17
The next morning, I email my boss, Connor, to tell him I need to take a sick day. He writes back and reminds me I don’t have any PTO left to use. Between requesting time off for pop-ups and other rehab-related to-dos, I’ve spent all my remaining paid time off on Benji. So I ask him instead to take it out of my vacation. He says Daxa got rid of vacation two years ago and now it’s all just under PTO, which, again, I have none of. He asks me to call him. I don’t. He then writes back again and says that if I absolutely cannot make it in today, he can count it as a mental health day.
“I absolutely cannot make it in today,” I type back before slamming my laptop shut.
I haven’t moved from the couch since I got back from my little journey yesterday. Wait, I take that back. I went down to the drugstore for two pints of Ben & Jerry’s and the latest copy of OK! magazine. It’s probably all made up, but I find reading about other people’s drama soothing when I’m in crisis mode. Either way, fifteen dollars and a couple thousand calories later, I’m officially playing keep-away from my life as I know it.
That includes Jazzy and Maya. Short of telling them that yes, I went to Garfield Park and yes, I survived, I haven’t communicated any further with them. It was a mistake to delve as far as I did with them into my relationship with Benji in the first place.
Speaking of, I’m not sure if it has sunk in yet about Benji. I won’t go as far as saying he’s missing. That’s a term reserved for people who go hiking alone in Appalachia or little kids who are left unattended at a gas station in Waco, Texas. My trip to the West Side was a wake-up call, but I’ve seen enough episodes of Intervention to know that addicts don’t go down so easy. He’s alive. He’s not well, but he’s alive. And although I have no solid proof of that, the feeling in my gut is all the conviction I need. He’ll turn up, I keep thinking to myself. Like a pair of sunglasses or the remote for the DVD player.
It’s weird thinking I’m sleeping on top of his knives. I thought about moving them from underneath my bed, but I don’t know if I want a reminder of a person I can’t find to be so out in the open.
At first, I saw those knives as a glimmer of hope, a sign that he was just giving me space to cool off and let the swelling around my eye subside. Now I see them differently. Clearly, he was too fucked up in the moment he left to realize what was important to bring with him. Knives? To cook? Because I’m a chef? No. None of that registered. At least he didn’t sell them for drugs, I guess.
I’m somewhere in season three of Lost (which makes a hell of a lot more sense when you aren’t stopping every thirty minutes to screw) when the episode is interrupted by a text from Angela. I realize then that I never wrote her back yesterday. Nor did I bring her car back to Here. I suck.
Keeping my car & not responding 2 my txts is a GREAT way 2 open a resto. Just saying.
Just the right amount of sarcasm mixed with the threat of losing my life savings is all that’s needed to pry me off the couch. The time has come. I need to meet with Angela and give her the bad news—we’re out.
Meet me @ Here in 20 min, I say.
I never left, she texts back.
* * *
“Are you sure he’s gone? Like, not-coming-back gone?”
“Well, it’s not as if I can call him to confirm, but yeah, he’s MIA.”
As I say the words to Angela, I realize it’s the truth. I don’t know where he is or how long he’ll be there. But when he finally surfaces, I know we won’t be a couple. We can’t be. Broken promises, lies, danger and complete disregard aren’t exactly the pillars of a successful, lasting relationship. You’d think it’d be easy to write someone like that off, but it’s not. A huge part of my life is over and I had no say in it and that makes me sad. Too bad I’m all cried out.
“Well, shit,” she says bluntly.
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
Before I left my apartment, I did nothing to hide the bruise on my face. Despite what Maya said to me yesterday, it’s not better. It’s just a shade of green now instead of purple. Angela doesn’t ask me about it. I guess it needs no explanation.
“Hey, hey, hey! What the fuck are you doing? Cage lighting goes over the bar, not the tables, guys. Come on. Did you even look at the blueprints I gave you? Is this your first time doing a build-out or something? We’ve got a little over a month ’til open. Get your shit together!” Angela barks.
A little over a month ’til open. It rings in my head like a bad song on repeat because the worst-case scenario is happening: we are sitting in dining room chairs at a dining room table in our soon-to-open restaurant while discussing the head chef’s disappearance. Contractors circle around us like sharks, finishing the wiring and hanging expensive lighting for a restaurant I’m positive will never open because Benji won’t be their chef after all.
As she barks at the workers, I give myself a moment to take in the progress—something I didn’t get to do yesterday as I was trying to slide out in her Jetta with as little conversation as possible. This place looks pretty fucking incredible. There’s white subway tile laid in a herringbone pattern going along the wall of the bar, which is made of an insanely long, single piece of lacquered live-edge wood. The stools are vintage feeling with a back on them, which complement the Edison bulbs I see will be installed in cages above them. Inside the dining room, where I’m sitting now, the walls have been painted a taupey-purple color, which is super-trendy and lush-feeling against some serious molding that’s all throughout the ceiling. The place isn’t huge by any means, but it’s been expertly designed to the max, that’s for sure. Oh, and these dining room chairs are really comfortable, too.
“Sorry about that.” She returns to our conversation. “It just really ticks me off when these city fuckers think they’re too cool to look at blueprints. It’s like, do they even realize they’re installing ten-dollar Home Depot cage lights over a seat that’s gonna cost someone $200 for the night? Use some common sense, people.”
Even just sitting across from Angela for the last ten minutes, it’s apparent she knows her shit. From the decor to prices per person, she’s on top of every aspect of this project. It would be a thing of beauty if I weren’t so terrified, so consumed with thoughts of Benji.
“So, this doesn’t make any sense,” she continues through a sip of a cappuccino and a bite of what looks like a Chips Ahoy! cookie. “He left his knives. Even if he’s not going to cook at Here, he needs his knives if he’s going to find a job anywhere else. Something tells me he doesn’t have an extra grand or two to throw down on replacing the set he has. Those are nice knives, you know.”
No, I wasn’t aware of their worth. But good to know in case I need to sell them on eBay to recoup my losses.
“Trust me,” I say. “I thought that same thing about the knives. That they were some kind of a sign that he’d be back...soon. But I’m telling you, after everything I’ve pieced together since he left, he’s probably so high right now, he doesn’t even realize he knows how to cook. That’s how fucked up he is, wherever he is at the moment.”
“And you have no clue where that might be?” I can see it in her eyes: Angela thinks if we just talk this out, we can get to the bottom of it and bring him back. Sadly, I don’t agree with her, so I just shake my head.
“And no clue how to reach him?”
“No. His phone’s disconnected, he’s not responding to email and he’s gone dark on social.”
“What about calling his sous chef? Or his sponsor? I swear, a guy like Benji needs to come with a phone tree for situations like this. Ugh, hang on. I gotta go have a word with these contractors. Do you see how low they’re hanging those pendants? People will have cage lights literally in their tomato bisque if I don’t show these people how to do their jobs. Why is this so hard?”
Angela scurries off for the moment, which gives me time to think about her suggestions. I don’t have Sebastian’s number. In hindsight, I probably should have gotten it at some point, but I never needed it. He’s not on Facebook, so I really don’t know how to reach him or where he works when he’s not following Benji around in the kitchen.
I don’t have Mark’s info either. And as far as calling Rita, I’ve put it off. At first, I was worried she’d gloat about predicting the relapse, but now I’m thinking I may have just been afraid of hearing her voice go to the place it did when she told me her version of this story. So I do the safer thing, I send her a text.
Hey I think Benji’s in trouble. Have U heard anything?
A few moments later, Rita texts back a very helpful: Nope.
How abt Mark? Has he?
I know it’s not kosher for me to pry for information like this, but I’m hopeful she can just give me a simple yes or no.
Sry, staying out of it. Hope U understand.
I’m pretty sure that after I didn’t take her feedback very cordially when she called me, Rita has vowed to cut me off. Her coldness indicates that my all-access pass to the NA family has officially been revoked.
“Okay, where were we?” Angela asks as she rejoins me at the table, taking another bite of her cookie.
“You were asking me if I’ve reached out to anyone else and I have. Still nothing. We’re totally on our own with this unless you want to tweet out that we’ll be assembling a search party at Here later this afternoon.”
“Very funny. Not.”
“I’m just kidding. Besides, I’ve already checked the most logical place he could be right now and he’s not there.”
“Where’s that?” she asks.
“Garfield Park.”
“Christ. You went all the way out there? In my car? Are the hubcaps still attached?” Angela’s shocked. I can’t tell if she finds me determined or just plain stupid.
But in a moment, she’s going to find me a flake. That, I am sure of.
“So how do we do this?” I ask in an effort to hurry along the conversation. “How do we reverse the deal?”
Angela lets out a disbelieving laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that term. What are you asking?”
“How do I get my money back? We’re obviously not opening Here without Benji, so the deal’s off,” I explain, knowing full well just how happy my mom and dad will be to hear this later on.
“Wait. Are you asking for a refund?”
I nod.
“Jesus. Do you smoke?” Angela asks.
“Me? No. Why, do you smoke?”
“No, but I could use a cigarette right now so I can wrap my head around this privileged, millennial fuck-show I’m sitting front row to. Be right back—I’m gonna bum one off Hector. He always kind of smells like an ashtray.”
“Who’s Hector?” I ask her back as she makes her way to the kitchen.
“Our sous chef, Allie. Hector is our sous chef.”
As Angela leaves me at the table, a contractor approaches me.
“Excuse me, miss? Can you verify the cage light we just hung is at a good height for you before we drill it in and install the rest?” I’m positive he needs Angela to approve this, but I humor him and follow him over to the bar.
I take a seat in the stool and scoot myself up to the bar ledge and a strange thing happens.
Instead of hearing band saws and people shouting measurements, I hear quiet chatter. Instead of construction workers passing by, I see servers. I imagine the feeling of sitting here having a glass of prosecco and ordering the octopus appetizer. I picture looking into the dining room at happy couples and four-tops who are whispering to each other because they’ve spotted me in the bar, cognizant of the fact it’s my other half who’s been responsible for their multiple foodgasms throughout the course of the evening.
Yes, I’m visualizing Here in all its glory from the vantage point of the bar during the most inappropriate of times, but I can’t help it. It’s really too bad this all didn’t work out. It could have been great. It would have been great.
The sound of a chair screeching across an unpolished floor snaps me out of it.
“So what do you think, miss? Is the height good?”
“The height is fine, but it’s the placement you have to be careful about. You see, if you have light shining directly above a plate, then look what happens when I try to take a picture of my food,” I say, holding my cell phone under the bulb and above where the hypothetical octopus appetizer would have been placed.
“There’s a shadow,” he says.
“Exactly. Which would make it impossible for anyone to take a decent picture of whatever they’re eating, unless they use the flash, which is the kiss of death for a food photo. That said, everything that gets uploaded to social media, Yelp, you name it is going to look like complete shit unless you—”
“Move the lights.”
“Six inches to the left and I think you’ll be golden,” I confirm.
“Thank you so much,” the contractor says. “Gents, you heard the lady. Move everything a half a foot to the left.”
A few annoyed groans ensue, but I assure them it’ll be worth it and return to the table I was at with Angela.
“Okay, here’s what has to happen,” she tees up, stinking of cigarettes and cucumber melon body splash.
“Lay it on me, Ang,” I say, wondering if my portion of the buy will come back in cash or check.
“I just reread the contract, not because any part of me actually believed there was verbiage in there that warranted you a get-out-of-jail-free card, but because I wanted to see how much more it’d cost you to terminate your side of the deal.”
“Excuse me?”
“Allie, what do you think this is? Canceling your internet service? You signed a binding contract. The thing gets upheld to the laws of Illinois, for crying out loud.”
“This is bullshit. Thirty thousand dollars to Craig is chump change and you know it. Tell him to buy me out. Tell him to ask one of his golf buddies to go in on it instead. What’s the big fucking deal?”
“The big fucking deal, Allie, is that he will turn that chump change into a big payday when he sues your ass for a breach of contract.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” I say.
“And you know Craig so well how?”
“He helped you out when you were in a rough spot. He’ll give me a pass, too,” I say with confidence.
“Wow, you are even more naive than I thought. Let’s get one thing straight: Craig’s kindness isn’t weakness. Okay? He’s not the Easter Bunny skipping around handing out chocolates and toys. He’s a businessman with two kids in college, a very expensive-looking wife and a house with a mortgage that costs as much as my entire car every single month. He’s not fucking around here. So if you want me to pitch the buyout situation to him, I will. Just realize he’ll have five high-powered attorneys up your asshole by the time you get back to your studio apartment and they’d be happy to remind you just how unattainable the terms of the out-clause are for you.”
Angela grabs her phone and pulls up Craig from her contacts. Her finger is on the call button. “Should I?”
“No, wait, don’t!” I push her hand back down to the table. She releases her viselike grip on the phone. “Let’s just pause for a second and figure this out.”
“Finally. The first intelligent thing you’ve said since getting here. Now, would you like me to get you a cigarette from Hector?”
This is a bigger nightmare than I ever could have imagined. What’s worse than the fact that my addict boyfriend has relapsed and disappeared, leaving me to deal with the aftermath, is that no one apparently cares that my addict boyfriend has relapsed and disappeared and left me to deal with the aftermath. Angela doesn’t seem to have an ounce of pity, short of offering to go bum a cigarette that I didn’t even ask for. She’s just sitting there, casually admiring her manicure as she waits for me to say something.
“So what do I do?” I rally.
“Do you really want to know? Because if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you exactly what you need to do, Allie Simon.”
“Tell me.”
“First, let me ask...you’re not going to work today, are you?”
“No, I called in,” I say.
“Good. You’re going to have to do that every day from here on out.”
I blink hard. “Huh?”
“Hell, there’s no cute way to say it. You’ve got to quit your job, Allie. Like, tomorrow. First thing. No two-week notice. You’re just going to have to walk the fuck out like you’ve had enough and then come directly to the restaurant afterward and help me get things going.”
I didn’t realize I could shoot out of a chair so fast until I find myself on my feet, livid.
“What?! No. No, no, no, no, no, NO. This was NOT part of the deal, okay? Maybe you forgot, but I’m a SILENT partner. Silent as in, ‘doesn’t have to say much, doesn’t have to do much, doesn’t have to quit my job much.’”
“Allie, listen—”
“No, YOU listen, Angela. This is bullshit! Bullshit.” I start to pace, feeling like a caged tiger. Suddenly the walls of this restaurant have become barbed wire fences in a prison yard—or maybe I’m only realizing in this moment that it’s been this way all along.
“I never wanted to do this. I only put the money in to shut you all up, get you losers off my back. This was the way to get Benji out of my goddamn house for once and give your ass a second chance. Or is this your third? I’ve lost count. Either way, thirty thousand dollars seemed like a reasonable price for peace of mind, I guess. But damn it, Angela—now you’re telling me I have to quit my job to be a slave at a restaurant that I’m only standing in because of a guy who is probably slumped over, high as hell, in an alley somewhere? No. No way. This restaurant is like a bastard child that I have zero personal connection with. I need it out of my life. Like, gone. For good.”
“Allie, what are you doing?”
“I’m calling my mom,” I declare, phone in hand. “She always said that if I just tell her the truth, she can help me. I’m coming clean.”
“Well, that’s cute and all, but your mama is not going to be able to get you out of this one. In fact, there’s no out. There’s only through. And, frankly, I’m the only one who can help with that. So do your dear mother a favor, spare her the heart attack and put your phone away. Please.”
I don’t know if she’s wrong or right, but she’s convincing. I slip the phone back into my bag and wait for her to give me my next direction like she’s an officer negotiating a hostage situation.
“Good, now sit back down.”
“I think I need a drink.”
“And if our liquor delivery was here, Allie, I’d pour you one. But that won’t be for another thirty-four days. So let’s try to relax the old-fashioned way, woman. Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Good. Very good. See? Now stop worrying, I will train you on everything. This isn’t rocket science. At the end of the day, it’s about taking care of people. And I know that’s something you’re already good at.”
“But what about my money?”
“Jesus, it’s always about the money with you. News flash: you working here means you get paid and you still make your money back. Okay? So your investment will be fine. We just need a new chef.”
“Ha. Ha. HA.”
“Uh-oh, that’s a crazy laugh, isn’t it. I’m scared. What am I missing?” asks Angela.
“How convenient that you can just boil Benji down to a mere thing. Like he’s some kind of worn-out mattress. You just get a new one and life goes on. Let’s not forget that just a week ago, he was a real person—a real person you weren’t going to do this deal without. What happened to that?”
Angela puts one hand over mine from across the table. It’s the first sympathetic move she’s made all morning.
“Listen, no matter how attractive a person is or how attractive their potential may be, we do a deal based on reality and we always have a backup plan. Now, I can’t say that you did the same insofar as dating him. And for that, I am sorry. Because that shit hurts, I’m sure.”
She’s going deep. Much deeper than I’m prepared to go while sitting at a table in the restaurant he was supposed to open.
“Benji loves you, Allie. He just loves cocaine way more. In your defense, it was probably never a fair matchup. I’d reckon Benji and that other White Girl have way more history than the two of you.”
She taps the top of my hand twice and pulls back in her chair just as I finally figure out that White Girl means cocaine.
I wipe away what I hope is just a solo tear, but before I know it, salty streams are flowing faster than my fingers can keep up with. So much for being all cried out. The reserve supply is flowing steadily now and I know I’m making a scene, but I’m an emotional wreck who’s sick of having to be the one that holds it together. Benji’s gone, I’ve just been reminded he chose cocaine over me and now I’m being strong-armed into quitting my job so I can serve food or something. It’s my turn to be unpredictable and dramatic.
“Allie, come on. Do you see me freaking out at all? No. So just calm down.”
“Do NOT tell me to calm down!” I slap the top of the table with both palms to drive my point home. “I’m tired of drawing the short straw. How many times do I have to tell you, I DON’T WANT ANYTHING TO DO WITH THIS RESTAURANT.”
Angela finally gets up from her chair. It feels like all the air in the room is suddenly rushing toward us to swirl around Angela like a gathering storm. But Angela isn’t Benji; she’s not out of control. She’s the eye of the tornado, not the destructive cyclone itself.
“Two can play this whole stand up and shout game, Allie. But I suggest you sit your ass down and act like someone who owns a restaurant because guess what? You do. And like I explained already, you aren’t getting your money back.”
I can’t see myself, but I know I look like a deer in the headlights.
“You heard me right,” she says, putting her finger to my sternum. Classic Angela. “You. Are not. Getting. Your money back. And I’m sorry about that, I’m really sorry. But that’s just not how things like this work. I’m not a customer service counter, I’m a fucking general manager. You need to get this idea out of your head that there are exchanges and refunds in this business. Craig can’t issue you a store credit to go franchise a Jamba Juice in the Loop. There are contracts and clauses and a bunch of other legal terms that are way over your pretty little head.”
She removes her glasses as she puts her face up to my ear and begins to whisper.
“So if I were you, I’d cut this flailing lunatic routine before one of these hourly crew guys calls Craig and tells him you’re having a mental breakdown and I can’t control it. Because if that happens, and his Monday morning tee time is interrupted, he’ll really take your ass for broke. So do yourself a favor and calm the fuck down before you make the both of us look bad.”
Angela puts her glasses back on and smiles a toothy grin at me. She must recognize that I am frozen, as she proceeds to lead me back to the table and my chair and I allow it. When I sit down, my legs start to tingle like they’ve just woken up from being dead asleep for hours. I shake my head a little to keep the sensation from traveling to my brain.
“Now I’m going to forgive you for the very hurtful things you just said about me being a loser because I understand you are in a very, very stressful situation.”
Wait, did I really call Angela a loser? I honestly have no recollection of the things I said while coming undone, which is super embarrassing.
“Thank you,” I say graciously.
“Just know that I’m here for you as your friend and as your new coworker. And as both of those things, I cannot—and I will not—sit here and do nothing. I am the manager, right? That’s what you all hired me to do. So I need to manage this. But I can’t do it alone, Allie.”
“Okay, so then let’s hire someone,” I say. “I can put out a tweet right now saying we’re looking for a few industry professionals to help us with the opening of Here. I’m sure we’ll get a bunch of hits.”
“That’s a great idea! Do you have an extra $60,000 to swing it?”
“No, obviously not.”
“Well, then, that’s off the table. See, in my last budget meeting with Craig, I promised him we had capped the overhead. That means no more salaries out. As of last week, he was under the impression Benji was going to split the opening tasks with me. I was counting on him to take the lead with menu planning, first week ordering, kitchen outfitting, things like that.”
Planning? Ordering? Outfitting? I’m already lost.
“But without him, and no one else in his place yet, I can’t exactly go back to Craig at the eleventh hour and say hey...actually, the whole thing is imploding so we need to staff up ASAP. It’s too late for that. We’re going to have to divide that stuff, and a few other things, amongst the people we have now.”
“Which is who?”
“You and me, darling. Just you and me. Now before you get your titties in a bundle, I know you don’t know how to do the things I mentioned. So chill, I’m not asking you to. I can handle them, but you’re going to have to step in and take the burden of some of the other stuff I was originally going to do.”
“Like what?”
“Floor manage, captain the staff, front-of-house stuff.”
“Oh good god.”
“Allie, deep breaths please. Deep breaths. You’ve helped Benji at a pop-up or two, right?”
“Right, but only when he forgot to ask someone else to step in and I knew he was going to crash and burn if I didn’t show up and try to keep the peace by distracting people with funny stories and fake smiles while they waited for the next course to come out,” I explain. Was that all one sentence? My mouth is moving faster than my brain.
How strange that my memories of helping Benji at pop-ups are now tainted with bitterness and resentment. I swear it didn’t feel like that at the time, but maybe this is how I felt all along? I suppose I could only rock the “everything is fine and dandy with my bad-boy chef boyfriend” look for so long until it eventually goes out of fashion, until I want to smash the water pitcher on the floor and just scream.
“Perfect! Funny stories and fake smiles are the gist of it. You’ll be fine.”
“What? No, I won’t!” I didn’t realize I walked into a trap with my previous answer.
“Yes, you will. Especially because there’s no other choice if you don’t want to see your $30,000 go down the drain. Now stay right here, I have to run to the office real quick.”
The words “there’s no other choice” echo in my ears. Alone at the table, I start to realize my back is against a wall. This may not be my fate, but working at Here is quickly becoming my future. And the sooner I can embrace that, I guess the better off I’ll be.
It’s just hard to think that a few weeks ago, I was gearing up to pitch my case for a promotion at Daxa. My review is supposed to be Thursday. But according to Angela, I won’t get to see the day where Connor finally names me creative director. I will never know what could have been as far as my career path there because I’ll be washing dishes at Here.
And then there’s Stacey and Dionte, who I’ll just be abandoning like day-old puppies. Do they know that Alt+Shift+F4 is the shortcut to show the last ten tweets we sent? Do they know you have to restart the computer every Monday morning or the streams freeze? Do they know we don’t just plug Spanish tweets into some free translator website because Pedro in shipping is bilingual and likes to help?
I guess I can’t worry about the wheels falling off over there. They’re a corporation with real money to hire real experts, unlike what’s going on at Here. I’m sure I’ll be replaced before I finish cleaning out my drawers.
“Alright, Allie, good news. I got approval from Craig for you to be my AGM.”
“AGM?”
“Assistant General Manager. I spun some nonsense about how since this is a fall/winter opening and not a spring/summer opening, I could use the extra hands and he approved a small budget increase.”
“So I’m in for $60,000?” That’s at least a livable wage.
“Nooooo-ho-ho, that’s a pie-in-the-sky number, sweetie. Take a look at the numbers.”
Angela slides some papers toward me. The size-6 font is dizzying, but the last time I breezed over a contract before signing it, I sold my soul with no way to get it back.
“Where am I looking?” I ask.
Angela guides her pen to a section that covers payment.
“See here? It shows you’ll be taking a salary. That’s this tiny little number right here.”
Tiny indeed.
“And you’ll also be getting paid on your investment as the restaurant makes money, which is detailed in Appendix A, which is here.” She flips the page over. There’s a bunch of pie charts and graphs. Whatever.
“Oh, and there won’t be any health benefits either, so be sure to wash your hands a lot and get a flu shot while you still have that cotton swab insurance. Now just sign on this line to accept the position and then let’s get this show on the road.”
“Can you give me a minute, please?” I ask Angela.
“Sure, I’ll be right back.”
I pull out my phone from my purse on the off chance that while I’ve been sitting here discussing my lack of options, Benji has found a way to reach me. But alas, zero missed calls, zero texts and still no activity from any of his social media handles.
So I instead call the most accountable person I know, my mother.
“Hey, Allie, how’s work?”
I could easily say fine, but the theme of this call is honesty. It has to be.
“Well, I took today off, actually.”
“You’re not helping Benji with another pop-up, are you? I thought he was done with those,” she says.
“Mom, Benji relapsed.” My mom gasps.
“I don’t know exactly on what, or when, or how, but none of his stuff is in my apartment anymore and we’re obviously not together.”
“Oh, honey. I am so sorry. So, so sorry. Is he okay?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t even know where he is right now.”
“What can I do? Do you want me to come downtown? Do you want to come here?”
“No, that’s okay, Mom. I’ve got plenty to distract me,” I assure her. “I just don’t want you to be mad at me.”
“Mad at you? For what?”
“For picking Benji. And then having it all turn out like this.”
“You didn’t ask for this, Allie. Remember that. And you did everything right.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure I did.”
“Well, I am. I didn’t want to say anything because we don’t really talk about it anymore, but Uncle John had a major drug problem in the ’80s. Everyone wanted me to stop talking to him, to refuse to let him see you, but how could I do that? He was my brother and you were the only grandbaby. I thought you would be the thing that could change him. So I went behind everyone’s back and made a standing date with Johnny at the park so he could see you. Tuesdays, 11 a.m., right after your midmorning nap. Every week, I felt like he and I were proving the world wrong! Occasionally he’d ask for bus money or money to grab a coffee for the way home and I’d give it to him. A dollar here, a dollar there. So what?
“Then, three months into our little routine, he was a no-show. I instantly got a bad feeling. So I drove by his house on the way home and there he was, needle in his arm, passed out on the floor.”
“I was with you?”
“Yes. You were. Paramedics came and revived him, thank god. Do you know how big of a dummy I felt like? I figured all I needed to do was love him, support him, let him see his baby niece and give him some money for coffee. I was wrong. I don’t regret what I did—spending all that time and money trying to make him better, but that was the worst thing I’ve ever gone through.”
People always say my mom and I are so alike, but I really didn’t think an affinity for drug addicts was something we’d ever bond over.
“Oh goodness. I was not expecting to relive that today, Al,” she says. That makes two of us.
Her honesty inspires me. “Look, I can’t take another secret. And I don’t think you can either. So listen: I need to let you know that I’ve got to step in with things at the restaurant—full-time—or I risk losing my investment. I know Dad said we shouldn’t talk about money stuff as a family anymore and I realize I’ll be throwing away my dream job just so that I can pick up the pieces some selfish druggie left behind. But I have no choice. And I don’t want to lie about where I am or what I’m doing anymore. My last day at Daxa is tomorrow. I’ll be working at Here after that.”
I squint my eyes as I brace for impact. This is not what they had in mind when they funded my college education.
“Well, I’m not going to pretend to be happy about this. But you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. I understand that. But I need you to understand something, too. I know you thought Benji was the main character of your life story, but that’s actually you. You’re the star of your own show and that show must go on.”
When I get off the phone, nearly weak with gratitude that that went as smoothly as it did, I stare blankly at the table. It’s just me and the contract and a semiclear conscience. I take a deep breath, grab the pen and click it open.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mumble to no one within earshot as I sign my name on the dotted line.
Angela must have been watching from around the corner, because before the ink even has a chance to dry, she swoops back into frame.
“Congrats on your new position! I’ll start working on a press release this afternoon. Now, if you would be so kind, sign this one, too.” She pulls out another piece of paper and slides it my way.
“What’s this?”
“This is your resignation letter for Daxa. Connor has two n’s in it, right?” It’s almost shocking how beyond blasé she is about me quitting my beloved job.
“You know I was up for a promotion, right?”
“Sorry. I just can’t risk the chance you won’t sprout a pair of balls tomorrow when you walk in there at 9:00 a.m. I need you working at Here, Allie. You know I wouldn’t ask unless I meant it.”
“You’re not really asking, you know,” I say. This printout has far fewer words but is even tougher to sign. I have to steady my hand from shaking as the pen makes contact with the page.
“Beautiful signature, I really like the open dot on the i. Now, like I mentioned, we don’t have a lot of time. In fact, we have about two hours. Maybe three.”
“Why? What happens then?”
“What happens then is we extend a job offer to our next chef de cuisine. It’s got to happen today.”
Angela places a stack of papers on the table, whisking the just-signed contract and resignation letter out of sight.
“What are these?” I ask.
“Résumés. I’m not stupid, Allie. Yes, Benji was my first choice to be our head chef. But if for one second I thought opening a restaurant with a guy like him was going to go down without a hitch, well, then, I’d most likely be all hopped up on whatever he was smoking in your bathtub yesterday.”
I give her a cockeyed look.
“Too soon? Sorry. Look, we know guys like Benji and what they need to hear to move forward on an opportunity like this. Did Craig and I bait him a bit when we assured him there was no one else we were looking at? Sure. But the truth was, we weren’t looking at anyone else. In fact, I didn’t pull these résumés until after he signed on as a way to cover my own ass. Just know, we never doubted his caliber. Only his character. And I’m bummed he proved me right, but I can’t stop the train now.”
I have to admit I’m envious of Angela. She saw coming what I didn’t and she prepared herself. Smart woman.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Replace him. There are five qualified backups right here. All of them are local, so we don’t have to relocate anyone. Some of them are between jobs and some are currently working at other restaurants, so you need to call them quickly before they go in for their shifts tonight. Get them on the phone, then get them in here. I want all of them interviewed today and an offer made no later than tonight. Any questions?”
Yeah, like a thousand.
“How do I know if they’re good enough?”
“They are,” she says. “I’ve researched them religiously and tasted their food already. They may not have the Benji Zane Effect, but any one of them would be a great fit from a culinary perspective. Next question?”
“How do I pick?”
“Choose whoever you’re least likely to sleep with. Anything else?”
“Why are you trusting me with this?”
“Because I like the way you see people when you don’t have all the time in the world to get to know them. Plus, you talk to strangers on the internet all day, every day. You’ll be fine,” Angela says as she starts gathering her things.
“And what are you doing right now, might I ask?”
“Okay, Questions McGee. Easy. Someone has to let Craig know his superstar chef is knifeless, homeless and missing. Did you want that job?”
This place is cursed. And I’m the AGM of it.