Losing Joe's Place (12 page)

I admit it was disgusting, but Don wasn't taking it very professionally. He was standing there with his hand over his mouth, looking like he was doing his level best not to add to the baby's contribution. I tossed him a towel, and he stared at me like I was crazy.

“Clean it up,” I said.

“Why me?”

“Why not you? I've got Plotnick on the phone, the soup is boiling over, and you're right there.”

Don approached me, his voice confidential. “Listen, Jason, I've got a list in my mind of all the things I'm never going to do in this life, and that's on it. Pretty high up, too.” He threw the towel back to me.

What could I do? I fired him.

“Good for you, Mr. Cardone!” approved Plotnick from the Caribbean. “He's got no respect for the customers.”

“Ha!” I snorted.
“You
would have charged the baby for a new restaurant!”

“Just a tablecloth.”

* * *

My routine was becoming settled. At six
A.M.
I'd rush down to the deli, put on the coffee, and begin heating up the grill. The Stripper was usually just coming home from work, so I'd mix her a double Alka-Seltzer cocktail and send her upstairs. Then I'd lock up and go out for my morning run. By the time I came back and showered, I was ready to open for the day.

When I descended on Friday morning, I found Jessica sitting on the doorstep, clipboard in hand. I didn't figure she wanted breakfast.

“I'm very busy,” I said evenly.

She followed me inside and poured two coffees for us. “It's my final project,” she explained, “and it's due today. We have to plan a whole week of nutritionally balanced menus for a family of four.”

I pointed to the top paper, which was blank. “I guess they're on a crash diet, eh?”

She laughed and laughed, and told me what a great sense of humor I had.

“It wasn't a joke,” I growled, writing up a bill for her coffee. “Since you're the one taking the course, and you haven't written anything down, then I guess that poor family's going to starve, aren't they?”

“Well,” she said sheepishly, “I was kind of hoping you'd help me.”

I shook my head. “You can't pull the wool over my eyes. You're not looking for help. You want me to do it for you.”

She beamed. “Jason, you're a lifesaver! And I promise — it'll only take two seconds.”

Well, at least it was the final project. After this she'd be Ferguson's and Don's problem exclusively.

No sooner did I open up her nutrition textbook than she began to lose interest. Soon I was totaling up saturated fats while she read the paper. A few minutes later, the radio was blaring in my ear.

“Do you mind?” I snarled. “I'm doing
your
work! The least you can do is give me a little peace and quiet!”

“Sorry. Here, I'll help. I really will.” But a few minutes later, she was wandering around again, reading the choking instructions and the fire laws.

Then the breakfast customers started to arrive. While I poured, cooked, served, and cleared away, she replaced me over the clipboard. She didn't write one word.

“Is that your girlfriend?” God's Grandmother asked coyly.

“No, she's everybody else's girlfriend. She only drops by every now and then to let me do her homework.”

After the breakfast rush, we got back to work, except her. She was pacing around in the show window, peering outside and scowling.

“Look at all that garbage. Apple cores, newspapers, pop cans — no wonder the streets aren't safe.”

The leap of logic escaped me. “Garbage is dangerous?”

“It's a statistically proven fact that the crime rate is lower in cities with less litter. What does that say to you?”

I looked up from her homework. “Criminals are slobs?”

“No, no, no,” she said impatiently. “I belong to a group called ‘Clean Streets Are Safe Streets.' Four times a year we all get together for a major city cleanup, and the cops confirm that street crime goes down in the areas that are really clean. Too bad you're stuck in the deli. Our next sweep is tomorrow.” I thanked God for the deli. She sat down at a booth and sighed. “I'm kind of disappointed in Ferguson and Don, though. Neither of them was interested in volunteering. There's no room in my life for people without social responsibility.”

How about schoolwork responsibility? Not picking up garbage was a crime against humanity, but goofing off while a guy, not even your boyfriend, slaved over your assignments — that was okay?

And when she ran off to class with my finished project — late, of course — I noticed that she'd forgotten to pay for the coffee.

* * *

“Hey, Jason, guess what? Jessica pulled an A in home ec.”

This was the news that greeted me when I got up to the apartment that night after closing time. The Peach always did have great timing.

I Frisbeed the snapshot of Joe and Melina on the beach at Mykonos right at his face. “She must have worked like a Trojan!” I said acidly.

“Hey, I thought it was pretty good news,” said Don, mystified. “I never knew she could cook.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “She hid that from me, too.”

I was surprised that the two of them could discuss Jessica without a fight breaking out. But later that evening, Don pulled me aside confidentially. “Don't say anything about this to Peachfuzz,” he murmured. “Jessica belongs to this group of weirdos who go around picking up garbage 'cause you can't get mugged if the street's too clean. She doesn't know it, but I'm going down there tomorrow to surprise her. She thinks I'm not interested. Man, is she A-one right! But when she sees me out there slinging crap, I'll have Peachfuzz massacred!”

Half an hour later, the Peach sauntered over. “I know I promised to help you in the deli tomorrow, Jason, and I will. But I need to take off a couple of hours in the morning. Jessica's on this cleanup crew for a really worthy cause, and I want to go down and help out. Just don't say anything to Don.”

I had trouble getting to sleep that night, even though I was really bushed. If I had it figured right, Don and Ferguson were both going to roar downtown to impress Jessica, and meet head-on. The biggest mess that cleanup crew would face could very easily be the chunks of human flesh my two best friends were going to tear out of each other.

The next morning, I pretended to be asleep, but I had one eye on Don Champion. He rose furtively from his bed on the couch, hopped athletically over Rootbeer's sleeping hulk, and tiptoed to the bathroom.

“Occupied,” came the Peach's voice.

“What? Hurry up!”

Splashing, spitting, banging on door. Then they switched, and soon it was Ferguson clamoring to get in.

“Go away! You've had your chance!”

“Shhh. You'll wake up the whole building.”

They dressed at the same time, silently, looking daggers at one another. At last, Ferguson broke the ice.

“Where are you off to?” he asked casually. “Wouldn't you like to know?” Pause, less certainly, “Where are
you
going?”

But the Peach had clammed up again. And when Don stepped into the bathroom to sculpt his hair, Ferguson sprinted out of the apartment.

I waited for Don to come out of the bathroom, but all I got was dead silence. Not even Mr. Wonderful brushed his hair for this long. So I got up and looked. The bathroom was empty, but the window was open, the air conditioner askew.

I knew then and there that the Olympiad Delicatessen was going to be closed this morning. Jason Cardone, proprietor, was needed elsewhere to prevent a bloodbath.

* * *

“
We have a severe thunderstorm warning in effect for Toronto and all surrounding regions. The humidity is one hundred percent, the pollution is over the danger level, and the Department of Health advises joggers to pass up today and stay in the air conditioning.
”

Thus spake the radio as I tooled the Camaro along Bloor Street, looking for the cleanup crew. I found them at the corner of Yonge Street, the busiest and dirtiest intersection in town, about thirty or forty young people with pointed sticks and heavy-duty garbage bags. I scanned for Jessica. Where she was, could Don and the Peach be far behind?

Then I saw them — two furious gladiators, squaring off, pointed sticks aimed at each other's pancreases. Jessica was running in circles around them, trying to make peace. I have no idea why she didn't just neutralize each one with a shot from her brass knuckles keychain. I mean, we'd already proved that it worked.

With a squeal of tires, I pulled into the nearest parking space, and leaped out. I hit the road running.

“Stop!
Stop!
”

Suddenly both pointed sticks were aimed at
my
pancreas. “You told!” they chorused.

Then, hearing each other, they resumed their standoff. I had a brief giddy vision of myself trying to explain to Mrs. Peach and Mrs. Champion that these two shish kebabs used to be their sons.

Jessica saved the day. “Put those weapons down or I'll never speak to either of you again as long as I live!” The sticks dropped to the road. “Now, either clean up, or go home!” She sent Mr. Wonderful and the Peach to opposite sides of the street, and before I knew it, I was being issued a litterbag, too.

“Oh, no,” I said seriously. “I was just — uh — spectating.”

“Come on, Jason,” she wheedled. “You don't have to stay all day. Just help us out for an hour or so.”

I was wary. I already knew what it was like to be recruited by Jessica for “two seconds.” “An hour or so” could take weeks!

“Please —”

I decided to stay, just to keep an eye on my volatile friends. Jessica cheered, and told me I was wonderful, and threw her arms around me, and kissed me on the cheek. I glared at her.

In a gutter choked with yesterday's newspapers, soaked in engine oil, I set to work, stabbing and stuffing. Thunder rumbled.

The wind picked up, gusting down the street, and suddenly all the litter was in full flight. A few of us were stabbing at the air. I actually caught myself thinking,
Stop that! You'll put someone's eye out!
Uh-oh. Another of my mother's specialties.

The Saturday morning shopping crowd stood on the sidewalk and gawked, but they weren't watching us — at least, not all of us. Ferguson had put down his stick, and was walking around in circles, holding up his index finger to the wind. Every now and then, he would lick his finger to help him gauge exactly the spot he was looking for. Satisfied at last, he nodded to himself, and stopped right in the middle of the road. There he stood motionless, his bag held open, oblivious to the honking of car horns and the curses of motorists. A murmur spread through the crowd.

Even Don was paying attention. “What's he trying to do?” he asked.

The parting of the Red Sea couldn't have been a better spectator event. Suddenly a big gust of wind came up, lifted half the garbage on the block, and blew it straight into Ferguson's bag. It was amazing. I wouldn't put it ahead of Rootbeer and the wrestlers, but I think it might have edged out the two-by-four.

Yonge Street went wild. The shoppers all broke into applause, and motorists were honking and flashing their lights. A lot of our group mobbed the Peach, and he was an instant hero, to Don's great disgust. Even Jessica sort of forgave him.

“Well, I'd better go open the deli,” I began, sensing an opportunity to get myself out of there. But at that very second, there was a blinding flash of lightning and a crash of thunder that shook the ground under our feet. The sky opened up and let us have it. Did it rain! No drops, just sheets of water pounding down on us.

The Clean Streets Are Safe Streets crew scattered. Apparently wet streets were empty streets.

Jessica was furious. “Where's everybody going?” she cried. “We can't let a little rain get in our way!”

Ferguson and Don grabbed her, and I led the way to the Camaro. Only it wasn't there.

“Where's the car, Jason?” called Don. “We're getting soaked!”

I stared. Yes, this was definitely my parking space. Now, anybody else would have figured the car had been stolen. But I knew better. Stolen was something I could only dream about. Was there any doubt? A certain Camaro was — why, why,
why
? — still on the hot sheet.

Ferguson read the look on my face. “Not the cops —?”

“Aw, man!” moaned Don. With no car to give us shelter, his first impulse was to save his clothes. Ruthlessly he overturned his garbage bag and dumped its contents out onto the road — right in front of Jessica, who was horrified. Then he ripped a few quick holes and made himself a raincoat.

Jessica refused to leave because, as she put it, “It's already starting to clear up.” So we left her under an awning and swam to the nearest police station.

It was horrible, going through the story all over again, especially since I was going to have to say it one more time when we got to the unit that actually had the car, and give a third performance for our neighborhood station, where the original report had been filed. Those were the idiots who had guaranteed that my troubles were over. What was so difficult about canceling one computer entry?

At last, word came through from 54 Division that the Camaro was okay. I was positive I could hear laughing on the other end of the line. Big joke.

“Make sure you take my car off the stolen list!” I yelled at the phone, and there was more laughing.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon by the time I opened the deli.

“Are you crazy, Mr. Cardone? Why don't you just drive a knife through my heart and twist it? I've been calling a whole day!”

“It was so busy I couldn't get to the phone.”

“You're a liar!”

Great judge of character, our landlord.

* * *

Don got another job, the Peach got another promotion, and Rootbeer got another hobby.

Don was an usher in a movie theater, and spent so much time asleep during the show that he was up all night. This gave him an opportunity to try Kiki at three
A.M
. Kiki's father (or whoever that was) kind of lost it. He screamed about having the calls traced, swore that Kiki was dead, and hung up so hard that I heard the click all the way from the beanbag chair.

Even though Ferguson was still only making $350 a week, there was no question that he was Harold Robb's wonder boy. Too bad the Peach still had another year of high school ahead of him, because he had Plastics Unlimited in the palm of his hand. He was in on all the important meetings, traveled frequently on business, and had just been presented with his own key to the executive washroom. The Peach had
arrived
.

Rootbeer's new hedge against executive burnout was rock polishing, which was not as bad as the harp, but ten times worse than stamps. He had bought one of those polishing wheels, and not a toy, either. It was the kind jewelers use to finish diamonds, and it must have cost a fortune. Where had he gotten the money? We had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with a
Toronto Star
headline that read:
Man Uproots Telephone Pole
. Especially since I spent that night digging splinters out of Rootbeer's hamlike hands. But our hero refused to discuss financial matters, as it could only lead to stress, and we all knew what
that
led to.

My own career as the new Plotnick was keeping me pretty busy. On Monday morning, the man from the paper goods company just stared at me when I handed over the money for our napkin shipment.

“You mean that's it?”

I shrugged. “What else is there?”

“Plotnick usually screams and cries and calls me a criminal, and tries to get out of paying the tax. Then he counts all the napkins and pulls out the ones that are creased. I used to hate stopping here.”

The meat man put it more succinctly. “I hope Plotnick never comes back.”

The popularity of my Chocolate Memory dessert continued to grow, and I was now going through a dozen boxes of D-Lishus cake mix per day. My regulars ordered it all the time, and I was getting patrons from different parts of the city who had come in just to try my new dessert, the flavor everyone could remember but no one could identify. This inspired me to develop the Chocolate Memory
à la mode,
which meant the same old stuff with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. $2.95.

As the week progressed, a peculiar phenomenon happened at the Olympiad. We continued to get our normal mealtime traffic. But a whole new crowd started to come from about six-thirty till closing, and all they wanted was dessert — more specifically, Chocolate Memory, plain and
à la mode
. They weren't a neighborhood crowd, either. They were from all over, the trendy nightlifers, winding the evening down with coffee and dessert. They came from movies and plays, concerts and clubs, baseball games and discotheques, all converging on Pitt Street to eat my raw cake mix. Suddenly the buzz of conversation included such topics as foreign films, political theory, astrology, and funky fashion — all this in Plotnick's restaurant with the salamis in the window.

I was afraid my fellow tenants might object to the crowds and the noise and the late hours. But they seemed to enjoy the excitement, except for the Ugly Man, who hated everything. They were all Chocolate Memory fans anyway, and I did my best to keep their tables, speed them through lines, and give them quick service.

On Friday and Saturday nights, I didn't get to close until after one in the morning. When I finally managed to kick out the last jet-setting couple and sent them running off into the night musing, “What
is
that wonderful flavor they use?”, I grabbed the mile-long register tape and examined it. My estimate was that I pulled in twice as much money from coffee and dessert than from the three meals combined. I wasn't running Plotnick's business into the ground; I was launching it through the roof!

My main problem was space. The deli could seat fifty-five, including seven stools at the counter, which my up-scale dessert crowd stayed away from. And while the people lined up outside were very good for my ego, they weren't filling the cash register unless they were inside and eating. I needed to bump up my seating capacity. Plotnick had a bunch of old beaten-up tables and chairs stored in the basement and, one night, while Don was out with Jessica, Ferguson helped me haul them up.

“Don't worry about leaving space between them,” I advised. “If you can get through them turned sideways, it's enough.” I looked around critically. “Better take those stools downstairs. That'll make some room.”

Ferguson stared at me. “Are you sure about this, Jason? What if Plotnick doesn't like it?”

I dismissed this. “All Plotnick cares about is money. The more tables, the more money.”

Ferguson blinked, almost like a computer whose circuits were engaged. “In that case,” was his readout, “those booths have to go. They're too bulky. You could get more than double the number of people in that space.”

I laughed. “I'm not that crazy.” But from that moment on, the thought of the wasted space tormented me. I almost expected the booth people to order a little bit more, and to leave bigger tips, to compensate for taking up all that room so selfishly. I know it's weird, but I really
thought
that.

* * *

Tuesday was my busiest night yet. It seemed that, no matter how many tables and chairs I crammed into the deli, the dessert-hungry evening crowd could fill them. I could no longer buy my cake mix from the supermarket. I had to set up a charge account with the D-Lishus Corporation. The stuff was arriving by the truckload.

At around ten o'clock, with a full house and Plotnick pestering me on the phone, I had to drop everything to deal with Mr. Nevin, a weasel-like man who squeezed up to the counter and flashed me a badge that looked like it was at least from the FBI.

“Nevin. Telephone company.”

I was relieved. If he was the fire marshal, I had three times as many people in there as I was supposed to.

His eyes narrowed. “Are you Mr. Plotnick?”

“God forbid!” I blurted out. “My name is Cardone. I'm in charge here while Mr. Plotnick's — away.”