At six, Mr. Frendt comes on the P.A. and
shouts, "Welcome to Joysticks!" Then he announces Shirts Off. We take off our
flightjackets and fold them up.
We take off our shirts and fold them up. Our
scarves we leave on. Thomas Kirster's our beautiful boy. He's got long muscles
and bright-blue eyes. The minute his shirt comes off two fat ladies hustle up
the aisle and stick some money in his pants and ask will he be their Pilot. He
says sure. He brings their salads. He brings their soups.
My phone rings and the
caller tells me to come see her in the Spitfire mock-up. Does she want me to be
her Pilot? I'm hoping. Inside the Spitfire is Margie, who says she's been
diagnosed with Chronic Shyness Syndrome, then hands me an Instamatic and offers
me ten bucks for a close-up of Thomas's tush.
Do I do it? Yes I
do.
It could be worse. It is worse for Lloyd Betts. Lately he's put on
weight and his hair's gone thin. He doesn't get a call all shift and waits zero
tables and winds up sitting on the P-51 wing, playing solitaire in a
hunched-over position that gives him big gut rolls.
I Pilot six tables
and make forty dollars in tips plus five an hour in salary.
After
closing we sit on the floor for Debriefing. "There are times," Mr. Frendt says,
"when one must move gracefully to the next station in life, like for example
certain women in Africa or Brazil, I forget which, who either color their faces
or don some kind of distinctive headdress upon achieving menopause. Are you with
me? One of our ranks must now leave us. No one is an island in terms of being
thought cute forever, and so today we must say good-bye to our friend Lloyd.
Lloyd, stand up so we can say good-bye to you. I'm sorry We are all so very
sorry."
"Oh God," says Lloyd. "Let this not be true."
But it's
true. Lloyd's finished. We give him a round of applause, and Frendt gives him a
Farewell Pen and the contents of his locker in a trash bag and out he goes. Poor
Lloyd. He's got a wife and two kids and a sad little duplex on Self-Storage
Parkway.
"It's been a pleasure!" he shouts desperately from the doorway,
trying not to burn any bridges.
What a stressful workplace. The minute
your Cute Rating drops you're a goner. Guests rank us as Knockout, Honeypie,
Adequate, or Stinker. Not that I'm complaining. At least I'm working. At least
I'm not a Stinker like Lloyd.
I'm a solid Honeypie/Adequate, heading
home with forty bucks cash.
. . .
At Sea Oak there's no sea and no oak, just a hundred subsidized apartments and a rear
view of FedEx. Min and Jade are feeding their babies while watching How My
Child Died Violently. Min's my sister. Jade's our cousin. How My Child
Died Violently is hosted by Matt Merton, a six-foot-five blond who's always
giving the parents shoulder rubs and telling them they've been sainted by pain.
