Friday, August 28, 2015

Your Server Will Be Right With You

It's only fair that I tell you this story concludes with me spilling several glasses of red wine on a woman dressed in all white. It would be absurd for me to describe her immaculate summer dress or the bright, silken scarf she wore, all the while expecting you to forget that I was a clumsy waiter that did way too many squat presses at the gym the previous day. I mean, as soon as I were to tell you the part where I take the table's drink order - six different types of red wine - you'd see disaster coming a mile away. So, it's here that I start, but now I can take it back a little.

"Five more squats, dude!" either Brad or George yelled at me.

That's too far. The next day, I showed up to work at Cobb Lane. I had been waiting tables there all summer, saving up money to move to L.A. in October. According to the schedule that assigned sections to the waitstaff, I would be serving on the courtyard terrace that evening.

The restaurant was under new ownership in those days, which had warranted renovations. One such upgrade was a multi-level terrace off to the side of the large, shaded courtyard. It was a very pretty section, with each level serving only one table and surrounded by flowering plants. There were five levels, leading to the big circular table for six on the uppermost tier.

I'm not sure why I didn't see this assigned section as a death sentence and immediately try to switch sections with another server. My legs, specifically my quadriceps, were so sore from the gym the previous day that I could barely walk, much less endure the constant stair-mastering required to work the terrace. It's possible I thought it would be a slow night, or that maybe it would rain and I would be cut early.

Early dismissal didn't arrive, though a lot of people did. Cobb Lane's regulars loved the romantic seclusion of the terrace and I had to do my best to not fill it with loud groans as I navigated the stony stairs.

I should mention at this point that there's an expression that servers use that I haven't heard used in any job I've had since. It's called being "in the weeds" and it means that a waiter has too many places to be at once. I would think this experience applies to a lot of jobs, but I guess the restaurant biz is the only place that likens it to lawn maintenance.

Anyway, I was neck-high in the weeds for most of that night on the terrace. Since my legs felt like wet noodles, it took me four times longer than normal to ascend the stairs and ten times longer to descend them. With only five tables to serve, I should have been fine, but it was a constant struggle and my leg muscles refused to stop screaming out for me to sit down.

Side note: waiters should never be sitting down. If you see one sitting down, something is wrong and you should quietly move toward the nearest exit. While we're on the subject, if a server sits down with you at your table, they are trying to show dominance. You should roll your menu into a cylinder and strike them across the nose with it.

Back to my night of panic: my brain had stopped accepting major distress signals from my body and it was helping. I hit a groove and decided to endure the remainder of my shift. It was possible that I had gone into shock, but the sensation brought such wonderful courage that I decided to roll with it.

It was during this state of newfound confidence that she appeared, my woman in white, standing at the entrance to the courtyard in a group of three couples. I've already mentioned her immaculate summer dress and the bright, silken scarf she wore that night. It was as if she could see the future and wanted to ensure the worst possible outcome. I've never been the type to notice shoes, but I'm sure hers were made from the finest white suede that money could buy. Why wouldn't they be?

My section was full when they arrived, but the woman in white's group elected to wait for the large table at the top of the terrace. My legs began to shake again. I tried to focus on the idea that maybe these new guests would be fantastic tippers. It seemed more productive than falling to the ground and crawling to my car.

Second side note: most of a server's income comes from tips, which we all know is what waiters require in order to judge the current state of American morality. The opening scene of Reservoir Dogs contains a masterful conversation on the topic and, if you haven't already, I highly recommend that you check it out. It's funny, insightful, and to it I can only add the simple rule that, if you don't like tipping, don't go to restaurants. No, it's not because a server's work is demanding and deserves a monetary reward - lots of jobs are and do. It's because tipping is customary, like keeping your eyes above the equator at a nude beach. Also, if you're traveling to or from another country, try to figure out what type of tip is expected and don't be shy about asking the next table. It doubles as a great icebreaker, if you see somebody cute.

"Six glasses of red wine, please," the six people, now seated at the apex of the terrace, said to me in unison. Okay, not really. It was probably four kinds of red wine and a couple of cocktails, but you and I both know where this story is heading.

The rest of my section was mostly empty by this point in the evening, but it was becoming more of a struggle to run back and forth from the kitchen. If I needed something as minuscule as a ramekin of ranch dressing, I had to limp down the terrace steps, trudge across the courtyard, tip-toe through the dining room, and march all the way to the back of the restaurant. This is why people stop going to the gym.

We didn't have a bartender at Cobb Lane, so the manager poured my table's drinks and I carefully carried the tray with both hands as I made the trek back to the woman in white's group. They seemed a little perturbed they'd had to wait for the table, but I knew everything would change once they got a little wine in them.

Or on them. Whatever.

Final side note: the best thing about working in the service industry is learning how to properly apologize to others. I did this several times per shift at every restaurant I've worked for: to the guests, to the kitchen, to my fellow servers, and then to more guests. I don't know if frequent mistakes are a given for everybody that waits tables, but they sure were for me. I mixed up most orders that I didn't flat-out forget and dropped more dishware than I will ever own in my life.

And yes, one time I toppled a tray full of red wine straight onto a woman who was wearing all white. However, I didn't have to apologize to her for that mistake. How could I? I wasn't allowed to go anywhere near her for the rest of the night.


Thursday, August 27, 2015

Why I Write

I hit "publish" on The Great All-nighter's drafting dashboard and another story is finished, sent off into the world. And not a moment too soon.

Seconds later, Spider kicks in my front door and stomps across my living room. As always with Spider, the threat of violence is unmistakable. I notice he's gotten another arachnid tattoo, a small spiderweb on his left cheek, since I've seen him last. He's tall, so I have to squint to see it. I'm always surprised at how much bigger he is than anyone I've ever met, easily larger than most professional football players.

"Where's the story, Fox?" he demands. He brushes the stubby spikes on one fingerless glove with the thumb from his other hand. "You'd better have a story for me."

"Right over here, Mr. Spider." The man only accepts physical copies, so I gesture to the fresh pages I printed out for him just before posting the story. The giant man hulks over the thin stack.

"What is this, about twelve hundred words?"

"Yeah, right around twelve hundred. Good eye."

Spider snarls at me and snatches the paper from my desk. "I prefer the shorter ones," he says as he fishes reading glasses from out of his black leather vest. The garment is opened to reveal several more spider-related tattoos on his bare torso. He reads the title aloud.

"Your Server Will Be Right With You. This isn't one of those personal stories, is it?"

"Well, kind of," I tell him. "It's-"

"Never mind. I'll read it myself." He folds the papers and stuffs them into the back pocket of his dirty blue jeans. He quietly scans the room as he replaces the reading glasses in his vest. Then, he looks at me with the beady, pale green eyes from my nightmares.

"There had better not be any spelling or grammatical errors," he hisses at me. This is a major concern of his, and I have no idea why. He takes a step closer and cranes over me. I hold my ground, but a shiver rushes through my bones.

"I double-checked. Shouldn't be a problem, sir."

"I hope that you're right," he says. He's so close that I can smell his breath, which reeks of tree bark and window detergent. Tears fill my eyes. However, before I begin weeping, Spider storms out of my apartment, gone just as suddenly as he had barged in less than a minute earlier. I hear the growl of his Harley-Davidson and the subsequent screech of its wheels as Spider speeds off into the night.

I exhale and take a deep breath in my empty apartment, relaxing again as I open up Facebook on my computer. I cut & paste the story's URL on my page and write a short introduction for my readers. But it's all for Spider, expressly posted so I can see whether he "likes" it or not. This is what tells me how much time I have until the next one is due.

It could be any moment from now.


Friday, August 21, 2015

The Detour

The bus driver shouted to us over his shoulder, asking me and the other passengers if we'd be okay with him taking a slight detour. This wasn't my normal route, so I politely laughed it off. Public employees are constant teasers and this line about detouring seemed like a standard bus driver joke, one that he could easily get away with once or twice a day without too much fear of it getting old.

Assuming this was the case, I went back to listening to a podcast I had downloaded to my phone. It was a show about great moments in rock music history. On this particular week, the hosts were discussing the five month period when Robert Smith left The Cure and became a backup singer for Prince on the Lovesexy tour, right up until Smith came up with the song cycle that became 1989's Disintegration.

However, soon after I had positioned my earbuds, I noticed several other passengers on the bus begin to shift uncomfortably in their seats and exchange meaningful glances with one another. The driver then flew by the next two stops without letting anybody get on or off. He really was taking us on a detour and I didn't want to find out where it would lead. Also, my destination, the stop near Whistler's Pub, was only a mile or so away and bar trivia would be starting soon.

I removed my earbuds and began to devise an escape from the rogue bus. I was sitting in the back section of the bus, which was elevated a bit from the front and middle sections. However, there was a rear exit in the second part that I thought I might be able to pry open once the driver was forced to stop at an intersection or for general traffic.

I slowly began to stand up, but an older man seated next to me grabbed one of my shoulders. He looked at me intently.

"You don't wanna do that, son," he said. His eyes were shiny, wet with concern. "Most of us have gone through this shit before. It's better if you just stay put and ride it out."

"It's okay," I said as I stood up into a crouched position. I placed my hand on his knee to comfort him. "I used to have a car."

I said this because a shared knowledge of the road connected me to the bus driver in a way the other passengers wouldn't understand. It clearly confused the man, but I didn't have time to explain my logic. I carefully made my way past him and a few others that were nervously shaking their heads at me. However, closer to the front part of the rear section, most people chose to hold blank expressions. They stared straight ahead as though nothing strange was happening.

"That's good," I whispered to them. "Stay cool. I'll warn the others." I didn't know what others I was referring to, but I figured this would keep them calm long enough for me to remove myself from the situation.

Finally, I descended down the two steps to reach the bus's midsection, right next to the rear exit. Still crouched, I reached out and placed my hand near the rubber-clad break between the exit doors, ready for when the bus would be forced to stop or slow to a crawl.

"Nuh-uh!" the bus driver shouted.

I couldn't see it from my position, but the driver must have swerved the bus pretty severely at that moment. The sudden careen launched me face-first into a metal guide pole and my nose exploded with pain as it slammed against the rail.
 
Almost immediately after my collision, I felt the bus itself crash into something. The impact stopped the bus's momentum cold, but I had already fallen backward into the main aisle by that point, away from the door. I was also way too busy screaming loudly and cupping my very-likely broken nose. The pain was excruciating.

Many of the other passengers began crying out dismissive and vulgar phrases after the crash. I believe one or two were directed at the driver, but the bulk of the insults were hurled in my direction, saying that I should have stayed in my seat. One woman seemed confused and loudly asked me if I could let her off at the next stop.

Most of the passengers, however, stayed on topic about my attempted escape, the one that had seemed to enrage the bus driver so.

"But this is America!" I yelled, mainly thinking that patriotism would cut through the rest of the chatter, but also because it was true. The event was happening in America. However, I could just as easily have yelled out "Disintegration is The Cure's best album!" and gotten pretty much the same response, which was a sudden and awkward silence from the bus's occupants.

It stayed quiet for about three seconds, then I felt the bus floor quake as the driver ran up the main aisle in my direction. My eyes were still closed because of my very-likely broken nose, but I could feel the driver begin whipping me with his jacket. The polyester thrashed my body as I tried to protect my face. My shirt had rode up a bit during my fall and the lashes especially stung my exposed belly. Worst of all, the jacket's metal zipper struck me every fourth or fifth rotation.

Once the attack finally subsided, I peered out from between my fingers, which hovered over my eyes and bludgeoned nose. The driver was standing above me, breathing heavily. His sweaty, demanding pose almost looked heroic, except for the jacket sleeve wrapped around his hand and the stack of bus schedule pamphlets clenched in his mouth.

He leaned down, grabbed me by my sport coat lapel, and dragged me to my feet. He slowly opened his mouth and the pamphlets fell to the bus floor.

"Get off my plane!" he said. I immediately recognized this quote being from the hit film Air Force One, starring Harrison Ford, even though I had never actually seen it myself. Before I could ask him why he had said it to me, the driver threw me up against the exit doors, which flew open as my body met them. I landed with a crumpled thud on the sidewalk and rejoined the day.

From my new position on the side of the road, I could then see the scene outside. Our crazy bus driver had plunged into another city bus that had apparently been idling at one of its stop. This other bus's passengers were filing out as their driver kept them calm. He looked very normal. However, none of them rushed to my aid or even seemed to have noticed my midair expulsion from the bus that had crashed into theirs.

I looked up to the crazy bus as the exit doors closed again. Through the tinted windows, I could see that my former fellow passengers had returned their gazes straight ahead. Nobody said a word or waved goodbye to me as their doomed vessel backed away from the wreckage and began to pull away.

I stood up and, still cradling my nose and careful to not fall over or faint, walked toward the crowd of people from the other bus. The others were craning their necks to watch the crazy bus as it sped away. I heard a few people try to raise questions about why the other bus was leaving without addressing the accident and where was it going now. I decided to give them a taste of the carnage and removed my hands from my nose to expose my serious injury.

"I was on that bus," I said. "Look at what happened to me."

A few people squinted at my face and shrugged.

"What are you talking about?" a goofy kid in board shorts asked me.

I crinkled my face a few times and discovered that my nose wasn't as bashed as I had assumed after all. I was relieved for my general appearance, though I was embarrassed to attract unnecessary attention from a second crowd that day.

"Well, I was on that bus," I repeated as I walked off, realizing that I was now only a block away from my intended stop. I entered the pub and took my normal seat at the bar, but didn't participate in the trivia. The noise was unsettling, so I left early. I took a taxi home.

I watched the news carefully that night, all the way through the last weather report, but I didn't see any items about the runaway bus or a roadside collision. Online, none of the social media sites mentioned it either. The next day brought nothing more in the way of information, nor did any of the days that followed. I probably should have stopped looking, but I never really did.

I bought a copy of Air Force One and fell asleep many nights while watching it.

It's years later now and I have to wonder if any of it ever happened at all. I'm not one for conspiracies or ghost stories, but I can't help but feel haunted by the experience. If it happened, everyone there accepted the moment so readily. Everyone but me. I have to wonder why.

Just a slight detour.

I have since that day purposefully broken my nose. I spent too much time regretting that it didn't happen when it was supposed to. I know the instinct was crazy and the result is certainly not a concrete piece of evidence that the event ever took place, but I love my ugly nose.

It's a crooked line in the sand, a gentle hand on my shoulder to comfort my many doubts.


Wednesday, August 19, 2015

One Last Time Around the Big Fountain

Ethan and Trish didn't meet until their twenties, but they both grew up going to the old mall in Cedarville.

Back in those days, the mall was more than just a three-story shrine to commerce; a person's regard for it defined their being. Some scoured Leon's Books for the latest comics before running off to trade dollars for tokens at Zoned Out Arcade. Others preferred to hold court by the big fountain, sharing popcorn and gossip with friends. The wide-eyed kid who once set off to explore every florescent-lit inch of the building might one day get their first job there, only to spend there the money which they earned there. And all the while, more and more people filtered in from the crowded parking lot. As many types of people as the world had ever seen, they all came to the mall in Cedarville.

Until they stopped, of course.

"My friend Stacy used to rearrange the mannequins at McNeilly's," Trish said as she sat on Ethan's, now hers-and-Ethan's, living room floor. She sifted through a box of things from her previous apartment.

"Wait, what? I invented that!" Ethan stood in the kitchen doorway, still chewing the last of a leftover spring roll as he asked, "Did she make them cup each others' junk?"

"Yes, she did. And sorry, but she invented it. Next you'll be telling me that you were first person to run a lap in the big fountain."

"Well, not me personally, but I was there the first night it happened."

"Oh, yeah? What was his name?"

"Her name was Rhonda Ramsey. And she deserves her rightful place in the history books for it!"

Trish smiled as she pushed aside the cardboard box. It was midday on Sunday and the couple still wore the unofficial pajamas they had slept in the night before.

"Hey, why don't we go?" she asked.

"One minute unpacked and you're already bored."

"Bored, yes, but I'm not quite unpacked. There's still more in the bedroom." She walked to Ethan and laid her head on his chest. "But it could be fun. And I haven't been to the Cedarville Mall in forever."

"I have, a few years ago," Ethan said. "It was like a ghost town. Macy's was still open, but the rest of the place was pretty sad."

"I want to see the big fountain," Trish said, her voice curled into a silky pout. "One day they're going to tear it all down and we'll regret not going today."

That was all it took. Within five minutes they were dressed, in the car, and on their way.

The mall wasn't visible from the rebuilt section of highway that replaced the older, more dangerous road. The shopping center sat back a considerable distance, behind a wall of tall trees. But as they neared the ancient Mecca of the American consumer, Ethan and Trish saw that the old mall was less a ghost town than it was an artifact. The main building's structure seemed intact, though something about the facade looked off kilter, unbalanced. A wall-sized designer mural that was added when the couple were young, still strangers to one another, had faded into a pale reddish brown phantom.

Ethan drove through the nearly empty parking lot. A few cars dotted the perimeter; all appeared to have been there for a long time.

"Wow. It's worse than I remembered," Ethan said.

"Do you think we can get in through the main entrance?" Trish asked.

"No idea. I think the whole thing is closed down. Probably not safe to go in." Ethan slowed the car to a crawl as they passed the sets of doors under the Cedarville Mall rusted iron banner. "It might be dark in there."

"The top floor is practically all skylights. It'll be fine," Trish said, nodding at the memory.

Ethan parked the car next to the curb and they got out. It was a hot, clear day. They silently approached the entrance, both looking around as though someone might try to talk them out of going inside. Hoping for it, almost. Through the big glass doors, they could see that the section immediately beyond the entrance was dark. However, as Trish had predicted, the center area appeared to be lit by the skylights from the ceiling.

"Okay," she said, grabbing the metallic door handle. She took a short breath and pulled hard, but it swung open so easily that Trish had to quickly plant one foot behind the other to stay upright. "Okay," she said again, smiling at Ethan.

"I can't believe it's unlocked," he said. Trish shrugged and they walked inside.

A large earthenware pot stood tall in the center of the darkened hallway, crumbled leaves splayed over the rim. Behind it stood a map of the mall, sans backing light, which Trish and Ethan walked by without a glance. Once they reached the sun-drenched center section, they could clearly see that most of the stores were closed, including Macy's. The edges of the walkway were lined with metallic gates pulled to the dust-covered ground.

The signs of long gone companies still adorned many of the shops. It was clear that, at some point, the mall's management stopped expecting new tenants to replace the old ones. Ethan and Trish passed by old haunts such as the Juice Counter and a clothing store called Climate before arriving at Leon's Books. At Leon's, they both walked to the gate to see if anything was left inside. All they could see in the dusty front section were a few silhouettes of cardboard displays and magazine inserts littering the hardwood floor.

"Damn," Ethan said. "I can't believe this used to be Leon's. Well, I guess it looks no worse than most libraries will in a few years."

"I hope that's not true," Trish said as she peered into the dark bookstore. Ethan lightly kissed her above the ear and a thought occurred to him.

"Okay, this is going to make me sound like an amateur," he said. "But I think I'm lost. Shouldn't the big fountain be over here somewhere?"

"You obviously didn't spend a lot of time there," Trish said. "The big fountain is by the rear entrance. From here, we need to go to the second floor and double back a ways."

"Wait, the fountain's on the second floor? That can't be right."

"No, it's...you'll see."

She led him to the escalators banks, which appeared to have been dormant for ages. The still, metal steps were covered in dust and bits of plaster. Trish and Ethan did their best to not touch the filthy rubber railings, though the act of climbing the immobile stairs felt more difficult than walking up a normal staircase.

"I know I'm not this out of shape," Ethan said once they reached the second floor.

"No, it's psychological," Trish said. "Your brain feels like your body shouldn't have to work so hard when you go up a broken escalator."

"There's no such thing as a broken escalator," Ethan said. "They just become stairs."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. I think I got it from a Popsicle stick."

The second level was in further disrepair than the first, also hotter and darker. Ethan and Trish walked along the railing, favoring the side furthest from the shadowy walls. A few dark hallways branched out into recesses that they did their best to ignore.

Ethan looked over the edge of the railing to the first level. He saw the arcade below and pointed. "Look, there's Zoned Out. We must have walked right by without seeing it."

"It's not even gated," Trish said, squinting a bit. "I don't see any games still inside, but we can get a closer look when we come back through. The back entrance is just ahead."

In front of them, another dark section stretched out for about twenty meters. However, just beyond that, they could see the top rails of the rear escalators. Trish picked up her pace, nearly slipping on a mossy patch that had grown on the tile floor. Ethan guided her around it. They got to the edge of the level, where it dropped back down to the first floor again. There was no third floor in this part of the mall, but another skylight sloped down from the second floor ceiling. The glass doors of the rear entrance also let in plenty of light, making this section the brightest they had seen yet.

And at the bottom of the escalators stood the shiny ceramic allure of the big fountain.

As they descended the escalator, Trish and Ethan could see that the famous well had run dry and its tiles were cracked in places. Coins tossed in for wishful indulgence had long since disappeared. But they approached it with reverence all the same.

Trish sat on the tiled edge of the fountain and smiled at Ethan. "Okay, it's not quite like I remembered it. But still, this is pretty cool, right?"

"It's starting to come back to me," Ethan said as he looked at some of the gated shops near the glass doors of the back entrance. "A little. Didn't that used to be McNeilly's? Over there?"

Trish looked at the unlit, empty display behind dirty glass and imagined the mannequins that they would rearrange into lewd positions when the clerks weren't looking. "Yeah. That's it," she said. "Or was."

Ethan jumped up onto the edge of the fountain. He looked around a moment, before turning his attention to the glass doors of the exit. "Yeah, it's pretty cool. But I hope those doors are unlocked. I don't care if Zoned Out still has every game I've ever played - I'm not walking back through there." He pointed to the dark alcove at the top of the escalators.

Trish laughed. "Agreed. I'm really glad you said that." She looked around a bit more and sighed. "Okay, we can go whenever you want. This was fun, though."

Ethan reached down to Trish and pulled her up to stand on the edge of the fountain with him.

"How about one last race around the big fountain first?" he asked her.

Trish looked at the cracks and the faded mildew stains on the fountain's floor. Ethan nodded and shrugged. He said, "Well, it was worth a-"

With a laugh, Trish pushed him off the edge, away from the fountain. She jumped onto the dry ceramic and began to run a solo lap.

"Hey!" Ethan said, joining her laughter. He considered trying to catch up, but became hypnotized by Trish's movements as she raced through the evening's last bit of sunlight.

Once she completed the circled path, she mimed kicking water into his face. "Splash! I win!" she shouted.

Ethan picked her up from the side of the fountain and spun her around. He kissed her gently and returned her to the mall floor. Trish leaned her head against his chest and they stood by the big fountain for a moment.

"Okay. Time to go home," Ethan said after a while.

Ethan took Trish's hand and they started for the exit, where they would turn back once more to say their goodbyes to the Cedarville Mall. But they soon found that the glass doors of the rear entrance were gone, replaced by none other than Leon's Books.

"Oh, hey," Trish said, walking up to the threshold. The metallic gate was now lifted and the shop was considerably brighter. She could even see a few bookshelves sitting near the rear of the store, filled with shiny new paperbacks. Ethan stood behind her, trying to figure out how he had lost his sense of direction again.

"I'm not sure what is happening," he said. From a far away section of the building, rhythmic clicks and faint music echoed down to them.

"It sounds like a game of air hockey back at Zoned Out," Trish said, her eyes wide with amazement. "C'mon, let's check it out."

She took Ethan's hand again and they walked to the escalators, which seemed to be working fine after all. As they were lifted up, back into the dark recesses of the second level, Trish and Ethan heard a spate of gentle waves crashing onto tile behind them as water began flowing into the big fountain again.

Trish looked at Ethan and squeezed his hand. Smiling, she said, "I think the mall is waking up."


Friday, August 14, 2015

Tempered Ice

"I know it, Davy. Negotiation sucks. It's settling a divorce on the morning of the wedding. You tell them just how much - and specifically in what way - you want to ruin their life, then you kiss them on the mouth and cut the cake. It sucks. But it can be fun."

To drive home the metaphor, Laina removed the flowers from the vase in the center of the table and tossed them over her head. They landed in the walkway of the restaurant patio she was seated at with Davis, her client of many years. Satisfied, Laina downed the remainder of her scotch and soda.

Davis was, as always, embarrassed by Laina's loud voice and big gestures, but her negotiation skills made her too valuable a manager to beg discretion. Besides, Davis knew it was her boisterous personality that made her a great negotiator in the first place. He never had much of a taste for it, preferring to save his energy for his work. But Laina's thirst for blood and tears were, if perhaps unsavory, renowned throughout the industry.

A waiter approached and asked Laina if she'd like another scotch and soda.

"No, I'm just here trying to get a rash from these cushions you let the street people piss all over. Yes, I'd like another scotch and soda."

The waiter nodded, picked up Laina's glass, and looked to Davis, who politely waved him away. Davis asked Laina what kind of concessions they could expect in the next round, points on the back end, etc.

"Look, kid. I can speculate on what they're returning with, but it doesn't matter, because I'm just getting started. Plus, I'm hoping that they take their time. I'd like to see them stall until after the holidays."

Davis began to object.

"I know, I know - you don't want to be left twisting during the break. I get it. But see it from their point of view. They're with their families for the first time all year. And believe me, they all hate it. They get bored and I want them bored. Panicked that they won't have any meetings to come back to in the new year. It's a tactic that always works. 'Yes, yes,' they'll say. 'Anything to get the project going,' they'll say."

Laina grabbed a tube of lipstick from her purse and threw it full speed at the back of another patron's head. It missed and rolled into the street. No one except Davis seemed to notice the offense and Laina immediately returned to the conversation.

"However, if they want to wrap this up before bitter winter ennui sets in, so be it. I've got lots of other shit happening in December."

The waiter returned with Laina's fourth scotch and soda. She lifted the glass and studied its contents.

"You did it again, you drippy prick. How many times have I got to tell you: no new ice. I need the cubes that were soaking in the scotch from the last one."

The waiter apologized and grabbed for the glass, but Laina stabbed at his reaching hand with her fork. The waiter retracted his hand, narrowly avoiding a serious injury.

"Forget it. It's already here, so it's here already."

She drank deep as the waiter smiled nervously and backed away, kept backing away and never returned. Laina set the glass down and smiled at Davis. She winked and kicked his shin hard under the table.

It was getting late. The stranger that didn't get hit with Laina's lipstick stood up from his table and left with his friends. The patio was beginning to thin out, the night growing too cold for outside dining. Davis rubbed his throbbing leg and thought about the upcoming winter, another without a solid deal in place.

Laina didn't seem to mind the cold at all. Far from it. She cooled herself with the condensation from her scotch and soda glass, drawing it lightly across her neck.

"Yeah, Davy. Negotiation sucks. It's capsizing the boat before you board it and set sail. You threaten deployment of every weapon in your arsenal, make them think you'd rather see the whole shebang at the bottom of the ocean. But if you stick to your cannons, they'll recognize that you're the real captain. And if you're very patient, maybe they'll even let you steer the ship."


Friday, August 7, 2015

Land of a Thousand "Midnight at the Oasis" Covers

It's almost my time when I get to Cactus Bar. Skye and Devon are onstage, showering the moderate crowd with a sad, acoustic version of "Midnight at the Oasis" as I walk up to the bar. I scan the room and spot a few curious newbies hiding in the corners, but it's mainly the old faces. Devon's on an impressive pedal steel guitar and Skye, dressed in the sparkly gown that reminds the regulars it's Friday night, cradles the mic with both hands. Maria would be proud. Sitting with a few friends in the back center booth, I see Bernie Caldwell wipe a tear away. The room is mostly dark, illuminated only by the light hitting the liquor bottles behind the bar, the red glow from the tabletop candles, and the soft directional spotlight reserved for the stage.

It's almost my time, but that seems irrelevant. It's always midnight here.

I have a rule that I only order red wine if the first version I hear is slower than Maria's 1974 hit, even if it's immediately followed up by a rousing hip-hop cover or a speed metal take. All the same, I'm relieved that nobody seems to be dressed for any wild interpretations tonight. I order a Cabernet from Denise. Devon and Skye take their bows and I'm quick to join the scattered applause. Paulie, our constant host and DJ, cranks up an appropriately slow, but jazzy instrumental of "Midnight at the Oasis", grabs the mic, and takes the stage.

"Thank you, guys," he says. "That was one for the books. Let's hear it again for Devon and the always, always, always lovely Skye."

I clap again with the others as Denise pours house red into my glass. Skye playfully waves away the applause before joining Bernie's group in the back booth. Devon lifts his scotch and soda to the crowd as he rolls the peddle steel guitar's stand back to his table, rejoining his wife.

"What do you call that big, old instrument, Devon?" Paulie asks, though his attention is on the clipboard hanging off the side of the booth next to the stage.

"Oh, this is Cindy," Devon says, extending his arms out toward his wife.

"Bah-dah-dum," Paulie replies as he shoots a smile to the crowd. "That's a little joke for you newcomers, but please don't hold it against us. We'd love it if you returned next week and became old comers." A few more laughs. "No comment. Coming up next, we've got a Cactus regular that doesn't need an introduction. He could use a little cash though, if you've got any to spare." Paulie clears his throat and mock-shrugs to the crowd. I grab my wine, stand up, and make my way toward the stage.

"Oh, and here he is, ladies and gents. The man of the midnight hour, Raymond Goodheart."

I shake Paulie's hand and take the mic. Gentle applause greets me from the crowd, but I'm not here for adulation, nor are the others. We're here to celebrate the song we love and a bygone time that we'll never get back, but one we'll always remember. I take a sip of wine and lay the glass on a small table behind me. Paulie cues up my preferred version of "Midnight at the Oasis", a lush, synthesizer-driven ballad that I personally commissioned from a now-defunct local band. I step into the spotlight and sway to the intro. It's my time, here in an oasis of the world that's just mine for nearly four minutes every Friday night.

"Thanks for the great intro, Paulie," I say over the music. It's only a few seconds till the first line, and every part of me wants this to last forever. I let my voice slide into a deep baritone as I lean in close to the microphone. "Hey, here's one that you might have heard before."


Monday, August 3, 2015

The Mystery of the Mounting Antipathy

They say great mysteries aren't solved, they're unlocked. Okay, nobody said that. Well, I guess I kind of just did, but I'm not a "they" and, really, I'm not much of a detective. I'm more of a noticer of things. However, I don't care what Dale and the rest of the gang say, I'm a better detective than Meatball. I'm alert and eager to figure things out. That stupid mutt couldn't unlock a mystery if it was strapped to his flea collar and was also filled with peanut butter.

It started off like most dumb jokes: simple. One rainy night, our van, the Road Rider, broke down outside of an old museum, so we had to take cover inside. In the main exhibition hall, we met a lonely curator named Cathy who was staying late while readying a new display. She said it would be fine if we stayed overnight until old Gus, the town mechanic, could take a look at the Road Rider.

Later that night, Dale's girlfriend Sheena saw a mysterious, glowing figure lurking near a valuable painting of some lady with grapes. I thought it might be old Gus wearing a reflective coat, but Dale got it into his head that the Lurker was a ghost. We all spread out to investigate. I was paired up with Meatball, since dogs aren't very focused or well-behaved, especially meat-headed Meatball. Seriously, on his own, he would have just chewed up or peed on some priceless tapestry before shedding all over an ancient throne that he'd fallen asleep on. Sorry if that sounds judgmental, but only weak links require such constant supervision. Anyway, we eventually spotted the Lurker creeping near one of the museums emergency exits. Meatball, responsive as a wind-up monkey, broke into a cowardly flee, accidentally slipping on some glow-in-the-dark paint in the process. This revealed that our Lurker wasn't a ghost after all.

It's a longer story than I'm making it, but Dale used the valuable painting as bait to trick the Lurker into rushing back into the the exhibition hall, falling down some stairs and into a net. Dale pulled off the glowing figure's mask and revealed the Lurker to be none other than Cathy herself. She had planned to use the theft of the Lady with Grapes painting as publicity for the failing museum, setting us up as a wandering gang of thieves that stole it. However, Meatball couldn't understand the complicated plot, so he began chasing his own tail. Sheena, or maybe it was Grollo, the funny-smelling hippie we picked up outside of Tacoma, said something like, "Nice detective work, Meatball!" and everybody started laughing. I just stood there, dumbstruck. The dog had detected nothing that night, had stupidly lucked his way from one break in the case to another. The mystery wasn't unlocked; it was pried open by the sloppy paws of a moron.

Since the night of the Lurker, I've watched Meatball praised countless times for shrewd skills of deduction which he has never possessed. Whether he accidentally unravels a mummy by catching some of its gauze on his tail (turns out it was an elderly carnival barker) or clumsily knocks a bookshelf onto a nest of vampires (run-of-the-mill larpers), the rest of the gang shouts "hurray" and proclaims Meatball to be our personal Sherlock Holmes. It's always the same, predictably egregious. But the truth as I've seen it is the only thing Meatball seems equipped to detect is bad weather once it's already arrived, and even that small skill confuses him most days.

As I've said before, I'm no great detective, but I'm better than the mutt. More curious, at the very least. I get it though. He's become the gang's mascot. He's goofy, loud, and not completely without ignorant charm, but I fear misplaced recognition will be our downfall. As for myself, I've spent too much time perched on window sills and lounging in sunbeams. Now it's time to sharpen my claws, to raise my purr to a hiss. So ends the age of Meatball, the bumbling beagle; so begins the reign of Cinnamon, Queen Clue Finder.

Yes, I'm a cat.

Nice detective work, Meatball.