Minna B

From yesterday:

I was feeling down. That movie wasn’t very funny—it wasn’t making me feel any better.

I remembered I was supposed to have dinner and drinks with my family.

So I called him to come with me because I didn’t want to face them alone.

The questions.

“What’s up with school? Are you all paid up? Why can’t you do Spring quarter? When will you graduate?”

From a week ago:

I’m unenthusiastic. I hate waking up so early.

The cat meows to be fed—she has to get spayed but I can’t afford it right now.

I’m looking at plane tickets. The prices are going up and up.

I’m confused. Is he worth it?

I’ll never have enough money for him.

From a month ago:

Rent is coming up.

The restaurant is so slow. I’m so broke.

How can I afford this?

I’m late on school payment.

What can I sell?

I have nothing of value—monetarily.

I hate my job.

I don’t want to work because I hate this job.

I hate the people I work with—they don’t give a shit.

We used to be friends. We used to go out for drinks and talk about our lives.

“How are you? How’s school? How’s your dad doing?”

They stopped asking because they don’t care because I hate this job.

From a year ago:

I live across the street from him, but he feels so far away.

I work, I eat (sometimes), I sleep—alot.

I drink even more.

I smoke when I’m bored.

I work, I drink, I smoke, I sleep.

I wallow because I’m unhappy with my job.

I’m lonely because he’s gone.

I’m anxious because I’m standing still—going nowhere fast.

I work, I work, I work. Drink. Smoke. Sleep

I don’t remember actual events because it’s just a 

hazy cloud of smoke,

a blur of loneliness.

A big empty apartment full of

furniture, art, books, dressers, clothes,

so much clothes I’ll never wear because

it’s always the same black uniform.

I see black:

shirts, shoes, socks, pants, an apron that smells of week old food.

A black memory I can not really see.

From two years ago:

He and I live in the turquoise apartment.

Our humble little home.

I work, he works,

He leaves early in the morning. I sleep.

I get home from work late at night. He sleeps.

He works on his computer; always working,

trying to further his “career”.

I lay on the fur covered couch,

alone because he’s at the computer working,

his back facing me.

My black uniform is covered in white dog fur.

I go to bed because there’s nothing there for me—no one.

He comes to bed. I’m asleep.

He leaves early in the morning to go to work. I’m asleep.

The black uniform hangs waiting for the night.

So much clothes,

but I wear only the black.

She shut the door behind her. They shut the bedroom door when they were fighting so the children wouldn’t hear. They shut the bathroom door when doing their individual business, but never for any other reason. Doors always remained opened in this house. “There should never be anything to hide, therefore, all doors stay open,” the parents would say.

But today, the stay-at-home-mom, the care taker, the house wife, the misses, the mother, shut the bathroom door with a bottle of booze and a bottle of pills.

They had been fighting—the mister and the misses. They had been arguing for days, weeks, months; since they first moved into the house, mainly over fidelity. The mister had been unfaithful in the past, when they lived in Venezuela, now he suspected his wife of doing the same.

She told him she was leaving. He didn’t know where. She told him to pick up the kids that day. So he did. But while he was gone, she shut the door behind her and looked in the mirror. She questioned their marriage, her looks. She’s gained a lot of weight, she thought. She’s getting old, she thought. She’s miserable, she’s bored. She stays at home while he works and then enjoys cocktail hour with his staff. Wait, what staff? She questions her new life, her new home. She has so many questions and no answers. This is why people must drink, she reasoned.

So she went to her husband’s bar in the formal living room, found a bottle of liquor and closed the bathroom door behind her. She opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the aspirin. This oughta show him, she thought.

With the bathroom door closed, the misses begins to swig straight out of the bottle. She makes a face. She looks in the mirror. How the heck do people drink this stuff? She gags. So she pops a few pills and takes another swig. This time the taste wasn’t as bad. She looks in the mirror. She sees no difference. Isn’t this supposed to make me feel better? She questions. Isn’t that why people become alcoholics? She wonders.

The misses takes another swig, pops a few more pills. She looks in the mirror. She smiles. She laughs. She doesn’t think about her children. She thinks about her husband. She thinks about her son’s hockey coach, Mark, but not about her son.

She takes another swig. She looks in the mirror. She’s crying. She thinks about her children. She thinks about her husband. She cries. She takes another swig and collapses on the porcelain bathtub.

The mister is home with the children. The house is silent but the tap tap of a young boy at his computer. He’s clicking away at the mouse while his mother lays unconscious in the tub. His father returns asking where his mother is. The young boy’s not paying attention.

The mister is calling from just outside the bathroom door. The misses is knocked out. The mister calls each time growing more nervous, anxious, worried. What has she done? He wonders. Dear God let her be OK, he pleads. He has his left shoulder on the door, his right hand on the knob. He breaks the bathroom door. He sees his wife in the tub. She is unconscious. He sees the pills, the bottle of liquor, he kneels down before her.

He calls for her, gently tapping her face, calling her name. He carries her to the bed. She is cold. He wraps her in blankets. She sobs. He weeps. They never closed the bathroom again.

They are old—older. The mister is sick. The misses cares for him. Because they love each other. And they never close doors anymore.

Disclaimer: this story is kinda sad.

Side note: In order to be a writer, you must be willing to embarrass yourself, your friends, and your family, especially. (Sorry guys)

  When I was about fifty-six I was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer. My wife was the care-taker, the stay-at-home-mom, the house-wife, the what-you-want-to-call it raise my children while I work, love of my life. Yes, at times I may have been unfaithful, yes, at times, she may have been, too. Yes, at times we had our differences—and then some, but I will never be more grateful to have this woman in my life.

Because who would have taken care of me when I was fifty-six and sick and weak and unable to work? Who would have cared for my children and fed them and encouraged them as I lay in a bed green and ill and unable to provide? Yes, at times I may have been unfaithful, and yes, at times she may have been, too.

And maybe that’s why that dreadful day when my children were barely of age to understand, my wife decided to show me just how much she meant to me by “chugging” the scotch I often keep in the liquor cabinet (and I put that in quotes because my wife doesn’t drink, so a mere shot is poisonous to her) and swallowing pills that concluded in her passing out in our porcelain tub one afternoon after a serious quarrel over fidelity.

She said she was leaving. She didn’t say where. I didn’t know where. So it was my responsibility to pick up the kids that day. I took them to the Seven-Eleven around the corner from school, as she did most days. We went to the grocery store to pick up dinner and then headed home. But once I got home, I had forgotten the rice, so I dropped off the kids—I knew the nanny was home and they’d be OK.

My son, Mike plopped on the computer—of course; while my daughter, Minna waited in her mother’s room to show off her latest masterpiece. I returned home to find my son on the computer—still, and my daughter fidgeting with the construction paper creation waiting on the edge of our bed. I asked my son where his mother was—barely looking up from the screen he said,

“In the shower, I think?” Kids these days, I thought.

So I walked in my room and called for my wife who was STILL in the bathroom. “Mami.” She didn’t respond.

“Mami, abreme.” (let me in) I said—in Spanish. She didn’t open.

“Mami, abre la puerte!” (open the door) I yelled—in Spanish.

Nothing. With my right hand on the knob and my left shoulder on the door, I began to push.

“Mami!” Push.

“Mami!” Hinges.

“Mami…”

My wife is in the tub—unconscious. I slap, I shake, I kiss, I sob.

Now I’m fifty-six.I’m in the hospital bed. I thought I had pneumonia. The doctors say I have liquid in my lungs. My body aches. I’m in my bed. I can’t tell the difference between my two daughters. I can’t eat. I can’t swallow. I’ve lost 50 pounds. My wife struggles. My children are depressed.

Now I’m sixty. I’m celebrating my birthday. I can barely walk up the four steps to the kitchen from the patio where my Mike and Minna sit in adulthood. My wife works. I sit at home, on the computer, still smoking cigarettes. A pack a day, maybe more. My wife buys them, because she smokes, too. My wife supports me, because she loves me, too. And I will never forget how it felt to, for an instance, think of my life without my wife.

*1*

It was supposed to be a temporary thing.

It was winter, I was twenty-one and my mom called to tell me that my dad had been hospitalized. She said he had pneumonia, but later I found out it was Lymphatic Cancer. So I packed all my things, sold some things, and moved back home just before my third year in college. Great—this was just the type of “break” I needed. So I moved back home and got my very first job at a restaurant to help my parents pay bills because my dad had always been the breadwinner, but being hospitalized and then bedridden for months doesn’t exactly bring a crumb home.

So I got a job at a café-style restaurant where the food wasn’t very expensive and the clientele wasn’t very fancy, but it was better than nothing, especially considering I had to lie on the “experience” portion of my resume because this was the very first restaurant I had ever worked at.
            Most of the staff consisted of people my age, some students paying their way through school, some “professional servers” that would die tray in hand. These “professionals” had been working there for years—before it was called Beverly Hills Café, when it was under different management and the sushi restaurant across the street was still open; before that bastard Stanley became the boss, re-named it, and then fired me because I couldn’t work on a holiday.

But my dad was still sick, bills still needed to be paid, and I had to find another job.

In January, I applied at another restaurant. This time, one of the experiences on my resume was true, but not good—I left out Stan’s contact information. But being the eloquent bull-shitter that I am, I got hired on the spot and began working the following week.

Unlike Beverly Hills Café, this restaurant was considered “casual fine dining”—ever been to Carrabba’s? There’s really nothing “fine” about Carrabba’s, but because it was in a prominent area in Miami, they jacked up the prices and built it to look like a “fine” establishment. I went to work at 5 p.m., which meant I didn’t have to wake up early like I did to serve soup and sandwich combos for that dick Stan. And I got out around 11 p.m., sometimes midnight, and never made anything under $150 a night working 6 nights a week. Sweet deal!

Because my parents couldn’t afford their own bills, they obviously couldn’t afford to pay for my college, so the restaurant job was a temporary thing to help my parents until they got caught up and save enough money to go back to school in Georgia. So if I was estimating $150 a night, working 6 nights a week, why did it take me 8 months to go back to school?

*2*

If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant you know that everyone who works in the industry smokes and drinks—a lot.

The bars were conveniently located one block from the restaurant, so every night after work we’d go for a few beers that usually turned into a couple of shots that always turned into a really bad hangover the next morning which was usually more like afternoon but luckily I didn’t have to work until 5 p.m. So even though I was averaging $150 a night, the bars (especially Sunset Tavern) were costing me half of that, but I didn’t care because I was drunk and tomorrow I’d make it all back, and then spend it again.

Working in a restaurant is like getting too much sleep—you would think you’d be wide-awake but instead you’re just more tired so you keep sleeping. The money feels unlimited because no matter how much my bar tab was on Tuesday I knew I’d make it all back on Wednesday.

After three months working at Carrabba’s, I got a promotion and started bartending. Now not only was I making crazy tip money, I was getting paid hourly too! This did not help shake the feeling that I had unlimited funds to spend on clothes, shoes, alcohol and yes—drugs.

If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant you know everyone who works in the industry smokes, drinks and does drugs—a lot.

*3*

It was clear why I got a promotion—I was “secretly” dating the general manager, and because of it, I got a lot of leeway. So now my job was easy and it paid a lot. What else could you ask for?

To not feel like shit every morning. To not wake up hung over dreading the realization of what your life had become—one monotonous day after another.

I got fired from Carrabba’s right around the time I stopped seeing the general manager—coincidence? Doubt it.

I don’t mean to say that the people who work in the service industry are corrupt—but I do.

It took me eight months, two restaurants, one bar, two asshole bosses, fifteen extra pounds from drinking beer, a gross amount of cigarettes and too many drugs later to say—fuck this, I’m out of here.

*4*

By then my dad had gotten better and I had some how saved enough money to move back to Georgia. But by the time I got there, paid tuition for one semester and rented a crappy studio apartment, I was broke again.

If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant you know how easy and fast it is to make money the industry—very.

So there I am again applying to wait tables. I went through two restaurants in less than a year before ending up at Belford’s—another excellent example of “casual fine dining” where I can convince you to order a $60 dish you can enjoy in jeans and t-shirt.

It was supposed to be a temporary thing.

            But time just keeps passing, bills keep piling, and I’m still reciting specials.

If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant before, you know how easy it is to become consumed by the rapid cash flow of the industry—very.

*5*

It was supposed to be a temporary thing, but I’ve been at Belford’s for three years now (gasp), and not only do I often come home with a wad of cash (an easy $1,400 on St. Patty’s weekend), sometimes “black-market” crab cakes (I call ‘em “black-market” because I trade the kitchen staff rum-and-cokes from the bar for food), but best of all, I get to come home with some of the best stories I, even as a writer, could not make up.

*6*

One much dreaded morning shift, I found Houston Tulip (no, that’s not his real name, but it’s not far from it either) in the service area hesitant to drink a cloudy glass of water.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Bleach.”

“Uh. Why?”

“I’m supposed to go see my probation officer after work and I think she’s going to drug test me. I fucked up and took some pills last night.” He said still holding the cloudy water I now understood was a mixture of water and the bleach we use to kill flies around the restaurant—let me emphasize that: the bleach we use to kill flies around the restaurant.

“O.K., but so why are you drinking bleach?”

According to Wanda (one of the lunch time cooks), bleach fucks with your “system” and makes your pee faulty so you can’t detect the use of drugs.

“My baby’s daddy does it every month to pass his drug tests.” She said.

You gotta be fucking kidding me? I thought.

So I stood in the service area at Belford’s drinking Coke even though it was ten in the morning (because soda is free and we are not allowed to drink juice), watching Houston hold a cloudy glass of water and bleach whining (rightfully so) about not wanting to drink it.

“Do you wana go home or do you wana go to jail, Houston?” Said Wanda.

“Alright dude, if you’re really gona do this then let me at least make it into a tasty shot for you.” I told him.

So I took the bottle of bleach, brought it behind the bar, poured a shot into the shaker, mixed in some lemonade, added a splash of sugar water, shook it up so hard it was almost frozen when I poured it into a shot glass, and gave it to Houston—that shaker still smells like bleach.

“At least your teeth will be whiter.” I told Houston as I handed him the bleach concoction.

“I know, that’s what I was thinking.” He siad. I laughed.

“No, Houston, I was kidding, it’s NOT actually going to make your teeth whiter.”

After much hesitation, Houston finally drank the bleach, and threw up the rest of the shift.

I don’t think he actually made it to his probation officer that afternoon, I never asked what ended up happening, but he didn’t go to jail, and he still works at Belford’s.

If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant before you know what kind of shit goes on in the industry—crazy.

*7*

Now, I don’t mean to say that the people that work in the industry are corrupt—but I do.

Most of the people I’ve worked with are 20-something year old single mothers; 45 year old drug addicts who still live with their moms; tired, grey haired ex-New Yorkers with missing teeth from doing too many drugs; pilled-up high school drop outs who can’t get anything better than a hosting job at $7/hr.; ex-cons who are given a second chance washing dishes because it makes the restaurant look better that they are actually giving these people a second chance, and look the other way when they sell drugs around the establishment because, if you’ve ever worked in a restaurant, you know at least one person (usually cooks, dishwashers, busboys, serves: occasionally) sells drugs—pot, coke, pills; you name your poison, they got it.

*8*

Working in a restaurant is like running on a treadmill—sure you get the exercise and the cardio, but you don’t go anywhere. Everyday feels the same. Every night you stand before a hungry audience blabbing the specials that have been drilled in your head you could literally recite in your sleep. Sometimes they come out without you even realizing what the fuck you’re saying, it’s just an automatic reflex like a sneeze you can’t control.

“Hey folks, my name is Minna and I’ll be taking care of you. We have a couple of specials tonight…………….” and then you zone out because it’s all the same shit, night after night with slight changes in the sauce or the type of fish, but it’s always fucking pan seared, and it’s always served over something topped with another thing. But you smile and make it sound delicious! Because after all, you are working for that 20% tip!

If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant before, you know it’s all bullshit—all.

The server isn’t going to recommend the BEST dish in the menu, they’re going to sell you the most expensive one. They’re not going to tell you your steak’s going to go great with that $65 bottle of wine because chances are, they’ve never even tasted that the damn thing, but that price sure does go well with your tab.

I don’t mean to say that the people who work in the service industry are corrupt—but I do.

For some people, the industry is their career. They have nothing else but a tray and an apron.

But for me, it IS a temporary thing, one that has lasted entirely too long.

And I still say, this will be the last serving job I will ever have—ever.