Taking The Heat (6 page)

SYDNEY

“Peanut butter, bread, 2 dozen eggs, and toothpaste. Is that going to be it for you?” the sixty-year-old cashier asked as she carefully placed the groceries in a bag.

“Yes ma’am,” I smiled.

Inside my head, a song was playing. Not one from the radio, but one my brain had just made up in celebration of earning my tips.
I can pay for my own groceries. I can pay for my own groceries.
I grinned as the words continued to repeat themselves.

She looked over the top of her glasses toward the register, “That’ll be $13.20.”

Watch this. I’m going to reach in my purse and grab money.

My money.

I pulled my wallet from my purse and thumbed through the bills as if I were looking for something small enough to give her. In actuality, I was looking for a $20 dollar bill, and I knew I only had one. The remaining $1’s and $5’s littering my wallet made me look
and
feel
as if I was on top of the world.

In all respects, I was.

“Here,” I said as I pulled the $20 bill from my wallet.

“Are you new in town, Hun? I haven’t seen you in here before,” she asked as she accepted the money.

“Yes ma’am. I just moved here a week or so ago. I couldn’t find a job in Wichita, and was offered one here at a restaurant. So, here I am. I’m Sydney,” I smiled.

“I’m Gladys. Well, it’s nice to have you come in. We try to keep our prices down, but I can’t get as cheap as those places in Wichita. But we’re sure convenient,” she said as she opened the register.

As she handed me the change, she smiled, “So, which restaurant are you working at?”

“Randy’s Rib Shack,” I responded.

She raised her hand to her mouth and leaned over the counter as if telling me a secret, “Randy doesn’t own it anymore. Some hoodlum bought it, but he kept the name.”

I wanted to shove the groceries to the floor and tell her to fuck off. Having grown up in a small town, I knew small towns were generally filled with people who had far less exposure than larger cities. The lack of experience with various races, religions, beliefs, and cultures caused many people in small cities to turn their noses up at anyone who even
appeared
to be different. As much as I wanted to scream, in my opinion it was always better to educate than argue. I swallowed heavily, tapped my toe on the floor lightly, and smiled.

“I certainly didn’t see him as that. He was very kind to me. I was unemployed and homeless. He offered me a job, gave me a ride here from Wichita and offered me one of his rental properties for free, or at least until I could pay him,” I said as I reached for the bag of groceries.

She covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes widened, “You don’t say?”

No, actually I just did.

I smiled and nodded my head, “He was very sweet.”

She lowered her hand from her mouth tilted her head slightly, “Well, George said he rode motorcycles with that group of hoodlums down south. There’s a bunch of ‘em over there at that old warehouse Torn Mattern used to own, and they all look dirty.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I have no idea. All I know is he was very nice to me, and he was far from dirty. Actually, he was clean cut, and had a military haircut. Oh, and I caught a glimpse of a Marine tattoo on his arm, so I asked him about it. It seems he’s fought in the war for this country, they awarded him a few medals for bravery as well.”

She leaned back and scrunched her brow slightly, “You don’t say. Well, George was a Marine. Those guys are as thick as thieves, you know. I’ll have to pass the word. Well, Sydney, it was nice talking to you.”

“Likewise,” I smiled.

After I walked the three blocks home, I used
my
peanut butter,
my
bread,
my
knife, and
my
plate to make the best peanut butter sandwich I’d ever eaten. After I finished eating, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and relaxed on the bed I was so graciously provided by one of the Sinners. As I stared up at the ceiling and waited for the sleep fairy to take me away, I thanked God.

For hoodlums like Toad.

TOAD

I had been sitting on my bike outside the back door of the restaurant waiting for the lunch rush to end. Junior and I had a long talk about his eating habits, and as a result I had changed the rules for all employees. The new allowance was one sandwich of their choice, one side dish, and as much as they wanted to drink per 8 hour shift, free. I had my doubts about Junior adhering to the rules, and I wanted to catch him in the act of eating lunch. Generally he ate lunch around 1:30, and I hoped to stop in and find him eating. If I didn’t get to the bottom of my steadily increasing meat costs, I was going to go out of business.

I raised my leg over the back of the bike, locked the ignition, and walked to the back door. I gripped the door handle lightly, held it in my hand and pressed my ear against the door. The faint sound of whistling was all I heard. Just as I had hoped, Junior was either eating or cleaning the kitchen. I twisted the handle and yanked the door open.

Junior turned to face me, his eyes opened to an almost comical width, and his mouth agape. In front of him on the prep table sat a plate of various meats stacked ten or twelve inches high. Beside the meat was what appeared to be the upper and lower portion of the bun we used to make sandwiches. My experience in the few years I had owned the restaurant told me the plate of meat probably weighed three pounds. Our typical small sandwich was to include 4 ounces of meat, and the large 6 ounces. This wasn’t a sandwich or a meal, it was a family feast.

“Gorgeous day, Junior. What’s going on?” I asked as I stepped into the kitchen.

“Just cleaned the kitchen and I’s going to eat me some lunch, Mr. Toad. Worked me up a powerful hunger, we was busier’n a bunch of bees at lunchtime,” he grinned.

I stepped a little closer. As I glanced at the plate and inventoried the meat, Junior walked over and picked up the plate, whistling the entire time.

“Do you remember our talk about the eating? How it was dipping into profits?” I asked.

He nodded his head as he reached for the plate, “Yes sir, Mr. Toad. I remember it clear as a bell.”

I shook my head and tried not to laugh, “Well, if you remember it clear, why don’t you explain to me what you’re eating for lunch?”

He looked down at the plate he held, twisted it and tilted it as if looking to make sure he was holding what he’d prepared. As he glanced upward, he smiled, “A sandwich, Mr. Toad.”

I rolled my eyes, “That’s a
sandwich
?”

“Sure nuff is, Mr. Toad,” he grinned.

Although I tried not to, I chuckled slightly, “Junior, that’s
not
a sandwich. A sandwich is two pieces of bread with meat in the middle.”

He looked down at the plate for a long second. As he shifted his gaze to meet mine, he widened his eyes, “Zactly what we got right here, Mr. Toad. It’s sure nuff two pieces of bread and some meat. I can’t get it in the middle like you say, ‘cause the dag nabbed thing always falls over. It’s tough to stack it up that high without droppin’ it on the floor.”

“Junior, if you stacked that meat up on the bun, it’d be three fucking feet high,” I shrugged.

He nodded his head, “That’s zactly what I’m sayin’ Mr. Toad. A three footer’d fall over fo sho. So, I’s using the brain God give me to lay it down flat so we don’t have us a meat wreck.”

It was all I could do to keep from laughing. “A meat wreck?”

“Yessir, Mr. Toad. That’s when she all falls over on the floor.
A meat wreck
. It’s just like a train wreck, but with meat. So to keep from havin’ em, I flatten my sandwich out,” he explained as he waved his hand over the plate.

Still standing beside the prep table with the plate in his hands, Junior stood and grinned. I motioned toward his plate with my right hand, “What all’s on that plate Junior? Just what have you got there?”

He looked down at the plate and recited every type of meat we sold, “There a little bit of the pulled pork, some sliced brisket, some chopped brisket ends, a slice or two of that brown sugar smoked ham, a little chicken, got me a couple slices of turkey, and some of them ribs. Oh, and there’s a few of them hot links down there, but they’s hidin’ under the rest. And the bun. The bun makes it a sandwich, Mr. Toad.”

Junior appeared to have gained twenty pounds since I’d seen him a week prior. Easily pushing four hundred plus pounds, he was huge. Without a doubt, at his size he needed to eat considerably more than most to simply stay alive. I shook my head and smiled, “Looks like a fine sandwich Junior, just try to keep it down to one a day. No nibbling on the side.”

“I’ll do me just that. One a day, and no nibblin’. And thank you Mr. Toad, I takes me some pride in my work.”

“Well it shows,” I chuckled.

I couldn’t bear to watch him eat the mess on his plate. I glanced around the spotless kitchen, down at the well cleaned floor, and recalled the condition of the kitchen before I hired Junior. It was a catastrophic mess. If Junior was nothing else, he was prideful and clean.

“Have a good day, Junior. I’m going to go fuck me some bitches,” I chuckled.

Junior looked up from his plate as he pulled a stool to the edge of the prep table, “Mr. Toad, my momma says your tallywhacker’s gonna fall off if you keep on with those women like you do. Offer she made still stands for goin’ to church with us. She says that’s the only place for a man to meet a good woman; in the church before God.”

“Appreciate it Junior. I’ll think on it,” I nodded.

“You do that, Mr. Toad,” he grinned as he sat down.

As I turned toward the door, I realized I had made zero progress for the day. Slowly I sauntered toward my motorcycle. Although I felt a slight desire to go by and check on Sydney, I decided I really had no right to do so. Having provided a place to stay and a job gave me no privilege to stop in and see her, no matter how much I wanted to. There was something about her attitude, gorgeous looks, and take no bullshit personality that not only intrigued me, but provided me with comfort. It was almost as if I felt spending time with her would allow her gratuitous nature and strong will to rub off on me. Knowing seeing her without an invitation could seem creepy, I began to consider what other options I might have.

Sometimes I felt having nothing I was
required
to do the day, while most all of the other Sinners worked, was more of a curse than a blessing. As I relaxed into the seat of the bike and turned on the ignition, it dawned on me it was Thursday, and my new cams should be in.

Now
, I had something to do; modifying my bike, which would hopefully allow me to beat Otis in our next race. And, as far as I was concerned, nothing was more important than beating Otis. Not only in my eyes, but in the eyes of most of the Sinners, Otis was somewhat of a God. It seemed he was incapable of doing wrong. Although Axton was always willing to listen, sometimes he held a strong opinion and came off as a bigger prick than he really was. Otis, on the other hand, was always reasonable and willing to discuss anything at length with any of the club brothers. He never seemed to lose his cool or come unraveled, regardless of what life tossed his direction.

Hopefully after I got my new cams in my motor, I could change all of that. Nothing would satisfy me more than beating Otis in a race and having him explode with anger. Highly unlikely to happen, but it would prove to me he was just as human as the rest of us.

Either way, I was ready to find out.

SYDNEY

Being placed in foster care at the age of four wasn’t something I wished for as a three year old child. Having been shipped around from foster home to foster home and never being adopted caused me to feel unwanted and alone. Eventually, we ended up in a permanent foster home, but I never felt as if we were part of the family, because we weren’t adopted. The father a minister, and the mother a codependent housewife, the home was an extremely strict one. Although we weren’t the only foster children in the home, we were the youngest.

The biological children of the couple were treated differently, and the foster children were considered outcasts. The father kept the cupboards locked, and I remember always being hungry. The older siblings, be them in foster care or the biological children of the parents, raped the younger children; me included. I didn’t tell my brother until we were out of the home and adults - for fear of losing what little family we had. As I grew older and found out I had aunts and uncles who
could
have adopted us - but didn’t - the sadness I felt was immeasurable. I remember at the time feeling as if my suspicions of not being wanted by
anyone
were confirmed. As an adult, I became grateful my brother and I were never split up, and I was able to at least grow up with one member of my blood family by my side.

As children, we were as inseparable as two orphaned siblings could be. As adults, we were equally as close, but his involvement in the MC separated us more and more as time passed. Eventually, I saw him less frequently, and came to understand the difference between being without parents and actually being alone. For me, being alone as an early adult was extremely difficult. As a result, I attached myself to any man who would give me the time of day, and always kept my mouth shut for fear of them leaving if I chose to oppose their thoughts, ideas, or principles.

In the end, I had four failed relationships, a tendency to attach myself to abusive males, severe codependency, and daddy issues. If I had an advantage over all of the other fucked up women on this earth, it was that I was knowledgeable of my deficiencies, weaknesses, and patterns of behavior. There is not a day that passes where I don’t ask myself the same questions I have since adolescence.

What would be so bad to cause a murder/suicide by our parents?

What did I do wrong?

Why did no one want me?

My brother’s absence in my life, and knowing he would never be free from prison caused me a tremendous amount of grief; so I did my best not to think about it. Inevitably, I did have thoughts of his imprisonment, and in a short period of time I was filled with sorrow knowing I would live my entire adult life without a family member by my side. I do believe, considering all things, I am a strong woman and I do a reasonable job of masking my true feelings and faults. Having a sense of humor is the best gift God ever gave me.

“Are these racks big?” he asked. 

“Huge,” I responded as I extended my outstretched arms.

“How many ribs on a rack?”

“Eight,” I responded.

The man questioning me appeared to be in his early sixties. He had explained he was from out of town and was working at the refinery twenty miles away. He had come to the restaurant for
rib night
because racks of ribs were on sale for $10.99. His concern was the
size
of the rack, and more importantly, how many ribs were included.

“Eight? There ain’t eight ribs on any cow I ever seen. How can you call eight ribs a
full rack
?” the man complained.

“Yes, eight. The owner raises the cattle outside of town at a special top-secret ranch. They’re genetically altered to have eight huge ribs instead of thirteen reasonably sized ones. As long as he continues to breed eight ribbed cattle to eight ribbed cattle, he has an endless supply of racks of ribs that are massive. The only downfall, if you can call it one, is there are only eight ribs to a rack,” I said straight faced.

“No shit? Ain’t never heard of such a thing. These cows are big ribbed fuckers, are they?” he asked.

I nodded my head and tried to keep from smiling, “Sure are. But something about the genetic alterations makes the meat orange and kind of fishy tasting. We slap enough barbeque sauce on ‘em you should never notice though.”

He narrowed his gaze and wrinkled his nose as he looked up from the menu, “Fishy tasting?”

“Most say they taste like barbequed Halibut, I don’t know. I won’t eat ‘em personally,” I shrugged.

He sat and stared as if he’d just witnessed a train wreck.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I was
kidding
. Our rack of ribs includes eight beef ribs. At least
here
that’s a rack. And you’re right, cows have thirteen ribs, but depending on the butcher, some are left on the shoulder, and the little ribs at the end are cut off and used as riblets. You don’t want those little guys anyway,” I paused and twisted my mouth to the side.

“I tell you what. It’s not
policy
, but I’ve worked here long enough to take this risk without fear of losing the bet. Order the rack of ribs. If you finish the entire rack, two sides, the Texas Toast, and want more, I’ll give you as many as you can eat afterward for free,” I shrugged my shoulders and waited.

“But you was kiddin’ about the fishy thing, right?” he asked.

I grinned, “I was, I’m sorry.”

“Damn, you scared me with that fish deal. Yeah, sounds fair, bring ‘em,” he grinned as he handed me the menu.

“Sides?” I asked as I pointed along the list of side orders on the menu.

“Beans and slaw,” he responded.

I shifted my eyes to the man accompanying him, “And for you?”

“Gimme the same deal?” he chuckled.

I nodded my head, “Beans and slaw?”

“Sounds good,” he nodded.

I scribbled down the order and pulled the page from the pad, “You won’t be disappointed. Our ribs are huge. I’ll have ‘em here as soon as they’re ready.”

Both men smiled and nodded their heads.

Although I had never waited tables when I started, my small amount of experience taught me if I was polite and interacted with my customers, they were appreciative of my personality and humor, and rewarded me in a reasonable tip. The customers themselves were a real pleasure of my work. Either by design or sheer luck, there were never really any problem customers in the establishment, even at the bar. Although I couldn’t be certain, I suspected it was because Toad was the owner. He appeared to me to be the type of person a man wouldn’t want to cross. As I walked into the kitchen, I grinned toward the other pleasure of my job, Junior.

“Two full. Beans and slaw on each,” I said as I pinned the order to the carousel.

“Comin’ right up, Miss Sydney,” Junior grinned.

In the short period of time I had worked at the restaurant, I had talked to Junior quite a bit. After finding out he grew up in a home with no father, I felt a little closer to him. His mother had raised him, three brothers and sisters, and two other children he called his siblings. In reality, he had three siblings and the other two children, the youngest, were his cousins. All told, there were six children, Junior included. They ranged in age from 6 to 19, Junior being the oldest. I admired the fact he still lived at home and worked for the sole purpose to provide for his family.

“Busy night, huh?” I asked as I grabbed a plate of ribs for another table.

“Sure nuff, Miss Sydney. Busy as a bunch of bees, we are. Makes the time pass real quick like, you know. I like it when we’s busy. When we slow down, I get bored after I clean the kitchen. When I’m bored, I want to eat me some of Mr. Toads barbeque. If’n I eat like I used to, Mr. Toad’s gonna put that big boot in the middle of my black ass. So busy is good,” he chuckled.

“I still haven’t had my sandwich for the day, Junior. You can have it later, how’s that?” I asked as I pushed my butt against the kitchen door.

“I could sure nuff use it, Miss Sydney. I’m a feelin’ faint,” he laughed as he raised his hand to his forehead.

I rolled my eyes and pushed my way through the door. As I walked through the dining area and toward the gentleman who had ordered the ribs, I passed the table of the two refinery workers and paused. As I held the plate under his nose, the man’s eyes widened.

“Good God. Now
that’s
a rack of ribs,” he said as he reached for the plate.

I slapped his wrist with my free hand, “Sorry, these aren’t yours. I just wanted to show you what you’re up against.”

“Think I’ll manage just fine,” he grinned.

After dropping off the ribs, it seemed as if the next thirty minutes or so was nothing but delivering food to tables. Again, I had nothing to compare it to, but it seemed taking orders and delivering food came in completely separate waves. After taking half a dozen orders or so, I would be caught up on orders, and then the delivery would start. After the delivery of food to each of the tables, dropping off the bills came in another wave, and then cleaning the tables. In fractionally more than a week, I felt I had the system down to a sheer science.

I glanced at the table of the two refinery workers. Both men were leaned against their chair backs talking. Each of their plates still had what appeared to be two untouched ribs. A precursory glance around the restaurant produced no one needing a refill on drinks or napkins. I grinned as I walked toward the table.

“So, how many more ribs you want?” I asked as I flopped down in the empty chair.

“Shit. I can’t finish these. Biggest fuckin’ ribs I ever seen,” he moaned.

“Can we get a doggie bag or a box or something?’ the second man asked.

“Sorry. We take the uneaten ribs back to the kitchen and serve them up all over again. It helps keeps cost down,” I shrugged as I stood.

Both men stared as if in shock.

“Just kidding,” I laughed, “Can I get you anything else? Other than a couple boxes, that is?”

“You know,” the first man began, “We eat out every damned night. Have for what, John? Ten years?”

The second man nodded his head as he picked his teeth with a toothpick.

“We work turnarounds in the refineries. Have for a decade or so. After work, we eat out. I’m from Texas, but I’ve eaten in restaurants every fuckin’ day for the last ten years. Hell, from Pennsylvania to Wyoming, and from Texas to South Dakota. Anyway…” he paused and narrowed his gaze as he studied my nametag.

“…Sydney. I just want to tell ya, you’re the best damned waitress I ever had,” he grinned.

I smiled, thanked him, and walked back to the kitchen to get boxes for his ribs. His comment made me feel so good, so excited, that I literally felt as if I was going to vomit. I’d never been so excited or felt so good about doing anything in my life.

I often wished I could have a second chance to live my childhood. There were so many things I wished I could do over. The last few weeks of my life, however, seemed nothing short of perfect. I was beginning to feel as if all of my regrets of yesterday were slowly being washed away by my gratitude for what I was fortunate enough to have today.

After I dropped off the boxes and exchanged a few niceties, I made my rounds cleaning tables. A few trips to the kitchen with dirty dishes, followed by Junior’s jokes, and I was back out in the dining area. Sadly, the two refinery workers were gone. Although he said they would be back the next week, I had hoped to say goodbye. As I reached for the bill holder, I noticed the receipt was under the holder, not inside. I picked up the holder and looked down at the credit card receipt. Under the space marked
tip
, he had written the number 0 and placed a line through it. I had learned this was not uncommon for people who left cash for a tip. I opened the bill holder to drop the receipt inside. A crisp one hundred dollar bill was inside with the words,
Best waitress ever. Thanks Sydney,
written across the top.

As I felt my eyes begin to well with tears, I slapped the holder closed and looked around the restaurant at the diminishing crowd. There was no doubt in my mind; I would never spend the $100 bill. I’d frame it for sure. When I started the job at Toad’s restaurant, I wondered how long I would last. As time passed, and certainly at that particular moment, I knew one thing for sure.

I was where I belonged.