Feeling in need of a sit, I got down on the curb. Setting my coffee to one side I leaned back, palms flat on the pavement. Soon enough I didn't have a thoughts in my head. Then that Zen was interrupted by the plop of change into my coffee.
Turning I saw an elderly woman, who seemed to think spilling filthy pocket change in my coffee purchased the right to look down with a disappointed expression.
Shaking her head at some sad notion only she perceived she said, "You can get back on your feet. Trust in Jesus."
"Is he hiring?" I asked.
If she knew she said nothing, shuffling away in silence. Fishing the coins out -- money is money -- I watched her struggle to climb into a brand new Mercedes. The sight made the fifty cents feel less generous.
Pocketing the alms, I walked up the street. Although her money would do me no good, her actions did motivate me to certain ambitions. A friend of a friend recently informed me that a restaurant in the Fox River Valley wanted to hire wait staff, particularly for their popular Sunday brunch buffet.
My current job involved cleaning buses. Whenever a CTA behemoth finished its route for the day its pilot steered the vehicle into the depot. There a crew went to work cleaning every inch. This involved scrubbing off things like city grim, graffiti, gum, sludge water, puke, soda, and urine. Once we even found ourselves tasked with cleaning a spray of shit off the backseats that could've only resulted from a volcanic case of shotgun diarrhea. It was on the ceiling.
Suffice it to say, after that, I had begun contemplating an exit. The restaurant, situated on the Fox River, sounded like just the right kind of escape. And this old woman's attempt at charity reminded me that a soul sucking job eventually manifests outwardly. Even if the issues are merely mental they eventually show.
(I found myself staying awake all night contemplating the meaning behind trash. Take for instance, a used condom secured with a wad of gum to the back of a bus seat. A deviant psyche seemed too simple, and I kept sketching the portrait of an urban artist leaving guerilla art around the city. Then, realizing I might be desperately searching for a good intention, however perverse, I instead fired up contempt for the prick that left a baggie of cock-snot for me to clean; sleepless nights contemplating Goldbergian plots to identify, and return the spent semen shield with a slap.)
I needed a job that didn't hint at the worst humanity casually offers. Looking back that sounds naive, given I was aiming at a buffet line. Still I quit cleaning buses, and headed for Algonquin.
#
Algonquin is known as the gem of the Fox River Valley. Whoever first applied that description can be forgiven whatever bribe the locals may have slipped them. Driving through it's not hard to see the inspiration. Though one can easily envision it as the setting for any of a variety of horror films, Algonquin offers the rustic delights of a region trying not to adopt too much of the modern area. Much of the village looks like it could belong to any of the most recent decades, on occasion going back as far as the early 1900s.
This is a place for the upper middle class to rest and relax. Lounging in lawn chairs along the river banks they cast fishing lines into the water, and consider themselves contemporary Twain creations. Meanwhile, aware of water's amniotic potential, they sometimes take a moment to float along the Fox. The sun sets, lightning bugs dance, and all is right with the world.
By the glow of smart phones they stroll a short path back to the house. Perhaps along the way they consider their own Belgic Confession; the epiphanic deduction that their success is a sign of god's love, and their predetermined place in the hierarchy of all things. Never once did they seem aware of me, parked along the roadside watching them living so blissfully unaware of the rest of us -- below, but not out of reach.
If nothing else, if this job didn't pan out, I figured I could easily rob a few of these houses. By no means would I return to Chicago empty handed. And that offered me some peace.
Putting the car in gear I drove to the address my friend gave me. I found a cozy home set back from the road. It looked like the kind of place that'd seen better days, yet regular attempts at rejuvenation -- a coat of paint, fresh siding, etc. -- resurrected it for decadal sprints.
Pressing the doorbell caused more of an electric groan than a chime. Still, the door soon opened.
A dishwater blonde woman in green corduroy culottes and a Greta Van Fleet t-shirt stood there. She glanced me up and down.
Smirking she said, "You must be him."
"Sometimes it's good to be obvious... Karen?"
She nodded, "Come on in."
She waved me inside. I followed her into what amounted to a dimly lit cave. The whole interior smelled of fresh cut pine. Furniture accrued across several design concepts dotted the interior: Zaisu chairs orbiting an arched sofa, an antique dining table surrounded by cheap bar stools, a recliner upholstered in a crazy quilt of irregular patches. Floorboards creaked in a manner reminiscent of coffee-voiced greetings, a happy hello from a rebel in a hospice refusing to die.
She plopped onto the couch. Her graceful fall included a sweeping gesture signaling sit where you like.
Nestling into the recliner I said, "So tell me about this job."
Karen said, "It isn't easy, but it isn't hard."
"That sounds like dying."
When she chuckled I knew I'd made the right move.
#
I've found that many jobs which start off as nightmares are just a matter of surviving the learning curve. The Port Edward Restaurant offered treacherous slopes meant to shake off idle employees. However, thanks to Karen I soon found myself navigating the course smoothly.
She did me the grace of tossing me to the wolves right from the get go. I broke several dishes my first night, and managed to get one table's order entirely wrong.
Afterward she said, "Don't worry. From here on out you can only get better." Handing me a beer she added, "Or get fired."
I couldn't help smiling. From then on the job possessed less gravity. I soon found myself floating between tables, recalling orders off the top of my head like a recorder. However, whenever errors occurred, I developed the diplomatic sense to kowtow.
"I don't want the cold water lobster tail. I wanted the warm water lobster tail."
Bowing slightly, "My apologies. I'll correct that right away."
"It's not like it's that hard. Cold is not warm."
"Yes, sir."
"It's not hard."
The customer repeats for emphasis, while I adopt a poker face, hiding any desire to grab the crab cracking tools in front of his wife, and bludgeon him to death. Instead, smiling, I return to the kitchen.
"Hey, Chef, I need a warm tail instead of this cold."
Shaking his head Chef says, "Just wait ten minutes. I doubt he can really tell the difference."
"I'm not taking the chance."
Shrugs, "Pussy."
Perhaps, but at a certain tier dining becomes a chance to pretend one is a part of at least a faux aristocracy. If only for a few hours, a five dollar spread of asparagus says you are lord of the manner. And nothing confirms that notion like berating a servant.
Sorry muh lady, we'll clean the silverware twice over quick as a wink. Apologies sir, I'll fetch up fresh bread straight away. My sincerest regrets mum, if I'd-a known the t'ree ocean sampler contained fish I'd've never let you order it.
Most of those nights passed like dancing through a field of landmines. Thankfully the decor, initially, provided some distraction. It's hard to stay depressed in a beautiful setting, though I'll confess I did my best.
The Port Edward restaurant sits right on the Fox River. Every dining room, from the main deck dining to the Salem Lounge, is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. The panoramic view is picturesque at any time of day. However, those in search of more nautical kitsch need merely gaze around.
The Port Edward does its best to invoke a connection to grander sea traditions than one typically associates with rivers. Nantucket whaling harpoons adorn one wall. On the ramp into a dining area is a ship's binnacles, containing a compass, hint of navigating Atlantic fogs darker than blindness. Tables made of hatch covers harvested from World War One "Liberty" ships. Lobster traps, an epic painting of men hauling nets in from the sea, the engine room telegraph from the Queen Mary; and if this is not enough, a small sailing ship docked out front is available for those who can't just look at the river, they must dine upon it.
It's the kind of place imagination can run wild. On more than one evening, after a long shift, I got a drink from the Port Edward's barroom, The Regency. Glancing at the jawbone of a sperm whale hanging therein, I strolled, whiskey in hand, to the Main Deck dining area. Through the windows I watched the river meander, sometimes saw storms slash the calm into a frenzy, and always found myself envisioning myriad possibilities, none of which involved ever leaving.
One such night, Karen slipped up behind me.
She said, "Penny for a thought."
"Give me the penny first."
She scoffed, slapping my shoulder, "You're paying me."
"I am?"
Sitting nearby she sipped a rum cocktail. She held out a hand. Fishing in my waiter's apron I scooped out a handful of change.
Holding out a penny I asked, "What's on your mind?"
She snatched the coin from between my fingers, "Boss says you've improved enough. You're going on the Sunday crew."
"Hot damn," I said flatly.
"Boo!" Grabbing ice from her drink she tossed cubes at me, "It's a hoot, and." She lowered her voice, "We get to eat whatever's left over."
"Crumbs for the proletariat," I said with a smirk. She shook her head, but winked at me.
Getting up she said, "You walking home again, or we riding?"
Many nights I found myself preferring the long walk home. Driving back to Karen's often meant some degree of car karaoke. A delight without exception, however, it meant losing the sound of the river. For all its background noise the city provides nothing natural. There are no animal sounds -- symphony of cricket violins, while frogs croak a baritone chorus; leaves and grass rustling as unseen critters do nocturnal dances. Plus, the air is so fresh one hopes devout capitalists never come here, instantly inspired to begin bottling and selling the O2.
"Come on, let's ride," Karen said, a sparkle in her eye, "We need to celebrate your promotion."
Nodding I raised my glass, "Here's to the frontline."
"Fuck yeah." She clinked my glass.
The rest of that night is a blur. I know we celebrated -- vague recollections of singing over tacos; tequila shots on the rooftop. The next morning we woke up in bed together. Our nakedness implied possibilities she later confirmed with a deep good morning kiss. However, like too many such incidences, I'm certain whatever I did, even if I could remember, wouldn't replicate results. In other words, what worked with her probably wouldn't work on someone else.
Still, it seemed fitting given the circumstances. Soldiers often get laid before heading off to die. For the last few weeks, to get a sense of things, management had me working Sundays as a busboy. My primary responsibilities involved clearing dishes. Yet, even from that removed position I saw enough to fear the frontline. And my time was now fast approaching.
#
On Sunday, the doors opened at 9:30 a.m. Then came the ravenous. A steady stream of devourers flowed until the buffet closed at two in the afternoon. Some must've fasted all Saturday in anticipation; others came to indulge a gluttonous dark side. Yet, many simply sit at first, seemingly content to chat quietly. None went straight for the food. The intention is to beguile the unaware into believing these people have come to be with one another. None, but the most brazen binge eaters come alone.
No, this is Sunday brunch with the family; with friends; with coworkers. Though that Everest of crab legs is very tempting from the get-go, it is ignored despite being noted. After all, this is special time with Grandma; with a lover. The brunch is just supposed to be a bonus.
Meanwhile, flecks of drool glisten at the corners of flooded mouths. The moment eye contact can safely be broken a look is shot towards the heap of clams casino.
The scent of crawfish étouffée compels a boyfriend to ask, "Is that a new perfume?"
She replies, "I think so... wait, what?"
Her mind is on the myriad possibilities at a made-to-order omelette station. (Will she finally be brave enough to try a masala omelette, or a hangtown fry?) Meanwhile, his eyes drift, following the delivery of a roast turkey. Sharply aware of this disconnect, the two nervously chuckle. The veil torn, their desire not exactly on one another, the couple departs the table to plunge into the buffet line.
It's easy to discern the head of any household. Whoever leaves for the buffet first holds the crown. When a matriarch departs for Belgian waffles her sons may fan out in pursuit of top butt London broil and cheese blintzes. The patriarch rises, permitting his clan to hunt for eggs Benedict, lox, and seafood alfredo.
In-between all this scurries the wait staff, charged with various tasks. Some refill drinks, particularly champagne, at a break neck speed. More than one marathon runner developed their stamina in that forward position. For though the glasses may go empty they cannot be allowed to remain so. Tips are at stake, and customers shave off dollars for every second they must await a refill. The trick then is to be in constant motion, eyes roving, spotting the depleted beverage, and arriving to fill before a patron even swallows the last drop.
Trays to replenish dwindling food mounds are carried constantly. Chefs are busy in the kitchen endlessly preparing gargantuan amounts of cuisine. The moment a tray is full it departs for the buffet table, while another is immediately readied. A keen ear can hear naiads weeping -- professional keeners in Poseidon's employ. But the devourers, who will not stand for a moments delay, are deaf to such cries.
"What do you mean there's no fried shrimp?"
"Not at the moment," I inform a customer, "But more will be ready shortly."
"I'm not paying to wait," he growls. Something in his look suggests unchained gluttony is inspiring strange thoughts. If he can't have fried shrimp, perhaps raw waiter can be on the menu.
Backing away I promise to expedite the shrimp. En route to the kitchen I see a busboy going to the bathroom, and I sight the shrimp fiend following him. It prompts a sigh of relief -- better him than me -- but still, a rising dread is upon the wait staff.
On this occasion the kitchen is understaffed, so resupplies are running slow. Patrons are grinding their teeth, angry they've only been able to eat three, or four pounds of food. They can't yet justify their binge eating until they've devoured more than they've spent. Apparently, eating eighty dollars worth of crab isn't disgusting if one only paid forty. Champagne flows endlessly in hopes of silencing logic that says otherwise. However, it's mainly inspiring radical alternatives.
A cluster of snarling men tear whaling lances off the walls. They storm outside onto the decks. In a few moments they began viciously stabbing the river in hopes of spearing fish. Whether they plan to cook a catch, or improvise sushi, I couldn't say.
From out of nowhere Karen appeared.
She grabbed me by the arm, "I need a hand."
We hurried into the kitchen.
I said, "Things are getting nuts."
She shook her head, "This is nothing. If shit gets weird just run to a carving station. There's all kinds of knives there."
"What if I can't reach a carving station?"
"They'll eat you." She smirked, "Assuming you can't jump out a window. Fight or flight, take your pick."
Meanwhile she prepared a generous slice of cake. Setting a large, colorful sparkler in the pastry she handed me the plate.
I pushed it back towards her, "No way. I'm not doing a birthday."
She pushed the plate at me, "You want me to burn my face off?"
"Ah! Don't flash the doe eyes at me." Defeated by a look, I accepted the plate.
She kissed me on the cheek, "It's for some kid. There's balloons at the table -- no missing it."
"I'll find him."
I held the plate away from me. Karen grabbed a torch from someone toasting crème brûlée. She ignited the firework. It emitted a torrent of rainbow sparks closer to a roman candle than a sparkler.
Hurrying out, flaming bits hit me in the face. Still, I braved the shower for reasons I can only identify as out of date masculine ideals. When I deposited it in front of the appropriate child, his eyes went wide in a way ensuring he would always be terrified of sparks the rest of his life.
The kid's dad got up. Someone at the table took this as cue to sprint for the buffet. Champagne drunk, the father stumbled towards me.
Handing me a phone he said, "Picturish."
Well acquainted with drunk speak I took the phone. I gestured for the family to squeeze together. I snapped several pics before the birthday boy started shaking in terror.
His Grandma remarked, "His blood sugar must be low. He should get more food. We should all get more food."
The whole family immediately departed leaving the boy behind. Sighing, I walked over, grabbed the sparkler, and drowned it in a water glass. So the day went...
#
... weeks turned into months. Nights spent with Karen often turned into wonderment. Satyrs aren't typically successful seducing nymphs. Yet, I always found her willing to be held. That said, sometimes I kept my distance, preferring to watch her singing and dancing as she roamed the house. I'd never met someone so absolutely happy. She could laugh in the face of tragedy without it ever seeming sarcastic, or spiteful.
Work turned into unexpected smooth sailing. My skills advanced with each meal, and soon I found myself sailing between tables. However, when my confidence exceeded reality -- settling one irate patron inspired made me to think I could negotiate peace in the Middle East -- Karen steered me back to earth. She usually did this by handing me off to one of her tables.
As the most experienced, skillful waitress there she often got the most difficult customers: snobby teens with their parent's credit card; bitter widows; disgruntled exes; Russian mafia; and office males mistaking rape-like advances for ribaldry. She handled them all with a grace one might call supernatural.
"Well, preternatural, I guess," she said one evening, "Good from the start, I've been doing this my whole life. It's not exactly the career I wanted, but it gives me the time to keep trying."
"What do you really want to be doing?" I asked.
She smiled, "Don't you know?"
Softly singing Janis Joplin's "Try (just a little bit harder)" she sashayed into the kitchen. The honey flow of her voice carried me into the next day.
I repeated the order, "Oysters Rockefeller, clam chowder, Walleye Pike, Hawaiian mahi mahi, lamb chops, and the Piccadilly Street fish and chips."
"Yeah, but like just -- real quick -- how much clam is in the clam chowder?"
When such inquiries arrived I heard Karen's voice. Her spirit whispered calm thoughts in through my ear.
And instead of saying fuck you, I asked politely, "How much would you like?"
Yet, those times hardly compared to the onslaught at the buffet. Every Sunday an elite group of wait staff joined forces to combat the insatiable appetite of gluttony made manifest. I started viewing those customers as a nebulous cloud comprising some amorphous god cursed with endless hunger. No matter how awful patrons got during the week, at least they weren't the cosmic stomach that surged in Sunday morn.
Still, we battled each week. Every time we emerged triumphant it seemed beyond probable. The trick in the food industry, regardless of one's position in the war, is never to expect victory. Those who anticipated success often ended up out on the docks. Their spirits broken by a twist of fate, they dove into the Fox River never to be seen again.
I like to think they swam beneath the surface, all the way to shore. There they rose up, and ventured into some life where they never again worried about the sweetness of iced tea, or the bitter blow of a ten buck tip on a three hundred dollar tab. Worse comes to worst, I hope they drowned quickly.
A few months in, feeling like a veteran, I sat down next to Karen. During breaks we sometimes rested on the dock. On this occasion I caught up to her. She rested her head on my shoulder, and I wondered if this is all I owed her, knowing full well I was in her debt.
She shifted, turning to kiss me softly, a tenderness there too enjoyable to realize it heralded bad news.
She said, "I had to do a birthday."
Examining her for burns I asked, "Are you alright?"
She nodded. A tear fell.
I didn't know what to say, though I knew silence would not do. Still, I didn't want to break the moment. However awkward, standing on the tipping point is not falling down the mountain slope. A word would surely push us over the edge, even the right one.
Looking out over the river Karen said, "I did the birthday, and I figure, 'Why not sing?'" She nodded, "Why not sing?" She shook her head, "I did good. They loved it, and I started thinking..."
She trailed off. I didn't have to finish her thought, but I did, "'What am I still doing here?' "
"Yeah."
"Then you should move on."
"Where?"
"I... don't know."
She chuckled, "Then what good are you?"
Squeezing her tight I said, "None at all."
"But I knew that going in."
I said, "Really? I thought I hid it better."
We decided that evening we'd go over what she needed to do. I didn't have the best advice, but I was willing to help however she needed. After all, those folks who bring genuine joy into your life, they're owed a debt that's near impossible to pay.
A bar back popped his head out, "Hey guys, it's gettin' rowdy. We need help."
Getting to my feet I said, "Into the fray once more my love."
She popped up, "'My love'?"
"One issue at a time."
Taking a deep breath we plunged back in.
A shortage of biscuits and gravy initially set off devourers desperate for Southern fare. This sent them after the crawfish étouffée which soon vanished. This resulted in a spill over, more feeders than usual attacking the blackened tilapia. As each dish disappeared, eaten faster than it could be replaced, the whole ecosystem fell into the chaos. The lack of fried shrimp led to the absence of salmon, and the near extinction of Belgium waffles. The made-to-order omelette chef couldn't keep up with the demands barked at her, and she soon ran outside screaming mad.
Her assistant dove into the fray, but accidentally burned her hand. The aroma turned the pack of egg lovers wild, and they went after her. They diced her into a Donner omelette with the speed of piranhas. The smell of blood excited a group of widows, who used the lack of blintzes as an excuse to assault the Belgium waffle maker. They stamped his hands in the iron, cooled the burns with whipped cream, and then ate his digits as a pack.
Grabbing me by the sleeve Karen shouted, "Carving station!"
We shouldered our way to roast turkey. A contingent of busboys already occupied it, wielding an assortment of carving utensils to keep the cannibals at bay. When we tried to enter they jabbed at us.
"We can't break the phalanx," their commander yelled.
So we hurried towards roast beef, where a similar resistance pushed us back.
"We're on our own," Karen said.
"Then it's the river," I said. She nodded in agreement. I took the lead. At one point I saw a Granny coming at us, her foaming mouth wide open. Snatching a fork off a nearby table I stabbed her in the face then shoved the old lady aside. Nearing one of the floor-to-ceiling windows I grabbed a chair. As I raised it to smash the glass I half heard Karen shouting something.
Ignoring her I smashed the glass. We dove into the river. Swimming to shore we watched the blood bath ensue from a distance.
"It looks like our people are getting the upper hand," I said.
"They always do," Karen said. She sounded morose.
"What's the matter?"
She said, "You don't know what you've done."
But she wouldn't explain.
Later that afternoon we regrouped with the others at the restaurant. The rest of the wait staff were already busy swapping war stories. They reenacted the battle proudly. Part of me regretted missing out, but I figured next time.
Making my way through a friendly gauntlet of mockery -- "Out the window, eh? Pussy." -- I found myself confronted by the manager. I expected to hear some dressing down for abandoning my post so quickly.
Instead she said, "Did you smash that window?"
"Yeah. How else was I supposed..."
She cut me off, "Your pay is getting docked until the cost is recovered."
"Oh that is -- " I heard Karen, not her spirit but her actual voice.
She whispered, "Don't."
And I let the matter slide. That is to say, until we got home.
Once the door closed I opened my mouth, but she spoke first:
"You can't fuck up the restaurant. No matter how crazy it gets."
I nodded, "I beg to differ."
"They will fire you."
"Fuck 'em," I said, "I'll quit."
"I..." She shook her head, "If that's what you want to do, so you don't have to pay for the window you broke, that's fine, but I can't follow that lead."
I said, "What are you talking about? You don't have to quit if I do."
"But you're not likely to stick around if you do."
I wanted to refute this observation, however, I couldn't. No one likes to be predictable, but in many ways most of us are. Aware of my personality because she, unfortunately, paid real attention when we talked, Karen could foresee certain outcomes.
Still, that didn't stop me from trying, "You don't need this job."
"I have bills."
And I think most folks can see how that argument went. She wanted to minimize the risks on her road to being a singer. I wanted her to plunge in, take the reckless rebel route. She confessed it sounded romantic, but couldn't see the practicality. I... kept us running in circles. Hours later we arrived nowhere.
Well, I ended up on the couch, refusing to sleep with her as if it meant some kind of victory. I won a pain in my back, and a lonely night. As such, the next day at work... and the next... the next... each time I went back to work the slightest indignities, the glances of the manager, ticked my gauge closer to the red.
I could hear Karen whispering in my ear, in the spirit and flesh, telling me to just wait. Once I paid off the window, we could start over. Whatever cracks in the foundation just needed a little light repair.
Then another Sunday arrived. I watched the ravenous coming in. Half of the cooking staff had called in sick. Undoubtedly there'd be delays. Another outbreak of cannibalism seemed almost guaranteed. As such, I couldn't stop imagining them devouring Karen, who refused to break a window to escape.
Turning to her I said, "You want to have a job -- fine. I get that, but you don't need this job."
"But I love this job," she said, "Not many jobs let you stab people."
"Not many jobs involve people trying to eat you."
"I'm happy here." She stroked my shoulder, "We can be happy here."
I kissed her hand, "No. We can't."
Heading for the front door I passed a customer.
He asked, "What's the -- oof!"
Before he could finish I kicked him in the balls.
The manager came running over. Clenching her teeth she said, "He wasn't trying to eat you. You had no grounds for that. There's an understanding here."
"Yeah, but it felt good." Looking back I saw Karen shaking her head. Sighing, the divide between us widening, I said, "Anyway, I quit."
Soon I was on the road back to Chicago.
Driving along the highway I kept telling myself, "She's better off without me." When my own brain pointed out I wouldn't be better off without her, I added, "Eventually she'd've seen she's better than me." Unfortunately, the truth is of little comfort when it shows something that doesn't matter. So I turned on the radio to distract myself. Damn thing started spilling out Janis Joplin.
I turned the car around. Racing back I conceived thirteen ways to apologize to Karen, and targeted four buffet regulars I wanted to kick in the nuts. I still planned on not working at the Port Edward, but hell if I'd spend another day without her.
The front door stood ajar, propped open by a dead body. Three teenagers huddled over the corpse gnawing on its back.
Getting a crowbar out of the trunk I started towards them singing, "'Cause I'm gonna try, oh yeah, just a little bit harder...'"
Turning I saw an elderly woman, who seemed to think spilling filthy pocket change in my coffee purchased the right to look down with a disappointed expression.
Shaking her head at some sad notion only she perceived she said, "You can get back on your feet. Trust in Jesus."
"Is he hiring?" I asked.
If she knew she said nothing, shuffling away in silence. Fishing the coins out -- money is money -- I watched her struggle to climb into a brand new Mercedes. The sight made the fifty cents feel less generous.
Pocketing the alms, I walked up the street. Although her money would do me no good, her actions did motivate me to certain ambitions. A friend of a friend recently informed me that a restaurant in the Fox River Valley wanted to hire wait staff, particularly for their popular Sunday brunch buffet.
My current job involved cleaning buses. Whenever a CTA behemoth finished its route for the day its pilot steered the vehicle into the depot. There a crew went to work cleaning every inch. This involved scrubbing off things like city grim, graffiti, gum, sludge water, puke, soda, and urine. Once we even found ourselves tasked with cleaning a spray of shit off the backseats that could've only resulted from a volcanic case of shotgun diarrhea. It was on the ceiling.
Suffice it to say, after that, I had begun contemplating an exit. The restaurant, situated on the Fox River, sounded like just the right kind of escape. And this old woman's attempt at charity reminded me that a soul sucking job eventually manifests outwardly. Even if the issues are merely mental they eventually show.
(I found myself staying awake all night contemplating the meaning behind trash. Take for instance, a used condom secured with a wad of gum to the back of a bus seat. A deviant psyche seemed too simple, and I kept sketching the portrait of an urban artist leaving guerilla art around the city. Then, realizing I might be desperately searching for a good intention, however perverse, I instead fired up contempt for the prick that left a baggie of cock-snot for me to clean; sleepless nights contemplating Goldbergian plots to identify, and return the spent semen shield with a slap.)
I needed a job that didn't hint at the worst humanity casually offers. Looking back that sounds naive, given I was aiming at a buffet line. Still I quit cleaning buses, and headed for Algonquin.
#
Algonquin is known as the gem of the Fox River Valley. Whoever first applied that description can be forgiven whatever bribe the locals may have slipped them. Driving through it's not hard to see the inspiration. Though one can easily envision it as the setting for any of a variety of horror films, Algonquin offers the rustic delights of a region trying not to adopt too much of the modern area. Much of the village looks like it could belong to any of the most recent decades, on occasion going back as far as the early 1900s.
This is a place for the upper middle class to rest and relax. Lounging in lawn chairs along the river banks they cast fishing lines into the water, and consider themselves contemporary Twain creations. Meanwhile, aware of water's amniotic potential, they sometimes take a moment to float along the Fox. The sun sets, lightning bugs dance, and all is right with the world.
By the glow of smart phones they stroll a short path back to the house. Perhaps along the way they consider their own Belgic Confession; the epiphanic deduction that their success is a sign of god's love, and their predetermined place in the hierarchy of all things. Never once did they seem aware of me, parked along the roadside watching them living so blissfully unaware of the rest of us -- below, but not out of reach.
If nothing else, if this job didn't pan out, I figured I could easily rob a few of these houses. By no means would I return to Chicago empty handed. And that offered me some peace.
Putting the car in gear I drove to the address my friend gave me. I found a cozy home set back from the road. It looked like the kind of place that'd seen better days, yet regular attempts at rejuvenation -- a coat of paint, fresh siding, etc. -- resurrected it for decadal sprints.
Pressing the doorbell caused more of an electric groan than a chime. Still, the door soon opened.
A dishwater blonde woman in green corduroy culottes and a Greta Van Fleet t-shirt stood there. She glanced me up and down.
Smirking she said, "You must be him."
"Sometimes it's good to be obvious... Karen?"
She nodded, "Come on in."
She waved me inside. I followed her into what amounted to a dimly lit cave. The whole interior smelled of fresh cut pine. Furniture accrued across several design concepts dotted the interior: Zaisu chairs orbiting an arched sofa, an antique dining table surrounded by cheap bar stools, a recliner upholstered in a crazy quilt of irregular patches. Floorboards creaked in a manner reminiscent of coffee-voiced greetings, a happy hello from a rebel in a hospice refusing to die.
She plopped onto the couch. Her graceful fall included a sweeping gesture signaling sit where you like.
Nestling into the recliner I said, "So tell me about this job."
Karen said, "It isn't easy, but it isn't hard."
"That sounds like dying."
When she chuckled I knew I'd made the right move.
#
I've found that many jobs which start off as nightmares are just a matter of surviving the learning curve. The Port Edward Restaurant offered treacherous slopes meant to shake off idle employees. However, thanks to Karen I soon found myself navigating the course smoothly.
She did me the grace of tossing me to the wolves right from the get go. I broke several dishes my first night, and managed to get one table's order entirely wrong.
Afterward she said, "Don't worry. From here on out you can only get better." Handing me a beer she added, "Or get fired."
I couldn't help smiling. From then on the job possessed less gravity. I soon found myself floating between tables, recalling orders off the top of my head like a recorder. However, whenever errors occurred, I developed the diplomatic sense to kowtow.
"I don't want the cold water lobster tail. I wanted the warm water lobster tail."
Bowing slightly, "My apologies. I'll correct that right away."
"It's not like it's that hard. Cold is not warm."
"Yes, sir."
"It's not hard."
The customer repeats for emphasis, while I adopt a poker face, hiding any desire to grab the crab cracking tools in front of his wife, and bludgeon him to death. Instead, smiling, I return to the kitchen.
"Hey, Chef, I need a warm tail instead of this cold."
Shaking his head Chef says, "Just wait ten minutes. I doubt he can really tell the difference."
"I'm not taking the chance."
Shrugs, "Pussy."
Perhaps, but at a certain tier dining becomes a chance to pretend one is a part of at least a faux aristocracy. If only for a few hours, a five dollar spread of asparagus says you are lord of the manner. And nothing confirms that notion like berating a servant.
Sorry muh lady, we'll clean the silverware twice over quick as a wink. Apologies sir, I'll fetch up fresh bread straight away. My sincerest regrets mum, if I'd-a known the t'ree ocean sampler contained fish I'd've never let you order it.
Most of those nights passed like dancing through a field of landmines. Thankfully the decor, initially, provided some distraction. It's hard to stay depressed in a beautiful setting, though I'll confess I did my best.
The Port Edward restaurant sits right on the Fox River. Every dining room, from the main deck dining to the Salem Lounge, is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. The panoramic view is picturesque at any time of day. However, those in search of more nautical kitsch need merely gaze around.
The Port Edward does its best to invoke a connection to grander sea traditions than one typically associates with rivers. Nantucket whaling harpoons adorn one wall. On the ramp into a dining area is a ship's binnacles, containing a compass, hint of navigating Atlantic fogs darker than blindness. Tables made of hatch covers harvested from World War One "Liberty" ships. Lobster traps, an epic painting of men hauling nets in from the sea, the engine room telegraph from the Queen Mary; and if this is not enough, a small sailing ship docked out front is available for those who can't just look at the river, they must dine upon it.
It's the kind of place imagination can run wild. On more than one evening, after a long shift, I got a drink from the Port Edward's barroom, The Regency. Glancing at the jawbone of a sperm whale hanging therein, I strolled, whiskey in hand, to the Main Deck dining area. Through the windows I watched the river meander, sometimes saw storms slash the calm into a frenzy, and always found myself envisioning myriad possibilities, none of which involved ever leaving.
One such night, Karen slipped up behind me.
She said, "Penny for a thought."
"Give me the penny first."
She scoffed, slapping my shoulder, "You're paying me."
"I am?"
Sitting nearby she sipped a rum cocktail. She held out a hand. Fishing in my waiter's apron I scooped out a handful of change.
Holding out a penny I asked, "What's on your mind?"
She snatched the coin from between my fingers, "Boss says you've improved enough. You're going on the Sunday crew."
"Hot damn," I said flatly.
"Boo!" Grabbing ice from her drink she tossed cubes at me, "It's a hoot, and." She lowered her voice, "We get to eat whatever's left over."
"Crumbs for the proletariat," I said with a smirk. She shook her head, but winked at me.
Getting up she said, "You walking home again, or we riding?"
Many nights I found myself preferring the long walk home. Driving back to Karen's often meant some degree of car karaoke. A delight without exception, however, it meant losing the sound of the river. For all its background noise the city provides nothing natural. There are no animal sounds -- symphony of cricket violins, while frogs croak a baritone chorus; leaves and grass rustling as unseen critters do nocturnal dances. Plus, the air is so fresh one hopes devout capitalists never come here, instantly inspired to begin bottling and selling the O2.
"Come on, let's ride," Karen said, a sparkle in her eye, "We need to celebrate your promotion."
Nodding I raised my glass, "Here's to the frontline."
"Fuck yeah." She clinked my glass.
The rest of that night is a blur. I know we celebrated -- vague recollections of singing over tacos; tequila shots on the rooftop. The next morning we woke up in bed together. Our nakedness implied possibilities she later confirmed with a deep good morning kiss. However, like too many such incidences, I'm certain whatever I did, even if I could remember, wouldn't replicate results. In other words, what worked with her probably wouldn't work on someone else.
Still, it seemed fitting given the circumstances. Soldiers often get laid before heading off to die. For the last few weeks, to get a sense of things, management had me working Sundays as a busboy. My primary responsibilities involved clearing dishes. Yet, even from that removed position I saw enough to fear the frontline. And my time was now fast approaching.
#
On Sunday, the doors opened at 9:30 a.m. Then came the ravenous. A steady stream of devourers flowed until the buffet closed at two in the afternoon. Some must've fasted all Saturday in anticipation; others came to indulge a gluttonous dark side. Yet, many simply sit at first, seemingly content to chat quietly. None went straight for the food. The intention is to beguile the unaware into believing these people have come to be with one another. None, but the most brazen binge eaters come alone.
No, this is Sunday brunch with the family; with friends; with coworkers. Though that Everest of crab legs is very tempting from the get-go, it is ignored despite being noted. After all, this is special time with Grandma; with a lover. The brunch is just supposed to be a bonus.
Meanwhile, flecks of drool glisten at the corners of flooded mouths. The moment eye contact can safely be broken a look is shot towards the heap of clams casino.
The scent of crawfish étouffée compels a boyfriend to ask, "Is that a new perfume?"
She replies, "I think so... wait, what?"
Her mind is on the myriad possibilities at a made-to-order omelette station. (Will she finally be brave enough to try a masala omelette, or a hangtown fry?) Meanwhile, his eyes drift, following the delivery of a roast turkey. Sharply aware of this disconnect, the two nervously chuckle. The veil torn, their desire not exactly on one another, the couple departs the table to plunge into the buffet line.
It's easy to discern the head of any household. Whoever leaves for the buffet first holds the crown. When a matriarch departs for Belgian waffles her sons may fan out in pursuit of top butt London broil and cheese blintzes. The patriarch rises, permitting his clan to hunt for eggs Benedict, lox, and seafood alfredo.
In-between all this scurries the wait staff, charged with various tasks. Some refill drinks, particularly champagne, at a break neck speed. More than one marathon runner developed their stamina in that forward position. For though the glasses may go empty they cannot be allowed to remain so. Tips are at stake, and customers shave off dollars for every second they must await a refill. The trick then is to be in constant motion, eyes roving, spotting the depleted beverage, and arriving to fill before a patron even swallows the last drop.
Trays to replenish dwindling food mounds are carried constantly. Chefs are busy in the kitchen endlessly preparing gargantuan amounts of cuisine. The moment a tray is full it departs for the buffet table, while another is immediately readied. A keen ear can hear naiads weeping -- professional keeners in Poseidon's employ. But the devourers, who will not stand for a moments delay, are deaf to such cries.
"What do you mean there's no fried shrimp?"
"Not at the moment," I inform a customer, "But more will be ready shortly."
"I'm not paying to wait," he growls. Something in his look suggests unchained gluttony is inspiring strange thoughts. If he can't have fried shrimp, perhaps raw waiter can be on the menu.
Backing away I promise to expedite the shrimp. En route to the kitchen I see a busboy going to the bathroom, and I sight the shrimp fiend following him. It prompts a sigh of relief -- better him than me -- but still, a rising dread is upon the wait staff.
On this occasion the kitchen is understaffed, so resupplies are running slow. Patrons are grinding their teeth, angry they've only been able to eat three, or four pounds of food. They can't yet justify their binge eating until they've devoured more than they've spent. Apparently, eating eighty dollars worth of crab isn't disgusting if one only paid forty. Champagne flows endlessly in hopes of silencing logic that says otherwise. However, it's mainly inspiring radical alternatives.
A cluster of snarling men tear whaling lances off the walls. They storm outside onto the decks. In a few moments they began viciously stabbing the river in hopes of spearing fish. Whether they plan to cook a catch, or improvise sushi, I couldn't say.
From out of nowhere Karen appeared.
She grabbed me by the arm, "I need a hand."
We hurried into the kitchen.
I said, "Things are getting nuts."
She shook her head, "This is nothing. If shit gets weird just run to a carving station. There's all kinds of knives there."
"What if I can't reach a carving station?"
"They'll eat you." She smirked, "Assuming you can't jump out a window. Fight or flight, take your pick."
Meanwhile she prepared a generous slice of cake. Setting a large, colorful sparkler in the pastry she handed me the plate.
I pushed it back towards her, "No way. I'm not doing a birthday."
She pushed the plate at me, "You want me to burn my face off?"
"Ah! Don't flash the doe eyes at me." Defeated by a look, I accepted the plate.
She kissed me on the cheek, "It's for some kid. There's balloons at the table -- no missing it."
"I'll find him."
I held the plate away from me. Karen grabbed a torch from someone toasting crème brûlée. She ignited the firework. It emitted a torrent of rainbow sparks closer to a roman candle than a sparkler.
Hurrying out, flaming bits hit me in the face. Still, I braved the shower for reasons I can only identify as out of date masculine ideals. When I deposited it in front of the appropriate child, his eyes went wide in a way ensuring he would always be terrified of sparks the rest of his life.
The kid's dad got up. Someone at the table took this as cue to sprint for the buffet. Champagne drunk, the father stumbled towards me.
Handing me a phone he said, "Picturish."
Well acquainted with drunk speak I took the phone. I gestured for the family to squeeze together. I snapped several pics before the birthday boy started shaking in terror.
His Grandma remarked, "His blood sugar must be low. He should get more food. We should all get more food."
The whole family immediately departed leaving the boy behind. Sighing, I walked over, grabbed the sparkler, and drowned it in a water glass. So the day went...
#
... weeks turned into months. Nights spent with Karen often turned into wonderment. Satyrs aren't typically successful seducing nymphs. Yet, I always found her willing to be held. That said, sometimes I kept my distance, preferring to watch her singing and dancing as she roamed the house. I'd never met someone so absolutely happy. She could laugh in the face of tragedy without it ever seeming sarcastic, or spiteful.
Work turned into unexpected smooth sailing. My skills advanced with each meal, and soon I found myself sailing between tables. However, when my confidence exceeded reality -- settling one irate patron inspired made me to think I could negotiate peace in the Middle East -- Karen steered me back to earth. She usually did this by handing me off to one of her tables.
As the most experienced, skillful waitress there she often got the most difficult customers: snobby teens with their parent's credit card; bitter widows; disgruntled exes; Russian mafia; and office males mistaking rape-like advances for ribaldry. She handled them all with a grace one might call supernatural.
"Well, preternatural, I guess," she said one evening, "Good from the start, I've been doing this my whole life. It's not exactly the career I wanted, but it gives me the time to keep trying."
"What do you really want to be doing?" I asked.
She smiled, "Don't you know?"
Softly singing Janis Joplin's "Try (just a little bit harder)" she sashayed into the kitchen. The honey flow of her voice carried me into the next day.
I repeated the order, "Oysters Rockefeller, clam chowder, Walleye Pike, Hawaiian mahi mahi, lamb chops, and the Piccadilly Street fish and chips."
"Yeah, but like just -- real quick -- how much clam is in the clam chowder?"
When such inquiries arrived I heard Karen's voice. Her spirit whispered calm thoughts in through my ear.
And instead of saying fuck you, I asked politely, "How much would you like?"
Yet, those times hardly compared to the onslaught at the buffet. Every Sunday an elite group of wait staff joined forces to combat the insatiable appetite of gluttony made manifest. I started viewing those customers as a nebulous cloud comprising some amorphous god cursed with endless hunger. No matter how awful patrons got during the week, at least they weren't the cosmic stomach that surged in Sunday morn.
Still, we battled each week. Every time we emerged triumphant it seemed beyond probable. The trick in the food industry, regardless of one's position in the war, is never to expect victory. Those who anticipated success often ended up out on the docks. Their spirits broken by a twist of fate, they dove into the Fox River never to be seen again.
I like to think they swam beneath the surface, all the way to shore. There they rose up, and ventured into some life where they never again worried about the sweetness of iced tea, or the bitter blow of a ten buck tip on a three hundred dollar tab. Worse comes to worst, I hope they drowned quickly.
A few months in, feeling like a veteran, I sat down next to Karen. During breaks we sometimes rested on the dock. On this occasion I caught up to her. She rested her head on my shoulder, and I wondered if this is all I owed her, knowing full well I was in her debt.
She shifted, turning to kiss me softly, a tenderness there too enjoyable to realize it heralded bad news.
She said, "I had to do a birthday."
Examining her for burns I asked, "Are you alright?"
She nodded. A tear fell.
I didn't know what to say, though I knew silence would not do. Still, I didn't want to break the moment. However awkward, standing on the tipping point is not falling down the mountain slope. A word would surely push us over the edge, even the right one.
Looking out over the river Karen said, "I did the birthday, and I figure, 'Why not sing?'" She nodded, "Why not sing?" She shook her head, "I did good. They loved it, and I started thinking..."
She trailed off. I didn't have to finish her thought, but I did, "'What am I still doing here?' "
"Yeah."
"Then you should move on."
"Where?"
"I... don't know."
She chuckled, "Then what good are you?"
Squeezing her tight I said, "None at all."
"But I knew that going in."
I said, "Really? I thought I hid it better."
We decided that evening we'd go over what she needed to do. I didn't have the best advice, but I was willing to help however she needed. After all, those folks who bring genuine joy into your life, they're owed a debt that's near impossible to pay.
A bar back popped his head out, "Hey guys, it's gettin' rowdy. We need help."
Getting to my feet I said, "Into the fray once more my love."
She popped up, "'My love'?"
"One issue at a time."
Taking a deep breath we plunged back in.
A shortage of biscuits and gravy initially set off devourers desperate for Southern fare. This sent them after the crawfish étouffée which soon vanished. This resulted in a spill over, more feeders than usual attacking the blackened tilapia. As each dish disappeared, eaten faster than it could be replaced, the whole ecosystem fell into the chaos. The lack of fried shrimp led to the absence of salmon, and the near extinction of Belgium waffles. The made-to-order omelette chef couldn't keep up with the demands barked at her, and she soon ran outside screaming mad.
Her assistant dove into the fray, but accidentally burned her hand. The aroma turned the pack of egg lovers wild, and they went after her. They diced her into a Donner omelette with the speed of piranhas. The smell of blood excited a group of widows, who used the lack of blintzes as an excuse to assault the Belgium waffle maker. They stamped his hands in the iron, cooled the burns with whipped cream, and then ate his digits as a pack.
Grabbing me by the sleeve Karen shouted, "Carving station!"
We shouldered our way to roast turkey. A contingent of busboys already occupied it, wielding an assortment of carving utensils to keep the cannibals at bay. When we tried to enter they jabbed at us.
"We can't break the phalanx," their commander yelled.
So we hurried towards roast beef, where a similar resistance pushed us back.
"We're on our own," Karen said.
"Then it's the river," I said. She nodded in agreement. I took the lead. At one point I saw a Granny coming at us, her foaming mouth wide open. Snatching a fork off a nearby table I stabbed her in the face then shoved the old lady aside. Nearing one of the floor-to-ceiling windows I grabbed a chair. As I raised it to smash the glass I half heard Karen shouting something.
Ignoring her I smashed the glass. We dove into the river. Swimming to shore we watched the blood bath ensue from a distance.
"It looks like our people are getting the upper hand," I said.
"They always do," Karen said. She sounded morose.
"What's the matter?"
She said, "You don't know what you've done."
But she wouldn't explain.
Later that afternoon we regrouped with the others at the restaurant. The rest of the wait staff were already busy swapping war stories. They reenacted the battle proudly. Part of me regretted missing out, but I figured next time.
Making my way through a friendly gauntlet of mockery -- "Out the window, eh? Pussy." -- I found myself confronted by the manager. I expected to hear some dressing down for abandoning my post so quickly.
Instead she said, "Did you smash that window?"
"Yeah. How else was I supposed..."
She cut me off, "Your pay is getting docked until the cost is recovered."
"Oh that is -- " I heard Karen, not her spirit but her actual voice.
She whispered, "Don't."
And I let the matter slide. That is to say, until we got home.
Once the door closed I opened my mouth, but she spoke first:
"You can't fuck up the restaurant. No matter how crazy it gets."
I nodded, "I beg to differ."
"They will fire you."
"Fuck 'em," I said, "I'll quit."
"I..." She shook her head, "If that's what you want to do, so you don't have to pay for the window you broke, that's fine, but I can't follow that lead."
I said, "What are you talking about? You don't have to quit if I do."
"But you're not likely to stick around if you do."
I wanted to refute this observation, however, I couldn't. No one likes to be predictable, but in many ways most of us are. Aware of my personality because she, unfortunately, paid real attention when we talked, Karen could foresee certain outcomes.
Still, that didn't stop me from trying, "You don't need this job."
"I have bills."
And I think most folks can see how that argument went. She wanted to minimize the risks on her road to being a singer. I wanted her to plunge in, take the reckless rebel route. She confessed it sounded romantic, but couldn't see the practicality. I... kept us running in circles. Hours later we arrived nowhere.
Well, I ended up on the couch, refusing to sleep with her as if it meant some kind of victory. I won a pain in my back, and a lonely night. As such, the next day at work... and the next... the next... each time I went back to work the slightest indignities, the glances of the manager, ticked my gauge closer to the red.
I could hear Karen whispering in my ear, in the spirit and flesh, telling me to just wait. Once I paid off the window, we could start over. Whatever cracks in the foundation just needed a little light repair.
Then another Sunday arrived. I watched the ravenous coming in. Half of the cooking staff had called in sick. Undoubtedly there'd be delays. Another outbreak of cannibalism seemed almost guaranteed. As such, I couldn't stop imagining them devouring Karen, who refused to break a window to escape.
Turning to her I said, "You want to have a job -- fine. I get that, but you don't need this job."
"But I love this job," she said, "Not many jobs let you stab people."
"Not many jobs involve people trying to eat you."
"I'm happy here." She stroked my shoulder, "We can be happy here."
I kissed her hand, "No. We can't."
Heading for the front door I passed a customer.
He asked, "What's the -- oof!"
Before he could finish I kicked him in the balls.
The manager came running over. Clenching her teeth she said, "He wasn't trying to eat you. You had no grounds for that. There's an understanding here."
"Yeah, but it felt good." Looking back I saw Karen shaking her head. Sighing, the divide between us widening, I said, "Anyway, I quit."
Soon I was on the road back to Chicago.
Driving along the highway I kept telling myself, "She's better off without me." When my own brain pointed out I wouldn't be better off without her, I added, "Eventually she'd've seen she's better than me." Unfortunately, the truth is of little comfort when it shows something that doesn't matter. So I turned on the radio to distract myself. Damn thing started spilling out Janis Joplin.
I turned the car around. Racing back I conceived thirteen ways to apologize to Karen, and targeted four buffet regulars I wanted to kick in the nuts. I still planned on not working at the Port Edward, but hell if I'd spend another day without her.
The front door stood ajar, propped open by a dead body. Three teenagers huddled over the corpse gnawing on its back.
Getting a crowbar out of the trunk I started towards them singing, "'Cause I'm gonna try, oh yeah, just a little bit harder...'"
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