Fred Savage came into the restaurant tonight. Ah, Wonder Years. Remember? I do. Want to know what else I remember…exactly?
Third grade. I don’t know why all of my childhood references seem to trace back to that same year, but they do. Must have been one of the criticals. When Freddie walked in, I could think only of square dancing.
Yes, SD. The forecast is doubtful that SD infused curriculums span elementary schools across the country, but for two weeks, every third grader that passes the realm of Sheridan School in Lake Forest, Illinois learns the ins and outs. And wouldn’t you know…a memorable episode of Wonder Years aired the night before we were going to start. Allow me to lend precious insight to that fateful day.
Getting your partner is everything. Everything. How do I put this…delicately? In third grade, square dancing is sex. Sex is square dancing. Hot, relentless, glorious. The rare, knock me back sort that comes along once every…let’s not delve.
The touch, the spin, the dose-e-doe. Oh, blow me spell check. Nobody knows dose-e-doe.
I landed my girl. As far as I was concerned in my “Wonder Years,” she was THE GIRL. Allison Martinet. No fictitious names here boys and girls. Possibly mis-spelled, but not fictitious. I was sweet on her. I think she was sweet on me. Cheers Miss Norman. That day, you made my life. Anyone else and I’d likely be mining indistinctive ore in southern Wyoming.
I think we were good. Who remembers anyway? Or more important…who the fuck cares?
But I do remember the doors that opened after our fateful pairing. I remember when second base was kissing with a bit more than lips. Bizarre…but I do remember…the back hallway at Hawthorn theater. I wonder what Allison is up to.
And I wonder if my readers are connected enough where Allison lends a response. Was it Hawthorn Theater? 4th Grade? Or am I way off? I’m pretty sure we haven’t spoken in years.
We’ll see….
All because Fred Savage came in tonight.
Sometimes…I wander.
Guess what’s gone to holy hell? Or am I getting redundant? I don’t remember how long ago it was that you could quote me as saying I had a good job. Nothing like working 28 nights in October to bleed the soul.
We caught our managers cooking the books. Last Monday, 450 dollars disappeared from the tip pool. Someone’s been taking our money. And by taking, I mean stealing. And by stealing…that ain’t cool.
So anyway, it’s time to go. I’m miserable, only working to build a cushion. And yes, I realize how badly that screams hypocrite. How does that not go against everything that I am…that I preach? Exactly.
We all could have walked tonight…and the notion was circulating. For whatever reason, it didn’t happen. It’s that guilt…that hesitation where no matter the certainty of deception, you give someone the benefit of the doubt. The terrible weakness of being kind. That little bitch of a pestering voice…
What if I’m wrong?
We called a meeting. My opening argument went along the lines of, “We have a serious problem with the tip pool. I’m an instinctual man and I trust my instincts. They tell me that we’re being deceived…that you’re backpedaling, making up stories…and we’re being lied to.”
If you’re the manager…or better yet, a world renowned Matre’D and one of your minions accuses you of lying…and stealing, what’s your response? Yes, I’m asking.
Here’s how it went…and how it goes if you are lying through your teeth:
- Where’s (insert our GM’s name)? Could you please find him? He handles tips.
- He said you handle tips. (Insert uncomfortable silence).
Enter our GM…who’s been hiding his head in the sand the last two days.
- So here’s the problem I think you’re talking about. Monday’s party. You see. There was a service charge of 20% because of the size of the party. You see. And they tipped on top of that. Okay. So…wait, what was I saying? Sorry. I had to just like climb up like three flights of stairs. Hold on. Let me catch my breath.
Shit you not…on with the show.
- So, you guys get the tip and the service charge (which is a...tip) goes to the house.
They knew we were coming and that’s all the sparkle we got. At least dance a dance. Coat that shit sugary sweet.
If these accusations were completely unfounded, and everyone could look down at clean hands, here’s how it should have gone:
-What did you just say? Are you serious? You’re questioning me? My dignity, my character? Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Get out of my restaurant. Your last check will be mailed with a, “Go fistfuck yourself and don’t ever come back.” I never, ever want to see you again.
Or maybe that was exactly what I was crossing fingers for…to stage some dramatic, have fun running it without us walk out. It didn’t happen. If they were to oust me, I could at least collect severance. The only problem is that my job security is limitless. I can call my bosses liars and cheats, go in the next day, and they’ll kiss my ass and cross their fingers that I don’t walk out…that none of us walk out. If you ever find yourself in a managerial situation such as previously mentioned…you don’t exactly own the high ground…in case that’s not blatantly obvious.
I’m pretty sure I mentioned the same cliché characteristics in my initial interview.
- Hard worker, dedicated, reliable, personable…
And didn’t mention that when the luster wears off, I become the most rabid fucking revolutionist against authority in all its forms. And more dangerous yet…my words inspire…and will lead to an overthrow in the ballpark of 98%.
Fuck with me and I will fuck you. That’s a terrible thing to say, is it not? I completely agree. But I can say such things. I have the right. Why? Because I can also say show me love and you will be my Queen. You will be my King. You will be whatever you ever wanted to be. Sometimes, I find it troubling how this pendulum of mine swings. More often than not, though…I end up giving thanks.
There’s tragedy behind this…and on so many levels. I can’t even get into it. For the past 5 months, I’ve lived my life with these people. And in some fucked up way, it’s going to be sad to leave. It’s just the way I am…like waving goodbye to a vacation spot you see once a year even though you’re dying to get back home. Obscure references, I know…but if you get it, you get it.
It’s just that…this isn’t how I want to go out. It’s not my style.
This place suffocates, robs away the foolish. The foolish that gets me by in a manner that…how do I explain? I’m just…such a dreamer. And I want more of it back.
I’m just…there are bits and pieces of life out there…things that make me so heavy I have to fill up, blow out and smile just to breathe. And I don’t recall ever finding one at the Argyle Hotel.
Bits and pieces like the one riding #15 in spin. Bits and pieces like what’s starting to flow on my sheets the second time through. Bits and pieces that will rain from the sky as I wonder through the years that come.
What a cheat, to tie it back with a line like that.
Believe me…I know.
