The big sauté pans, maybe three feet by three feet if not slightly bigger, took up one whole stove each. If any one of the crew were working alone and were in a hurry they might have worked two pans simultaneously. That was a feat in and of itself.
Working one pan, in actuality, was hard enough. Working two pans meant working double-speed and then some. Two pans at once meant no leisure time at all. By the time you filled one pan and half of the second it was definitely time to start flipping the breasts in the first pan. With luck, if the oil were not too too hot at the start, you might get to fill the second pan before starting to flip. Two pans meant constant work and never letting your eye off the chicken breasts.
Working two pans meant constant flipping. It also meant no mistakes.
Sometimes cooks and chefs laughed to themselves. It seemed stupid, right? What kind of mistake could anyone make flipping a chicken breast? But there were many.
First and worst was splashing grease and burning yourself. That could happen lots of ways.
Dropping a breast as you went to flip one was one way. Putting a flipped breast down the wrong way was another. If the grease splashed and hit your arm, that meant an immediate blister.
Burns and blisters sucked which was why they wore long-sleeve chef’s jackets here.
The job wasn’t just flipping one breast. Each pan held about 30 breasts, sometimes more or less depending upon the size of the breasts and how tightly you put them in. So you were working at least two and a half dozen breasts at once, twice that if you were working two pans.
At Suburban they wore short-sleeve kitchen shirts. Bill could hold out his arms and show a host of burn scars, more like brown spots and stripes up his arms. At Suburban they never had to sauté on such a large scale. Most of the burns on his arms happened from fryer grease popping or from touching the top of the Garland when reaching inside the broiler. The stripes were on the top of his arm mostly, but he striped the underneath part of the arm too by touching the bottom of the broiler when reaching deep inside, and he did this often.
Other mistakes in the big sauté pans were not getting to a breast in time and having to hurry or dropping one flipped on top of another. And of course the worst was if you burned one or two breasts, or even more. This did happen and it was a great unhappiness. It meant losing some stock sometimes and it certainly meant having to change oil and/or pans in the midst of the work. Once something burned it was really hard to get that taste out.
They sautéed. As they worked they were in their own worlds yet together. They talked and they joked and they tended to what they were doing, one pan each, each one working carefully, painstakingly cautious so as not to get burned or burn the chicken.
It worked out to three pans apiece. They could do one and then a second with a quick skimming of the oil in the pan but for the third pan it was start all over again. Choices there were to empty the pan, scrape it then put fresh oil in it or to scrap the pan altogether and get a fresh one. They all decided on that latter choice, especially since they did not have to wash the pans.
While they were waiting for the oil to heat up again for that last round of frying, they stood smoking and chatting. Jimmy Banquet Chef offered what he called the last drink for the day since it was starting to get toward time to be setting up for The Falstaff Room.
By Peter Weiss
After Bill, Victor and the banquet chef breaded all the chicken breasts for all the parties and wrapped and put away what they weren’t going to sauté now, they washed and cleaned up their station then went to smoke a cigarette.
Bill was already mostly sober as they stood smoking. They’d stopped by room service to get themselves double espressos which they carried in coffee mugs. Then they stood there away from the prep part of the kitchen. They smoked. They sipped the black, somewhat-thick coffee. Victor and the banquet chef talked some in Greek and then they both spoke to Bill in English.
“Nothing much will change for you when your probation is over,” the banquet chef said.
“Kalista thinks of you as one of her own babies,” Victor said. “That’s the best you can do in this place.”
“I think she’s great,” Bill said. “She’s been great to me.”
“She likes how you cover for your lazy partner.”
“She likes how you stand up to Caesar,” Victor said.
“When we slow down in banquets,” the banquet chef said, “the chef’s gonna make sure you keep most of your extra hours. That’s good for us, good for him and good for you.”
“Idle hands,” Victor said. “How’s your little banquet waitress?”
Bill hadn’t seen Beverly in a little while and this, altogether, was not a bad thing from his point of view. Not that it mattered – in the scope of things it was just another thing that didn’t mean much in the world. It’s biggest significance was the implication in his marriage, but she was already one of many. In and of herself, she was neither here nor there.
Thinking of her, feeling as he was, Bill wished – just for a moment – she was there today. He knew, and he had felt this before at different times in his short life, he was on the edge, dangerous of sorts. Not dangerous dangerous. He knew he wouldn’t do anything dangerous, not hurt himself or anyone or even anything. But as he thought about it and he saw things, he was starting to think that Millie, who was there today, and Edelgarde and Rosie from The Falstaff Room needed to be careful. No telling what he might do. No telling who he might do it to. Whatever he was gonna do, and he didn’t know what yet himself, he might do it to all of them.
Maybe I should be careful, he thought.
“Cat got your tongue?” Victor said.
“I was thinking,” Bill said.
“Both of you better start thinking about those chicken breasts, Jimmy Banquet Chef said. “The chef won’t want to come in tomorrow and see us all backed up.”
“Where’s my partner?” Bill asked.
The banquet chef and Victor looked at each other. “Should we tell him?” Victor asked.
“Might as well.”
“Sleeping in the chef’s office,” Victor said. “That’s why it’s dark.”
“Why you hesitate to tell me?” Bill asked.
Victor and the banquet chef looked at each other again. Neither one said anything.
“I know the score,” Bill said. “I’m cool with it. Last time I’m gonna say it, but I’m just as happy working alone, so it’s all good. Besides, I truly like Kalista and I’d do most anything for her.”
“See,” Jimmy Banquet Chef said to Victor, “that’s why our sister likes him so much.”
Finished their cigarettes and the espresso, the banquet chef served them each a double shot of whiskey. Then they went about doing the sauté. Since they were alone together, they each set up their stations. This meant gathering the big, big-ass sauté pans and the tools with which to do the sauté.
Each of them ready, each of them watching and helping the two others also, they stood waiting for the oil to heat up.
By Peter Weiss
Bill remembered the aftermath of the breading that day with Mary. He remembered how he was not out of it but strangely focused on strange things. One of them was an uncontrollable sexual urge and a devil-may-care, what-the-hell attitude. Bottom line of that attitude was that he just plain didn’t give a shit.
He knew that no matter what he did they weren’t gonna fire him. He knew he could do just about anything, actually truly just about anything, and they would tolerate it. They would tolerate it because he was attached to Robert at the hip and he could do his job better than almost anyone.
First devil’s chore he chose was walking in on Marie while she was in the ladies room changing. He did it on purpose having waited what he thought was long enough for her to have shucked her civvies. He and Henry Lee were cutting meat now, it being just a touch after four in the afternoon. He told Henry Lee he was gonna go do Marie. Henry said “Bless you brother, take her off my hands for a bit.”
To his content, Bill found Marie in her bra and panties.
“What the fuck,” she said. “Get out of here before I tell Mary what you doing.”
“Tell her,” Bill said.
“I will.”
“Give me a kiss.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Give me a kiss. You always wanted to anyway.”
“That part is true.”
It was true. Marie had tried to get with Bill lots of times and Bill had stayed away out of courtesy for Henry Lee. Marie was his squeeze.
“So give me a kiss.”
Marie stepped toward Bill, reluctantly at first, but the moment their lips met and he put a hand on her shoulder she melted into him. She not only melted into him, but she kissed him passionately.
Bill pressed into her, wrapped her skinny body in his arms. He was a horny, excited twenty year old male under the influence and not in his right head.
“Goddamn,” Marie said.
Bill didn’t know if it was from her feeling him against her, she in just her panties down there, or if it was from the kiss. Either way, he reasoned best as he could reason, it didn’t matter.
What he did do was lock the door behind him so no one else could walk in on them. If it were Bea, she’d laugh. If it was Henry Lee, he might join in. If it was Mary, she’d be pissed. Not only were they an item, her and Bill, but it had been tough enough for her to get him to finish the breading. He’d wasted a lot of time and she’d had to work around him.
They kissed more. They kissed a lot more. Without any hesitation Bill reached down behind her and into Marie’s panties. She spread her legs some and let his hand and fingers go where they pleased, where she’d been wanting them to be for a good while.
“I’m embarrassed,” she said when Bill’s fingers slid into her. “Look what you do to me, white boy.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” Bill said. “I’m not the least bit embarrassed.”
“I hate you,” Marie said.
“I hate you too,” Bill said.
That said from both of them, Bill went to work first. He told her he wasn’t going into her yet but it could happen some other time if she wanted it. She told him it was definitely in her plans.
Down on his knees, Bill took down her panties, looked happily at her completely bald coochie.
Marie leaned back against the sink and closed her eyes.
It would have been hard for anyone to tell who was tripping more.
By Peter Weiss
Bill remembered the time with Mary, that one afternoon at Suburban when they were going about breading shrimp, pickerel and onion rings.
Wasn’t the only time he was high. Wasn’t the only time he was tripping. Wasn’t the only time he was high and drunk and tripping. But it was the time he and Mary had put aside to do the breading for the rest of the week.
Actually Mary hadn’t put away her time. She had put away his time. She had planned it so Bill had time to do the breading while all she had to do was help set him up, watch him and help him tray everything the way she wanted it for them for the line.
Bill already knew everything anyway. Bill was a quick study, smart and very organized. Mary knew this about Bill. She also knew he was meticulous, not just in his cooking but in his other activities too. That was one thing she liked about him and her together. He was painstakingly thorough.
Bill and Henry Lee had been drinking and smoking pot all morning straight up to the lunch service. They had beer stashed in the hall for when there were lulls during the service so they could go to the hall and drink. Bill had brought some acid to work with him and thinking they would have a slow afternoon, not much to do but the breading and some meat cutting, he popped a tab right at the start of the lunch service.
He’d figured it would take awhile to come on, probably hit him right about when he was standing with Mary doing the setup for the breading. But it didn’t quite work that way.
Henry Lee happened to see him pop the tab.
“Goddamn,” he said.
“Fuck it,” Bill said. “Sometimes I just fucking hate life.”
“Yeah, well, ain’t that a bitch,” Henry Lee said.
“Like I said,” Bill said.
The acid came on much sooner than he’d thought and right in the middle of the lunch rush he found he was tripping. It wasn’t a lot at first and he functioned. But toward the end of the service it took all the concentration he could muster just to do the slightest work well.
Henry Lee helped much as he could. He didn’t want Mary to find out and he certainly didn’t want Bea to find out. Bea was a wild card. She would be livid and no telling what she would do.
He knew Tommy was hip to it because Tommy, the assistant manager, was shaking his head as he watched Bill fumble around. Tommy was expediting. Twice he asked Bill if he was okay. Twice Bill said he was fine, that he felt sick, a little dizzy. Tommy asked if he had to cover Bill for the night. Bill said he’d be okay.
He was okay. He made it through the service. He was messed up at lunch for the staff and he was fully tripping as he and Mary set up for the breading. Several times he reached up under Mary’s skirt and several other times he just plain felt her up up there. Twice he kissed her right in front of Bea. Part of that on some subconscious level was spite, not to make Bea jealous but to piss her off.
They watched Bill, Mary and Bea did, while he stood over the breading station for about an hour just staring into the egg wash and not breading anything. Several times Mary went out the side doors into the side dining room to get coffee for her and Bill. Bill drank the coffee she brought him, but it wasn’t changing anything.
Finally she said what she said, which was “Boy how long you plan to be staring into them eggs? You plan to do any breading?”
Breading was a mindless chore, why Bill could, fairly drunk at the moment, not only bread the chicken breasts with Victor and the banquet chef but be lost in his thoughts too. His hands, experienced hands, moved without need for his head.
By Peter Weiss
“Jesus Christ,” Millie said.
“Happy?”
“God yes.”
“Feeling better?”
“I am now. All good. Gonna get some black coffee and go back to work happy and cheery.”
“You owe me big time.” Bill leaned in over Millie who was still not naked but fully exposed in the chair. He kissed her on the mouth long and hard.
“Jesus Christ,” Millie said again when they were done kissing. She made no attempt to cover up. Instead she showed herself proudly.
“You really think I’m gorgeous?” she asked.
“Definitely,” Bill said.
“Can you come back later?”
“Don’t think so. I’ve already been gone too long and they’re gonna razz me pretty good.”
“I can take care of you real quick.”
“I like you owing me.”
“You know you can have whatever you want, whenever you want.”
“I know,” Bill said.
“What are you gonna tell them?”
“Who? The boys? That Chloe gave you whiskey for us and we had a few drinks.”
“That it?”
“You bet.” Bill leaned in again kissed her again. This time when they were done kissing, Bill helped her up from the chair. He wanted to make sure she was steady on her feet.
Standing with her, he kissed her some more and as he did, he helped himself to a generous and prolonged feel of her all over.”
“They gonna believe you?” Millie asked. She did not move from his touch. She moved herself into it, helped him with her movements to find what he was looking for, what she wanted.
“Not for a second,” Bill said.
“And…?”
“And what?”
“And don’t stop.”
Millie, while they stood there, took Bill’s hand and led it to her, to where she wanted. She reached up and kissed him all the while they stood there, all they while he touched her.
“Maybe I will stop by later,” Bill said.
“Three-thirty,” Millie said. “You’ll be set up and will have some time before the room opens. I’ll be happy to pay off.”
“You have no idea what I might ask.”
“No matter what, be okay with me. Whatever it is.”
Bill kissed her one last time, watched as she put herself together and then led him out making sure the coast was clear.
“Three-thirty,” she said.
“If I can,” Bill said.
They were waiting for him in the main kitchen. Jimmy Banquet Chef and Victor were setting up to sauté chicken breasts. Jimmy G was sitting by the chef’s office smoking a cigarette and reading the Greek newspaper.
“Don’t mind the lazy one,” Jimmy Banquet Chef said. “He’s always gonna be lazy.”
“I’m not saying anything,” Bill said. He went first to read the banquet board, to see what they had for the rest of the week. When he had read it, studied it, he turned to the banquet chef and Victor and said, “Easy week.”
“Breakfast, lunch and one dinner tomorrow,” the banquet chef said. “None of them big. Then a quick lunch and two dinners the next day. Nothing the day before New Year’s Eve, but New Year’s Eve day is gonna be a bit crazy.”
“You can help us with the breakfasts and lunches. Dinner in your room is gonna be very busy.”
“Too bad for us,” the banquet chef said. “No New Year’s celebration for us.”
“Double time,” Victor said. “I’d rather make money anyway.”
“Me too,” Bill said.
“All right,” the banquet chef said, “let’s get this show on the road.”
Because it was quiet, because they were drinking, because there was no real hurry to do the work, the three men did everything themselves. First they stood and breaded the chicken breasts. They did this together in a line, each one dipping and handling one part of the breading, first man taking the chicken breasts from the trays, last man, which was Bill, traying them up again.
Tray after tray, they breaded all the breasts that needed to be done. Before they started to sauté, they smoked a cigarette and had another drink.
By Peter Weiss
Her being drunk was not a bad thing, Bill thought. His getting more high – he was used to drinking and so he was high, not drunk – was a good thing too. Owing her wasn’t bad either.
Wrong-think was bad and he was steeped in it. Self-pity was bad and he was steeped in that too. He didn’t quite know it or feel it as self-pity at the moment, but sometimes he did. Today he just felt crappy and he didn’t know why. All he knew was that he had no reason to be feeling crappy and that by any ordinary circumstances he should be feeling absolutely super.
On some level away from everything, if he looked at everything somewhat clearly, he had it made in the shade. Here was this gorgeous girl before him ready, willing and able, and she was not his wife either. That was the big dream of seven in ten married men. He was working, had money in the bank, had a good wife and…
He could go on.
“I am drunk,” Millie said, the third drink down. “See what you’ve done to me?”
“I haven’t done anything yet,” Bill said.
“And you’re not gonna,” Millie said. “I have to puke.”
“Ah, you’re fine,” Bill said.
“No. I really have to throw up.”
That said, she took off for the small closet-size bathroom there in the back.
And that was that.
Millie came back a moment later, disheveled and unsteady on her bare feet. She plopped herself into the arm chair and sat there, hair mussed, legs spread wide, dress partially opened bottom to top.
“You can do anything you want to me if you still want to,” she said.
“You look like shit,” Bill said. “You’re gorgeous, but you look like shit.”
“I feel like shit,” Millie said.
“Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker,” Bill said. He laughed.
“I mean it,” Millie said. “Just use me. I brushed my teeth and rinsed out my mouth with Listerine.”
Some fifteen years later Bill would be with a waitress who would say the same thing. Of course he couldn’t know this yet and he didn’t know that he would hear the words and remember Millie. He would remember then what he did now and so then in retrospect he would know what the feelings were.
What Bill did with Millie was about his father more than anything else, about that what-he-would-come-to-learn-as irrational and misguided notion that you had to give in order to get, or worse, that you just had to give. Bill would not rationalize it, would not think it out. Maybe if he could have done that he would have acted differently, not just now but through his whole life.
Millie was sprawled out in the chair just about maybe almost fully conscious.
“You know you really are gorgeous.” Bill stood a few feet from her, before her. He reached down and opened the last few buttons of her house-dress, spread it apart, stood looking at her skinny, Marie-like body. For his own pleasure, he reached behind her, unhooked her purple bra and pushed it to the side so he could see her bare breasts. Then he reached under her and pulled down her panties, let them settle down at her ankles and on her bare feet.
“Am I gorgeous?” Millie asked.
“You bet your sweet ass,” Bill said.
He stood looking at her as if he were an artist getting ready to start working on her portrait. In effect, it was somewhat the same. He was indeed an artist getting ready to go to work on his canvas.
By Peter Weiss
They had a second drink.
When Millie brought that second drink she sat next to him on the sofa. “I’m not used to this,” she said, “to the drinking early in the day. I’m getting light-headed.”
“Feel good?” Bill asked.
“Not complaining,” Millie said. “Not complaining about anything.”
“I do have to get up to the kitchen, you know.”
“I know,” Millie said, “and I know we’ve already spent some of your time.”
“I’d say your time too.”
“Our time,” Millie said. “I’m hoping we’ll have lots of our time over time. If you want that, of course.”
Bill thought a moment. The thought was if he had what he wanted he wouldn’t be here in the first place. The thought was that if he knew what he wanted he might have it. But it was so much more than that.
It is much more than that, Bill thought. Bill knew it went all the way back to his father who taught him that love was fulfilling the other person, that it was selfish to go after what you yourself wanted.
At other times, in another place, at this particular spot in that thought Bill would ask himself what he wanted. Not now. Not here. Not sitting on the sofa next to Millie who was waiting for him to do something. In effect, he thought, his not doing something was doing something.
Much, much later in his life Bill would discover something he would consider a major discovery. It wasn’t that women and the sex were just another drug, which they were. He would discover that much sooner.
He would discover that Robert’s saying “what’s good to you is good for you” wasn’t as simple as it seemed. How could you know what was good for you? What was good to you? What seemed good to you one day sometimes ended up being crappy in the end, crappy overall. It was hard to figure. Then, what about what felt good? Was what felt good good for you? Good to you? Sex felt good at the time. But then… Drugs felt good, but then…
Helping that kid at that demonstration felt good – at the moment. It felt right, was, regardless of the consequences, right. It felt good right up to the moment he got grabbed by the undercover FBI agents who happily knocked him out from behind and handed him over to the Columbus police.
And now here he was. Millie in purple was sitting next to him. Skinny Marie-like-except-in-cinnamon-skin Millie, prepared and willing to do anything he wanted, anything he said, sat next to him on the sofa, her bony, sexy self with magnificent hands and feet all just for him. In her barely closed housedress under which was more purple, bra and panties, she was positively delectable. And she was light-headed too.
But he was thinking about his father. He was thinking about what his father impressed upon him, specifically about not taking what you wanted, about fulfilling others, about love being putting the other person before yourself and caring for them more than for yourself.
What bullshit, he would come to learn.
That big, major discovery that would come some maybe forty years later was that so much of what his father taught him/impressed upon him was survivor mentality. How simple. Survivor mentality. Survivor stuff.
He would be teaching a book called Maus. The father, a survivor, was exercising. He asked his son to get him his medicine, which the son did. When the father opened the bottle of pills he spilled them all over. “Look what you did,” the father screams at the son and he goes on to berate him, to beat him up mentally.
“Let’s have another drink,” Bill said.
“I was hoping for something else,” Millie said.
“I know,” said Bill. “That too.”
“You owe me,” Millie said. “And you’re building up a big debt.”
Millie, clearly showing disappointment in her demeanor, stood. She took Bill’s glass and hers and got them another drink.
“This will make me drunk,” she said.
By Peter Weiss
Bill sat on the sofa at the end closest to her.
“You don’t have to worry about anything,” Millie said. “Chloe let me know specifically that she would make sure to cover your ass.”
“Let’s have that drink,” Bill said.
Because they were close enough from the way they were sitting, she in the arm chair nearest the sofa, he on the sofa closest to her, Millie kicked off one of her slippers and put her foot up in Bill’s lap almost but not quite right there. Settled, she wiggled her toes for him and as she did this she showed him her hands.
“I know you like purple. So, you like?”
“If you know I like it, then you know I like.”
“How much?” She flattened the foot some and rubbed him with it.
“That much,” Bill said.
“That much a lot?”
“That much is more than a lot.” Bill, already roused, looked at Millie. “Don’t start something you aren’t ready to handle. Now get me that drink and take off that other shoe too.”
“That all you want me to take off?”
“Take off what you want.”
Millie stood. The bottle was on the table there along with two glasses. She bent down and kissed Bill before she went to the bottle, and when she turned Bill reached up the back of her dress and helped himself to a full feel of her. Millie stayed still for him, spread her legs a touch so he could move his hand where he wanted.
“What makes you think I’m not ready for anything you want to throw at me? What makes you think I can’t handle whatever you want to do to me?”
“That what you want?”
“What?”
“Anything and everything.”
“That’s exactly what I want. What I been hoping for.”
Bill slapped her butt, not hard, rather friendly actually. “Get the drinks,” he said.
Millie kicked off her other shoe and padded barefoot on the throw rug to the table. She poured two glasses half full with bourbon.
“I don’t usually drink bourbon,” she said.
“What do you like?”
“White wine. You?”
“I like bourbon but I prefer gin or vodka. And I do like white wine.”
“You do drugs?”
“You mean like smoke weed?”
“Yeah.” She faced him now and came close with the drinks.
“Not at work, not until I’m off probation and sure I’m not getting caught. If I’m gonna get high here, I’ll do it before I come into the hotel.”
Millie handed Bill his glass and stood before him. They didn’t say anything. They waved their glasses in the air as a kind of toast and then sipped at the liquor. She stayed where she was, stood right before Bill letting him look up at her as she stood there.
He didn’t do anything at first. He sipped the bourbon, sipped it a second time, thought.
Wrong-think came to mind first. First thought with the barefoot and ready beauty before him was to remember how he had wasted steeped deep in wrong-think what should have been a perfect morning with his wife and then being home alone after she had left for work. Alcohol led him to wrong-think. Girls led him, a married man, to wrong-think. What had happened to him in his life thus far led him to wrong-think. Worst of all, wrong-think led to more wrong-think and all the wrong-think was still there in him as he sat on the sofa in this place he knew on so many levels he should never have been in in the first place.
Better to be with Beverly in the staircase, right? He asked himself this as he sat there. You get both, his inner voice told him now. They owe it to you.
For the life of him he couldn’t say who they were. Maybe sober and all alone he might have told himself that no one owed him anything no matter what had happened in his life, no matter what happens in his life.
By Peter Weiss
For the first time in awhile Bill felt like popping speed.
Since he and his wife had moved to Cleveland he had been relatively drug fee. He smoked weed, but not at work, and he drank lots of gin because that’s what his wife’s father drank. He still had a supply of black beauties, but he didn’t dip into it much. He was holding on to it, hoarding it even though he knew he could head down to Columbus any time he needed to to see Doc. Getting busted for drugs at work was simply not an option.
Down in the restaurant in Columbus drugs were rampant. Later on Bill would find that in every restaurant he worked drugs were all over. It wasn’t this way in the hotels. In hotels drugs were there but you had to find them, they didn’t find you. With his being on probation, one thing Bill did not want to do was anything that would ruin this gig he had. Consciously he had not sought out the drug connections. First place to start though would be Beverly since her sister was a maid and the maids would have a good sense of the connections.
Messing with Millie and Beverly in and of itself was enough to get Bill fired. That he was protected by Kalista and most probably by Chloe too was great, but nothing was foolproof and Bill continually told himself this. He knew on a whole other level that he should not be fooling around anyway. There were many reasons for this and knowing that according to Masters and Johnson more that 60% of men cheated on their spouses didn’t make it okay or even any better.
Cheating was wrong. Pure and simple, it was simply wrong.
And so it goes.
But then lots of things were wrong in this world.
Bill was thinking all this on his way to see Millie. He was thinking it was a day. All had started out great. He was with his wife. They laughed. They played. She let him sleep in, brought him coffee in bed. They had money in the bank, a nice apartment, a decent car. They both had jobs. Neither one of their jobs was the one they actually wanted, but they had jobs and weren’t wanting for anything in any way.
All good.
But it was a day. She left. He took a beer then a second beer. A good start went straight to wrong-think. Wrong-think went to… Beer went to vodka, went to thinking maybe he shouldn’t drive to work. But he did drive to work and here he was with three dirty uniforms in his arms and three cups of bourbon in his stomach on top of the vodka and beer he’d had at home.
Some speed would be great. Some Quaaludes would be even better. Best yet would be some Quaaludes on top of the black beauties and a drink to go with it.
How the hell…
He wondered how from just about perfect the day had gone to shit in a matter of a few hours. Really it was a matter of a few moments because the moment his wife had left out of the apartment and he had taken that first beer the skid had started. It was more of a slide than a skid, one of those slides in the arcades and carnival places. He was on top on the good spot, the sweet spot, and then he was free-falling down. Down and down and there was no bottom for the moment.
But of course there was always a bottom and while he might not be seeing one here at the moment, he’d been to a few so far.
And then there she was. Millie was just standing there at her counter like always, doing what she always did.
By Peter Weiss
He went straight down to his locker. Not unlike some other mornings, they were all there. Jimmy G was laying down on the bench. Victor was sitting next to him, down past his feet. Jimmy Banquet Chef was standing. He had a bottle of bourbon in hand. Victor had the Dixie cups and was spreading them out on the bench next to him.
“Here he is,” Victor said.
“Man of the hour,” the banquet chef said. “Close to three-fifty yesterday. Beat last year by over a hundred.”
“Why?” Bill asked.
“Want my real thoughts?” the banquet chef asked.
“You could lie,” Bill said. “I don’t give a shit.”
“Careful,” Victor said. “You still have a month until you’re off probation.”
“Month and four days,” the banquet chef said. He laughed. “Partly you. Food is consistent and much better since you’ve been here. The chef is very happy. Other part is the economy. Business is good. People have money.”
“It all goes together,” Victor said.
“Won’t have much today,” the banquet chef said. “We have a little prep to do for next few days. We do have a breakfast on Thursday. You should come in early and make the money.”
“I will,” Bill said.
“I think the chef wants to keep you working like you are. We were talking about it a few days ago. Banquets are slower in January and February but they pick up in some in March and then a lot more in April when baseball season starts.”
“I’ll take what I can get for hours.”
“Chef likes that about you.”
“I appreciate him working it out for me.”
“It’s me more than him,” the banquet chef said. “I know I can count on you. And you do good work.”
“Thanks boss,” Bill said.
Drinks were poured and they all had a cup of bourbon. Soon as they finished the first cup, Jimmy Banquet Chef poured another each. He told Bill the chef wasn’t coming back until tomorrow and so they could do their day and not have to worry about anything but the business. Thinking the way he was, Bill was glad about that.
“Dare we have one more?” Victor asked when they’d finished the second cup.
“Why not?” the banquet chef said. He poured one more round for everyone.
Jimmy G only sat up enough to drink from his cup. Each time, between drinks he went back to laying down. Like always, he was clearly disinterested. He made no effort to conceal his lack of interest. Worse, he made no effort to be an active part of the team. He was a part of the team because he was, but he was the weak link. Not only did he not work hard and not care who saw that he didn’t work hard, but he didn’t care about the food he cooked. If it was good or not didn’t matter to him. That meant that everyone around him, and now it was mostly Bill, had to cover for him and make sure everything was okay.
Third round finished, on top of what Bill had already had to drink before he came into work Bill was feeling numb. Maybe under other circumstances he would have been feeling good, but good wasn’t part of this day. Wrong-think was hiding under the conversation and soon as he opened his locker and took out his dirty uniforms it came rushing back into his head.
After that third drink the others went up to the kitchen. Bill, all alone, changed into the one clean uniform he had left, gathered up the dirty ones and headed off to the laundry.
Not only did wrong-think come back. Anger rushed in too. He was, of a sudden, pissed off. He could not particularly say why. He could only say that he was.
He was angry at the cop who was undercover. He was angry at Sergeant Hopkins who was in charge of his case and to whom he was just another notch in the belt toward promotion. Bill was angry at what he didn’t even know he was angry at.
