“I think you might owe me some money,” Fagen, the cook suggested. She knew she didn’t owe him anything. Her payroll came first. Before anything else. Before her own house payment. She took care of her people, her employees. Her Kikuyu…
Secretly she imagined herself as Isaak Dinesen in Out of Africa. The coffee plantation (her restaurant) was going bust and she was worried about the school, her Kikuyu (her bar, her staff)…
She knew she didn’t owe him anything, but she asked, “How much do you think that is?’
“Fifty dollars,” he said coyly, checking to see if he was getting over on her.
She so enjoyed his patter. Fagen was a scammer, she knew that, but he was charming with a British accent. He liked to flirt with her and made her feel desirable. “You know I can bring it to you any time you want it,” he offered with a wink and a nudge.
She was pretty sure he was hard right now under his checkered chef’s pants and white coat and apron. She could imagine the bulging head of his erection and all the power of a younger man beneath the folds of his white cotton under things. She handed over a fifty dollar bill out of her money bag and said with a smile, “So now we’re even, huh?”
Little did she know that a murderer lurked among them, wearing a chef’s hat and a smile, dealing drugs on the side, and narcin’ out the whole staff simultaneously. “That guy is on drugs… That server is stealing you blind… That girl is lazy and unfit to work…” Fagen went on and on about each person in her employ neglecting to reflect on his own faults.
She truly cared about all of them. Why couldn’t they be good and help her make it good. It was in her nature to pass along all goodness that came to her. She would have lined all of their pockets when the money came to her. She would have shared any success she made with her employees, and with the whole town in general….
She busted the kid for stealing two bottles of beer which he had disguised as trash. “It’s for the cooks,” he insisted. She didn’t believe him. The cooks could get a beer anytime after their shift. These beers were obviously for the kid and his busser friend who were both under age. “You’re fired!” she bellowed, disappointed in herself as much as she was with him.
It was as if she took the blame for the whole shebang. It was her place. She hired them. She made up the menu. Bought the booths, had the place cleaned from top to bottom, painted the bar, cleaned the carpets, bought $5000 worth of booze and thousands of dollars every week on food and salaries. She invested all the money and good will she had ever earned in her entire life into this project.
The restaurant business! Humph! All she got in return was liars, thieves, drunks, drug addicts, hookers, and slackers. The countless times the drawer or inventory was short. All the free booze the bartenders either drank or gave away to their friends. And now, a murderer!
She couldn’t have been more surprised when one of her cooks came in with serious abdominal knife wounds he received on his day off. And her beloved Fagen ended up in prison on a a manslaughter charge for kicking a guy’s head in out of anger. Jesus! She sure could pick ’em! ! “If I ever suggest opening up another restaurant,” she promised her husband half seriously, “I want you to hit me in the head with a baseball bat.”
Jack nodded in agreement, “The same goes for me,” he said. “I’ll keep the bat right by the front door…” Thieves, Liars, drunks, and Murderers!
(First published 1/8/13)
