Walk in the Woods
Short: DB’s Exclusive, West Virginia
DB’s Exclusive, West Virginia. Part 9 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)
The four of us piled into Jonathan’s white Dodge Ram and wound our way from Tom’s house to downtown Welch. The sun quickly set over the ridge and left clear black sky in its wake. Brad and David continued their pop culture discussion and I gazed out the window. Windows and the creek alike glittered in the moon light, and for a brief moment I forgot where I was.
“Where are we going?” asked David.
“DBs,” said Jonathan.
“Dude. Why?” David shot back.
“Cause it’s West Virginia classy. Everyone needs to experience it.”
And for the first time I relaxed as I saw my chance. “So, you’d bring your mother?”
“Oh yeah mate, she’d have a blast.”
And then we entered downtown Welch which was nothing more than empty three avenues and a series of alley ways, laid out to form a triangle. No traffic lights or fancy patterns, only seven blocks- a point and then two by three- with a row of old brick buildings beyond them. Jonathan gave a us a quick tour of the area, which consisted of three left turns. Each building was two or three stories, industrial and past their prime. Most were abandoned and sad. And the creek we’d followed emptied into the Tug River on the west side of town, with a rail line running parallel to the river. And beyond the river and rail, piles of slag still visible in the darkness. From there and on all sides of the town, were rows of houses built right into the side of the surrounding mountains, their dim porch lights twinkling like lights on a Christmas tree.
After the tour, we parked in an alley way next to a bank and walked to boring block building with a purple awning and new sign that read WELCOME TO DB’s EXCLUSIVE. Clip art martinis decorated either side of the sign. And just before passing through the entrance a glint caught my eye and I noticed something very strange. Once inside, I felt as though I’d stepped back in time by two decades. To the left of the empty dinning room was a rather well-stocked and long bar spanning the length of the room. The large oak bar was bedazzled with a mirrored back wall, brass fixtures and glaring vanity lights like something from a Hollywood movie set. And across the dining room, opposite the bar, stood an equally large stage with lime green curtains and worn red carpet. The lights were off and made the stage feel more like a cave than platform. A skinny teenage girl with a red sequin vest led us to our wood panel table and handed each of us a laminated menu. The table was topped with folded pink napkins, faux crystal water glasses and paper placemats. And Jonathan grinned as a gawked about the room like a tourist in Time Square trying to drink it all in. And before he could speak, a young man in an ill-fitting tuxedo shirt, tie, and pleated cummerbund appeared.
“Hi,” he said meekly.
“I’m Jacob and I’ll be your server today. Would you like to hear about the specials?”
“Yes,” I said with too much excitement.
“Today we have fish and chips with tartar sauce and chicken marsala with mushrooms and baked Alaska for dessert.”
“Sounds good. What do you think Zach?” Jonathan asked gleefully.
I nodded and pulled my upper lip down into my mouth to keep from giggling.
Brad and David now in on the gag remained quiet as Jacob towered over us with his pad and pen. Finally, Jonathan relented, “We’ll need a minute. Let’s get drinks first. I’ll have a Guinness.”
As soon as Jacob left with our drink order, I let out a forceful breath and pulled my sweatshirt over my head to hide my laughter.
“You ok, mate?”
“Yeah dude. What is this place? Is that front door a time machine? The carpet is brown and the bar has more liquor than a liquor store and we are the only people here.”
Brad and David chuckled and Jonathan shook me by the shoulder.
“This! Is Welch’s finest dining establishment.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Indeed. And that’s the joke. Because it is and it isn’t. You’ll see.”
A moment later, Jacob returned with our drinks and gingerly handed them out, though in no particular order. For dinner, Brad ordered the chicken parmesan and David the pasta primavera. After asking way too many questions regarding the origin of the fish, Jonathan got the fish and chips and I settled on chicken Alfredo. The meal had a certain microwave quality but slurped down every bite and stayed for dessert all the same. Baked Alaska was an old classic and I had to have it. And before dessert arrived I leaned over to Jonathan to inquire about the odd item I’d seen outside.
“What’s up with the cameras outside the building? There’s nothing here,” I said as I panned the dimly lit room. “Does it pop off on the weekend or something?”
The grin on Jonathan’s face disappeared and he slid closer to me with his chair. With both of us facing the back wall, he lowered his chin and motioned to a lone metal door in middle of the wall. A menacing sign on the door read, “DO NOT ENTER.”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?” he asked.
“Well, when you lower your voice and act that way, yes. I suppose it is odd. That door and the camera. But why?”
“High stakes gambling. They say mostly on the weekends and only very late at night. There wouldn’t be anyone back there tonight.”
“Who is high stakes gambling here?”
“The miners still make a good buck. Their houses are cheap or free. And they aren’t taking trips to Italy or Bahamas, so, they gamble.”
“No shit.” I replied as I shook my head in disbelief.
After dessert, Jonathan pushed himself back from the table and smiled as he looked at his watch. Then to the table he began, “We’ve got a big day tomorrow. We’ll all go down to Bluefield for supplies then get ready for the students to arrive.” The mirth now gone, we nodded our agreement. “Alright lads, let’s go.”
Short: Back In Time, West Virginia
Back In Time, West Virginia. Part 8 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)
Deeper into the mountains, snow covered most of the surfaces, masking the broken windows and sagging roofs. The trees were naked. And the sun dipped behind the western ridge, casting a gloomy gray shadow over the river valley. Brad began to talk about the architecture of the houses and boarded up store fronts. They reminded him of his native New Jersey and I understood. The homes closest to the road were narrow, two story row houses with stubby front porches and steep roofs. Of course, the frozen puddles and pock-marked jalopies did too. While I battled the dreary landscape, Brad smiled and craned his neck to drink it all in. Then he turned to me and said, “I think I’m gonna like it here.”
Around 3 PM, we pulled off Route 52 up the hill to Tom’s massive house. I’d told Brad about Tom, but not too much. Warned him really. No alcohol at the house or in Tom’s presence, and for the love of God, don’t talk about weed. Brad nodded. Good, I thought. He understands. And everything to that point led me to believe Brad would be a solid citizen, the one I knew from years back when he was a teenager.
David met us at the car to help us unpack. And after a bro hug I introduced the two.
“So you’re going to help Wes cook?
“Yeah man, seems like it. How long you been here?”
“Since the summer, when Jonathan got here. I came up a week later from Charlotte.”
“You lived in Charlotte? Where?”
“Fort Mill, really. Off the parkway. You know it?
“Yeah dude. My parents live across the line in Pineville.”
I felt my face and legs begin to freeze, so I asked about my room and went inside. Jonathon sat at the booth in the kitchen pouring over a pile receipts. He took off his glasses and gave me a quick hug.
“You hungry? We’re going to go to DB’s Exclusive for dinner,” he said with a sly grin.
The thing about Jonathan was he was willing to color outside the lines on occasion and the name DB’s Exclusive conjured up images of stripper poles and glittery plastic chairs. I’d not known him to go to a strip club, but I wouldn’t be surprised.
“What do they serve?”
“Oh, your typical steaks and chicken. Normal stuff.”
Just then Brad and David burst through the door, toting our bags and deep into a conversation on music. Jonathan smiled at Brad but Brad kept right on chatting with David as they strolled through the kitchen and down the hallway. Jonathan and I stayed seated and strained to hear the chatter, their voices fading until silence refilled the space. Jonathan chuckled and shrugged. I nodded in agreement.
“So? DB’s?”
“Sure,” I replied, unsatisfied yet stumped.
“Good. Go put your stuff up and meet me down here. I’ll get the boys. Remember, we’re only here for the night. Then all next week we’ll be in Gary.”
A few moments later, I was on the other side of the house, climbing the front stair case to the second floor. My bedroom faced the landing and through the heavy wooden door I found a large, empty room. Jonathan told be the previous owner, a doctor, used the room as an exam room for patients which left the space feeling institutional. The white walls and ceiling had yellowed and chipped, and rather than hardwood or carpet the floor was covered in green vinyl tile. Two single pane windows faced north and east. And in the corner near the door was a lumpy single mattress with fresh white sheets, my green sleeping bag, and a pillow. I slung my duffle onto ground bedside the mattress and rifled through it for my sweats and shoes. My teeth began to chatter and scanned the room for a space heater.
As I slid my sweats over my shorts, I began to laugh and shiver. And then I closed me eyes and drew a frigid breath. My dad had told me about this kind of cold, having grown up in western Pennsylvania. He said he hated it, hated how the wind nipped at his skin and nothing he did was enough to satisfy the chill. I didn’t believe him. I hated the heat and humidity of the South Carolina summer, how the gnats found your eyes and once outside you never felt dry. But, sitting on the that old mattress, with all my clothes on my body, I finally understood. My dad was right.
Before meeting up with Jonathan and the others, I nosed around the other rooms on my floor and found an old space heater. I took it to my room and immediately blew out a breaker. Using the light on my phone, I found the fuse box down in the basement. Inside were three breakers and again I laughed. This is a going to be easy I thought as I held my phone up to the fuse board. The switch on the top breaker was off and I flipped it back on with a hard snap. And because I forgot to unplug the old heater, it immediately snapped right back off.
Short: Unprepared, West Virginia
Unprepared, West Virginia. Part 7 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
Brad arrived on time early the next morning. His eyes were glassy and his little red volkswagen smelled like the inside of a bong. I’d told Brad the rules for the trip and he’d decided to blaze up one last time because- as he put it- it’ll be a while. I glared at him and simmered. “I’ll drive,” I said as I slung my duffle onto the back seat. Then I held out my hand for the key. Brad nearly closed his left eye and cocked his head as he looked at me. He almost began to speak but stopped placing the key into my extended hand instead. A few minutes later we were motoring up 77 and bopping along to Led Zepplin and whatever else he’d loaded onto his iPod.
In Virginia, we pulled off for gas at a truck stop in Wytheville. The Buzzing K is one of those truck stops with a restaurant, private showers, and a lot lizard or two. I’d stopped there many times before on family trips and thought of it as a sort of redneck tourist attraction. When I opened my car door a freezing gust of air smacked me in the face and I bristled.
“Ha!” Brad laughed and pointed to my flip flops and khakis cargo shorts. They were red Tommy Bowham flip flops, the kind that look cool in the store but hurt your feet after a few hours of walking. And I can’t remember why I decided to wear shorts.
“You’re a real boy scout,” he snorted before jogging inside for snacks.
As I pumped gas, I began to shiver. And then I turned away from the gas station and the lights to noticed large white dots on the Appalachian Mountains to the west. And though the day was clear and sunny, dark purple and gray clouds loomed beyond the ridge. I closed my eyes and pulled the bitter cold deep into my lungs. I hope Brad buys me a hotdog or hot slice of pizza, I thought. And just as I finished pumping gas, Brad hurried back with arm loads of snacks and drinks.
“Whadda ya get?”
“Oh man. Dude. Lemme tell ya. They have these nuts, pecans, and they have all kinds of flavors- caramel, hot and salty, and vanilla. I got all three. Here try one. Do want water water or gatorade or Red Bull?”
I took what looked to be a caramel pecan and ate it. It was delicious and warm, and soon I ate most of the bag, stopping only to be polite. Brad hardly noticed. He munched his way through several small bags of corn chips and polished off an energy drink as we crossed from Virginia into West Virginia via the East River Mountain Tunnel. We held our breath as long as possible and I won. Brad coughed and wheezed like an old man. And on the other side of the mountain, in West Virginia, the white dots I saw earlier were now at ground level and the tops of the mountains were purple and blue against the low November sun.
By the time we turned off 77 and found Route 52 from Bluefield to Welch, Brad was sober. And our discussion was now more focused and thoughtful. He asked me more questions about our project and responsibilities and I did my best to answer them. And as we passed through the small town of Bluewell, the electronic sign outside Bluewell Community Bank read 23º. Brad noticed too and began to belly laugh.
“I hope you’ve got more than short and flips flops.”
I did not. Not much more, for warmth a pair of running shoes, a pair of sweat pants and my faded red hoodie. No gloves or winter coat. No blue jeans. And the weather would not improve.
Short: Prepared, West Virginia
Prepared, West Virginia. Part 6 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
After coffee with Brad, I felt better about West Virginia. And, with a little more than a month before the event, I began to plan a menu for the volunteers. It’s at this point in the story where I need to admit, I’d never been given such a responsibility before, though I was strangely confident I could pull it off. For starters, my roommate Malik, had managed several restaurant kitchens and I picked his brain on the subject of feeding large groups of hungry college kids.
Breakfast was simple- scrambled eggs, bacon cooked on sheet trays in the oven, same for the breakfast sausage and biscuits. And to provide a few more options, we’d also set out apples and bananas, a selection instant oatmeals, and bagels with cream cheese and jams. For lunch, each student would make a sandwich from the provided stacks of ham, turkey, and cheese, then select a snack or two- chocolate chip cookies, potato chips, and more apples and bananas.
The only real challenge was dinner each night. The group would arrive late (after dinner) on Friday evening, then head home after breakfast the nextthe Wednesday. The schedule meant I had to come up with four meals. And on Malik’s advice, I opted to meals with big carbs and plenty of protein. In world of professional cooking, that means potatoes smashed, pasta, ground beef, and chicken thighs. Happy with my menu of spaghetti with meat sauce, chicken noodle soup with grilled cheese sandwiches, lasagna, and roasted chicken with smashed potatoes and peas, I picked Malik’s brain again.
“Hey man, uh, how much chicken do I need for the soup? And the roast?” I asked a week before.
From his seat on the coach he turned to me and took a moment to let the question settle in his mind. Then he chuckled to himself. “Boy, you don’t know shit, do you?”
“Nope. I do not.” I laughed back.
Then Malik explained to me the concepts of yield. I soaked up as much as possible. After lecture on meat which sheds water and fat while cooking, Malik went on about pasta, which gains weight. After the conversation and some quick calculations, I was set.
* * *
The day before Brad and I were set to ride up to West Virginia, I was hit by a waves of doubt and anxiety. Why did Jonathan call me? Who else did he call? And why did they say no? Am I a sucker? And I was most worried I’d munk up dinner every night. That evening, I spent on the back porch with Malik. We sipped beers and talked football. Then he asked for more details about the adventure to come, but I had little to offer. And then I asked him about his girlfriend, which required the rest of the evening to unpack. It was fine conversation, which when combined with a few beers, eased my mind about the days ahead. And while I was thankful for the calm moment, I completely forgot to check the weather forecast for Welch.
Short: The Mountain, Verse 3
Verse 3 of a short story/poem. About a boy and the adventure he’s called to fulfill.
The first visit only intensified the boy’s hunger to climb the Mountain,
and he day dreamed of reaching the snowy summit,
of planting his flag at the top.
Mere months later, near the end of summer and the beginning of another school year, his thirst was relieved.
A field trip.
To the mountain, or better told, to same state park at the foot of the beast he visited with his dad.
The boy was elated upon hearing the good news.
And he couldn’t keep his legs from running all the way home.
Bursting through the door, he yelled, DAD! MOM! WE’RE GOING TO THE MOUNTAIN! without caution or care.
When the day arrived, the boys parents found him sitting at the breakfast table, packed and ready for adventure.
Both mom and dad welcomed the initiative and his widened eyes and the excitement of the morning’s conversation,
his feet swinging from his seat.
The rest of the morning lagged from house to school to the slow journey north on a cranky yellow bus.
The boy didn’t mind.
He’d chosen his seat with care, close to the front, able to ignore the chatter and hum of the other children.
Unfortunately, his second trip to the Grey Lord was nothing like the first.
After a head count, potty break, and lecture from the park ranger,
the class marched down one trail before stopping for lunch.
The boy ate his lunch with his face to his Friend,
and recoiled at a stack of papers thrust into his hand.
Worksheets?
He thumbed through the papers, answering what he could, and stuffed the stack in backpack.
The next hike lasted little more than an hour, included many stops, and yet another bathroom break.
And his heart sank as he heard the words, head back toward the bus.
But all was not lost, for amid the standing and boredom, the boy took home a trophy.
Stuffed in his bag with the stack of papers, pencils, and an empty water bottle was a trifold map he took from ranger’s station.
Detailed and colorful, he now possessed the ability to go higher and further than before.
And the whole ride home he studied his prize and planned his next trip.
Short: O Charlie, First Friday
A new short story: O Charlie, Part 2: First Friday. This is the story of Bishop Perry and his journey into the bowels of the restaurant world. We begin where Bishop began, at Charlie’s, at regional steakhouse.
Bishop’s first week at Charlie’s was a training week conducted by a slender busybody named Derek and a squat gossip who everybody called Ray Ray. Each afternoon, Bishop changed into his new white oxford and dark blue Levis and then walked the quarter mile to the restaurant. Derek and Ray Ray alternated training sessions each day beginning with company policies on Monday, steps of service on Tuesday, menu review Wednesday, and side work and clean up on Thursday. After each training session, Bishop shadowed a competent server for a more practical education. Friday was reserved for running food as a means of learning where each table was in the restaurant.
That first Monday, he followed Jerry, a stocky clean-shaven man with a loud voice and sarcastic wit. Whether customer or coworker, he had a joke at the reqdy, which set everyone in his path at ease, so much so Bishop hardly payed attention to the little aspects of job that would cause him problems the following week. Jerry made every part of serving look effortless from greeting a new table, to refilling drinks and running food, and all with a smile plastered to his face.
Tuesday and Wednesday, Bishop shadowed his trainer Derek, who also made the job look effortless. Fortunately for Bishop, Derek took time to explain what he was doing and why he did it. Between table visits, Derek stopped to review aspects of serving, like timing- when to fire an order to the kitchen and when to hold it- how to avoid the line for yeast rolls, and the best way to upsell a guest from a cheap sirloin into a pricey ribeye. And when he wasn’t talking to customers or talking shop, Derek dropped barbs about his coworkers. Don’t talk back to Rob, he’s a dick. Bree hates me because she wants my section. Have you seen Marissa’s teeth…you know why they’re dark like that, right? Of course, Bishop did not know why, but nodded along as if he did.
Thursday was perhaps the worst day for Bishop because he shadowed Ryan, a tongue-pierced prick of a man, with spiked hair and a goatee. Ryan questioned Bishop at length about his life and then pestered him with questions related to the menu and steps of service. And he began nearly every sentence with You know why or You know you should in tone so condescending, Bishop wanted to smack him in the nads. Worst of all, Ryan advised Bishop to carry fifty dollars in loose change- quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies- at all times during his shift, which Bishop did until he realized how stupid it was. No server needs fifty dollar in coins tucked in their apron unless they want to sound like they’re part of a chain gang or look like they have chunk balls.
On that Friday, Bishop sensed a shift in the atmosphere as he stepped through the door. Though still early, only 4 PM, the mood was serious. The leisurely pace and smiles of the previous days were gone, replaced by rushed exchanges and furrowed faces. The restaurant had few tables of old people out to beat the rush and drinkers who began the weekend early. Slightly more than normal, but not busy. Courtney, petite assistant manager with a Kentucky draw, greeted Bishop as we walked into the kitchen. “You ready for tonight?” she asked with half smile. “I think so. What do I need to do?” he responded. Courtney’s face brightened at the question before she rattled off his duties for the evening, then she introduced him to the cooks on the line. There was Lamar the fry cook, Chris on the grill, Marcus for sauté and salads, and Woody was the kitchen manager. In the back of the restaurant, Jose- a former bank manager from Peru- washed dishes, and when needed, made salads.
Over the next hour, more servers appeared until all twelve were clocked-in and ready, anxiously checking their tables and restocking supplies. Bishop reviewed the tables and sections. Servers are given sections containing a number of tables. And some sections are better than others. The bar area is full of drinkers who tipped better than most. While sections closers to the kitchen reduced distance and time needed to complete tasks. Derek and Ray Ray’s sections were in the bar area, while Ryan and Jerry held larger sections closer to the kitchen.
As Bishop studied the floor map, Jerry took a moment to check in on the new guy. “How ya’ doing? Need anything?”
“No. I’m ready.”
“Great,” Jerry said with a smile. “We’re gonna have fun tonight. Fridays are busy and that’s good. That’s when I make my money. So, don’t mess up.”
The last bit, a typical Jerry joke, caught Bishop off guard and both men laughed away the nerves. And as if on cue, Jerry walked out of the kitchen without a word. And then there was a brief moment of quiet in kitchen. All the servers were out at their tables, greeting hungry faces and taking orders. Bishop stood on his side of line and sipped his cola, watching the swell.
“It’s the calm before the storm,” quipped a deep voice from behind the line. Bishop turned to see the kitchen manager Woody, a tall, dark skinned man with a wide face, perfectly round afro, and a gleaming white smile. He too seemed at ease with rush to come as he leaned on the counter between them. And then he stood straight up and turned to his crew. “It’s all gonna come at once. Go get your drinks now. Hurry. And take a leak if you need to too. We won’t have a break for a while,” he barked, scattering his cooks like ducks off a pond, in every direction all at once, then returning as quick as they’d left.
Finally, the calm broke by the screech of the printer. The first tickets began to roll in, and Bishop’s first Friday night was underway.
Short: The Mountain, Verse 2
Verse 2 of a short story/poem. About a boy and the adventure he’s called to fulfill.
And on what became his first attempt to conquer the Mountain,
The boy quickly soured.
His father thought it best to hike a few trails near the wooded base,
no climbing, no mountain top today.
But why? protested the youngster.
Though the answers did not satisfy,
As the question asked was not in search of an answer.
The pair spent the remainder of the day breathing clean, pine scented air,
marveling at ancient streams cut by the melting snow,
and cataloguing the various animals they encountered throughout the day:
a handful of blacktail deer, red tailed hawks and scrubs jays, squirrels and a porcupine.
On the return trip home, to the stamped neighborhoods and yellow street lights,
the boy sat content yet unsatisfied as they motored south.
Nothing in his ordinary town compared to glory of the Mountain and the life living on it.
(Later in life, when his heart allowed him to see it, he appreciated all the more his first visit to the Mountain.
For he finally understood how his father, his untrained and unprepared father,
Lacking rope, tents, and hiking boots, still desired nothing more than to give his son what he wanted.
In truth, no father can give more than they have in hand.
Years in the making, this new awareness of a father’s love for his son, was the first gift the Mountain gave the boy.)
Short: The Mountain, Verse 1
Verse 1 of a short story/poem. About a boy and the adventure he’s called to fulfill.
A boy played in the yard as was his routine,
and then by happenstance, on a clear winter day, let his eyes drift to the north.
They landed on a dark mountain far beyond his county,
where the wind blows its surly breath and the cold will snap whatever is left exposed.
But something about the sloping giant spoke to him,
and the boy listened.
And in his heart he accepted the invitation, I will climb you.
For many months he begged his father to make the two hour drive north.
His father always said no.
And the boy’s heart grew ill.
Each day he enjoyed his backyard play a little less,
as he refused to ignore the silent call of adventure.
Then, on warm spring morning, his father pulled him from his slumber,
and they made the journey north.
Ah, said the boy to himself, timing is everything,
For the duration of the drive, his eyes stayed locked destination ahead,
the form of which grew larger and more detailed every second along the way.
Then the forest grew thick with sugar pines and firs, underpinned with manzanita,
hiding the mountain from view.
And suddenly, as they rounded the last big bend in the road,
the forest gave way as if bowing to the lord ahead.
In front of them lay the the rocky giant,
dominating the view as nothing they’d ever seen,
tranquil and forbidding, beautiful yet daunting.
The wide base was hidden by trees of all kind, all green with spring.
And the then, higher up, they gave way to the rocks.
Deep gray in some places, a reddish hue in others,
they displayed scars of battles won and lost as a result of life on the mountain.
Huge outcrops were surrounded by piles of loose volcanic rock and little else.
And then, beyond the rock, high still, snow.
White and glittering, the frozen rain looked like a cap on a pointing old man’s head.
Both father and son fell into a state of quiet wonder in an attempt to take it all in.
Short: O Charlie, Part1: The Store
A new short story: O Charlie, The Store, Part 1. This is an introduction to Bishop Perry and his journey into the bowels of the restaurant world. We begin where Bishop began, at Charlie’s, at regional steakhouse.
Bishop’s first restaurant job was for a soulless regional chain, a steakhouse designed with Walmart-loving America in mind. You know the type. Constructed of brick and tile, and decorated with cheap nostalgia. These restaurants are passionless formulas, tried and true, right down to the drink specials and open floor plan. They have catchy slogans involving fun and hoopla and a basic menu of grilled meats and burgers. Mention it’s your birthday and they’ll give you a slice of caramel pie while singing Happy Birthday. And of course, they offered yeast rolls. Free, ass-fattening, light and pillowy, slathered in butter yeast rolls, the delight of adults and children alike. Bishop quickly learned most customers overlooked unfilled drinks and dirty plates, but hell hath no fury like an angry redneck demanding more free bread. And all of it- the intersection of food, service, and power dynamics of a restaurant such as Charlie’s- fascinated him.
The first wonder, according to Bishop, was the ruthless efficiency of the restaurant. Enough to make the most ardent capitalist happy, dishes were formed from a handful of common ingredients, with most plates containing some bland variation of beef, chicken, or salmon. And every item on the menu was designed to be prepared and on the customer’s table in under eight minutes. And management leveraged favorable labor laws to keep the place clean and stocked. Of course, the corporate office utilized their massive buying power to lower fixed costs. Something a mom and pop could never do.
Some days, Bishop felt this machine pushing on his soul. The smell of industrial sanitizer and fry oil drove permeated his uniform- a white oxford dress shirt and blue jeans. And he hated coupon cutters, the Sunday brunch crowd, and cringed at the way management bent over for any customer with a complaint regardless of validity. Better to keep the customer happy than have them call the home office, he was told. All this is normal enough, but what really got under his skin was the never-ending “Kids eat free” promotion.
You may let your mind run wild as you picture the type of person willing to abuse such an offer. Single parents would claim a fifteen year-old was twelve, the maximum age as defined by the fine print. They’d order a bowl of soup instead of an entree as required. Or worse, a cheap schmuck might order ten chicken wings on .25 cent wing night and get the kids meals for free too. (And why, might you ask, were people allowed to abuse the promo? Recall what you read above, management didn’t want anyone raising a fuss.)
Bishop once served a family of four whose entire bill including meals, enough lemon wedges to make lemonade, and free bread was a mere $8. After an hour of running him ragged for every free item in the store, they left him a single crumpled up dollar bill as a tip. Rats don’t work this hard, he thought.
Still, the restaurant held his attention, even on the worst days. Shifts were short and he was usually able to score free food by doing extra side work. And management liked him. They like him because he worked hard and was honest, two uncommon traits in the food service world. But more than that, we was willing to pick up extra shifts. Naturally, he rose quickly through the ranks, from lowly server to trainer and bartender. And when trouble did come calling for Bishop, management covered for him…
Short: What’s Your Favorite
A poem, about my attempt to answer a simple question.
The dumbest question anyone might ask me, a new acquaintance perhaps, sounds small upon hearing.
It’s a basic get-know-you query, made by adults and children alike.
And because of the basic nature of the question, most folks give dispassionate, ill-considered answers.
But, not me, not ever.
When asked, I pause to consider my options…all of them,
Having been blessed with a depth of experience and range on the subject.
I ponder the old and the new, the textures and aromas, colors and flavors.
Naturally, I do not arrive at a simple reply.
How could I?
How could anyone compare one dish to another?
Consider a perfectly roasted duck, succulent and aromatic, wrapped in a thin pancake and smoother’d in hoisin sauce,
Smokey, meaty, unctuous with hints of anise and orange peel. It’s a perfect bite of food thanks to centuries of the Cantonese process.
Now imagine a humble peanut butter cup: nutty, creamy, and chocolatety. Sweet and savory. Better than gold. South America’s best gift.
Should I go on?
Because I’ve not yet begun.
What’s my favorite food?
Don’t make me laugh.
Need I mention the glory and world favorite know as pizza?
Or just how wonderfully clean yet deeply rich in flavor a fresh slice of fatty tuna can be?
And, what about the joy of a Parisian croissant, buttery and crisp?
Or…a medium rare ribeye, mustard-base pulled pork, or butter pecan ice cream?
I’ll never be able to give a quick answer to such simple question.
I’m too far down the hole.
The world is delicious, land and sea,
And I’m blessed to know it.
Short: Why And I Type
A poem, about negative mental patterns and persistence.
How many arguments will I have with the wind?
Rehashing the offenses given and received?
Lying out my case before an imaginary court,
Passionate defenses, argued to an empty room?
Why does my mind drift toward these rocks, when I want to be out on the open sea?
Even now, I can hear an academic, a real prick, critique my words,
the use of three different metaphors in just seven lines.
And nonetheless, I type.
Short: Coffee Shop Memory
A short story, about a sour memory.
He sat on the honey colored leather chair and read his book, most likely Hemingway or Hughes. The man had begun to venture out to do his reading, which served a dual purpose. First, he was tired of the dull walls and droning TV of his apartment. And second, the reader wanted to train himself to focus on a task while in public. The distractions of a coffee shop- the patrons, blaring music, and aromas- was a perfect setting to train himself. And so he sat and read and tried to shut out the voices.
Ten pages into the novel, a young man sat on the molasses colored couch opposite the reader. The reader stopped reading but held his book steady in front of his face and began to observe the lad. The light blue flannel shirt looked new, as did his skin tight fade. He appeared nervous as he bounced in his seat and fidgeted with his phone. The reader nodded to himself and waited, book still masking his gaze. And then, an equally young blonde woman charged into the shop and threw her arms around the eager boy.
The pair exchanged smiles and whispers and sat on the couch. And after another moment, an older man- older than the reader- and his wife appeared, not so eager yet wearing smiles. The young couple stood to greet to older and introductions were made. And then all took their seats to commence a polite interrogation.
The reader did not hear the conversation and soon his mind was elsewhere. Staring above the couple at a poorly painted horse, he recalled when he’d last sat on that couch. And he was pulled back into the moment with her. Her, dressed like a child in a yellow raincoat. Her, full of fear and panic, trying to convince him she’d fight for their relationship. And her two days later, who pulled the plug in front of his dull-walled apartment. And then the man looked at the boy and the girl and felt himself sneer from behind his cover.