Special (Jobs 15, 16 and 17)

Where I grew up, there weren't many restaurants serving more than steak and potatoes. I never recall a time when my father asked to speak to the sommelier, or complained that his martini didn't have enough vermouth. All we had were pizzerias and delis. So, when I moved to my cousin’s area and walked into the newly renovated luxurious Outhouse Restaurant, I didn't quite know how to proceed. For one, there were tablecloths and starched white folded napkins placed in front of  Bordeaux glasses, instead of the usual paper napkin and weathered plastic tumbler. The menu didn’t list “samplers” or towers of jalapeño poppers. Instead, there were oyster bars and bib lettuce salads. It was a whole other ball game and the prices were the first thing that made me want, so desperately, to get the job. The owner was a jolly type of fellow, named Nick, who seemed to love my energy.  "You don't have enough experience, but we can teach you everything you need to know." Not long after, he confided in me that within the next three years he was going to be financially independent (years later, in New York , this same man wrote a bad personal check for his modeling agency’s dinner).  He also told me that he wanted to buy up the entire street so that he can turn it into a type of Neverland for the children. Popcorn and cotton candy. I believed him. I also believed that he was a feminine womanizer, until he asked me to stay late one night and serve him and his flirtatious man-friend rounds of Johnny Walker Blue by the fireplace. "He's not gay. Men have drinks too." This was an entirely new world to me. I was very naive and completely out of my element. On my first day, I proudly displayed my crisp dress shirt and sharply creased khakis. No more stripes and buttons or birthday singing – I was moving up in the world. I rushed around with a short-haired British woman who was able to handle a five table section, sustain a perfect smile and still mutter insults at the pompous customers as she turned away. I trained within a week, showed everyone on the staff that I was completely capable of handling myself and even enjoyed a couple of drinks afterwards with everyone at the local wine bar. "Wine bar! Can you believe this?” I said to my mother on the phone.   "Yeah. I like wine too, Chestah," my mother revealed in her thick Bronx accent. "Your fathah sometimes brings home that big bottle of pino greggo." "Grigio", I corrected. "It's Pino Grigio, Ma, and it's a nice light-bodied wine that has mineral hints of limestone and grass." It was a bumpy start, but I learned everything – the way to present the wine, fold a guest’s napkin when they got up from the table.  I mean, wasn't that what it was all about? Learning? This is why I had no problems when my very first table showed me how to open up their very expensive bottle of red wine. "You're doin' it all wrong kid, here just give me the thing." When I explained what “venetian” was to a table, a woman graciously corrected me and explained that the right pronunciation was “venison…ven-i-son.”  There was even a helpful old Jewish man that spoke to his wife about me as if I weren't even standing there. "No darling, the waiter doesn't know what he's talking about, just order the brisket." It wasn't until a customer reprimanded me for reading my specials off of a pad that I noticed things began to feel...well, a little difficult. "We spend enough money in this place, we should get the proper service," he says. "Huh?" I muttered. "You should have those specials memorized," he complained. At this point, I noticed the owner's beet-red face. He was disappointment in my performance. He quickly sent his Mexican assistant, Pedro, to the kitchen to get the table a plate of home made cookies for their distress. “Memorize?” I thought. “That's kind of silly. Why would I memorize something that's already written down for me?” Nick and I had a little powwow. He told me to get with the program: "I can't afford to look unprofessional, Chester , this is my business." I decided to learn the specials and try to step up my game so that the Outhouse could get a good review. "You never know when they're going to come in, Chester . You need to be on point", he constantly reminded me. On one particular night, the same night I noticed that the Executive Chef would describe the specials as if he were tasting them on the spot (closed eyes and wet lips – a typical air taster), we had monk fish. There I was, giving out my perfect sales pitch. Selling the special and making tables happy. Nick looked over at me and thought to himself, "Boy, you've come a long way."  He couldn't have been prouder of his prodigy or gayer in the pink colored shirt he claimed was, "Salmon. Not pink. Salmon." But nothing – and I do mean nothing – can compare to the pressure that I felt as I stood in front of a table of eight doctors that stopped me midway into my well-oiled special speech, and asked, "What did you just say? Did you say hand roasted?" A little caught off guard, I looked down at my "only in an emergency" pad, to see the exact word that the chef had told us. "Yeah, that's what it says. Hand roasted", I replied.  "You mean pan roasted", he said. See, this is the point where my rationale went a little haywire. First of all, I'd been saying hand roasted all night and people never questioned me. In fact they loved it. And just because they were doctors didn't mean that they knew everything. But, on the other hand, I never did stop to ask myself what that meant. So, being the proud person that I am, I told him, "No sir, tonight the Chef is doing it hand roasted." The entire restaurant seemed to have stopped. Like when MJ entered a bar. The owner stood there sweating. I was used to this by now, and so was Pedro (already standing there with a cookie plate). "Well what the hell does that mean?" asked the man. "What does that mean?" I said nice and slowly, hoping to buy myself a little bit of scramble time. "It means...that...the Chef takes the little...fish patty and sort of massages it with some chilies and salt and herbs", I said. "That can't be hygienic." "No it is", I said. "See, cause he uh…he uh...”  What the fuck was I saying?  What the hell is a hand roasted monk fish?  It must mean something.  "You know what? Let me go back and check." Nick's pursed lips and bugged-out eyes told me that I was in some seriously deep shit. So, I nervously approached the air-tasting chef, "Hey, Taylor ?" "Yeah?" "It's a hand roasted monk fish, right?" I ask. "Yeah" he replies, "A pan roasted monk fish." How was this going to get fixed? How could I tell them that all of what I said meant nothing but babble from a newbie that didn't know what the hell he was talking about. "Is everything alright?" Nick asks. "I got it under control" I said, as he motioned for Pedro to go back into the kitchen with the cookies. And I did. I marched right back up to that table and with a look on my face as if this was all going to be something we could laugh about in days to come, I said, "You know what? You were right sir. It is a pan roasted monk fish, but the chef told me to tell you, that if you'd like he can cook it on his hand." Silence is an understatement. Revulsion is more like it. Every one of those doctors looked at my stupid little joke as if I had insulted their doctoral intelligence. I looked back and remember thinking how fast Pedro retrieved that plate of cookies. I got no laughs, no sympathy and zero respect. Needless to say, I wasn't at the Outhouse for long and neither was anybody else. It closed a year later. However, I did get another job, at an even ritzier place, not long after. Talk about money? I was officially working at a New York City steakhouse. And not only was it a steakhouse, but it was Donna's (one of the best in the city). The money and level of professionalism was practically triple compared to the Outhouse. High rolling executives came flooding in with their corporate cards. Bottles of wine for over six hundred dollars were poured like Pellegrino. The owner was never around, and the chef was a scrawny little chain smoker that loved to make me drink with him, just so he'd get the opportunity to tell me, "You know what Chester ? You're an asshole.”  His smile couldn't have been wider, I’d nervously laugh, and he'd always repeat it to convince me, "No I'm serious! You're a fuckin' asshole." Everyone liked me and life was great. However, right when you think you've got things under control, a table walks in and pops you with a question that...well, that you don't know the answer to. "What's a chanterelle?" this woman asked. I knew if I went back to the chef he would look at me with utter disgust, not to mention the backlash I’d get during our after shift drink, so I did what every other waiter learns to do. I lied.  Made it up on the spot.  I thought to myself, "Just say what it sounds like." "Sorry, I just don't know what that is", the woman confessed. "No worries, miss, that's what I'm here for", I said. "No, a chanterelle is an herb. It's a plant...very leafy and green. It's just got the most wonderful flavor", I said. She smiled, was sold on my bullshit and ordered the special. But when the dish actually arrived and I could barely see her face from the steaming heap of mushrooms on her plate, I knew I was in trouble. She waved me over and I quickly stepped to. "Now, where is the chanterelle on here?” she asked. One of the uptight floor managers looked to see how I'd handle the situation. "They're probably on the bottom" I said. "Would you mind bringing me an extra side of it, so I can get a taste?" she asked. "Honey" her boyfriend chimed in, "He said they're on the bottom." "No, I know," she said. I thought to quickly defuse the situation by “yesing” her to death.  "No, it's not a problem. I'll get that right out to you," I offered as I swiftly made my way back into the kitchen to invent a seasoning that never existed. "You told her a chanterelle was an herb!" my co-worker says. "It's a mushroom, moron." "I know that now," I replied, "but I have to just play along and figure something out." "What's up with that table?" asked the manager. "Oh, she just wants a side of herbs and stuff." "And stuff?" he asked. "Yeah...you know, like just a side of them." "Which ones." "Oh, don't worry about it," I told him. "I'll take care of it." He walked away without completely being convinced that I knew what I was doing. So there I was, back near the dishwasher, ripping off leaves from any sort of green that I could stuff down my apron from the walk-in fridge. In fact, I didn't even know which ones I grabbed. I was trying to do it as fast as I could, so the maniac chef wouldn't catch on and, at the same time, I was trying to think of a flavor profile so that it didn't taste like anything she'd had before. It had a minty scent that I killed with some lemon. I quickly seasoned it while softly coaching myself, "And a little-bit-of-salt…" I made it look appetizing, put it on a plate, and served it. She, gratefully, thanked me, covered her forty dollar steak with my nasty concoction that I wouldn't have fed to a dog and piled it into her face. "It's wonderful" she said. I slowly bowed my head, smiled and walked away, but not without giving her the old, "Let me know if there's anything else I can get for you." One of the last restaurants I ever worked at was full of verbal landmines that could easily trip up even the most seasoned of servers. It was called the Nocturne Room, a seafood restaurant that was full of itself. Every shift, they would cook and serve over one hundred dollars worth of menu items for the wait staff. Managers would go around the room and ask us what was in "that dish or this dessert" and made you feel ashamed for saying anything out of order. Nobody wanted to hear your opinion of something – they simply wanted you to sell it. The owner’s name was Jacob, and he was a spoiled child that came from a disturbingly rich family. His mother, I was convinced, should already have been dead, but had enough money to stop the process. She had a wing in the Museum of Natural History and tipped like shit.  His father was a talented prick. One of those guys that would enjoy watching you run around because his salmon was undercooked even though he ordered it from the raw bar. He was a lawyer and a classic piece of shit. I often felt that Jacob was riding my back with a whip, telling me how to stand, walk and trying to practically control my mind through telepathy. I despised going into this job. It was the worst of the worst.  If it wasn't mothers with strollers streaming through the doors in droves, like zombies, creeping out of the Hudson at sunrise for Sunday brunch, it was a decrepit old woman that wanted her fish boiled…. or, a table of six couples sitting outside, appalled that a huge pigeon came and shit across their food.  Saturdays sucked if you were in the front section. The owner stood there with his hip outfit and fake hospitality as he pummeled you with table after table, expecting nothing but perfection. If you needed help, it concerned him. It was table twelve that did it to me.  Two couples that were looking for a wonderful night of fine dining. They weren't from the city, so they had a tinge more manners than the average Upper West side patron. The special was a South African Black Toothfish, or better known as rockfish – the ugliest food I'd ever seen to date. I was sure that this was, at some point, mistaken for the Loch Ness Monster. In order to remember confusing details of a special, I would make up easy references.  For the rockfish, I thought of Chris Rock. The reason being was that the fish had huge bucked teeth that stuck out and...well, so did Chris Rock.  So, it was completely understandable, at least from my point of view, that I didn’t call it the correct title of a South African Black Toothfish but, instead, a “Black African Toothfish” (remember the Chris Rock thing was in my head). It was a mistake that Jacob, so kindly, brought to my attention by wiggling his index finger at me, from across the room. The problem wasn't the slipup; the problem was that my four guests were black.  If they were offended, it would have been news to me since I never heard a complaint. But I knew Jacob wasn't impressed. Though I never got fired, my theory of specials is this: Why have them?  If you do, let the fucking server read them and stop making everything so complicated. Write it on a chalkboard for Christ's sake and nobody will be offended, misinformed or overlooked. It would all be there for everyone to see. Besides, most career waiters that I knew would nod “yes” to the chef, go back to their section, never sell the kitchen's little overpriced inventions and, still, they made the majority of people happy.

Knees, necks and nerves

I've always loved the soft touch of a warm animal. A bunny rabbit with its little fluffy feet. A big cat that can warm up your belly on a cold winter night. But, the moment you run my hand over the fuzzy velvet feel of a horse’s nose, I sweat. Beautiful as they may be, these things are dangerous.

When I fell in love with a woman and took her to Puerto Rico on my mom's credit card, however, I figured that enough time had passed. Let me be more specific. When I was eight years old, my cousins and I were usually dropped off in the wilderness for two months to make the most out of sticks and running brooks. I remember building a shrine at the bottom of a hill just to keep myself busy. I remember my tough Irish Uncle Marty chopping logs and convincing us to do work around the house with the promise of a special treat (which always ended up being “a hearty hand shake”). It wouldn't be out of the ordinary to see us kids go ballistic over a trip to the one store in town, the Gay Bull, to get taffy and load up on all sorts of sugary, shit candy. We relied on each other for excitement, which is why, when my Aunt Renee came in and said, "Today we are goin' horseback riding", I nearly flipped from excitement.

My horse's name was Lady. She was the size of a wall and had the manners of a drunk. All of us shouted that our horse was the best, and then we were told to file right behind one another as the man-like woman took us out into the "wild." While I was the last in line on the trail, the one trying to keep up, I could sense that Lady was getting restless. A couple of twitches and disrespectful facial expressions, but nothing to be alarmed by. I was in the moment and laughing at how awkward the girls looked on these crazy beasts…. I am pretty sure it was at that point that my horse lost its mind. She started to trot and quickly busted into a sprint, which eventually turned into a gallop. All the while, I was in shock. "This isn't really happening. I'm not really moving this fast on an animal fifteen times my size."

As I passed my entire family I noticed the look on the instructor's face. That's when I panicked. Never mind not knowing where Lady and I were running off to, what concerned me more was how it was all going to end. Eventually, I was clotheslined by a pine branch. The mini stunt show for my cousins ended in tears and embarrassment. At that moment the pain meant nothing to me, I could handle the pain. It was the idea that something went horribly wrong and it happened on my horse.

"Lady!", screamed the rough instructor with the straw hat. "She's never done this before."

She rode to my rescue and asked if I was alright. Yes, I had pine needles embedded in my neck and, yes, I did do a back flip off a horse and land on jagged rocks and, yes, I was alright. I was more than alright. I was relieved to have gotten off that goddamn beast alive. But I was scared. That’s where the emotion came in. The fear. I was terrified of horses after that, but not completely convinced that they were deadly.

Years later, Uncle Marty longed to recreate his boyhood memories of galloping in the fields of Ireland and thought it would be good for the entire family to take up riding. He took us to the stables one day and declared that he bought a horse named Louie and a pony named Firecracker.

"They're beautiful, wouldn't ya say?” in his thick Irish brogue.

Everyone looked at me to see if I'd actually go through with it. Uncle Marty tried to beat the fear out of me like a priest performing an exorcism. He thought it was best for me to keep riding even though I pleaded to be left alone. I hung onto Firecracker's mane while she spun in psychotic circles. I had close calls of falling off but managed to hang on with one hand as the family cheered me on. I wasn't getting hurt. But when Uncle Marty heard me scream, that's when everything changed. A boy scream? A boy who was supposed to one day grow up and be a man?

He pulled me aside and asked, "What's the matter with ya Chester? What do you got to be so afraid of boy?"
 "I'm afraid it's gonna jump over the fence and run out into the road and get me hit by a car. I was afraid of dying." I've always been a fatalist.

"Do you think the feckin' thing is dumb?” he asked. "Do you think this here little pony is gonna want to get its face smashed in now by some bloody truck? Eh? Do ya?"

I did, but I could never tell him that. The way I saw it was, if horses weren't completely stupid, they were still dumber than humans, and we got ourselves into accidents all the time.

A few years later I realized that Uncle Marty was right; horses weren't stupid and they weren't necessarily monsters either. They just needed a little positive attention. So that's what I did, I gave them some positive attention. I brushed them. I fed them and basically, I let them know that I was there for them. And that I could love them. That is until Louie kicked me in my knee cap and left me for dead. I had to fend for myself while I crawled in the mud amongst a mosh pit of infuriated hooves which, by the way, could have easily killed me. Firecracker had sniffed Louie's ass and Louie didn't like that, (I don't blame him), and so he went to buck and it caught my knee. Understandable. But as I slid my way back to the gate, I was sure I'd never be put in this situation again. And, to top it off, nobody cared. Nobody even noticed that I was tossed seven feet in the air or that I was crawling like a war hero to get out of the ring and, worse, when the dust finally settled, everybody told me that it was my fault.

"He only did that cause you're givin' him mixed signals", my smaller cousin said.

Fuck signals! I sat on him. Was that the wrong signal? And what did she know? She was born like a week ago! Even worse, when I arrived to safety from this stampede and could barely walk, everyone thought I was just being a pussy.

"You're fine", said Uncle Marty. "Now what you want to do is get right back on that horse to show him you're not afraid."

But I was afraid. What the hell was wrong with these people? This man was being downright neglectful. I was a child. Twelve...isn't twelve still a child?

The color in my face was gone and I was losing consciousness, possibly passing over to the other side, but all the while I was to stop my whining and take the blame for not being able to control a furry fit of rage with two leather straps. I was completely misunderstood. Nobody would take my side. Why didn't they come to help me? When it reared up like Long Silver I screamed, “My knee!”

“Didn’t anyone hear me?” I later asked.

My dazed older cousin, the elder of Ms. Know-it-all, and a tomboy in nature, shook her freckle-covered face and muttered, "I thought you said, "Yippee."

In the end, after much convincing, I got a ride to the hospital and, sure enough, I was legitimately hurt. I'm not sure exactly what gave it away. The elephantitis of my joint or the crackling sound that was heard from every step I took. Regardless, I was now convinced that I would never ride another horse for as long as I lived. And this time I meant it!

But, still, maybe enough time had passed? Besides, I was with my lady friend, and I did feel a need to overcompensate. In the passing months, I ballooned from stress. I gained ten pounds and I was already shy about what my horse would think when I sat on it. And here in the beautiful rolling hills of Puerto Rico, I was sure these horses weren’t as high strung.

I told the guide about my hesitance, and so she stuck me with Fernando, a horse that looked like it was counting the days to retirement. When I mounted him I felt the usual guilt. Why should this poor horse have to drag me up and down the path just so I can say that, "Yes, even though I'm fat, a horse can still carry me?" Who was being tested? The horse or myself? When I felt that it was able to move with me on its back I, surprisingly, went to a very nice place. Maybe with the extra weight it would bring things down a notch. And it worked. There we were, slowly walking through the local neighborhood, with the locals all waving with coconuts and smiles. There was a nice man sitting on his porch with a parrot that made the sound of horses and everybody giggled, even me. Fernando was calm and I couldn't have been calmer. My girl looked back at me to make sure I was okay. And I was. I really was. This was destined to be my best experience yet.

Now, my old self would have disapproved of a pile of people on horses walking on the side of a small windy road – and a real road, not a dirt one, a real road with lanes – but I couldn't tell you what I was thinking. I guess I just felt up for the adventure. “If the locals could do it, so could I.” What I wasn't aware of was that this wasn't your average ride. We were to embark on a three hour trail of beaches, roads and brush. My ass felt bony and sore which paled in comparison to when I slipped up and accidentally sat on my balls. It wasn't until the lady in front of me couldn't get her horse to move while we were moseying through thick high grass that I got a little nervous. Since my horse's face was sitting directly in her horse’s ass, I decided to just...I don't know, lift my leg out of the way to avoid a potential knee injury? I must have looked like a real renegade. A one legged cowboy that was in-con-trol. I lifted my leg pretty high. Higher than a man in my state should have been allowed to.

Finally, we were instructed to go around the still creature and wait on the beach for the guide before we were to continue on. This is when, what I like to call, "Shit Happens", happened. At the first chance he got, Fernando rushed to the tree line and used my bloated body to make a path. It was as if I jumped into another world. For some reason I thought about Vietnam (don't ask me why). I was surrounded by jungle animals and felt the Viet Con were waiting for me in the grass. But then I started going to that bad place after enough pulling to the left and tugging to the right didn't do anything. We went up small hills and found our way back to the path, but, Fernando, the smart horse that he was, threw himself back into the bushes and trees, this time prickers, and there I was busting out of the wilderness, back onto the beach with sticks and shit covered in my wild hair, just in time for everyone to ask, "Why did you do that?!" After pulling a stunt like that I would have normally gotten off, but since we were in the middle of nowhere, I had to carry on. Plus, it gave everyone a good laugh. Not the worst person to be.

The sun was down, we were back on the windy Puerto Rican road, where drunk driving wasn't a big deal (I was guilty of it myself) and where morons felt the need to honk their horns as if I wasn’t aware that I wasn’t supposed to be in the middle of the road on a stallion. I was stressed. I was stressed that all of this commotion would prompt this animal to lose his shit and make a run for it. That was about the time a fellow rider tried to pass us. I learned that the golden rule of what not to do in horseback riding is to try passing another horse.

"Fernando was threatened", the guide told me. Of course, this is what all horse lovers say to justify the need for the animal to go from 0 to 60 with a paying patron towards oncoming traffic. Uncle Marty tried so desperately to convince me that horses weren't stupid, but I had my doubts that they understood the rules of traffic. In my mind they wouldn't be aware that behind those bright shiny lights was a body of metal that was moving fast enough to smear the both of us across the intersection.

I was planning my escape. Maybe it would jump the car. They did seem to have little cars in Puerto Rico. Maybe we could jump it and I would then be able to run into another tree branch. All I know is that I was flailing like I'd been kidnapped and everyone saw me at my worst. The last stretch was unacceptable. My mouth made that funny face that people make when they are falling out of planes and my woman described me as an Indiana Jones stunt man. I passed the little parrot that made the stupid fucking horse noise and we arrived back at the camp before I shit my pants. At that point I was convinced I was already going through post traumatic stress. The reigns were dangling off both sides and I would have let Fernando do anything, just as long as he didn't run.

The guide came over to help me down. "That's funny", she said. "Fernando's never done that before."

If she weren’t helping me off of hell I would have strangled the life out of her for making such a stupid comment. I would have cut her up into little Puerto Rican pieces and fed her to the stables. Because the truth is…she did know. And so did Fernando. Everyone knew. And now I know. "Too bad for them", I thought. "They just went and lost a good customer."

Fred and Ace (Job # 14)

Right smack in the middle of my twenties, with no promising career opportunities other than waiting tables at Bennigan's, I was offered a job I couldn't afford to turn down.

My mother sat me across from my Aunt Nell with a cup of tea and said, "We got this guy that needs to be taken care of. Real good money. The only problem is that he's requested males only and so...well the both of us were thinking of you.” For some time my mother and her sisters were running their own business, taking care of elderly people that needed assistance. They had stumbled upon a ninety-four year old Irish man that left loads of cash to his lawyer who saw that he got the proper treatment over the duration of his life.

"He's pretty much forgotten everything and can't be left alone."

My first reaction was, "Abso-fuckin’-lutely not", but when I was told that I would be making twelve dollars an hour under the table to sit with a man that thought he was somewhere else, I figured, "Absolutely." I mean, I hated waiting tables and this would be the perfect cash flow while I kept my eyes peeled for something else. The only catch was that I had to go to this retirement home, spend the night and help him go to the bathroom.


The place was called Northern Acres, a sweet old mansion that harbored the elderly – but it wasn't, and I repeat, it wasn't a nursing home. After all, who in their right mind would work at a nursing home? My Aunt Nell was slick with her business deals. She was a red-headed stick figure that talked a smooth game making strangers cry over the rosary and firmly believing in what the fortune tellers had in store for them. Most of her friends were from AA even though she hadn't taken a drink in thirty plus years. She knew how to take care of business and when she saw an opportunity, she jumped on it. So, when I arrived at Northern Acres, it didn't surprise me that I wasn't taking care of one person, but two.

"Two people?” I said. "I've never done this before."

She looked at me, pinched my cheeks and said in what sounded like nasally baby talk, "Don't worry sweetie, these guys don't know who the fuck they are anyway."

At least she raised my salary to fifteen an hour. Their names were Fred and Ace, both ninety-four years old and both suffering from Alzheimer’s. Both had done well for themselves and managed to save up enough to live out the rest of their lives in this homely estate. Fred was a Professor at a prestigious college and Ace made pipes.


The inside of the mansion was what you would see in an old movie. Outdated patterns that covered the wall. Light classical music could be heard on the speakers and everyone looked like they were waiting for something to walk through the front door, pick them up and take them back to a place that resembled something they could remember. The temperature was warm and the entrance was filled with bright old people that lit up at the sight of a stranger. While this may have seemed random at first, it didn't take me long to realize that everyone's space was meticulously claimed like cats in a cage. The woman on the left always sat on the left and the couple in the corner always sat in the corner. These people survived by rituals.

Aunt Nell walked me over to a nice old man that seemed to be lost in thought. He was sitting in a chair near the front door.

"Fred? Fred honey. This is Chester”, my Aunt says.

Fred slowly picked his head up as if it weighed a ton. His half smirk attempted to lift his droopy eyes. After a moment of awkward silence, he went right back to his catatonic state.

"He just got a bath. So he's nice and clean, aren't you?” she asked.

"Aren't I what?” yelled Fred (his hearing wasn't so good after the war).

"Clean. Aren't you clean?" "Oh, I don't have time for that", he replied.

I didn't know what to make of this. He just gave a senseless answer for a very simple question, which convinced me that this was going to be a cake walk. Fred didn’t want to be there any more than I did.

"Come on. Let me introduce you to Ace."

We walked down the long hallway and into the TV room where a very small thin man sat. He drooled all over himself and had a disgusting handkerchief. I found myself becoming confused.  Was I supposed to wipe that off of his chin? Was that part of my job? Ace had a horrible hunched back and needed a silver, square walker to get around.

If I were to compare these two, Ace was a prehistoric bird, a bit light on his feet and still fragile, while Fred was a broken statue that had hands of stone. When he stood up you got the feeling he was made of lead. If Fred fell, I had visions of a tractor pulling him up. If Ace fell, I had visions of picking pieces of him up. I was warned to never let both of these men out of my sight. That, even though he was convinced he had stubble on his face, Fred wasn't to go near a razor or he'd make himself bleed to death. I also found out that Ace tends to yell in his sleep and likes to keep the light on at night.

"I've got to go sweetie. So they both go to bed in an hour and they need to be up for breakfast by eight."

Aunt Nell swept out the door faster than I would have liked. I didn't know what to do at first, but I then reminded myself that part of my job was to do nothing. I found a seat and patted Ace on the lap as if we'd been friends for years. He looked at me and smiled, "It's good to see you again."

We could have watched porn for all those people cared. They would have still sustained the same smiles on their faces and bickered about how cold everything was. The room was pitch black with just the light from the television and the slight shade of red coming from the exit sign.

"They got you workin' here too?” comes this voice from the dark of the room.

Out steps Lauren. A man that had two teeth and one testical. I know this because he told me. One of those people that spews out his history as if you aren't going to judge him for it. Within ten minutes of us meeting he confessed that he was in a legal battle with a doctor that laughed at the size of his penis while going under anesthesia during an operation.

"Geez they got your whole family workin' here", he said.

In a nutshell, the man was dirty. Filthy really. He was the type to play two sides and always had an answer for everything. He was seventy five, a parent of three wild young girls and the person responsible for making our food. Their food I should say, as the owner would dart his eyes at me with contempt and never let me sit down at the tables, especially while meals were being served. It seemed everybody knew what my aunt was up to. Taking money under the table while none of us were properly qualified to look after these men. Nobody liked it and, furthermore, nobody liked us.

Lauren revealed himself to be even more of a rodent when he claimed he never touched his little girl, "She's just goin' around startin' trouble. I told her, I said you keep this up and you're gonna be out on your own. Them people are gonna come back and take you away from me." That sort of information wasn’t what usually came up in my line of conversation. I wasn’t sure what shocked me more, what he told me or the idea that this mess of a person had little kids at the age of seventy five. Who would sleep with this thing? The man wouldn't shut the fuck up and, furthermore, he began having arguments with himself. The type that didn’t require feedback. I had to constantly remind myself that he wasn’t a patient. Just when I would feel I’d had enough, I envisioned all of the money I was getting paid to endure such a vile presence.

Fred was the easier of the two. When it was time for bed, he slowly made his way down to his room, got under the covers and thanked me for taking his teeth. Ace on the other hand, needed coaxing. He was like a child that needed a bedtime story, only he'd forget what I was talking about halfway through. Another interesting quality about Ace was that he was convinced we were actually in the stories. He'd repeatedly demand to speak to the captain of the ship which forced me to play along and give him some random reason about how he never properly tied up his horses or how he should have put in a request for leave much earlier than he had. Even worse, he refused to piss in the toilet. I quickly learned that, while completely capable of making his way over to the bathroom, he just preferred the rusty Folgers can that sat beside his bed. I realized that rusty meant reusable. How many people got on their knees to help this man rust up this tin? Grey pubic hair that looked silver from a certain angle. I remember thinking it seemed like something to look forward to. When I realized just what it was I was doing, a surge of adrenaline shot to my head. A panic really. His balls dropped to the floor like silly putty. I wasn't sure if I should run or play tetherball around his little leg. To get him into bed wasn’t an easy task either. He violently shook and was as stiff as a board. When all was said and done he finally passed out and I stepped out of his room feeling that maybe waiting tables wasn't so bad after all. Lauren told me that whenever Ace would scream, "Help me"; it was just him talking in his sleep. Later I learned that it also meant he pissed the bed. The only other thing I could compare Ace to was a camel. The man hardly drank water but constantly pushed it out. Sometimes twice a night.

What was becoming evident was the pattern of delusion among the guests of Northern Acres. Was fifteen dollars really worth it? I turned the page of an antique magazine, and desperately tried to read in the dark. In the distance I could hear "Help me, help me" coming out of Ace's room. I could also hear Lauren snoring. The man was tormenting me even in his sleep.

Job #2

My father always told me to "dress for the job that you want", and so it struck me as odd when I was looked upon with utter shock for wearing a nice pair of jeans and a buttoned up shirt (my father's) for the dish washing position at Daniel's Diner. "You know you're gonna get dirty right?” my fat friend, the one responsible for pulling some strings to make this opportunity a reality, says. "Yeah", I said, with a slight grin, as if I knew a thing or two that my friend didn't. I suppose I imagined the world working different. I suppose I imagined myself busting threw the door with my tapered hand-me-down jeans and boat shoes (also my father's), my size 15 shirt that made me look sick and gaunt (which I was), and all of the employees and owners and customers stopping in their tracks, thinking to themselves, "This kids got potential." The owner would be holding a snifter of brandy and a big cigar, and maybe Jimmy Stewart would be sitting at the bar. However, reality slapped me in the face as I was shoved and pushed to the side as mom-waitresses (the worst kind) rushed to make more coffee and frantically screamed to the cooks about a side of bacon that never made it to the table. The place smelt of pancake batter and coleslaw and I was looked at like that drop of urine that somehow makes its way onto the toilet seat. In a spot that inconvenienced everyone. The owner was a natural drip of a human being. No brandy or cigars. The truth was he wouldn't give a shit if I were naked. His name was Danny and he was upset that he wasn't Magnum PI. He spoke with no inflection in his voice; he oozed of bitterness and had a hypnotic quality whenever he did my job for me. He jabbed at me with smart ass comments about the right way to do things. When I asked him the point of cleaning something that's only going to get dirty again, he asked me the point of brushing my teeth. He never yelled, he just learned to not expect all that much from me. I was dependable, but I did things at my speed.  Like the time I ran the hundred meter dash and paced myself. Of course it didn't make me feel better that the star performer at Daniel's Diner, Tim, was an old, alcoholic, half mentally challenged man, who wasn't afraid to manhandle the silverware or ring out a dirty mop with his bare hands. “Come on man, whatta you only got one hand”, he’d bark, as if it was a contest to see who could look more out of control while carrying a stack of plates.  He gawked at the women and smelt of gasoline. Rumor has it that his mother was a car. Danny spoke of Tim like he was his own private hunchback. He called on him whenever somebody couldn’t cover and Tim pretty much saw Danny as his master. But I did just enough to get by.  I might have been young, but I still didn’t see the need to pull out my back while scrubbing a pot or even break a sweat for that matter. Things got done when they got done. I made meat patties round and cleaned the blades of the slicer. I dragged out the grease pit and dumped it into a huge box that smelled like death. I mopped floors and peeled potatoes. I made home fries and conversation and, for some reason, was the target for a good laugh. My fat friend had an even fatter brother named John who was the head cook on Sunday mornings. He was thick with ideals that made him a prime candidate for the Army. He fought people with belts of all color (blue, yellow and brown) and even though he never learned a lick of technique, he kicked all of their asses, most likely due to his size. He could endure a good hit and not feel a thing. This man became my friend. If he was a cock I was a vagina, and though he was aware of our differences, he still tried to pump me up and make me stick up for myself, even though he at times turned into the bully. John had an uncanny way of influencing me.  When he decided to take karate, I thought, "Maybe I should take karate too." I watched him enjoy a good ass kicking as the Sensei showed him the difference between his street style fighting and being a master of testosterone. I, on the other hand, got smacked around by a butch woman who claimed to be teaching me something.  John may have had the upper hand on a physical level, but I poked fun of his insecurities, knowing fully that it would end with me wailing in half pain and hysteria while he threw me to the ground and landed thick rock like punches. He kissed me when I told him I got laid and quickly laughed with pride as I told him how I rolled out the condom before putting it on (which made it feel like I was pulling a sock onto a wet foot).  He drove an old car coated with only gray primer and spoke of how, by the mere age of eighteen, he'd fucked thirty-one women. One day, Danny came up to me and asked if I would clean the bathroom. Said it was urgent. He said it so nicely that my suspicions were high. He told me that there had been an accident, and that they needed me to "take one for the team." I knew it had to be real bad if my job was to clean the bathrooms, and why did he remind me of that? This made me believe that somebody had died on the toilet last Sunday and wasn't discovered until just now or something even worse. It didn't help that one of the tubby waitresses gagged over the sink and that none of the fat brothers could look me in the eye. It seemed that I was being tested. How low would I go for a paycheck?   I filled my yellow bucket with the hottest water a faucet could offer. I rolled the bucket down the long concrete path that lead to the side of the building. It seemed the closer I got to the crime scene, the more I could hear a pin drop. I worked myself up. This was my time to shine. To get a little leverage by showing Danny how loyal of an employee I was. My palms were damp with sweat as I clenched the key that had a pink metal square that read, "Mrs." I nervously stood outside the door that should have been blocked off by police and thought about turning back. Even birds watched from across the street. A couple of people stood out on their lawns and the parking lot became still. "What could have happened?" “A wheelchair.” That's what I heard from another customer that must have seen the culprit. "She should never have been left alone if she was in a wheelchair", she said. When I opened the door, I was impressed by the lack of odor. Then I noticed dark brown smears across the wall.  Flies were everywhere. Why would this woman do this? Why would anyone do this? Was she crazy? Was it an attempt to communicate? A real work of art with a female turd. Though it wasn’t as bad as dead bodies, it was repulsive. And the fact that they called upon me to handle the situation was insulting. I clenched onto the key and envisioned myself beating this wheelchair woman over the head. I thought of dragging her across the gravel road and drowning her in my bucket of scalding water. But I did no such thing. Instead, I picked up the mop, whipped the hot water up against the wall and started to scrub. I got it done faster than any other job that diner had lined up for me. It's bad enough to be the woman that hurled your shit against a wall while sitting in a wheelchair, but it's worse to be the man that had to clean it up. With everything said and done, I was humiliated. People thanked me with a grin. My friends were no longer nice people. I felt touched in an inappropriate way and I was about to let them know just how I felt.  To make a long story short I marched up to Danny that following Sunday, covered in grease and wearing the grimy clothes I should have put on from day one. "I want a raise", I said.  He looked at me.  "I took one for the team and I want a raise." Danny combed out his thick mustache and thought hard. He thought long and hard and just when I was about to negotiate my price, he threw a box on the floor and said, "You want a raise? Here, stand on it." It took me about three minutes to realize just what that meant. It didn't help that I actually did stand on the box and waited for part two of his sick, perverted joke.