The class of 86, p.10
The Class of 86, page 10
Of course, Two Left Feet missed their chance to win the Battle of the Bands, but thanks to Jake, not only would Two Left Feet never play again but also Rob and Luke would probably never speak to him again. They were miffed, to say the least.
But Dad wasn’t mad. In fact, he was delighted. Maybe he figured the thief had finally succeeded in ending Jake’s music career. Now Dad figured Jake would concentrate on his schoolwork instead of on music. Since the insurance Jake had on the van didn’t cover stolen items, Dad even loaned Jake the money to buy Rob and Luke new instruments.
For Rob to replace his guitar, amplifier, and two sound-effects foot pedals, $950 seemed sufficient. Luke’s drums would cost a bit more. To replace his set with a new one of equal value would run about $1,500. Jake was just glad Luke hadn’t left his lightsaber in the van. No telling how much that would cost.
Since Jake owned a $500 share of their P.A. system, he was able to talk Rob and Luke into dividing his share of the system between them minus $100 depreciation. So Jake owed $750 to Rob, and $1,300 to Luke, a total of $2,050. Jake had $54 and some change, so Dad loaned him an even $2,000, which was ironically how much they should have won at the Battle of the Bands. Dad said that he was in no hurry to be repaid, but Jake hated being in debt, even to his dad. Jake was determined to pay Dad back before the summer was over. Bill Gates would just have to nurture his fledgling new company without Jake—for now, anyway.
****
Wednesday, June 4, 1986
After working all day at the deli, Jake arrived at Bruno’s at 5:08 wearing the khaki pants and white short-sleeved shirt they had instructed him to wear, which just so happened to be the same thing he wore at Food King. To ease his financial and emotional despair, like a beacon of hope, Bruno’s had called and offered him a dishwashing job working evenings. Teresa wasn’t overly pleased about losing her evenings with Jake to Bruno, but because of his dire financial circumstances, she understood.
Jake stood next to shelves lined with bags of flour, cans of tomato sauce, and black olives. He stared at a stainless steel sink with two partitions. To the left of the sink sat a pile of dirty plates, forks, knives, and cups. A yellow plastic drying rack sat to the right. Jake cringed at the sight.
My sister, the brain surgeon—me, the dishwasher. For Teresa and the baby, he reminded himself.
Sandwiched between two supply racks stood this short kid in his early twenties sporting a mustache and feather-cut hair, talking on the phone. He noticed Jake, looked at his watch, and signaled for Jake to wait till he got off the phone. Moments later, the kid hung up the phone and strutted toward Jake carrying a green apron and a baseball cap with Bruno’s logo printed on the front.
“You must be Jake,” he said. “I’m Ron, your boss. You’re late.” He tapped his watch. “That’s not the best way to start your career here at Bruno’s.”
“Sorry,” Jake lied.
“Well, since it’s your first day, I suppose I’ll let it slide.” The compassionate little twerp shot Jake a quick, sarcastic smile.
“Yes, sir, I’m sorry,” Jake said. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t. Anyway, like I said, my name’s Ron. I’m Bruno’s assistant manager. Sort of his right-hand man, you might say.” He handed Jake the apron and hat. “I’ll have you a name tag before the shift’s over, but right now we need to knock out these dishes. Once the buffet gets going, dishes start rolling in fast, so we better get started. You ready?”
“Just show me what I need to do.”
Ron stepped over to the sink and pointed as he gave instructions. “It’s not brain surgery. You take these dirty dishes, you take this sponge, you wash in this sink, you rinse in that one, and you set ‘em in that rack to dry. You got all that?”
Jake was a skilled laboratory technician. He didn’t need this guy explaining to him how to clean plates. “I think I can manage,” Jake said.
“All right, son. Let’s see how you manage these dishes. I need them washed before the next load comes.”
“Yes, sir,” Jake said, striving to be respectful to this peon pizza-pusher who was fifteen years his junior.
Did he just call me “son”?
Jake put on the apron and hat and walked over to the sink to examine the pile of plates, cups, and metal-ware. Some dishwater was already in the sink, but it was cold and murky. Jake looked at his clean hands and the filthy water. He scanned the shelves, looking for some dishwashing gloves. He could find none. Reluctantly, for Teresa and the baby, he plunged his hand into the murky water and fished around for the drain plug. Finding his mark, he pulled the plug and let the water drain. When the water had finished draining, he scooped soggy food debris out of the sink with his bare hands, threw the goop into the overflowing garbage can, rinsed out the sink, replaced the drain plug, and started to refill the sink with hot, clean water.
And Jake thought working in the lab was gross. At least there he got to wear gloves.
“What are you doing, son?”
Jake turned to see Ron peering at the sink, looking appalled.
“You can’t make clean dishes with dirty water, can you?” Jake replied.
“Of course, you can,” Ron explained. “That’s why you rinse the dishes in the other sink.”
“Yeah, well, that water was nearly as dirty.”
“Look, we don’t have time for this. The health code requires that upon returning to the buffet table, the customer gets a clean plate.” Just as Ron said this, a busboy slammed a tub of dirty dishes onto the counter next to the existing pile of dishes. “See what I mean? Chop-chop, son. We need to get more dishes to the buffet table. Chop-chop, let’s go,” he barked at Jake, turned, and walked up front.
If that kid calls me son one more time!
Jake wanted to put Ron in his place, but knowing his future family depended on him, he humbled himself to Ron’s misguided authority and did as he was told. As the sink filled with steaming hot water, Jake added some dishwashing detergent to the stream coming from the faucet, causing a cloud of lather to form on the surface of the water.
Jake washed furiously for what seemed like hours, but according to the clock he was watching, it had been only fifty minutes. His apron, his underlying shirt, his pants, and underwear were soaking wet, and his fingertips were shriveled like raisins.
Before long, the water had once again become clouded to a brownish-red from pizza sauce and soft drinks, not to mention the customers’ saliva. Pieces of onion, sausage, spaghetti noodles, soggy pizza crust, and other food debris brushed against Jake’s fingers as he furiously tried to keep up, wishing he were back in the lab doing urinalysis. Suddenly, working in the lab didn’t seem so bad after all. He’d worked in the lab for so long that he’d taken the job for granted, not realizing that things could be much, much worse. He kind of missed the lab. He never thought he’d find himself thinking that.
Jake looked down at the cold, filthy water. “I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered. He picked up one of the plates he’d just washed and inspected it, finding that it was coated with a greasy film. He was pretty sure the Health Department expected clean plates at the buffet table. His job as a lab technician was to help people get well. No way did he come back to 1986 to make people sick. He was changing the water, no matter what Ron said. He reached down, pulled the sink plug, and then reached over and pulled the plug on the rinse water sink.
The water had drained, and he was scooping out food debris when Ron rounded the corner and caught him in the act. “What are you doing!?”
“I’m cleaning out the sink. You can’t clean dishes in dirty dishwater,” Jake snapped back at him, asserting some backbone.
“We don’t have time for that. We need more plates. Now!”
Jake had never stood up to his boss before, but minimum-wage jobs were easy to come by, and he wasn’t about to make people sick for $3.35 an hour—not after having a job that paid three times as much making people well. So Jake said, “That’s because you don’t have enough plates to begin with. Now, I’m sorry . . . sir, but I’m not going to let people eat off these plates or drink out of those nasty, greasy cups. You ever heard of hepatitis A?”
Ron stuttered for words, “You . . . but . . . you’re fired!”
“You can’t fire me because I quit!” Jake had always wanted to say that.
Jake stripped off his hat and apron, tossed the hat into the sink, and threw the apron at Ron, which landed on his head and draped over his face.
As Jake made his way toward the door, Ron yelled, “You’ll never work pizza in this town again!
Chapter 11
The next morning, thanks to one of Jake’s frequent bouts of insomnia, he awoke earlier than he’d planned. Since he had a busy day ahead of him, it was just as well. Although he was off from Food King, he’d planned to hit the mall just as soon as it opened to look for a new job. After that, he needed to get his stitches removed, and then Teresa had him booked for the rest of the day.
Jake’s insomnia was no doubt brought about by worry, as it had always been. He was worried about finding another job, paying off his dad, and of course, he still had to figure out a plan to stop the abortion clinic shooting. But he wasn’t bothered in the least over quitting Bruno’s. In fact, he felt strangely exhilarated by his justified defiance. Maybe he wasn’t such a wimp after all. All in all, his Bruno’s experience was quite therapeutic.
The mall didn’t open until 10:00 o’clock, so Jake figured he’d use his time wisely and do some early morning Bible reading before his four hours of sleep wore off. After a blueberry waffle and coffee, he sat in Dad’s recliner with his Bible resting on top of Peanut, who was curled up like a cinnamon bun between Jake’s legs. He had finished Ecclesiastes, which, to be honest, was kind of depressing, but the Song of Solomon was neat— romantic, actually. Now he was in the third chapter of the book of Isaiah. But as he read, he couldn’t help noticing how his mind kept wandering. Each time he caught himself daydreaming, he scolded himself, reminding himself of the importance of the Word of God. He even resorted to taking a folded piece of paper to help guide him along the lines.
So he read that way, using the folded paper until he got down to chapter seven: Sign of Immanuel. Then, just like a sign from God, something occurred to him. He remembered a time back in the mid-nineties when his neurosurgeon sister, Andrea, was eating dinner with him and Dad. The conversation had turned, as it inevitably did, to the subject of when Jake was going to go back to college. Andrea had suggested that, when Jake was a kid, he had displayed all of the signs and symptoms of Attention Deficit Disorder. She even said that people with ADD tend to be more creative and that Jake’s playing in a band only reinforced her theory. She said that people often outgrew ADD and suggested that Jake go back to college and see if his grades improved. Of course, Dad said it was hogwash and that Jake was just lazy. Until now, Jake always agreed with Dad.
But was he just lazy? At work, he’d always picked up as much overtime as he could, and now he was looking for another job, on top of his full-time job at Food King. No, Jake wasn’t lazy. Maybe his sister was right. When he went back to school at twenty-eight, he did concentrate a lot better. He carried a B average while working full-time. When he’d read the Bible in his forty-year-old body, he’d had no problem concentrating, but this eighteen-year-old brain couldn’t seem to hack it.
It might have been an easy excuse for his bad grades, but it looked like it was true. Apparently, Jake’s academic failure wasn’t entirely his fault. He simply suffered from ADD.
Somehow, however, Jake didn’t feel all that relieved by his discovery. Sure, he could stop being so hard on himself, but what did that mean for his new future? He had planned on starting college in the fall, making really good grades and majoring in something that paid better than working in a lab. How did he expect to ace his classes and make Dad proud when he had a learning deficiency? They didn’t start publicizing ADD until the ’90s, which was when his sister had suggested it. Did they even have Ritalin yet? Maybe they did, but Jake wasn’t sure he could convince a 1986 doctor that he needed to be on it.
Then the obvious answer occurred to Jake’s handicapped brain. After working at Bruno’s, hadn’t he decided that working in the lab wasn’t so bad after all? Hadn’t he decided that he liked working in the lab, in fact, actually missed it? Why not enter Livingston U’s two-year lab program in the fall? That way, since he’d already taken the classes, he wouldn’t have to study much and therefore free up a lot of time to work outside of class. Then, in just two years, he’d be making a lot more money. Maybe he and Teresa could go ahead and have a baby. It was perfect!
Not only that, but the minimum age to work as a lab assistant was eighteen, and for that job, he didn’t need a degree. This body was eighteen, and Jake had the driver’s license to prove it. Instead of applying for minimum-wage jobs at the mall, why not just work as a lab assistant in a job he did well—for better money and better benefits? He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before, but then he eased up on himself. After all, he did have ADD.
Jake set the Bible aside and pried himself out of the chair while trying to leave a sleeping Peanut undisturbed. He went to the phone in the kitchen, flipped open the phone book and called Livingston Memorial Hospital’s personnel department. Unfortunately, the lab did not have any positions open. He then called the areas two other hospitals and got the same story. He’d fill out applications anyway because the turnover was pretty high in the lab. But in the meantime, he had to get to the mall and start searching.
Just as he turned toward his bedroom to change into some job-hunting attire, the phone rang.
“Hello,” Jake answered.
“May I speak to Jacob Simon, please?”
“This is he.”
“Yes, this is Bob Hatcher, the manager of Peg Leg Joe’s. I’ve got your job application in front of me. We’re looking for a fish cook to work evening shift. Are you still interested?”
“When can I start,” Jake replied.
“How about coming in today and we’ll discuss the schedule.”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” Jake said and hung up the phone.
“Guess I better get used to smelling like fish,” he mumbled as he headed for his room.
Chapter 12
Peg Leg Joe’s was a blatant rip-off of Long John Silvers. When Livingston Center Mall expanded, the owner of this once-Long John’s franchise had relocated his staff to the newly renovated food court and sold the building to Joe, the owner of Peg Leg’s. The place looked pretty much the same as Long John Silvers, except for where there was blue paint before, there was now red, and Peg Leg Joe covered the walls with fishnets that had plastic shrimp and crabs attached to them.
Compared with Bruno’s, working at Peg Leg Joe’s wasn’t so bad. They were hurting for help, so Jake started work there the next night. Of course, since he’d agreed to start the next night, he had to cancel a date with Teresa, but she didn’t put up too much of a fight. She knew he was still down over the Battle of the Bands thing and that he was serious about paying his dad off ASAP. Besides, Jake assured her it was only for the summer.
Aside from a couple of minor grease burns, by the end of his first day on the job, Jake’s Peg Leg experience went much smoother than his night at Bruno’s had. His only concern was that the frying oil clinging to his skin would add still more pepperoni to his pubescent pizza face.
Jake’s boss, Bob, was also a lot better than Ron at Bruno’s. Bob not only obeyed the health codes but also seemed to respect Jake’s unusual teenage maturity. Bob was so impressed that he even promised Jake a whole, entire nickel raise after a six-week probation period.
For the most part, Jake would be working from 5:00 p.m. till close, five nights a week. So that was at least twenty-five hours a week, which translated to about three-hundred bucks a month, and if he worked a little extra, an even thousand by the end of the summer.
****
Under a gray, overcast sky, smoke stung Jake’s eyes as he stood on the back patio, poking at steaks and chicken breasts sizzling on a gas grill. Inside the house, Grandpa Simon sat on the couch visiting with Jake’s brother and sister while Grandma helped prepare the rest of lunch in the kitchen. It was Sunday, June 8, Grandpa Simon’s seventieth birthday, the day Jake had both looked forward to and dreaded at the same time. He looked forward to seeing his grandparents, but he dreaded this unavoidable reunion with his brother, Eddie. That’s why Jake was outside on the porch, sweating and swatting flies—Eddie was inside.
To celebrate Grandpa’s birthday, Eddie and Andrea had come home. The plan was to have a pleasant Sunday lunch after church, enjoying the company of close family. Meanwhile, with Jake’s grandparents out of their house, Jake’s aunt, uncle, and cousins were setting up Grandpa Simon’s house for a big surprise party. So this little cookout served as a diversion for the big party that night. Unfortunately, since Jake had to work at Peg Leg’s, he’d have to skip the party.
Jake waved a fly away, jabbed a two-pronged fork into a fatty slab of steak, and flipped it over. Steak grease fueled the fire, causing orange flame to jump from the grill, licking the sizzling meat, spitting and popping, and slinging a drop of hot grease onto Jake’s forearm. He casually wiped his arm on his T-shirt to ease the familiar sting he’d grown used to after a couple of days at Peg Leg Joe’s. Maybe Jake shouldn’t have dreaded seeing his brother as much as he did, for Eddie, too, was a sting Jake was well used to by now.
When Eddie graduated high school—unlike Mr. Least Likely to Succeed—he’d graduated with honors and got an award from his high school ROTC program. Eddie had then—and this was one of the best days of Jake’s life—joined the Marines and moved out of the house. Now Eddie was a drill instructor at Parris Island, South Carolina. Fortunately, Eddie had to leave at 3:00 to make it back to Parris Island, where the next morning he would be up at the crack of dawn, making his new recruits as miserable as he liked to make Jake. Eddie was well suited for his job. Eddie enjoyed his job.
