Twenty minutes before Richard witnessed the woman in the Toyota clobber her kid, he suddenly realized that he’d fallen behind in his sanitation duties.
What. A. Dick in a Box. What. A. Dr. Dickenstein!
It was nearly closing time, and he’d been daydreaming near the fryers with his rag and can of Lysol. Had he even disinfected the range hood filters yet? The grease trap? The plastic strip curtains in the walk-in? Almost sixteen years old, and he still couldn’t sanitize on schedule! And what would his mother have done if she’d seen him standing there staring off into space? Ha! Probably put him in a loving headlock and give him a noogie and loving wedgie while kissing his cheeks and saying, “Get a move on, Skinny Marink!”
Richard adjusted his N95 mask and headed towards the walk-in.
“Refrigerated air don’t got covid,” Nadine said. “ChickenDick.”
She was scraping the grill, wearing her lame-o bandana mask with a picture of Snoopy on it. Richard smirked to himself. Was Snoopy going to stop covid? Nope. He pointed the Lysol can at her and said in a robot voice: “Term-in-ate with pre-ju-dice,” and made a laser gun shooting sound.
“Hey,” Bob said. He had the hockey stick through the take-out window, the credit card machine tapper duct-taped to the blade. Bob wore his surgical mask over his headset mike. Good idea. “Quit BM-ing around and sanitize the Belly Shake mixer. Hickory Dickory Dickhead.”
Ha! Bob! For a boss, he was a real jokesmith. A real clowner-arounder. BM meant “bowel movement,” and “quit BM-ing around” was Bob’s way of saying “don’t mess around,” or “don’t mess up.” Bob was especially gifted at coming up with all kinds of dick-themed nicknames for Richard, super good-natured ones like McDickle with a side of Pickle, Duke of Dick, and Doogie Dickster M.D., “Dick,” of course, being a shorter way to say Richard. Giving someone a nickname was how you showed affection. For example, Richard’s mother’s nickname for him: Skinny Marink, from that kid’s song, “Skinnymarinky Dinky Dink.”
“A-ffirm-a-tive,” Richard robot-voiced, and started napalming the mixer with Lysol.
Richard really did need to stop BM-ing around, though. He knew that. After all, wasn’t he head of covid detail? That’s what Bob had said the day they were forced to move to drive-through. He’d sat Richard in front of his desk while drinking from his “Mornings Are For Coffee And Boners” mug and told Richard that this pandemic was a real karate kick to the lady crackers for business, and if Slobby Bobby’s Burger Emporium were to stay afloat, Richard had to stop BM-ing things up, like that time he was on grill and a chit for a Slobby Baby Burger came up that read no mustard, and Nadine came into the kitchen specifically to tell Richard that the kid had a mustard allergy so for Christ’s sake, don’t put on any mustard, but then Richard still forgetfully put mustard on it, causing the mother to threaten to sue. Or the time Richard undercooked a mid-sized Slob Bopper so badly that a customer brought it back saying it looked like that raw meat slab Rocky Balboa pounds in the first Rocky. Then there was the time Richard unthinkingly took a sip of a customer’s chocolate Belly Shake as he was delivering it to his table in full view of the customer and the entire restaurant and Bob. And then, of course, the time Richard accidentally melted his windbreaker to the grill with him still in it, and also when he accidentally set fire to the fire extinguisher. Bob said he could have fired Richard after any one of those incidents. But he didn’t. Everybody was hurting, Bob said. Covid wasn’t just a nut blaster to the Slobby Bobby’s operation, but to the whole world, and it was Bob’s role as leader to pull the team through, even BM DickFlickers like Richard.
“But until this crap storm is over,” Bob said, “you’re off food prep and customer-facing duties. For now, you have one job. Sanitize the bejezus out of this place. Got it, DickSmack?”
Richard finished wiping the mixer and glanced at the Slobby Bobby wall clock, two half-spheres meant to look like a plumber’s butt crack with the hands pinwheeling out of the center of the crack.
Almost 9:00 PM! Jeez Louise!
Had he even sprayed the range hood filters yet? What would his mother say? “Quit burnin’ daylight and skedaddle, Skinny Marink!”
“Hey Dumbass! Hey Dumbass!”
Nadine’s cell was ringing. She’d recorded herself shouting “Hey Dumbass!” and set it up as her ring. Probably her boyfriend Mark calling again, that el-jocko senior who frequently gave Richard un-loving wedgies in the halls between classes at school. Nadine disappeared into the walk-in to answer. Bob was passing a bag of Slobby Caesars through the takeout window. He spotted Richard daydreaming beside the Belly Shake mixer and gave him the WTF?! eyes.
Right!
Richard headed for the range-hood filters. What was he thinking? This was one of the most important jobs in the restaurant. Maybe the most important—the safety of the staff and customers. Covid was everywhere. Even Richard knew that. It could spread via water droplets, and water droplets could spread via a sneeze or via a cough or via your hands after a sneeze or a cough or, some were now saying, via butt trumpets. There was no end to it.
He was about to spray the range-hood filters when Nadine bolted out of the walk-in, her eyes pinched serious over her mask like when she had an overflow of Big Slobby Bastards sizzling on the grill. She approached Bob and whispered something to him. He put a hand on her shoulder.
“Go,” he said.
Nadine tossed her apron at Richard as she walked past.
“See you tomorrow, Charles Dickens.”
She’d done this before. Faked a problem at home so she could leave early. Probably just wanted to go rumbling up and down the strip with el-jocko Mark in his Mustang.
Bob waved Richard over.
“Nadine has a home emergency. You and me just need to get through the next hour together. Okay?”
“Hupcha, hupcha!” Richard said.
He started back towards the range-hood filters, but spotted something on the fryer door.
Well, well, well. What have we here? Some covid-like blight or stain?
Richard started machine-gunning the stain with Lysol. Bob was whipping back and forth between the grill, the fryer, and the takeout window. Three cars had just pulled up. Did it bother Richard that Bob would rather do it all himself than risk having Richard cook something? Or interact with a customer? Or use the fire extinguisher?
If Richard were being totally honest with himself, it kind of did.
Halfway through his machine-gun assault, Richard had second thoughts about what type of battle he was in. Maybe this was less a military operation and more a John Wick job. He moved in closer with the Lysol can, nailing each covid virus molecule in its spikey head, just like John Wick . . . dick . . . John DickWick! Ha! That would be a solid Bob zinger.
But wait.
Would a guy named John DickWick be nearly as badass as actual John Wick? No. Of course not. John DickWick would probably stumble over his Heckler & Koch MP5K and accidentally wing some innocent priest in the head. Or he’d mistakenly catch the sleeve of his bullet-proof three-piece suit in the door of his Ford Mustang. If Richard thought about it, DickWick was kind of an insulting name. And if Richard were being honest with himself, so were the dick-themed nicknames Bob tagged him with every day. Deep down, Richard knew those names weren’t really meant in a joking way. Not in the same good-hearted manner as his mother’s nickname, Skinny Marink. And come to think of it, wasn’t Richard considered a covid essential worker? Like police and doctors? Did the police chief call his officers DickWhippers and Whack-A-Dicks too? Why the heck couldn’t people stop being so rotten all the time and just be decent to each other? Why couldn’t Bob just deal with Richard’s slip ups in a more patient manner the way his mother did, always kissing his cheeks while giving him loving headlocks and noogies and loving wedgies?
Richard stopped John Wicking the fryer door and headed for the range hood filters. His combat-ready status had de-escalated considerably. Now he was feeling more like that poor priest John DickWick accidentally winged than John DickWick, or John Wick himself.
“What the . . . ?” Bob said.
He had two Belly Shakes on a tray ready to pass through the window, but the lady who’d just paid for them took off towards a parking space. The car, a rusted Toyota, passed the dining room window. Richard could see inside. The lady was yelling at a kid in the back. The kid was flailing his arms and screeching. The lady parked across from the window, turned in her seat, and whomped the kid on top of his head with her fist. Then she smacked his ear with her open hand. Hard.
Jeez Louise!
Bob hadn’t seen it. He was looking the other way at the line of cars piling up. Bob took the next order on his headset, and then scooped his hand in a “come back” gesture to the lady in the Toyota. But by now she’d turned back in her seat and was staring blankly ahead while her kid screamed in the back. She seemed to be waiting for someone to deliver the shakes.
The next car in line pulled up to the window. Bob looked at the lady’s car, and then at the Belly Shakes on the tray. He unshipped a sigh heavy enough to poof his surgical mask. He looked at Richard.
“Okay, SwizzleDick. This is your moment to shine.”
Richard pressed the tray of shakes to his stomach as he backed out of the side entrance. He wasn’t going to BM this one. No sir. That angry mother and her kid were no match for Richard. What did Bob think Richard was going to do anyway? Trip on a shoelace and drop the Belly Shakes? Take a sip in front of the lady and her kid, or even not in front of the lady and her kid, thinking nobody saw? No way Jose. Richard may have fumbled the ball a few times recently. Some real doozies! Ha! And looking back? Now that he had some perspective on himself and his whole dick-themed nickname experience with Bob? He could sure see why he may have given others the impression he was more John DickWick than John Wick when it came to getting the job done. But this was a new day. So far, Richard hadn’t spilled one drop, or sipped from either straw. Nobody could say his Belly Shakes looked like something Rocky Balboa pounded in the first Rocky.
Halfway to the car, he glanced back at the takeout window. Bob was pushing out the hockey stick for the next car to tap. Richard caught his eye, and Bob nodded a “You’ve got this dawg, I believe in you,” kind of nod.
Wowzers!
Richard wasn’t sure if he’d ever gotten a nod like that from Bob before. Or, it could have also been a nod to indicate: “Yup, I see you and I’m just waiting for you to BM this one like everything else, Dr. DickLittle.”
No. It was the first one. The look a general gives his troops as they go off to battle.
He edged closer to the car. He could see the kid through the window, still crying. Poor kid. The lady was in the back seat with him now, stroking his head. She wasn’t yelling anymore, or hitting. She looked sad. Must be hard with a kid in these times. Had she really whomped him like that? Yes. A couple of hits. They would’ve hurt.
Richard stopped several paces from the car. He didn’t want to incur any physical-distance violations. When the mother noticed Richard, her sad face lifted a bit. Kind of a smile, but more like an expression of relief. She looked at her kid and kissed his head and his ear in the same spots where she’d bopped him. She ruffled his hair in a playful way, like how Richard’s own mother gave him loving wedgies and noogies while kissing his cheeks. Her way of saying I love you; a sign of affection. She hadn’t meant it—the hitting. What a nice mom, this lady, to do that for her kid. Take him for shakes to cheer him up when he was clearly having a rotten night.
Richard waved at the lady, and then placed the tray of Belly Shakes on the ground and backed away, motioning with both hands for her to come and get it.
The lady got out and approached the shakes, waving back. She mouthed the words “thank you,” bobbing her shoulders and nodding her head the way someone does when you’ve helped them out of an embarrassing situation, as if Richard had just pointed out that she had something stuck on her face. Did she know Richard had seen her hit her kid? Maybe she was feeling ashamed. Maybe she was in pain about it.
She picked up the shakes and again mouthed “thank you.” Richard snapped off a two-finger salute, the kind John Wick might give someone he’d just rescued. He was too far around the corner to tell if Bob saw the successful operation, but he sure hoped so. A positive customer experience like that might convince Bob to stop the dick-themed insults. He might even let Richard cook the odd Slobby Bastard or whip up a side of Sweaty Slaw. Richard would be on his way to replacing Nadine on grill in no time. And wouldn’t that be something? To see Nadine’s face when Bob told her she was on covid detail because Richard (not Dick this or Dick that) was on grill? Ha! She’d probably go bawling into the walk-in to call el-jocko Mike.
Richard kept watching the lady as she walked back to her car with the shakes. He wanted to see the kid’s reaction. Any second now the kid would hop out of the car, all smiles, and cheer for Richard with his fist raised. That was something a kid would probably do—take a small thing like a milkshake at a time like this, at a time when the whole world had gotten a karate kick right to the lady crackers, and make it into something great. Something special. That lady knew how to pull her kid out of his funk, even if she messed it up at first. Nobody was perfect. Richard at least knew that much. He was as sure of that as he was that his own name was Richard and not “Dick” anything.
This lady, she was a good mother. Richard could tell.
A great mother.
- Thank You For Your Service - September 17, 2023