The BOYS
Episode Eighteen
Of
course, Walt kicked himself on the way
in to the DP, Monday morning; the morons who ran the government had to have moved back Columbus Day,
otherwise he wouldn't have to be going out to Oceanside tomorrow. His eye had fallen off the big picture, BCM's
senior super-salesman acknowledged, he was letting adversity make him sloppy,
lose his edge. He'd have to do more than
the physical work of the Dog Pound... which probably was good for him, at least
– that and cutting back on the smokes... he'd have to exercise his mind. Do a crossword puzzle, maybe, watch one of
the cable news channels instead of those airhead puppets on the local
station... work the system for all it was worth until the company cut off his
service and he wouldn't have any
options.
He'd
already told the Mexicans who did the yard he wouldn't be requiring their
services anymore. He'd done so over the
phone, reaching this woman whose English wasn't that good herself, so the physical
fitness excuses he'd given were sort of ambiguous, at best. Hell, he'd done all his own yardwork back in Ohio and, besides, it was past time for
Scottie to start earning his keep. It
wasn't any sort of imposition to have the kid cut a few weeds and set out the
sprinklers... those people in jails in Iraq and Cuba had things worse, much
worse. Of course, without a blower of
his own, Scottie would have to rake up
the leaves and debris, bag the crap and carry it to the curb... not only their
own vegetable waste, and what the Freschettas'
Mexicans blew onto their lawn every week, but what the Simons' Mexicans blew
onto Freschetta's lawn, and, probably, what the Gendelmans' Peruvians blew onto the Simons'. The circle would finally be broken for, like
Atlas, the Fales clan would shoulder the entire
burden of neighborhood cleanliness, instead of blowing it on to the
Pilkington's. Someone had to take responsibility in this god-damned world. And if any of those Oceanside bureaucrats
asked, tomorrow, he'd let them have a piece of his mind, too.
Walt
clocked in, went to the Chemical Closet and removed
the mop and bucket. He still teared up when the full strength ammonia-based fluid hit
the metal, but, even though Eunice and Fermeley had
simply told him to run the water in first, it didn't bother him... it was, in
fact, a sort of wake-up ritual to begin the new day, and the new day's
work. And it was his signature, too, the
smell wafted towards the counter, at least, if not the dining area, and Mister
C damn well smelled it too. And what
could Barry say... did he want to manage a filthy restaurant?
Like
a dog marking its corner hydrant, Walt covered the bottom of the bucket and
then added water, and wheeled it down the corridor towards the registers. The DP dining area was vacant... flat out
vacant; no bums, no military, no professor... there weren't any cars at the
window, either, and Fermeley nodded towards the
manager's office.
"Did
you catch that?"
"Catch
what?" Walter replied.
"New boy."
She held up a limp wrist and nodded, Walt nodded back.
"Good
for Barry. He wants this..." Walt
shook the mop, "he's welcome to it.
I can do your job."
"You're
bad," Fermeley
scolded but, then, a scratchy voice rasped out "...(crackle)
dog, guacamole, pizza dog, (crackle crackle) fries,
(crackle) Slushie, pie..."
"Thank
you, move up to the window," Feremeley said.
"What
the hell was that?
Fermeley killed the intercom, tapping the keyboard to send
the order back to the counter.
"Pound dog, double cheese fries, orange," she glared,
"...you couldn't do my job, you can barely push
that mop."
"Probably
right," Walter shrugged.
"It's
why I earn the big money," Fermeley preened.
ä ä ä ä ä
The
new kid emerged behind Barry about a quarter hour later, as Walt was finishing
the floor and getting ready to wipe down the salad and condiment bars. He had one of those, well, ambiguous faces - could've been sixteen
or twenty-six… probably somewhere between, of course… and a mop of dark, curly
hair that looked artificial, like the multicolored clown wigs drunks at
Qualcomm put on, sometimes, hoping they might get on TV. Square cut goatee, like a poet or crapuccino jockey for a Starbucks might sport. Green silk shirt, white pants and knee-high riding
boots with three inch heels that enabled him to almost come up to Barry's nose
- if the kid had been black, Walter might've figured him for an outsized metal
jockey, like the one the Gaffigans kept on their
lawn.
The
kid swerved to give Tex a high five, and then fell in line behind Mister C. as
the manager spieled off the various duties of the Dog Pound, pointed out
employees who'd stopped to gape and gossip, saying something, probably saucy,
about each. They paused at the
registers... Ed and Eunice responding to Barry's monkeyshines with mile-long,
dead, DP stares, then the manager lifted the counter, beckoned the kid forward
and waved at Walt, cheerful as a beetle on a rosebush.
"Now
this is Mister Fales, Walter Fales,
and you and Walter should get along especially well because Walter used to be
somebody, too, once upon a time. Tell
him your name, sonny..."
"I'm
Gwan," said the kid, tottering forward on his
high heels, extending a hand.
"He
doesn't recognize you, I'm afraid," Barry pretended offence. "Gwan's a
celebrity, he used to sing with Spicy Mice, right?"
"What's
that?" Walt shrugged, afraid that it might be one of the DP's older,
failed dogs.
"That's
all in the past," the kid admitted.
"Spicy
Mice wasn't a what, it was a who," Barry tried to
explain, "a band, had a couple of hits, and then it died."
"The Who... them I know," Walter said. "Used to bust up their instruments, then
they all did up drugs, and died, too.
Did that thing uh... you know, with Elton John? That movie, on cable, the
Queens? You sang with those guys?"
"No
I'm uh... well, I was more pop, than rock."
"Same
difference, these days. Not that I'm one
of those Bible-banging, book burners like some, around here, I don't hate kids
and the crap they have that passes for music.
I feel sorry for 'em. All those
whining losers... the white kids, I mean, who'd want to get behind that?"
"C'mon,"
Gwan objected, "James Taylor was one of the
biggest stars of the sixties, still around, and he was in mental institutions, and a junkie, but nobody made a big deal
about it and he got to be married to Carly Simon awhile. Spicy Mice, we had our first gold record in
oh nine, you know, we... they, uh... had four gold records before I signed
up. But it was for kids, I mean real
young kids, pre-teen girls, and they had this rule, twenty-one and out..."
"Well
I had nothing but boys, three of 'em..."
"Boys
didn't fit our marketing profile," Gwan
admitted. "And then there were all
those legal battles over the name, somebody ruled that we were infringing on
the Spice Girls, even though we, or the band, had been around much
longer."
"So
- what are you doin' here?" Walt smiled, leaning
on the mop in a way calculated to bug Barry.
"Well,
I watched Dr. Phil, a lot, on the road, and I figured it was time to get
real. I was singing since before getting
out of school, then that age thing came up and afterwards was like hitting a
brick wall up in the City, L.A. I mean?
I carried my tapes around, but none of the labels would give me a
contract, and there weren't any acting jobs, either, so... I like the area, and
my aunt's letting me stay in her garage..."
Walt
scratched his head. "Didn't you
make any, you know, money from your
career?"
"It
sort of got lost," the kid shook
his head. "Legal shit. I had managers putting everything into stock
and funds that all went broke, like that one with the dude on the run..."
"...so now," Barry took back
control before some unpleasant revelation ensued, "he's part of the DP
team. Right? You pay attention to Walt, kid,
he'll teach you a lot of things that it's important to know... cleanin' floors, bathrooms, stacking deliveries in the
cooler..."
"Does that mean I'm going to work
on the grill?"
"No," Barry grinned, an
unusual and unsettling sight that sent warning flashes raising the hairs on the
back of Walt's neck. "I've got
something special in mind for
you."
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