the reality of terrorism, the Iran deal, the economy, education, and God knows what else.
Over and over again, we are being conned.
No, I’m not going back to Bush or Clinton, or Nixon. We can look forward though. Hillary? Trump? Pick your next CCA, Chief Con Artist. Personally, the only candidate I think is not a con artist is Ben Carson, and I don’t think he has a chance of getting elected. I could be wrong and wouldn’t be unhappy if I am wrong.
Suffice it to say we are being conned and have been being conned for a long time.
Education: about the only thing that is not a con is the horrendous state it is in. Bloomberg conned New York City with his school reforms, and what the city reports now as its graduation rate is a con and doesn’t reflect the state of the education being given.
Racism: yes, it exists and goes all different ways, in all different directions. Nevertheless, with all the black leaders and the black president, and the Democratic run cities like Baltimore, why isn’t it fixed? What’s the reality of it? We’re being conned.
Poverty: the war on poverty has been going on for 50 years and 22 trillion dollars has been spent on it (in real adjusted dollars). The net effect of this expenditure has been minimal. Net drop in the poverty rate is negligent.
We’re being conned.
One thing that is real is we do not know the truths about most things. So today’s NY Times report about jobs and unemployment, stating that [the] U.S. Economy Added 271,000 Jobs in October; Unemployment Rate at 5.0%, is true, but not true. It does not factor in what kind of jobs or how many people have become disgruntled this month and dropped out of the job market. It’s a con.
As a researcher, I learned to continually check all sources. Simplified, what this means is if I’m looking at liberal sources, I need to check the conservative ones. If I’m looking at sources that are all leading in any one direction, I need to see if there are other sources pointing in other directions. It’s called being balanced. Truths, whatever they are, get approached when all the diverse sources point in the same direction. A good example of this is came in 2009 when Newt Gingrich and Al Sharpton went on the road together, appearing in different cities for the purposes of addressing problems in education and education reform. The truth is that our education system needs reform and they together exemplify that sense of what is real.
Used to be that “cons” stood for sneakers, Converse All Stars, one of the brand-name sneakers back when I was a kid. They were really good sneakers, not a con at all. We need to go back to truths, to finding out what’s real and what isn’t, who’s telling the truth and who isn’t, and who is behind telling us about “truths,” whether they are being truthful or not.
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Books by Peter Weiss.
They Didn’t Mention Papa
Copyright © 1969; 2014 by Peter Weiss
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
He wonders what it will be like standing over Papa’s grave. The last he knew, Papa was healthy and strong. He remembers once when they were in Shul and he tied some of the old men’s prayer shawls to their chairs. Papa saw him do it and he knew he would get hit. He could see the door close and Papa come towards him like he always did, the leather strap in his hands and a fierce look in his eyes. “Play around will you?”
He saw me do it, watched closely to see that I was tying bows instead of knots. When the old men stood up, their shawls fell to their chairs. I looked at Papa. He started to laugh but turned his head I shouldn’t see. He never beat me, never said anything about it to me.
He was a man. He was always good to me. He’d blame the others because I was the baby.
“What are you thinking about, Nathan?” Pearl has been watching him as he drives.
“Oh, about Papa. It’s all so sudden. I wonder what it will be like standing over his grave. He’s still so alive in me.”
Nathan parks the car just outside the cemetery grounds. He makes sure that Pearl has buttoned her raincoat and he turns up the collar for her. He realizes now that the Yamacah has been on his head all the while. It’s a good thing. His head must be covered. Pearl too must cover her head. It’s custom and tradition. She pulls a dark veil from her coat pocket and fastens it to her hair with a bobby pin. “I thought you’d want to see Papa.”
Nathan smiles. “I love you. Are you sure you want to go with me?”
Pearl opens the car door. “I’m sure.”
They walk through the cemetery gates together. Strait is the gate, Pearl thinks, remembering it as if it were the only book she’s ever read. There is no one else around. The rain has formed muddy pools on the grass, the graves and the paths. Nathan looks ahead through squinted eyes. The cemetery is dark and he can barely read the row and path numbers. Row six, path twenty four, isn’t that what Max said? No stupid. You forgot to ask. Where’d I get the numbers from?
“Do you know where it is?”
“No,” Pearl answers.
“We’ll have to stop at the information place.”
They approach a building.
“This must be it.” A large sign stares at Nathan and Pearl. “It’s closed. I’ll have to call Max.”
“I remember at the funeral, Max pointed out your uncle’s grave. Papa is right next to him.”
“Then it is row six path twenty four. How did I get these numbers?”
