The BOYS

Episode THIRTY

"First things first," Mr. Z said, turning towards his troops, "Oceanside... everything I've heard from the Task Force has been positive, of course..." but, then, his smile soured at the edges. "I am taking the word of our outside counsel, Mr. Stennis, whose opinions are worth... well, what they are worth, which is considerable. And I want to thank each of your who came to the hearing, even if you weren't called to testify... Jack's been massaging the Task Force, even ol' Miss Birdlover. Just to inform those who didn't attend, our permits were duly appealed to a five-member subcommittee of the Coastal Panel, even though we're not on the beach, but a few blocks away. Stennis and Mitchell has a good relationship with the Chairman, Judge Evans... there's one old bitch who'd probably prefer to see every human and/or commercial habitation pulled down and America given back to wolves and Indians, but the rest seem to be... ahem," he coughed, "excuse me... reasonable individuals. So we may look forward to progress, to opportunities and," Zweiss smiled, "...maybe even raises, Davy..."

"If not," said the house Lenin, "there's always the new minimum wage bill that's being sent to the Governor's desk..."

"Even Terminators can be terminated," Mister Z chuckled. "And, speaking of such things as termination, I have to confess disappointment at some of the circumstances surrounding this establishment over the past week... a young fellow, with a promising future in the hospitality and service industry suddenly making a career move that seems unwise, definitely not in our mutual interests to be certain. Would someone be able to provide intelligence as to why Gwan chose to follow a path that does not include working at the Dog Pound... Mister Davis," he singled out Tex, "the boy apparently confided in you."

"Well, it was a big comedown..." Tex allowed. "Spicy Mice were past their prime when he joined the group, way past when he was forcibly retired, but it was the life, you know? Little girls screaming for you, the clothes and limo, touring, money all around, even if it didn't stick." And the musician winked at Zweiss. "The ladies. He just said, well, and these are his words, working here made him feel greasy and unattractive, he wasn't getting... you know... said he'd rather take his chances in LA..."

"Hmmm," the franchise-boss nodded. "So, what lesson does that hold for us..."

"I told you he wouldn't work out," Barry squirmed. "You don't hire smart... well, not even smart, but with pretensions, these pseudo-artistic sorts, I mean, they think that work's beneath their dignity..."

"Yet I seem to recall that you were quite taken with the boy," Mister Z recalled, "even going so far as to suggest he might be management material..."

"Every young man... girls, too... would benefit from a semester at Zweiss Interplanetary College," Barry wheedled. "Sometimes, however, people prefer to act in opposition to their own best interests..."

"Well, as a team... each of us depending on each other," Zweiss glared at Walter with such intensity that he began wondering, again, if Mr. Z. had a line into the Feds, too, "...it becomes incumbent upon us to pull together, to glean inferences and draw conclusions about policies that will result in better hirings. Any suggestions... speak up!" Of course, nobody replied, not even Mister C. Not even Davy!

Zweiss snapped his fingers; Counselor Omartian shook a cigarillo from a silver box, and lit it. "From my observations, and experience with human nature, one trend that has become near-certainty is the advantage the mature, married full-time employee has over the floaters and drifters of this world. Now, I am not one to impose my personal prejudices on employees, but I do, and am entitled to observe, and to draw conclusions from my observations." He held up both hands, spread his fingers, and drew them together, several times. "The team that meshes, that works in harmony and unison, that is the team whose individual members are serious about their future, and their children's futures... in some cases, their children's children. Now, any service employer must take variation into account, not only seasonal, but within the workday... to wit, breakfast, lunch and supper, the down periods and anomalies, by which I mean religious practice and late nights, Monday football... and have temporary staff on call to fill the gaps. But as to our core constituency... and I hope that those of you who are part-time, at present, Darlene and uh..."

"Michelle," Barry completed, for him, pointing out the girl with glasses, from the hearse.

"...Michelle... that, should your academic inclinations so dictate, you consider making hospitality a career, not just a job." He turned to the one-eyed, one-legged vet in the booth, "...and I anticipate, any day now, completion of the paperwork that will make tuition at our Institute fully recoverable under the G.I. Bill. As for the rest of you..." and Mister Z opened his hands, "...well, sky's the limit. Literally... are you aware that Pizza Hut has signed a contract with the Russian space agency to promote their merchandise? Why, I envision... given a greenlight on the Oceanside franchise and further positive developments... a progress of Zweiss Interplanetary towards strategic marketing, perhaps a nationwide sweepstakes, with the first prize being a private journey into space..."

"Better than giving out 'Cat in the Hat' and 'Alamo' action figures," Davy whispered, behind Walt's back...

Failing to overhear the crack, however, Walt Zweiss drew his arms back inwards, and waved them up and down, relative to each other, as if to simulate the movements of a scale.

"Progress is ever a delicate balance between vision and stability. Leadership provides the vision... an example being the phasing-in of debit cards, issued by a consortium in which I hold a modest interest, and which will provide the consumer incentives. Not only for eating out at the Dog Pound or Chikin' Shak more often, but cross-membership promotions which, I assure you, we are working on, Hilly and I. In time, I envision the installation of ATMs in every ZI facility, we already have a deal in the pipeline on the Fathoms. There are many persons with a need to know who is interested in exotic dance, or eating... or, not eating... hotdogs. This is, after all, an information economy. Your charge, the task of every Z.I. crew, is to acquire that stability, in private life as well as on the job, to manage information, as you would finesse a slippery tube steak into a warm bun. So to speak," Mr. Z gave a Clintonian wink, looking down at his fingers. "And as I... and marketing research... have proven, the married employee is twice as likely to remain working a year, or longer, three times more likely to advance to management, five times more likely to secure executive positions. It's not a requirement, only a suggestion. I think we've made progress in this past month... Mr. Fales has joined the team, Mr. Sybco... welcome, Joe..."

"Thanks," the man with the Dog Pound's mop raised his mop...

"And, perhaps..." and entrepreneur gave Barry Cullery a questioning glance, "...this is a trend that will accelerate. There are glitches in the global economy, but it is also making stable, highly qualified personnel available to the service sector, an opportunity which we must stand poised to take advantage of. And so, to demonstrate... in a non-prejudicial way... our affirmation of family values, Dog Pound employees will wear these small yellow tokens of fidelity, Hilly..." and the emaciated lawyer dug into a pocket of his frayed, stained raincoat, pulling out a fistful of ribbons.

"Aren't those the same ribbons people wear to support the war in Iraq?" Davy objected.

Zweiss sighed, and smiled. "There are so many ribbons, these days, and so many causes - you could blame it on the prison-rights movement, Tony Orlando, if you will. Those poor souls who choose to read ominous inference into a symbol will do so... and, given a successful opening in Oceanside with its proximity to multiple military facilities... well, where's the harm in that? Any other questions?"

"I have one," Fermeley shouted out...

Zweiss frowned. "I thought Hilly made clear that, under our agreement..."

"Not that," she said, "somethin' else."

"Oh! Oh!..." Mr. Z nodded, "...well, in that case, ask away!"

"I was wonderin'... since you brought up the matter of the debit cards, you know, me an' some of the other cashiers, we were wondering that, if they brought in a lot of extra money with the fees, you know, would we be getting anything like... tips? Or commissions?"

"Barry?" Mr. Z nodded.

"Well uh... no," Mister C explained, "but what I am going to do... I'm going to put up a chart in the office with all of the names of the cashiers, and then, according to those who meet, or do not meet, debit card incentives, I am going to have a box of gold stars, and these gold stars will be affixed next to the appropriate name. These results will have something to... well, a considerable amount to do with assignment of preferential shifts. So, as I envision, all of the girls will be extra-peppy and persuasive in asking customers if they want to apply for a debit card... you too, Walt... uh, they are going to be special, right?"

"We have a conceptual firm working on a design that'll knock your socks off," Mr. Z promised.

"So, what you really mean..." Davy squawked, an unwelcome bird of negativity, "is that we'll just be fighting each other over money we won't see a penny of, right?"

"Right again!" Mister Z chuckled. "I can always count on you, Davy! And, while we're on the track of the politically incorrect, I ought to take this opportunity to inform you that we'll be bringing back the Pilgrim Dog over the Thanksgiving Holiday... for you new faces, that's a turkey sausage with twenty percent fewer calories, thirty percent less saturated fat, with dressing and optional cranberry sauce on a cornbread bun. As if that would, in any way, diminish that sense of offense peculiar to health Nazis and the animal lovers," Zweiss chuckled"

"Those buns were nothing but trouble," Eunice reminded him, "all crumbling away, people dropping their dogs over the floor..."

"I know," Mister Z sighed, "...and I let the company know, in no uncertain terms, that I was not satisfied with their product, so they have come up with an alternative mix... a little more lard, which is why, when someone asks about that nutrition crap, you can say, honestly, that the dog is especially low-fat, low-calorie and, of course, low-carb without getting us in legal Dutch." Achmed and the temp, Darlene, frowned, uncomprehending, so Zweiss repeated the new policy. "If they ask, we use the word 'dog' in reply, and, if there's some asshole at the counter with a tape recorder under his coat, we can't be accused of giving out misleading customer information. It'll be posted, too, on the wall with the health inspection certificates... the dog. Dog!"

"Why a Pilgrim Dog, why not just Thanksgiving..." Davy baited...

"Boy, I know you hate America and our President as much as that crazy minister that the Democrats have, you think Pilgrims and Quakers killed off all the Indians or something, fact is... most people don't think that way anymore..."

"The Quakers didn't kill Native Americans," Davy corrected.

"Well, there you have it..."

"Though Nixon was a Quaker..."

And that was about the end of Mister Z's weekly pep rally... after he'd gone, and another temp came in to work registers, Walt got sent back to the grill.

"I didn't know Gwan thought working here made him unattractive..." he said to Tex while they were rolling the dogs off to the side of the grill so they'd remain hot, without blackening.

"Shit - the DP's got this reputation, it's wank even compared to McDonald's, almost as bad as the fuckin' Wal-Mart. I mean, it's alright, you bein' married and a Republican, sort of clueless, ain't no skin off your foreskin, but if a lady asks where you work, this place... shit..."

"I ain't clueless," Walt objected, "back in the day, I was quite the progressive, you know, I even voted for Jimmy Carter, the first time, because Dylan said he was alright..."

"Dylan... oh, that guy, with the sneaky moustache..."

"And Hunter S. Thompson, and Greg Allman..."

"Who?"

"Guy in a southern band, he married Cher, I think... or maybe it was his brother, who died. Thought they played the Allman Brothers back in Texas..."

"I thought Cher married that guy with the tongue..."

"Him too. But, you see, I don't necessarily think young automatically means hip, all that music today being so... manufactured, you know... the fat, black American Idol and the gay guy, Kelly Clarkson... I mean what is it, with all of these abused corporate girlies, singing about birds, all the time. That Nelly... when I was your age, girls had crushes on horses... there's a sort of context there, riding horseback, it's a sort of, well, self-stimulation, but under another name!" "Birds are only vestigial dinosaurs," a hovering Ed Musgrove rasped.

So Walt... feeling unaccountably queasy, though he hadn't touched a bite of DP produce... stopped talking, pushed dogs around the grill and kept his mouth shut until, at about a quarter to three... late. Barry took off for another of his 'meetings' and Ed took his cellphone out, nodded "Be right back," then ducked out the front door, talking hurriedly and barely above a whisper as he sought shelter under the wet plastic slide of the juvenile jungle.

Walt lay his tongs on the grill.

"Be right back," he said, leaving Tex alone... avoiding Eunice, he circled and passed by the cooler where Achmed lounged, insolently.

"Gregor back, yet?"

"Think I'd be back here if he was?" Walter snapped, opened the DP's security door and huddled under its thin roof as the whiny interrogatory of the Harvey's troll faded into the gloom. The cellphone bill was another thing overdue, but he hadn't been cut off, yet, so he punched in Melk's private line and said, "I think it's going down now," received his instructions, then hurried back in, presumably escaping Musgrove's attention. Ed did turn frequently, watching the cars entering the mall... something Walt wouldn't have noticed, before making the call. Finally, the same white beater (a Chrysler, maybe, or a Plymouth Fury that might've been a cop car in a former life) turned right off Gerson, creeping by the new Halloween store and finding a space further down, past the falafel place (the rain having deterred its usual al-Qaida sorts hanging around at the entrance). Ed ducked in the front door tossed off a curse before barking "...gotta smoke, back in five."

Walt circled the grill, getting a clear view of the DP's parking lot and, off to the right, Ed Musgrove, walking stiffly towards the Dog Obedience School between the obnoxious health club and Osama Central. Two men in unmarked, black windbreakers emerged from a sedan that pulled up in front of the falafel joint, two more entered Walt's field of vision, and a County patrol car crept across the corridor beneath the glare of Vampire Mickey... lights flashing, siren off. Barry Cullery's black SUV passed them, slowing down, then speeding up as he turned towards his preferential parking space, by the Dog Pound dumpsters. The men in black surrounded the Fury and Walt had a quick glimpse of Ed being frog-marched into a waiting, unmarked cop car before his nose told him that he'd better push the dogs around a bit more before they charred.

Walt heard the security door open and the troll sing out: "I see you!" and Mr. C. emerged from his lair, frowning.

"Somebody threw a towel over my troll," he complained, blinking. "Where's Ed?"

"Smoke break," Walter shrugged, glancing out the window again.

Barry crossed his arms. "Hope they're taking in those god-damned Arabs!" he said. "Or closing down that health club... they deal steroids, you know?"

"No," Walt replied, "I didn't."

"Well, they do. Lie down on one of those tanning beds and some big, Greek guy with a needle shoots you up in the ass. And they have the nerve to look down on hot dogs!"

"Takes all kinds," Walt toadied, and turned three sausages with one flick of his spatula... proud of himself for doing so, hating himself for his goddam doggy pride.

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