So I Can Barely Afford

All of the faces on money look sad. I think people are too busy working for it or spending it to notice, but they all seem kind of miserable. Hamilton looks like his dog just died, or his girlfriend left him. Lincoln seems tired and disappointed. Washington has this vacant stare, like he just let out a deflated sigh. Maybe he’s thinking about all of the slaves that he owned.

I never knew Washington owned slaves until Luke, this guy that I work with, told me. He said that Washington treated them like shit, and didn’t free them after he had promised he would. I didn’t believe him at first, because I’d never heard any of that before, and Luke is like thirty and still works in a restaurant. But then I asked my History teacher, Mr. Hanson, and he said it was a different time and blah blah blah – long story short, it turns out that Luke wasn’t wrong. So this big hero who’s on money and carved into a mountain was a complete dick, and everyone knows it, but they go along with it anyway.

Turns out Luke is right about a lot of other things, too. He hates conservatives, but he doesn’t like Bill Clinton, either. One night he told me that Clinton bombed a factory, killing a bunch of innocent workers. When I asked my dad about it, he said that nobody was perfect, but that Democrats are better than the alternative and blah blah blah – long story short, my dad voted for a guy who bombs factories and cheats on his wife.

We work at the Wings & Things by the mall, in a shopping plaza between a Starbucks that used to be a bookstore and the movie theater. It’s a sports bar that’s as big as a warehouse and always about ten degrees cooler than it needs to be. I work after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays until ten, and Saturdays until midnight. Luke works every night except Monday, all the way until closing time. I usually work the wing station or the fryers. Luke’s always on the grill. He has a long goatee and hoop earrings and listens to music where the lead singers just scream. During breaks he sits on milk crates out back smoking and reading dog-eared science fiction paperbacks. He smells like dishwater and cigarettes.

Tonight is the last Saturday of the month, which means that the regular manager has the night off and Luke is in charge. I like these shifts because he lets me cut corners and leave early, which means I get to see Saturday Night Live from the beginning, so long as the bus is on time. It’s also when Luke usually tells me about things like Washington’s slaves, or how the war on drugs is an excuse to put poor people in jail. When the regular manager is around, he laughs at what Luke says and calls him ‘Carl Marks’, so Luke doesn’t talk as much.

‘Minor, I need three fries and a shroom,’ Luke says, wiping his brow with his arm, the burgers hissing like tires splitting a puddle as he flips them. Luke calls me ‘Minor’, which I don’t really mind because he treats me like more of an adult than anyone. He’ll buy me cigarettes if I ask, and he tells me about things no one else will. Last week, when he came into the back office on my break, he tossed me a condom and said ‘Keep your tool cool!’. I know he was probably just messing with me because Phil, one of the other cooks, laughed, but Luke wouldn’t have said it if he thought I was just a kid.

‘Got it!’ I yell, lifting up the breaded mushrooms that bobble around the crackling grease like melting lottery balls. We dart around to the gurgling fryers and chirping timers while Ozzy sings about going insane. Everyone always talks about kitchen jobs like they’re for idiots, but they can be pretty hard. Each ticket has a bunch of different things on it, and they all need to be cooked and organized to go out in order, as fast as possible. Sometimes they don’t stop coming in for two or three hours. I bet if all those people who talk about it like it’s so easy had to do it, they’d screw up every once in a while, too. .

My favorite part about Luke being in charge is that he lets me make whatever food that I want for free. Once dinner rush dies down, I always make a Caesar salad with chicken and extra croutons to bring to Tatum, who works in the movie theater, because I like her and that’s what she orders whenever she comes in. I take my time and try to make it look nice, just like it is on the menu, and Phil always makes fun of me for it.

‘Is that for your girlfriend?’ he always asks, but in a mean way with a smirk, as if having a girlfriend or wanting one was supposed to be embarrassing.

‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ I always answer with gritted teeth like I’m angry, even though I want her to be.

‘Shut the fuck up, Phil,’ Luke says tonight when it happens. He winks at me and adds ‘Phil’s just jealous cause he can’t get any’, which makes Phil sulk away into the back, like Luke does when the regular manager calls him ‘Carl Marks’.

I think about Tatum all the time, but I can never quite remember what she looks like, so it’s always a bit of a surprise when I first see her. She goes to Lake Catholic, so the only time I ever see her is at work, where she has to wear this puffy white shirt with a vest and a bowtie that would make anyone look like a dork, but she’s so pretty she pulls it off somehow.

‘You have no idea how much I love you right now,’ she says when she sees me carrying the salad, the steam from the chicken fogging the clamshell lid. The movie theater is as drafty as Wings & Things and there’s a giant poster of Brad Pitt holding up a bar of soap staring down at us. ‘If you didn’t bring this, my dinner would’ve been popcorn and gummy worms.’

I don’t say anything, my brain still stuck back at that first part. I know she didn’t mean it like that, but when a girl like Tatum says that word to you, it feels nice.

‘Busy tonight?’

‘Not really,’ I say, looking at the maroon and teal teardrop swirls in the carpet. ‘There’s a boxing match later, but it’s welterweight, so I’ll probably get out early.’

‘I get out at 11:15, right after the last movie starts.’

‘That’s cool,’ I say, shifting my weight from foot to foot and trying not to fidget. Whenever I’m around Tatum I suddenly become aware of things I never normally notice, like how I’m standing, or what I’m doing with my hands, or what a hopeless loser I am.

‘Do you have any plans?’

‘I’ll probably just go home and watch Saturday Night Live. The guy from X-Files is hosting.’

‘I’ve never seen that show.’

‘Saturday Night Live?’

‘No, The X-Files. Is it scary?’

‘Not really. It’s mostly about the FBI and aliens.’

‘Do you believe in aliens?’

‘I don’t know. They lie about everything else, so probably.’

Just then Tatum’s boss walks by, and she stops leaning on the counter and straightens her posture. He looks at us for a second before walking off. He looks like Paul from Cheers, and I consider making a joke about it, but don’t.

‘Well, thanks for the salad.’

‘Sure. No problem.’

We’re not very busy the rest of the night. Luke and Phil play a game where they try to fling onion rings onto a pair of tongs while I get most of the dishes done. A little after 10, Luke has me break down all the empty boxes in the freezer and cooler and together we take all of the trash and cardboard out back.

‘You smoke weed yet, Minor?’ he asks with a cocked eyebrow, lighting the white twig clamped between his lips.

‘Yeah’ I say, though I only did once with my friend Dan and his older sister, and I don’t think I did it right, because I didn’t feel anything. He takes a big puff and hands it to me.

‘Don’t tell anyone’ he says in a wheeze, glancing around the back lot before letting a trail of smoke steam from the corner of his mouth. ‘How’d it go with your friend?’

‘Alright. We talked about The X-Files. Then her boss came by, the fat one that looks like Paul from Cheers.’

‘That motherfucker does look just like him, doesn’t he?’ Luke says, laughing as he chokes out smoke. ‘You asked her out yet?’

‘Nah.’

‘You should.’

‘You think?’ I take too big of a puff and end up coughing until my eyes water.

‘Maybe not when you’re stoned’ he says with a laugh, plucking the joint from my fingers. ‘But, yeah, that’s why you bring her salads, right?’

‘I guess.’

‘Then go for it. Ask her out to dinner or something. Somewhere fancy. We just got paid.’ He takes a drag and stares off at the lights from the grocery store before starting to toss the trash bags into the dumpster, which whip a spray of orange-brown liquid at us, making us squint and wipe ourselves off. ‘Gotta have some reason for doing this shit, right, Minor?’

‘I don’t get my license for another two months.’

‘So what?’ he asks with a grunt as he heaves the last bag, bottles shattering in the dumpster. ‘Listen, Minor, none of that shit matters right now. It will someday. Someday girls are going to judge you on your car and your job. Shit, not only girls, everyone.’ He takes another long puff, holding it in for awhile before shooting it out of his nostrils, the silence filled by crickets and moths. ‘The coolest thing about being young is that none of that shit matters yet. Your salad friend isn’t going to care if your mom has to take you places…shit, her mom has to take her places. Does that make sense?’

‘I guess.’

‘Someday you won’t be able to blow a paycheck on a girl, you know what I mean?’

I wasn’t sure whether I did or not, but the joint had started to make reality swirl, so I just nodded. He pulls two Camel Wides from his pack, sticking them both in his mouth and lighting them before handing one to me. He flicks his lighter rapidly and yells ‘FIRE!’ in a Beavis voice before slipping it back into his pocket. A train whistle sounds in the distance and moths circle the lights. We both smoke the cigarettes down to stubs without a word, and Luke cuts me loose, handing me two more cigarettes without me asking for any. He winks at me, and I’m afraid I’m going to let him down.

I change out of my greasy sauce-crusted shirt in the bathroom and end up staring at myself in the mirror for a couple of minutes, tugging at my face like it were Play-Doh.

I smoke one of the Camels and watch Tatum sweep up the lobby, the glass and lights making her look like a lonely fish in a dormant aquarium. Every cool line I think of sounds stupid, and so does every honest one. The wind picks up, and the swirling leaves catch my eyes like a dizzy kaleidoscope. I alternate between muttering ‘you’re high’ and ‘be cool’ to myself several times half-aloud. When I see her grab her jacket, I duck around the corner and try to time it so that it looks like our paths just happened to cross.

‘Hey!’

‘Hey.’ I try to light the second Camel in an effort to seem cool and casual, but the lighter has lint in it so I have to flick it a bunch and pick it out, and look like a dweeb.

‘So you got off early, huh?’

‘Yeah, we were dead.’

‘So were we’ she says, her eyes drifting my shoulder to approaching minivan headlights. ‘Hey, that’s my mom, I gotta go. Have fun with your show tonight!’ She gets one foot off the curb before stopping on a dime and twirling around. ‘And thanks for the salad!’

‘Hey!’ I call out after a second of hesitation, just as she’s clicking the door handle. She turns around with a pensive smile, swiping a strand of hair behind her ear. The door opening triggers the dome light, which lights her with a halo that would be poetic if not for her mother craning her neck to stare at me as well.

‘I uh…do you want to go dinner sometime? Like a fancy dinner or something? I don’t have a car, but we could take the bus, or…’ I trail off, because I take the bus all the time, and I’ve never seen people on dates in them.

‘We don’t have to get fancy dinner. We can just go to the mall and eat bourbon chicken or whatever. My mom can drive us.’ She bounces on her heels and smiles. ‘You work next Tuesday, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK, let’s make plans then.’

The tail end of an Amy Grant song and the lite rock station call letter jingle break the silence, and her eyes seem sympathetic, but I can’t tell if they’re brimming with hope, fear or pity.

Her mother pips the horn and pushes a button to glide down the passenger window, and before I know what to do Tatum gives me a quick hug and climbs into the car. The beginning of a Savage Garden song starts on the radio before being cut off by the window gliding back up. Tatum and her mom say something to each other before they both look at me and wave before pulling off.

I miss the first bus because I’m too high and get caught up watching clouds and singing as many words as I know of the Savage Garden song to myself, so I have to wait in the depot, where I get bitten up by mosquitoes and bothered for money by a man with leather skin and fingerless gloves. But everything still feels like a Paul McCartney song.

And I still get home in time to catch the ‘Celebrity Jeopardy’ sketch. The guy from The X-Files does such a funny Jeff Goldblum impression that some soda fizzes up into my nose making me gasp and cough foam. While the musical guest is playing, I lay my two week’s pay on my bed, and look at all the sad faces, wondering what I’ll spend them on.

My dad says I should save up for a car. Mr. Hanson said it’s smart to put money in a Roth IRA when you’re young. Luke thinks I should spend it on Tatum.

I pile the bills back up and fold them before putting them into my dresser, humming the remembered fragments of the Savage Garden song over a voice reciting medication side effects in a pleasant tone on a commercial. 

'Something something something chicken cherry cola something something ooh I want you I don't know if I need you' I half-hum half-mumble, and when my mom calls out to ask what I just said, I say nothing and turn the TV up.