50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 2, The East, Page 2

  Smarmy was the leader. Here he came.

  Adam stood at the register, ready.

  Smarmy said, “Can’t Courtney wait on us? She is really hot.”

  Adam shifted from foot to foot. “She’s busy in the back.” I could pat him on the back. He could be management material. The truth was that Courtney refused to wait on them, and I applauded her verve. I suppose it violated some policy, but sometimes a person must stand up and say no.

  “So, how would I ask her for a date?”

  I stepped in. Recited the Manager line. “Anything I can help you with?”

  Smarmy shook his head. “It’s all good. I’ll have a...” he stared at the screen above. Every night, it was the same thing. He ordered three things and canceled them, then got a medium drink. He thought it was pretty funny. He’d refill that drink until the cup was ready to fall apart.

  “A Big Mac.” Adam entered it into the computer.

  “No, no cancel that.” His buddies laughed like it was the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard. Except they heard it last Thursday night.

  “A McDouble... no, no cancel that... a Quarter Pounder with Cheese... no. Make it a medium drink.” He would be a hit at the comedy club if idiots like his buddies filled the seats.

  Greasy ordered one, too, except without the drama and Follower didn’t get anything. And there went Smarmy. He’d go to the soda dispenser, fill it, and drink off the top four times. Maybe he should have just stuck his head under it and nursed it like a calf. One more reason I was a manager. I hadn’t told him that. Yet. One of these nights…

  They headed to the back, just like every Thursday night. I suppose on weekends they are out on dates with beautiful babes. Right.

  The fry alarm beeped incessantly and apparently no one else could hear it, so I went over and pulled them. Meanwhile Courtney played ‘bump into Adam.’ He flopped a bit and grabbed her for support, in not very good places.

  “Okay, you two. Knock it off.”

  Courtney gave me the frown with her lower lip out. The pierced loop hanging from the lip accentuated her amazing flair for style. I was killing her. “I just bumped into him.” She swept her red hair behind her ear.

  “Well, just don’t bump into him anymore.”

  And the classic reply. “Whatever.”

  I grabbed a towel to clean up the tables in the back. And check on the Three Losers.

  Cups and napkins littered every table and various packaging rested on the floor. I picked them up and wiped the tables. Greasy and Follower stood over Smarmy’s laptop to watch a video. Sounded like some comedian, with sophomoric bathroom humor. Greasy threw his head back and laughed.

  “Hey guys, keep it down, okay? This is a public place.”

  “Yeah, right. Okay.” Smarmy’s eyes never left the screen. The volume remained up. I turned and almost ran into Cheap Old Man carrying his clear plastic cup of hot fudge and ice cream. Another regular. He must have been pushing seventy and pretty much kept to himself.

  “Oops, sorry.”

  He sidestepped. “No problem.” He sat behind a table, his back to the corner of the wall in his regular spot. Started on the hot fudge sundae from the Dollar Menu and opened his little computer. Never ordered anything else. A cheeseburger would kill his budget, I suppose.

  “Sorry about that.”

  I meant for almost running into him, but he looked over at the Three Losers. “No big deal.”

  One of the Freaks said, “Geezer.” I pretended not to notice, wimp that I am.

  I picked up and wiped up. Headed to the front to dislodge Courtney and Adam from one another. Found a job for Courtney. Cleaning grease off the floor in the back. That’s what she gets. She skulked over and dabbed at some dirt.

  After getting sidetracked with the Losers, I forgot about the bathroom. I hustled to the restrooms and passed a family with two kids sitting in a booth, Dad focused on the TV, CNN. Follower guffawed and I heard more disgusting words about sex from the laptop.

  The little girl said, “Mommy, what’s twerking?” Mom looked to me as if to say, “What kind of garbage is this in your restaurant?” I smiled at her and focused on the Losers. Mr. Take Charge.

  Before I got there, Cheap Old Man piped up from his corner. “Hey. You guys. Keep it down. There’s a family here. With kids.”

  “Shut up, old man.”

  That got me going. I trotted up and hissed, “Stop it. Right now.”

  “Ohhh,” Smarmy said, “We better be good or... what? You’ll throw us out?”

  I rehearsed the policy in my mind. “I’ll call the police.”

  “Oh, the police,” he said. “Well, by the time they get here we’ll be gone. And you can’t hold us. Besides, what law have we broken?”

  “The law of common courtesy.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Smarmy, “we’ll keep it down.” If the leader said it, I might have a chance.

  “Please.”

  I checked the bathroom. Towels overflowed the can. I popped the lid off and smashed them down with my foot. Tossed the rest inside. In my extensive experience, I knew I had bought an extra fifteen minutes before needing to dump it. I’d get Adam on it; give him something to do rather than flirt with Courtney. I wiped out the sinks and the wet spots on the floor with paper towels and tossed them. The place looked okay.

  I stepped out and heard more garbage from the Losers and their laptop. At the ‘b’ word—sounds like witch—Mom and Dad called dinner off and rounded up the kids to leave, their food half eaten, she looking horrified. I didn’t like these clowns giving me grief, but I hated losing customers.

  “Listen, I warned you. Now clear out.”

  “You going to give us a beat down?” Follower asked. Great. Talk about escalation. Follower never gave me trouble.

  “You’re going to have to leave.” I pointed to the door. Mr. Take Control.

  “Call the cops.”

  “I may just do that.” I spun on my heels and crashed into Cheap Old Man. “I’m so sorry. I need to go.”

  “Let me walk with you.” Huh? He turned to walk beside me.

  “Oh, no,” Greasy said, “he’s got the old guy on his side.” The three of them jeered and insulted us as we left the room.

  The old man put his arm around me. “I’ve been in business myself, and I know what you’re up against. And I’ve watched you. You really try. I appreciate that.” He walked up to the counter. Adam stood there without Courtney for a moment and asked for his order.

  “A large drink, please.” He turned to me. “Because of being such a big corporation, they have to tie your hands pretty good. And in their defense, think about the news.” He pointed to the TV screen. ‘“MacDonald’s manager beats up three poor customers.’ There’s only so much you can do.” He stepped over to the soda fountain and filled the cup with root beer. “Come on.” He sipped the drink, no cap, no straw. “But me? What have I got to lose?” The guy walked straight to the Three Losers and dumped the drink on Smarmy’s keyboard. About half empty, he threw the cup in Smarmy’s face. Smarmy stood.

  “Hey! What you doing, old man?”

  Cheap Old Man stood with his hands in fists at his sides, his face red. “I’ve had enough out of you punks. Will here has asked you nicely to back it down, and now some really nice customers have gone. So now you’re done. Your computer that’s been spewing crap all night, certainly is. And now, I invite you out to the parking lot. I’ll either beat you down one at a time, or take all three of you at once. Or you three get up and leave, and don’t come back. Ever. What’ll it be?”

  Smarmy wiped the brown soda off his face with his sleeve. Follower and Greasy stared at the table. Smarmy folded the screen on his computer and headed for the exit, the other two in tow.

  I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath. “Thank you so much.”

  “No problem. Only so much you could do.”

  “Listen. Any time you come in, dinner is on me.”

  “Thank
s. But just a hot fudge sundae will suffice.”

  “Now?”

  “Nah. Tomorrow.” He returned to his spot at his notebook. I looked at the three of them walking across the parking lot, their shoulders down in defeat.

  “Could you have beat up all three of them?”

  He looked up. “Me? Of course not. But they’ve never been in a fight. They play Dungeons and Dragons and do all this fighting on a computer, but I pop one guy, give him a bloody nose and they would knock each other down getting out of there. And it’s too bad, really. Would have been fun to see.”

  “Well, I sure appreciate the help.”

  “And I appreciate the quiet. You better go separate Courtney and Adam.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “One other thing.”

  I turned. “Anything.”

  He pointed to the flat screen on the wall. “Can you switch it to Fox News? I hate CNN.”

  “Absolutely.”

  RHODE ISLAND

  During the late 1800s and early 1900s, the super wealthy gravitated to Rhode Island for their vacation cottages, mansions up to 100,000 square feet, with European art, gold, silver… decadence everywhere. Now we peasants can tour these massive places. I developed insights into the wealthy, and their help.

  HOT PEPPER

  Newport, July 5, 1902

  “Herman,” I yelled over the cacophony of pots and pans, grilling fowl and fish, and the troops cooking the vast meal. “Cook the pheasant a bit warmer and quicker, or it will taste dry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The kitchen below the Vandercamp party resembled a war zone, except instead of human casualties, the pheasant, quail, vegetables, and fruit succumbed to the kitchen warriors’ assorted knives, forks, tenderizers, and spoons. People moved about in a crazy, choreographed chaos of cooking. 430 appetizers, main dishes, desserts, and hors d’oeuvres required an army, operating at the behest of their general, Michel Lebrun. You may recognize the name, no? I’m a descendant of Albert Lebrun, president of France. Running the country is nothing compared to trying to please these people.

  I clapped my hands. “Let’s move, people, time for the main course.” William, of course, smirked at my French accent. He sweat more than anyone, and tossed his third dish towel, soaking wet, into the hamper. The heat worked in a cumulative fashion, elevating since we fired up the ovens at noon; now the room became its own oven, the stench of sweat like a locker room of a hundred men. And somehow the food must be exquisite. I knew it would be so.

  The wait staff ran through the kitchen, picking up the plates, decorated with fish, fowl, vegetables, and garnishes—430 works of art.

  We turned to the desserts, some of the staff already preparing them, ensuring there would be no gap between the main dish and final confections. Heaven forbid the aristocrats might sit for an entire minute before stuffing their faces once again. A delay would be noted in the front page article in the paper.

  The wait staff returned and Catherine, the chief of the staff, trotted up to me. “Michel, the potatoes—”

  “They are perfect.”

  “I know. You know. But the guests are requesting water. Ice water.”

  “Water? They are fools.”

  “I saw Lady Abernathy wiping sweat from her brow.”

  “Of course. It is July. It is hot.”

  She shook her head. “I’m telling you, they will not be happy with the potatoes.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Mrs. Vandercamp. She looked at me.”

  We all knew The Look. If Lady Vanderbilt looked at you, you would be sure it would be a dressing down later, after the last guest had gone.

  “Nonsense. The potatoes, twice cooked, are exquisite.”

  “I warned you. People! Let’s move those Crème Brulees.”

  ~

  I tipped a large spoonful of olive oil onto the pan and it hissed as the oil stuck the hot copper.

  “Now, William, how will you make an omelet like this? You must pay attention. See? You made the pan too hot.”

  William held a smile and I knew he laughed at my language, as it sounded like, “Weelyam, you most pay attenshon. Zee?” I remembered him laughing at me the previous night. Too bad. The Vandercamps imported me from Marseilles to create exquisite dishes, so this American could laugh all he wanted.

  “So, you laugh, no?”

  He rubbed his face. “No. The olive oil. Just the way it... landed.”

  I wagged my finger at him. “You laugh at my talk.” I pushed my hair back from my face. “And Mrs. Vandercamp expects me to make a chef out of you.” I crumbled some bacon into the eggs and stirred it. “Now pay attention to Michel here. I will show you how to make an omelet.” Ohm-ey-let.

  The bell rang and a white light bulb illuminated over the door. William pointed. “Looks like her highness is awake and demands your presence. In the dining room, too.”

  I tossed the pan to the counter with a clatter and wiped my hands. “If she insults my cooking, I will quit, on the spot.”

  “You said that last week.”

  “Silence, boy. Herman.” He ran to my side. “Finish the omelet and do not let this boy touch it, but try to teach him something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t drip sweat into the eggs.”

  “No, sir.”

  I took off my chef’s hat and threw it on a chair. On second thought, I put it back on. She hated that.

  “Good luck with her,” William said.

  “Mark my words,” I warned, “She complains about my cooking and I will resign. I will come down here and pick up my things and be on the next steamer back to France.”

  Walking up the back stairs, I prepared myself for the onslaught. If Alma called me at this hour, it would be to complain about something. The caviar tasted too oily, the champagne not chilled enough, the crepes too crisp. Slow service. It could be anything. I used the hike to the dining room to prepare for this war, as it required a quarter mile hike from the kitchen downstairs. And twenty steps. Halfway there I remembered Catherine warning me of the potatoes at dinner.

  “She wants to criticize my cooking, she should come to the kitchen.” The sound of my shoes clicked off the marble and echoed off the gold leaf on the walls. As I neared the dining room, Jonathan, her footman, stood at the wall near the entrance, ready for her majesty. We made eye contact and he shook his head. Not good. I sighed and rounded the corner.

  The room, stencilled in deep red with gold gilding on the walls, filled guests with awe as Italian art decorated every wall and the ceiling. I ignored this and focused on the one chair at the head of the table, the woman seated as a queen, her lips tight, nose in the air, and her hands folded on the table.

  Everyone hunches and cowers when they approach Mrs. Vandercamp. Not me. I walked right up to her side. She stayed focused on the painting fifty feet away on the far wall. I waited. And waited. Finally, enough of this stupid game.

  “You asked for me, madam?”

  “Michel.” She slowly turned her gaze to me, only for a second, then returned to the wall. “You attempted to kill my guests last night.”

  I fed 430 of her closest friends last night, a miracle. We prepared hors d’oeuvres, pheasant, Quail, escargot, a dozen wines, broiled asparagus, a feast that would make the paper, as the press watched and would surely write about the fine party that Alma Vandercamp threw, a lavish affair that lasted until five in the morning. We kept serving appetizers, drinks, and food until the last guest departed. Who else serves 430 dishes of pheasant?

  “The food was exquisite.”

  “Michel. The potatoes. Of all things, something as simple as potatoes.”

  “No, the potatoes, I twice baked them with melted cheese drizzled across the top. They were magnificent, a masterpiece.”

  “No. I don’t know what you did to them, but they were extremely spicy. I couldn’t breathe after one bite.”

  The jalapenos. I went to a Mexican restau
rant in New York a few weeks back and tasted some glorious potatoes. I asked the chef and he graciously gave me the recipe. It tasted magnifique.

  “Madam, I removed the potato from the skin, mashed it, added some ingredients and returned the mashed potato to the skin and baked them. Then I laid cheddar cheese on them and returned them to the oven for only a minute or two until it melted into the potatoes. I tasted them myself. They were magnificent.” I kissed my fingers as a demonstration of their quality.

  “No.” She shook her head. “After taking a bite of the potato you made, I looked at my guests. I saw a sheen of perspiration on Lady Ashton’s upper lip.”

  You want to see perspiration, look at William in the kitchen when it is one hundred degrees. I stilled the comment, but could not take this abuse. “The ingredient you referred to is jalapeno peppers. I put a dash of it in to give it life, to make the potato spark.”

  “Jalapenos? Indeed. I watched my guests, mortified. Mrs. Wilson excused herself, I’m sure to rinse out her mouth, and Miss Montague ordered an extra water. Water, I ask you.”

  “The potatoes tasted most excellent. I tried them myself and they were made exactly as I indicated, and I will not apologize for this food. This is an insult.”

  “Indeed?” She wriggled back in her chair. “Jonathan.” He entered and stood at attention.

  “Move this chair back. I need to stand.”

  “Very well.” He entered, moved behind her and pulled the chair backward, a heavy thing with bronze arms and legs. She stood, held the arm, and pointed to me. “Now you listen to me. That was unacceptable. You mustn’t make it ever again.” Jonathan eased away and back to his position.

  I crossed my arms. “It was exquisite. And I may make it again.”

  “I forbid it. No more jalapenos.” She crossed her arms.

  “Very well. I quit. I cannot make these fine dishes if you forbid this and forbid that. I will now go downstairs and type up a letter of resignation.”

  “You shall not.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “How can I cook with you tying my hands? ‘You cannot use this. You cannot cook that.’ How can I be a master chef? Hire a cook from... from a logging camp, I don’t care.”

  “You! I am being reasonable here. I cannot have my guests choking on our food, sweating onto the plates, drinking a gallon of water with their meals.”