The BOYS

Episode Ten

When he'd completed the first side of the application... including the surreal paragraph on 'Career Objectives and Goals', which he left blank... and turned it over to 'Work Experience and Personal References', Barry was off the phone and ready to wax philosophical.

"People drive by and look at us, they go to the window and pick up their dogs and their fries, some even come in and sit awhile, but what they see is all surface, Mister Fales; reality twisted and refracted, corrupted by their own preconceived preconceptions. Do you follow me? You can write and listen at the same time, can't you... you're an adult, after all?"

"I can do that," Walter said.

There were four boxes under the Work Experience section and, so that the manager wouldn't think the less of him, he left out his time with the law library in Ohio and his first gig... job... in California with that bank that had failed and entered, instead, the name of the pizza parlour in the top space. He remembered the address but not the phone number... the manager was Mr. Ciccoliana, Ciccolini... something like that porn star, or was it Madonna's maiden name... he'd be eighty-something now, probably dead. Fat guy, mean. Barry was skinny, but he was mean, too, you don't never lose your eyes and nose for people like that. Two bucks an hour, and tips... it went a hell of a lot further than the Federally rolled-back eight-forty training wage and no tips, now. But only until the Braxton police were off his ass...

"The rules I have are simple, and if you're not too educated to follow them, you'll do all right, just fine," lectured the day manager. "First, and simplest, show up... and on time. The clock is what it is - I don't operate like the police who'll let you go five, six maybe seven miles over the speed limit. Clock in a minute late and you're docked a quarter-hour. In your case that'll hurt, since it's likely to cut into overtime. Clock in at eleven sixteen and you lose half an hour. But come in at eleven thirty one without a real good reason, and you'll be pounding the pavement again... and I think there are certain persons in law enforcement who'd be interested in that, no?"

"Maybe," Walt allowed. At any rate, it queered the impulse he'd had to write in Curry... or Melk... or both... as personal references, instead he jotted down his doctor's name and address. Hell, he was in good shape for his age and weight... great shape! And hot dogs weren't burgers, how many could be bad for you?

"You get a new hat every week... lose it or damage it and a dollar comes off your check. Aprons get changed weekly, too, unless you soil them… but you’re not the sort to let that happen, are you? You get fined if any shortages turn up when you work the register, but it doesn't work out the other way, so don't get ideas. The cameras never lie, you know?"

"Uh huh?"

"I mean it... are you paying attention? I don't want any misunderstandings.”

Walt glared over the top of Barry's application, saying: "do I look like I'm not paying attention?" and, for a few seconds, re-establishing their relationship to what it ought to be, given his education and experience. Then the damn fool went and busted it, saying...

"There better not be. Some of those law enforcement people wouldn’t like that."

Busted! Walt gritted his teeth and held his arms behind his back, fist gripping wrist.

"Each of my boys gets two ten-minute breaks per shift. These may not be taken between noon and two in the afternoon, nor after five. If you smoke... do you smoke, Mr. Fales?"

"Not so you'd know it," Walter coughed, then added, "that won't be a problem."

"If you're trying to quit, I approve. Filthy habit. Otherwise you can break your breaks in half - four breaks, five minutes, same considerations. Employees are permitted to eat as much as they wish on your lunch break, half price. This can also be extended to taking merchandise home, for family, at my discretion. We'll discuss that when the time comes, do I make myself clear?"

"Abundantly."

Barry squinted again, trying to decide whether he was being shined on, then pressed forward. "Boys may wear casual attire, but not t-shirts or jeans... what you have on now is fine. No disfiguring piercings... facial hair must be neatly trimmed, long hair kept under a wig or net like our weekend Grand Ol' Opry star does..."

"Tex?" Walter snorted. "I hadn't noticed."

"Not that I expect it to be a problem with you, but I have this list I have to read through so as to minimize liability. I work for Mr. Z. and, to a lesser extent... much lesser... O'Martian, just as you work for me. No free men on this planet."

"If you say so," Walt allowed, since the day manager seemed to expect a response and, in spite of himself, he straightened his back.

"Employees are to wash hands before all shifts, after handling contaminated matter... that would be garbage, sweepings, things of that nature, and at least once every hour. On the hour for girls, half hour for boys. Bathroom breaks must not be excessive and, of course, wash your hands after every elimination. During the slow periods, all boys are expected to police their workstations with a light chemical solution... light, I want to minimize the antiseptic smells. Now that we don’t have to worry about the coronavirus, at least not legally, customers shouldn't have to breathe in disinfectant that detracts from the subtle, yet tantalizing aroma of our chili dogs."

"I should hope not," Walt replied, wondering if it was Mr. C. who was making light of his own product.

"Also, during the slow periods, one radio may be played... that is, until noon and from two to five. I let the boys and girls rotate the station between lite rock, the country station and what we call urban," and Barry raised both hands to make quote marks. "No hard rock, no rap, nothing negative that would take the customer's mind off of buying and consuming hotdogs..."

"Guess that leaves boy bands..."

"And what's wrong with boy bands?" Barry answered, sternly. Walt shrugged. Opening his mouth was as much a mistake as opening his ears... maybe he could bring earplugs, after a few days and he got used to the rhythm.

Walt completed, dated and signed the application, passing it across the desk to Barry who folded it in half, opened the bottom left drawer of his desk and filed it away without having read, even, the new hire's name and address. The manager smiled, extending that bony right hand, encircled by a digital wristwatch, but drawing it back as Walt reached across the desk... bringing up the left from his lap as though wielding a gravity knife. Instead, he was holding a styrofoam Slushie cup.

"One last hurdle," Barry's smile hardened, "...drug test. Not that you look like some old hippie or war veteran, but Mr. Z. wants the Dog Pound to be a democratic institution, and that means everybody gets tested. He also told me you smoke, by the way..."

"Somethin' wrong with that?" Walter woke up. "Mostly cigars, I'm tryin' to cut down... switch over, you know?"

"Cigars are prohibited on these premises. That means the restaurant, the parking lot, Juvenile Jungle, anywhere. Mr. Z. can smoke them any time and anyplace he wants, but that's because he holds the franchises... cigarettes are bad enough, but the family element won't come if there's cigar smoke; that's been proven by independent research. If you think you need a cigarette, you can smoke outside, away from the Jungle... it's recommended that you go up to one of the empty storefronts. You can split your breaks, that's four five-minute nicotine parties per shift," Mr. C. repeated himself, "but at the times that I mentioned, and no other. If you cop a smoke in the rest room, you'll be out on your ass and, remember..." he smiled, nodding to the surveillance monitor that showed the interiors of the men's and women's facilities.

"Needless to say, we're a zero tolerance operation, you can expect to be tested randomly, or for cause. One strike you're out and... yes... that includes marijuana and prescription drugs, no matter what the law or liberals in Sacramento say, so if you smoked a joint a month ago, or popped Valium, last night, just get up and go." When Walter made no effort to do so, Barry shook the Slushie cup... Walt stood up, took it, and turned around...

"Where do you think you're going?" Barry fired a shot past his ear.

"I'm going to piss in a cup for an eight buck an hour job."

"Eight forty!" Barry corrected him, giving Mr. Z. the benefit of rounding up. "You think I was born yesterday? Drop your pants and fill it up..."

"In front of you?"

"In front of me!" Seeing that the new guy was on the brink of tossing the empty cup back in his face and walking... there'd been several who'd done just that, but they were kids, probably guilty kids, or troublemakers, even if not... Barry sat back in his vinyl executive's chair and delivered his ultimatum in plain English. "Do you need this job, or not?"

"Do you do this to the women applicants, too?"

"No," he admitted, "that might be construed as harassment. Eunice takes the girls into the ladies' room and I watch over the monitor. It's easier for girls to cheat, you know... all that clothing down there, the lingerie and petticoats... makes it easy to hide a bottle against a body to keep the temperature up. I measure temperature, of course, so if you bought something over the internet and think you can slip it into the cup if the phone rings... well, that won't work. In fact, I am going to take my phone off the hook."

But, as he did so, Walter was still trying to make sense of this odd, creepy, birdlike creature who wanted to be... his boss. Petticoats! Walter's grandmother had worn petticoats, maybe, and it was not an image he wished to have lingering in his conscience, or dreams.

"You ever seen under a lady's dress?" Walter snarled. "If this is some sort of queer thing, Mister See, just forget it... I don't swing that way. I'm married," and he held up his left hand, "I got kids older than you."

"It's not a queer thing," Barry barked... nearer a yapping than a growl... "it's company policy.”

"Take a good look, then," Walter said, unzipping his fly. He was proud of his schlong... there might have been longer penises around, but it was thick, roughly textured, and the whores in Vegas and on the Reservations agreed, unanimously, that Walt Fales knew what to do with it. Which was good... because nothing came out at first, Barry's eyes focused on the applicant's groin like a couple of piss-freezing lasers, and he was just starting to think that maybe he'd have to go back to Glyniece and ask for another referral when the two coffees and OJ... not to mention the effluents of a night's celebration and about a quart of water, after... kicked in, and he filled the twenty four ounce cup almost halfway.

"Drink up and be somebody," he told Barry, handing the cup over the desk with the little man still hanging out, uncurling now, relieved.

Barry put the cup of piss on his desk and, now, extended the same hand. As Walter had shaken the last few drops and was wet around the tips of his index and middle finger, he grasped the manager's hand and pumped, holding onto Barry longer than the manager would've desired.

"Welcome aboard, sailor," Barry said, wiping his hand on his dark trousers, then picking up his phone.

"Calls for a celebration," he said. "Lunch is on me. Eunice," he gurgled into the phone, bring a couple of salties back here."

He hung up. "You'd better learn the language. The salty dog is a fishwich... they go by a hundred names in a hundred other places, but ours are shaped and formed into cylinders six inches long and one wide, same dimensions as our standard Good Dog. And, like the Good Dog, it starts out at two ounces and three quarters, but it's heavier on the bun. Do you know why?" he challenged Walt.

"Fish is heavier than, uh... meat," Walter said because, in his experience, there could be many types of meat in a hot dog, even things that weren't meat... but that wasn't the sort of topic one brought up his first day on the job.

"Perhaps," Mr. C. allowed, giving the new guy points for trying. "But what really matters is that the Salty Dog... and it's just a name, there's no more sodium than in a Good Dog, or either of our competitors' burgers, and that's what you're to tell customers, if they ask... absorbs bulk from the frying process, while all of the dogs lose some of their bulk on the grill. It's a simple matter of science, right?"

"Sure," Walt nodded, "if you say so."

"I didn't go to college," Barry pouted, "I didn't have the money... that's true... but, the fact is, I prefer to work. I learn more in one day, watching my crew and the customers, than you could learn in a year, sitting in classes at the University of Ohio..."

"It was Ohio State," Walt had to say.

"Same difference. Did I tell you I do not like to be contradicted?" Barry frowned.

Walter hung his head, mumbling...

"What was that? I want you to say it."

"I'm sorry," Walter admitted.

"Don't just be sorry," Barry told him, "remember! Sit straight and fly tight... no, right. You know what I mean. Alright," he said, "I have work to do. Talk isn't work... well, it can be a work aid, sometimes, but it's not like you can take it off the grill, put it on a bun and sell it, for money. You have a job, thanks to Mr. Z., but I'm in charge, here, and you'll start on the bottom, which means scouring the grill. You'll relieve Achmed... lazy fuckin' Arab... and when you've finished cleaning the grill, you'll go back and clean it again until we fire up at noon. That gives you exactly..." and he checked his watch... "thirty six minutes. Can you give me a clean grill... reasonably clean... in thirty six, minus ten for lunch, making twenty six minutes?"

"Of course I can," Walter said.

"Good boy!"

The hollow-eyed old guy introduced as Ed knocked on the boss' door and, after Barry said "Come in!" deposited a plastic tray with two fish dogs on paper plates, a side of condiments and one Cola Slushie, with plenty of ice.

"There's mustard, mayonnaise, kraut, relish and a special oil and vinegar dressing," Barry held up a small plastic packet. "Help yourself... on the house, this once. We don't have paid meal breaks but, working the midday shift, you can eat lunch on the slack time, before noon or after two, unless you're working the register. Customers don't take kindly to giving money to a cashier with her mouth full, Susie."

"I can understand that," Walt said, spreading mayo and relish over the free fishwich.

"Try it," Barry said, taking a bite out of the liberally krauted Salty, giving his subordinate license to follow. "Employees get half off all food, eat-in or take out. That's a really positive benefit... I don't know about your home situation, and I don't want to, but there are times when anyone, everyone, needs something fast and inexpensive. All of our dogs can be reheated in the microwave, just put a cloth or wet paper towel over them to keep the buns from drying out.

"I understand," Walter said, through a mouthful that was slow going down. Damn thing tasted strong, fishy-strong, off, even. If the fishwiches absorbed whatever grease that Dog Pound sausages gave up while on the grill, they must be almost pure cholesterol. "Lemme try some of that mustard," he said, spreading a liberal, yellow smear the length of the remaining Salty Dog. "Mmm... mustard is important, you are the expert in this sort of thing, you and Mr. Z," he deferred, "but a lot of good meals can be ruined by poor quality mustard... or, I guess, any other second-rate condiment."

"That's a very mature observation," Barry said, though glaring at Walt competitively, and in an uncomfortable, even anticipatory way... until he took another bite of the Salty.

"Good!" Walter lied again.

"Now... as to the rest of our menu, it's not so hard to remember, not at all. We keep things simple, for the team and for the customers. The Good Dog is basic... it's like our version of the Big Mac, the Whopper, the crispy taco."

"Not like the basic burgers and cheeseburgers, the under-a-dollar... stuff?" Walt was going to say "crap" or worse, but figured that Mr. C. might take disrespect for competitors as an inclination towards disrespect for the whole fast food franchise industry. (Which, as he chewed the gamy fishwich, wouldn't be entirely undeserved. Hey!... it was free.)

"No," Barry said, "our low-end is the Wiener Dogs, they're little things, half-sized... sort of like Krystals..."

"Sliders," Walt suggested and the manager' eyes spun as he tried to put the word in a comprehensible place, finally doing so, or faking it.

"Yeah. But we only sell them in bags of three for two bucks, not individually. If you sell a single Wiener, you'll get demerits... it's to keep the homeless away. Not around here, but in other places where they used to sell them for a half a buck, back before the Democrats made prices go up, these homeless guys would come in with piss all over their six layers of rags, order a Wiener and coffee with some change or a buck they'd panhandled, somewhere. Try to camp out inside all day, especially in winter, when it rained. They'd even panhandle customers for refills. So we only sell 'em in threes. Because of the lawyers, we can't discriminate, but as long as we have one price and one policy for everyone, we're OK. That's why... if some nice, well-dressed housewife comes in and pleads, wants just one Wiener, we don't serve her. It could be the ACLU, setting a trap..."

"Cruel world," Walt agreed. The mustard really wasn't bad, took the edge off the Salty.

"Then there are the specialties. Right now, it's the Polish, the Chihuahua and the Yaller Dog, which is just chicken... or turkey, sometimes, they put this coloring in so it grills up sort of yellow. People who want to watch their weight, those sort-of vegetarians, you know. There are other specials, sometimes, they can be seasonal. Some people want weird shit on Christmas or the fourth of July. I guess it puts them in touch with the zeitgeist of the season... there's a turkey dog, of course, over Thanksgiving, without the yellow coloring but with the option of cranberry relish. Now these specialties are in the meat, as opposed to the Good Dogs with special toppings..."

"Yeah," Walter encouraged him. "I sort of wondered about those."

"For another half-buck," Barry exulted, "you can get a cheese topping, chili, a guacamole and jalapeño combo, pizza sauce..."

"So a hot Chihuahua," Walter deduced, "is a regular Chihuahua with chili, or maybe with chili and that other Mexican stuff?"

"Right... you can double up on toppings, triple up... hey, we'll sell the Pound Dogs with three toppings to pigs, if they'll pay for 'em. Let 'em clog their arteries... we're cool with that. Then there's the side orders... fries, onion rings, technically we still call 'em Freedom Fries, but that's really only significant with military, anybody else at the register just say fries, oh... slaw and salads. We don't sell many of those..."

"Figures," Walt said, finishing off the Salty that he would have spit out if his new boss wasn't watching.

"Sodas and Slushies... Eunice or Fermeley will show you how to work the machine, there's nothing to it, really. An idiot could make a Slushie, and... here... they do," Barry sighed. "Now, I've got calls to make, orders..." he looked at his watch, "you've got a grill to clean."

There was a wire brush under the grill that Walt gripped with both hands... there was also a tray under the tines which started filling with black flecks as he stroked. It wasn't so bad... sort of like sanding the years' worth of spilled beer and liquors off the floor in John's room once he'd decamped for the Great White North. There were four gasjet banks under the griddle... although the one under Walter's turf was, of course, off, it was damn hot... and he was starting to figure that Alaska might not have been such a bad idea when he sensed an even hotter presence, breathing down his neck.

He turned... and Barry Cullery snatched the wire brush out of his hand. "Maybe you got soft working in that other job, selling bum stocks and bonds to the public from an easy chair, but, in my Dog Pound, the boys work, or find themselves out on their ass! Like this..."

And the day manager began scraping maniacally, sweat dripping and sizzling on the still warm tines, gasping, cursing... turning his face upwards to Walt to scream "This is how my boys work... this!..." finally losing his glasses which bounced on the grill until Barry snatched them away from the adjacent hot quarter...

Face contorted with rage, Barry slapped the brush back into Walter's hand, bristles down.

"That is how my boys work around here. Work!" he pointed.

Walter held the brush, frowning.

"Do you want me to make a certain phone call?" Barry sneered. "Get busy!"

Walter went back to scouring the grill, and Barry screamed out again... "Faster! Faster! Are you some kind of girl... looking to work the register..."

Hate clouded Walt's vision and he stepped away from the griddle, lifting the brush. It sort of looked like Barry's hair, and he figured he could get about three inches of it down the manager's throat before Barry started to gag. The Dog Pound was preternaturally quiet. The rest of the boys, and girls, looking away, every patron including the children... a lot of children... were staring anxiously. Barry had the look of a mad killer being strapped to his gurney in the lethal chamber and cursing the priest... not giving a damn.

Walt bent over the griddle and began scraping the dried grease away, scraping until his knuckles began turning white with hate and his bowels began to rumble.

Barry smirked, placing his hands on his hips. "That's the way I break in a boy," he announced... to the staff, to the customers, to the world. And then he stormed off towards his office. Even so, none of the boys spoke, none would even look at him except for the laconic, graying Ed Musgrove.

"Long as you don't eat anything that fuck gives you, you'll do alright. Don't eat anything that Barry gives you - even if it's free!"

GOõHOME