freezer; scrape grill; clean countertops; scrub toilets; mop floor; take out trash. And at 10:50 as I heft the last bag of garbage into the dumpster, a Caravan cruiser circles into the empty parking lot and a six-member family unloads and lobs toward the restaurant. If I let them in, I’ll have to reclean everything, and it’ll be another hour before I can clock out, so I act quickly: I rush the door with the keys, secure the lock, and scurry away to cower behind the counter. A man yanks on the door. Then again, louder and with more force. My heart palpitates. He pounds the glass.
“I know you’re still fucking in there,” he huffs. “You ain’t supposed to be goddamn closed. Your sign ain’t even off.”
His anger echoes throughout the sub shop while I massage my swollen ankle, praying for him to leave.
“Goddamn, you. Goddammit.” He pounds again, beating the glass front in rapid-fire succession with the neon open sign flashing beside him. Hairs lift along my arms. I pull my legs to my chest and pray again for him to leave. Then I hear the scruff of retreat, doors slamming, a vehicle coughing to life, and the skid of tires pealing off.
I count to twenty and, feeling safe, ease my head above the countertop. The parking lot glows from the streetlights and, save that weak yellow light, is black and empty. I slowly rise and, scanning the lot to reassure myself he’s gone, I scurry to unplug the open sign, noticing then the smear of handprints and boot-marks on the glass; so I fetch the cleaner and hastily scrub away these marks before locking up and limping to my truck.
At home I infuse and then comfort my ankle atop a pillow and gently rest it against an ice pack. I lie back on my mattress and exhale deeply. Upstairs, Mom calls down.
“Your dad and I are going to bed,” she says. “What time do you work tomorrow?”
“Early. I have to leave at ten.”
Then the house quiets. The night chirps, and I drift off.
The next morning, I wrap my ankle in an Ace bandage, and I fit on my shoe as best I can. I swallow several Tylenol and pocket a handful more. Then I leave.
When lunchtime arrives, the Caravan returns and my heart seizes with panic. In overalls splattered with white paint, the man saunters in and motions to my manager, and they talk. The man smiles a large mouth of yellow teeth when I am told to make him a free meatball sub. I return his smile, but neither of us speaks. When he finishes eating, he balls up the wrapper and tosses it toward the trash, missing the hole and spilling food.
“Oops,” he says. “Guess you’ll have to clean that up.” Then he leaves.
After lunch, my boss corners me around a boxed fortress of sub rolls and tells me I won’t get my monthly raise and that, additionally, he’s knocking my pay down by ten cents an hour. He debases my qualities as an employee, and I lowly hang my head, offering my subservience.
Angry, I huff outside and slump against the stairwell. The hot air chokes me and sears my lungs. Sweat beads on my forehead and dampens my work shirt. Leaning across the railing, I think of what to do and decide that I should quit. The job is wearing me down and I need to heal.
So I limp inside, and I find my boss at his desk, leaned back with his feet propped up.
“I’d like to put in my two-week notice,” I say.
He glances up. “No. Don’t bother. You can quit now.”
“Okay. I quit then. And here’s the shirt for your next employee,” I say, tearing off the shirt and throwing it at him.
He jolts up and aims his finger at me. “Don’t ever ask me for a recommendation! You won’t get it from me!”
“Fine!”
“I mean it. Ever!”
“Fine!”
When I leave, he slams the door and my restaurant career ends forever.
COLLEGE
S EPTEMBER 1991. A NA AND I HAVE BEEN SEEING EACH OTHER EVERY other weekend since school resumed, but that’s getting
“I know you’re still fucking in there,” he huffs. “You ain’t supposed to be goddamn closed. Your sign ain’t even off.”
His anger echoes throughout the sub shop while I massage my swollen ankle, praying for him to leave.
“Goddamn, you. Goddammit.” He pounds again, beating the glass front in rapid-fire succession with the neon open sign flashing beside him. Hairs lift along my arms. I pull my legs to my chest and pray again for him to leave. Then I hear the scruff of retreat, doors slamming, a vehicle coughing to life, and the skid of tires pealing off.
I count to twenty and, feeling safe, ease my head above the countertop. The parking lot glows from the streetlights and, save that weak yellow light, is black and empty. I slowly rise and, scanning the lot to reassure myself he’s gone, I scurry to unplug the open sign, noticing then the smear of handprints and boot-marks on the glass; so I fetch the cleaner and hastily scrub away these marks before locking up and limping to my truck.
At home I infuse and then comfort my ankle atop a pillow and gently rest it against an ice pack. I lie back on my mattress and exhale deeply. Upstairs, Mom calls down.
“Your dad and I are going to bed,” she says. “What time do you work tomorrow?”
“Early. I have to leave at ten.”
Then the house quiets. The night chirps, and I drift off.
The next morning, I wrap my ankle in an Ace bandage, and I fit on my shoe as best I can. I swallow several Tylenol and pocket a handful more. Then I leave.
When lunchtime arrives, the Caravan returns and my heart seizes with panic. In overalls splattered with white paint, the man saunters in and motions to my manager, and they talk. The man smiles a large mouth of yellow teeth when I am told to make him a free meatball sub. I return his smile, but neither of us speaks. When he finishes eating, he balls up the wrapper and tosses it toward the trash, missing the hole and spilling food.
“Oops,” he says. “Guess you’ll have to clean that up.” Then he leaves.
After lunch, my boss corners me around a boxed fortress of sub rolls and tells me I won’t get my monthly raise and that, additionally, he’s knocking my pay down by ten cents an hour. He debases my qualities as an employee, and I lowly hang my head, offering my subservience.
Angry, I huff outside and slump against the stairwell. The hot air chokes me and sears my lungs. Sweat beads on my forehead and dampens my work shirt. Leaning across the railing, I think of what to do and decide that I should quit. The job is wearing me down and I need to heal.
So I limp inside, and I find my boss at his desk, leaned back with his feet propped up.
“I’d like to put in my two-week notice,” I say.
He glances up. “No. Don’t bother. You can quit now.”
“Okay. I quit then. And here’s the shirt for your next employee,” I say, tearing off the shirt and throwing it at him.
He jolts up and aims his finger at me. “Don’t ever ask me for a recommendation! You won’t get it from me!”
“Fine!”
“I mean it. Ever!”
“Fine!”
When I leave, he slams the door and my restaurant career ends forever.
COLLEGE
S EPTEMBER 1991. A NA AND I HAVE BEEN SEEING EACH OTHER EVERY other weekend since school resumed, but that’s getting
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