“I can’t do that,” said Brad. “But if you wait a minute . . .”
“Look,” said the businessman. He started talking to Brad in the tone of a kindergarten teacher. “Just put your little hand back in the cash register and give me my $2.75 back. Okay?” He looked at the name tag. “Please, Brad?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Just let me find the forms here.”
“I am so tired,” said the businessman. “I am so tired of dealing with morons. How hard is it to . . .”
Moron. That was a new one, Brad thought. Most irate customers just stuck to bitching. This guy not only had eaten most of his breakfast, he wanted his money back now. And he was calling Brad a moron. Brad didn’t have to take that from anyone.
“Mister,” said Brad Hamilton, “if you don’t shut up I’m gonna kick 100% of your ASS.”
“MANAGER!!”
Bam. The assistant manager came shooting out of the back. “Can I help you, sir? Is there a problem?”
“You bet there’s a problem,” said the businessman. He really put on the hurt act. “Your employee used profanity and threatened me with violence. I’m shocked, frankly. I’ve eaten here many times, and I’ve always enjoyed the service—until today. All I wanted was my money back for this breakfast. It was a little overcooked. And this young man threatened me. Now I plan to write a letter! I plan to . . .”
The assistant manager wheeled around to Brad. “Did you threaten this man or use profanity in any way?”
“He insulted me first. He called me a moron.”
“Did you threaten this man or use profanity in any way?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re fired,” said the assistant manager. He opened the steel door for Brad. “I’m very sorry this happened to you, sir.”
“Thank you very much,” said the businessman.
Brad stood there, stunned. Fired. Out of another job. He unhooked his fryer’s apron and threw it on the counter.
The Five-Point Plan
The Rat had immediately come home and tacked Stacy Hamilton’s phone number to his wall so he could look at it every day of Christmas vacation. She actually gave me her phone number. After two days his elation gave way to dread. The phone number challenged him every time he glanced at it. Stacy—555-6735. It’s your move, the number said, what are you gonna do about it?
Ratner and Damone had been walking through Town Center Mall one Saturday afternoon during vacation.
“Damone,” said The Rat, “what do I say to her?”
“Whatever you want.” Damone stopped to flash a million dollar smile at a middle-aged housewife.
“I don’t even know her, though.”
Damone turned and looked at his friend.
“What you need, Rat, is my special five-point plan for scoring with girls of all ages.”
As he talked, Damone passed a Country Farms shop. He plucked a free sample of cheese and sausage and moved on.
“All right,” said The Rat, “what’s your special five-point plan for scoring with girls of all ages?”
“I’m glad you asked,” said Damone. “Men had died trying to obtain this information, you know. I will give it to you for free.”
They continued walking past Rock City, which was packed with junior high schoolers, long-ashed cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Damone nodded to Jeff Spicoli, who was holding court by the Space Invaders machines.
“So come on,” pressed The Rat. “Tell me. What’s the five-point plan?”
“Okay,” said Damone. “Pay attention.”
The Rat nodded, always the student, as they passed Tower Records. Damone stopped in front of a life-sized cardboard cutout of Deborah Harry, the alluring singer from the group Blondie. She was just about his size.
Damone turned to The Rat. “First of all, Rat, you never let on how much you like a girl.” He turned back to the cardboard cutout of Deborah Harry to demonstrate. “Oh,” he said disinterestedly, “hi.” He turned to The Rat.
“Two. Always call the shots.” He looked back at Deborah Harry. “You and me are going to the Charthouse, and then you’re coming with me to the movies.”
“Three. Act like wherever you are, that’s the place to be.” He returned to Debbie. “Will you quit telling me this is the most fun you’ve ever had.”
“Four. When ordering food, find out what she wants, and then order for both of you. It’s a classy move.” To Debbie. “The lady will have . . .”
“Five. And this is most important. When you get down to making out, whenever possible put on the first side of Led Zeppelin IV.” He turned to Deborah Harry one last time. “Why don’t you put this tape on?” Damone put his arm around the cutout. “It sounds great in the back of my van . . . why don’t we listen from there?”
Through it all, Deborah Harry looked back with the same intrigued cardboard smile.
“See what I mean?” said Damone. “That is how you talk to a girl, Rat. Voilà. You can’t miss.”
“Gee,” said The Rat after a long while. “Why can’t I just be myself?”
“Later you can be yourself,” said Damone. “What you want is for her to decide she likes you, no matter what. You know what else is good if you’re not a totally popular guy? This has worked for me. You just kind of mention to the girl that you don’t have a lot of friends in high school, that most of the people are worthless, but you like her. That makes her feel special. And you still have The Attitude.”
The Rat nodded, taking it all in. They walked on through the mass of Christmas shoppers, past Thearles Music, where a friend of Damone’s was demonstrating an organ out front.
“That’s McCauley,” explained Damone. “He likes it when you talk to him like a Negro. His best friend is this black guy, Paul Norris, and Paul Norris acts like he’s Gomer Pyle. It’s bizarre.”
Ratner grabbed Damone’s arm. “Look at that girl. Look at that girl over there.”
“You like that girl?” asked Damone. “You watch.”
Damone positioned himself by the front of a shoe store and waited for the girl to pass. Then he pounced.
“Joyce!”
She looked at him strangely.
“Oh,” said Damone. “I’m sorry. You looked like this girl in my abnormal psych class.”
“I have that class,” said the girl. “Do you go to State?”
Damone grinned. “Do you have that book where the guy . . . well, it’s the one with the picture of the man with a spoke in his head? The man was walking down the street, and a spoke fell in his head. They left it there, right, because if they pulled it out they didn’t know what would happen . . .”
“Yes,” she laughed. “That’s the book.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Karen.”
“I’m Mike Damone. This is Mark Ratner.”
Big smile from Karen. “Maybe I’ll see you sometime at State!”
“See you later, Karen.”
She walked on.
“Now that’s how you talk to a girl,” said Damone.
“You lie to her?”
“No, you wuss. One person says something to another, and it starts.”
The Rat came back to Mike Damone’s house. Damone’s parents had left for the day to visit his grandparents in Riverside. The Rat didn’t like to use things as a crutch, but on Damone’s advice he downed a Colt 45. He made Damone leave the bedroom. Then he picked up the phone and dialed Stacy’s number.