Special treat for the multitude of readers of this blog
About a year ago I took a class from Writers Digest and started writing a short story.
It's a half - baked creation that I never got around to finishing.
Days of Grease and Angst
My parents split up the day I finished High School.
They had tolerated each other long enough to see me
enter adulthood. I remember driving back from a
graduation party and seeing Mom packing a tattered
U-Haul truck, brown boxes and furniture hastily
arranged in piles in the yard. Soon afterwards she
moved off to Dickinson, North Dakota to live with a
dairy farmer she met on the Internet.
A few months later my father’s new girlfriend who was
closer in age to me moved into our house. Darlene took
up most of his time constantly sending me on errands
or borrowing my car without telling me. When she
wasn’t exploiting my presence she viewed me as an
obstacle in their relationship. I felt like a distant
relative in my own home who had longed over stayed his
welcome.
I enrolled twice at Cactus State College in Phoenix
and dropped out both times lacking the motivation to
attend class and do the work. The only class I
attended regularly, the Cactus State German Klub
wasn’t even a class and I received no academic credit
for attending. My devotion to the Klub was because of
Anna Meier. She had blond hair and blue eyes but not
the bland, standard-issue American version of beauty.
Her eyes had a piercing quality to them and her hair
had faint dark streaks that brought out the blond in
brilliant contrast.
Coincidentally both our mothers were from the Bremen
area in northern Germany and she had grown up speaking
the language at home. My Mom had not spoken German
with me so I was forced to learn on my own. Anna spoke
the High German in the elegant and correct manner of a
northerner and I drank up every word she spoke. This
was in stark contrast to the feeble linguistic
attempts of the native Americans in the class or the
scratchy, lilting noise that the Swiss and Austrians
in the Klub tried to pass of as German.
By the summer 2003 I had a strong desire to move away
from sweet Darlene. I had to get an apartment of my
own. This was the summer I met Ron Ryan. I was only 21
at the time and in the need of cash I got a job
working at Chexley’s Restaraunt right off the Sandy
Mountain Freeway, exit 18 sandwiched between a truck
stop and a gas station.
The work was miserable. The place was a favorite of
old folks who sent the wait staff on endless errands
of extra lemon and napkin fetching although I was
usually relegated to the kitchen. The food was bad and
the grease coming out of the kitchen stuck to
everything that walked into the joint. At night I’d
come home exhausted from a shift and stand under the
shower for 30 minutes washing and scrubbing trying to
scourge the grease and my ill feeling towards all in
the world off of my body and soul. After the shower
lying in bed, I still felt as dirty as I had when I
came home. I tossed and turned in bed and found no
purchase in my crummy futon stained from last night’s
futile attempt at sleep. I would stare upwards at the
ceiling hoping that it some moment it might blow away
and the winds of fate would ship somewhere else.
My first shift at Chexley’s was the same day that Anna
Meier had turned me down when I asked her out on a
date. It had been months since I had dropped out of
Cactus State and I had not been back to the German
Klub having no desire to explain my academic
predicament. Still I worked up the nerve to call her
believing by starting a new job I could start a new
relationship.
She answered on the first ring, I took a deep breath
and without any introduction asked her to join me for
dinner the coming weekend. She told me that she would
have gone out with me had it not been for her
boyfriend, an individual by the name of Krisco.
Apparently he played bass in a heavy metal band that
had a strong local following. I could not ascertain if
Krisco was his first name, last name or a combination
of the two. Maybe it was just his stage name or
perhaps he didn’t even exist. I hung up the phone,
kicked over a stool and headed off to work.
Marty Sanders was the manager of the restaurant and he
was a balding, paunchy middle aged man with a raspy
voice who had been a drill sergeant in the Marines for
twenty years. He was also an incredible pain in the
ass. That first night he tasked me with washing and
wrapping 13 cases of Idaho potatoes in aluminum foil,
this was Marty’s way of letting me know one of the
many ways in which he could be a pain. I sat there in
a broken chair, hunched over a sink in the furthest
recess of the restaurant and washed potato after
potato, checking each box making sure they all came
from Idaho. For each potato I washed, I could hear the
words “Anna Meier”, “Anna Meier” echoing through my
skull. It was all so unfair, Krisco was right at this
moment spending time with the amazing Anna as I was
consigned to wash hundreds of potatoes, the cold water
rushed over my shaky hands, behind me sheets of
aluminum scattered all over the damp floor. Surely
there was some international tribunal or UN agency I
could petition to rectify this injustice.
“Mister poe-tay-toe, Mister poe-tay-toe please won’t
you wash me tonight…” I heard from behind me followed
by cackling. I looked up to saw a rail thin man with
jet black hair and a goofy grin plastered across his
face. He tapped me on the shoulder and said “Hey man,
my name is Ron, Ron Ryan don’t tell me Mr. Sand-Man’s
got you on tater detail tonight?”
“Yep, my name’s Max Abfall, I’ve just been sitting
here all night doing this but I hope to get to bus
some tables, maybe work as a waiter too, make tips”, I
said wishing I could just get back to my potatoes and
not talk to this person, whoever he was.
“Tips! are you kidding me? I just work here for the
50% employee discount and the atmosphere not to
mention those tasty potatoes. Tips…” He started
giggling again and bounced back out towards the
kitchen glancing at me over his shoulder as he hit the
swinging door.
As the summer progressed the days grew hotter and the
work became more intolerable. We had several assistant
managers but Marty Sanders was the chief. The worst
nights were when he worked to closing, this meant
being stuck in the restaurant until 3am desk scrubbing
the floor with extra strength Tide, cleaning the
sneeze guard by the salad bar continuously with
ammonia or just polishing every single salt and pepper
shaker in the dining area. I spent many summer weekend
nights and early mornings enjoying a “Marty Close”.
Financial troubles were compounding matters. My
landlord, Mr. Karl who I referred to as the “lamelord”
was constantly hounding me for last months rent. Often
times I fell behind in my payments and at times he
would threaten to have me evicted if I paid too late.
At night my bedroom ceiling inched closer in on me,
day after day and did not yield territory. It was
unthinkable for me to go back to my Dad’s house and
admit defeat in my own personal War of Independence.
I got to know Ron better. I hardly said a word to
anyone in the place but Ron always wanted to engage me
with dumb jokes and moronic puns. He’d step out of the
walk-in cooler with a vegetable tray and shout, “I
don’t get paid enough, I need more celery.” Once he
stared at me and started barking like a dog. I enjoyed
his irreverent company though I did not make that
apparent. I soon noticed the other employees avoided
him. Often times I would be the designated dishwasher
for the night and Ron would come at me with stacks and
stacks of plates greasy and dirty with half-eaten
meals each time dumping them in front of me singing
“for you, for you it’s a tasty treat for you”
One night as we were leaving I started singing a
parody of Phil Collins song I had made up in my head
during the shift. Somehow I’d changed the words around
to describe how the “Chexley’s Misery Index” was on
the rise and that working to 4am would be no surprise.
We got to both of our cars parked across from each
other laughing so hard neither of us could open up our
cars.
“Max-a-man, whoa I never knew you were a composer,
hey, can I ask you something.” he finally said gasping
for air.
“Go ahead whatever, just don’t ask me to sing” I was
caught off guard; I didn’t know I could still laugh as
I was afraid of breaking my streak of 37 consecutive
miserable evenings. I was a creature of habit and I
had a ceiling waiting at home for me.
“Hey, how come you never smile man?”
“There isn’t much to smile about.” I started reaching
into my pockets looking for my car keys.
“What’s it about, the job, Sand-Man got you down, or
it’s about a girl, a betcha it’s a girl.” He looked at
my wide-eyed, eager for me to continue the
conversation.
“It’s about just leaving me alone.” I ended our talk
abruptly and popped open the car door without saying
another word.
As I pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the
freeway I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Ron
still standing next to his car his hands open and
facing upwards as if he were still in conversation
with me.
After my long hot shower that night I stared at the
ceiling and felt it would suffocate me, days later I’d
be found in a room two inches tall. As I lay in bed
that night I tried to understand why I had been so
abrupt in my departure
My epiphany came the next day in front of a toilet
seat in the Chexley’s mensroom. I was working on
chopping up lettuce for the salad bar when suddenly I
saw Marty Sanders wheeling into the kitchen exclaimed,
“Goddammit, some old geezer just puked all over the
bathroom and Ron Ryan’s got the night off, I hate it
when that happens.” He started laughing and suddenly
his eyes fell upon me.
“Hey Max!”, he shouted, “I got a little project for
you, I need you to check the mens bathroom, we might
need a little help back there.” He continued chuckling
and handed me a mop and a bottle of ammonia. “Hey,
it’s nothing a man can’t handle with a garden house
and a gas mask.”
Mop in hand I shuffled off to the bathroom to the
sounds of the muffled laughter of my co-workers. The
bathroom was a disgusting sight and I was overcome
with dry heaves as I frantically pushed the mop back
and forth slopping ammonia over the floor. I wiped the
vomit off the toilet seat and realized that my
co-workers had lumped Ron and I into the same boat. If
were to have any allies in this place I’d have to seek
out Ron’s friendship.
About a week later, actually 4 A.M, after finishing a
“Marty Close” Ron raced out to his car and I yelled
out to him from my station wagon. “Hey Ron, you
feeling alright, you looked pretty beat down today.”
“Just another day in paradise.” He replied, I think he
was surprised that I was talking to him after my
abruptness the week before.
“How’d you make out, Mr. Sanders says he might put me
out on the floor next week?” Indeed the boss had
mentioned this to me that night and I was feeling a
little better about myself. I needed the money.
“A whopping $39 dollars in tips, I ought to just get a
job serving at the retirement home down on Maynard
Ave, same crowd that we get here. This is just a load
of crap.” Ron shifted back and front of his car
looking up at the sky.
“By the way”, Ron continued, “I heard Sand-man gave
you the nasty bathroom drill the other day.” I
detected a feint smile on his face.
“It was the most awful, grossest thing I ever saw”
“Maybe, but sometimes there’s value in waste, not in
this particular case but one mans’ trash can be
another’s gold”. I had no idea what he was talking
about but I wanted to hear more.
“Hey Ron, I got an idea”, I said, “You want to go to
the water park tomorrow, we both got the day off.”
“Are you getting social, my goodness, sure let’s hook
up, we both could use the fresh air but who’s gonna do
clean up if some kid craps in the urinal.”
The day at the water park was a blast, we must have
stood in the wave pool for three hours. Even I was
entitled to a good day. Afterwards we headed out to
the picnic area, grabbed some fries from a nearby
stand and sat down enjoying the warm sun and the sound
of people indulging themselves in water sport.
“So man, what is the deal with you?” he asked
point-blank.
“I got issues, Ron, above all I need money.” It felt
easy talking outside here, far from home or the
workplace. The waves from the tidal pool had knocked
me into a stupor and words were about burst out
freely.
“I got no damn money, Anna Maier dating a guy named
after a brand of vegetable oil and I want to be as far
away from my Dad’s idiot girlfriend as possible… if I
don’t come up with $100 bucks for last months rent,
I’m going to be living in a tent.”
Ron just stared at me for a while and said, “Chill
biscuit, I can help you with things maybe get you some
money. We can work things out.”
“Doing what, working more hours at Chexleys?”
“Nah, doing Internet stuff, research, it’s an easy way
to make money.” Suddenly I noticed Ron was looking
around him a furtive glance passing over his face as
if he didn’t want anyone else listening in to this
incredible secret he was divulging.
“Ok, I’m game. What do we do, blast out emails about
secret Nigerian bank accounts and solicit people for
finders fees then take the money and run, or is this
just a garden variety Ponzi scheme.”
“No, no, no it’s not like that.” His voice became
insistent and soft at the same time. “We’ll talk more
later, surf ‘s up Mr. Potato-Head.”
About a week later Ron called me on my cell phone as I
was leaving work around midnight and invited me to
come over to his house to work on his Internet
project. He told me to wear black clothing. I thought
perhaps we were going to some Internet café full of
Goth rockers and I had to dress the part.
I got to Ron’s place which was a small mobile home in
a dirty trailer park. Before I could knock, Ron swung
the door open and pushed me back down the steps and
raced over to a white van parked in front of his home.
He leapt in and montioned to for me to do the same. I
got in the van and we quickly drove off heading up
into the Ventana Foothills. The whole time Ron did the
talking, his speech getting faster as we climbed
higher. The van bounced up and down Rondino Drive and
he took each turn quickly forcing me to grab onto a
strap.
“Look, I can trust you right, because this does have
to do with the Net, it also deals with height being a
function of wealth, the higher you go the higher you
get, know what I mean.” He was balancing the steering
wheel, a cigarette and a Red Bull energy drink and
spoke on.
“Alright, welcome to the Ryan Institute for Advanced
Studies in Garbology. Fact 1: All these clowns up here
are rich and Fact 2: Tomorrow is trash day in the
Ventana Vista subdivision. Fact 3: People throw out
some pretty valuable stuff and its our job to find out
what that is.”
As we entered the subdivision, Ron became very quiet
and began driving carefully. He pulled up in front of
a house and told me to get out to go fishing. I hopped
out of the van and grabbed the first trash bag I found
jumped back into the van and pushed the bag over the
seat and into the open area in back of the vehicle.
We kept driving through the subivision stopping at
about every block and I leapt out and grabbed the
first trash bag I found. It was exciting grabbing
peoples trash and stuffing it into the van. It was
absurd and I had to force myself from laughing. I had
no idea what we’d do with it but it felt good to be
taking something from these people. After we had
grabbed about ten bags of trash Ron quickly exited the
subdivision and we rode back in silence to Ron’s
trailer in the valley below.
We got to his house and took the garbage in. As I
entered the living room Ron started tearing up the
bags and dumped the trash onto newspapers laid out
from wall to wall. The odor was noxious and liquid
sprang out of the bags and started soaking the papers.
“C’mon, man!” Ron exclaimed, “Get to work, stop
trippin’ and start rippin’.”