I had probably the worse job of my
fugitive career at the time. I was kitchen manager for a pizza outfit
with dancing mechanical apes. They knew three songs. People would put tokens in the jukebox and the apes would perform “Achey Brakey
Heart” all day long.
It was probably the worse job of my
life.
Ensnared in polyester, I stank of
chicken grease. The sourness of the fryers associated with newly
popular buffalo wings just ruined the pizza business. The singing
apes didn't help much either. Old grease replaced the wholesome,
bready aroma pizzerias had hitherto been associated with. The boss,
one-fifth owner and a refugee from another singing monkey joint,
likewise swathed in old poly blends, never swiveled from his office
chair to visit my kitchen. I didn't blame him.
Beside me, was a staff of five young
Latinos who let me know right away I wouldn't last if I wasn't part
of their street crew. I had no idea what they were talking about. I
briefly entertained the notion that they were breakdancers, but
dismissed it. I still had too much Indiana Boy on me.
They were punks, and I told them that
often. Their villainous exploits tormenting the homeless disgusted
me. Likewise, they didn't respect my authority, and I rarely knew
where to find them. It mattered little. I could better crank out our
standard crap for the little Achey Breaky bastards we served without
their assistance. They abandoned me to my fate and hid in the
prep room and parking lot. I was well stocked, and the lot was clean.
Jabba the manager, lights out with his Salem Slim Lights in his rayon
office, didn't want to get involved. I didn't either. I was trying
to talk the wife into letting me take a flaky art gig I had been
offered, so why rock the boat.
When I saw the state of Dave and Mike's
hobo camp, I was sure it was these guys.
I seethed, biding my time until I could
quit and worrying about Dave and Mike and the others from the hole in
the mountain. Before closing time, this kid Diego had told a story
about leaning out of his buddies car and beating bums with a bat as
they tried to run away.
When I clocked out, he was nowhere to
be seen. I left by the back door and found Diego and pals in the
shadows around the corner. Diego was leaning on a broom. I asked to
see it, and took him out at the knees, continuing to beat the hell
out of him as his friends stood there with their mouths open. I
dropped the broom and walked to my car without looking back. I fought
the urge to run for fear of acting like prey. I made sure nobody
followed me home.
For some reason I went to work the next
day. I fully expected to get jumped. Diego was a no show. Everybody
stayed in the prep room longer than usual without carrying anything
out. My nerves were shot. Finally Diego's best bud came out with
trays of dough. I had a knife and bowl of flour nearby and wouldn't
hesitate to use them. He smiled at me and said “Man, you really
fucked old boy up! He won't be messing with you anymore”.
Just when I thought it was all okay, I
got the call to go see the boss. He said he heard I hit one of his
employees with a mop handle. I told him it was just a broom. He said
he had filed a police report. I told him what I thought of Billy Ray
Cyrus. We were on the same page regarding my career in mechanical
dancing monkey pizza.
I didn't worry about the cops. I used a
throwaway name to get the job. One I hadn't used anywhere else. They
wouldn't look for me.
I didn't see Mike again for a year or
better to learn how their camp was destroyed. By then, the wife and
I, baby in tow, were blowing town in the wee hours of the morning.
The Social Security people had sent letters informing us that we had
ten days to explain why our names and numbers didn't match their
records. Thankful for the warning, we collected our next paychecks
and got in the wind to find a new town and new identities. I stopped
to pick up a hitch hiker north of the city and it turned out to be
Mike.
He said it was the cops who smashed
their hobo village. He said a few people had gotten arrested but he
and Dave lit out and moved to the Days Inn for a while. Apparently
the old man in California died and his heirs weren't as tolerant to
squatters. I've never felt bad about beating Diego.
Mike said Dave had gone to stay with
neglected daughters in Texas and he had been attracting attention so
he was moving on. We let him off in Casa Grande, where he had promise
of a job. We got as far as Phoenix and the wife and baby were fussy
from the car so we decided we were home.
Cleaning up the car at the motel, I
found Mike West's flannel on the back seat floor with his social
security card and birth certificate. He was just a little shorter
than me, a little darker hair, a little older, but he had the
necessary brown eyes. I just happened to be in need of a new identity
and the Universe provided one. Mike West. My Quest. It was a sign
that everything would be okay and I was right where I needed to be. I
wondered how long it would last. I wondered how long I would be Mike.
I wondered how long the wife would put up with this shit. A week? A
month? A year?
We checked in to The Parkview as Mr.
and Mrs. West. Within twenty four hours I was managing a downtown
pizzeria. We baked our wings and wore cotton shirts and I thrived a
while in the ape free atmosphere.
i love checking in on these, Todd. always well told and a damn compelling read. seriously. great stuff.
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