“Danny came to me two months ago,” said Mrs. George, “and told me that nobody here would talk to him.” She was a teacher of great enthusiasm, and nobody had quite heard such disgust in her voice before. “He felt that just because he studied more than the rest of you for College Boards, he made people feel uncomfortable. All of you knew he had to work harder, and still not one of you reached out to him. You were all too busy with yourselves.” She sighed, examining her hand.
“Well. He was turned down again last week by every college he applied to. And it appeared to him he didn’t have a single friend to help him through his disappointment. You were all too busy . . .”
In the nervous silence of the room, only the electric buzz of the clock was heard. Mrs. George looked up again.
“Sometimes I sit back there and listen to you talk amongst yourselves,” said Mrs. George. “And it is absolutely amazing to me. You talk about your working hours, your adult lives and your adult emotions, yet you are all such children, really. You’d do yourselves well to remind yourselves of that from time to time.”
And even though Mrs. George had not been particularly close to Danny Boyd, she made a point of admonishing each of her classes for their insensitivity toward the student. There was a special article on Danny ordered for the school paper, the yearbook staff made an announcement that they would keep him in with the senior class photos. Danny Boyd became a special cause for about two weeks, before the onrushing pace of high school events swept his memory into the past.
Fish and Chips
Brad’s new job location was way down on Ridgemont Drive, in a green building between two office-supply stores. There was a huge off-purple drawing of a lobster out front. The sign read: Captain Kidd Fish and Chips. Brad himself couldn’t really tell you how good the fish was. He didn’t like fish.
But that wasn’t the real problem. He could even deal with his new assistant manager, Harold, a guy Brad thought looked like that TV ventriloquist who worked the bitchy puppet named Madame. Harold was always asking Brad to run errands for him, and he expected Brad to love doing them. Harold was big on company pride.
Brad didn’t even mind that so much. He was the new guy at Captain Kidd, so he went along with it.
The real problem, as Brad saw it, was the uniforms. Captain Kidd Fish and Chips demanded that all employees wear blue-and-white-striped buccaneer outfits. The uniforms came with hot, baggy pants and phony black plastic swords that an employee couldn’t remove—“Where’s your sword, Hamilton? You’ve got to wear the sword!”—and worst of all, a big floppy Ponce de León swashbuckler hat. Like a bunch of pirates. Behind the fryer, Brad felt, this got to be a bit much.
At least no one from Ridgemont High came into the place.
One day Brad was at the fryer, tossing some frozen cod into the oil. It was pretty amazing, Brad was thinking. Here was Redondo Beach, a warm-water port, and they still flew in this frozen fish from Alaska. It didn’t make sense. But he didn’t eat fish anyway, so he just cooked it up and didn’t worry about it. Anyone who would come into a place with a big purple lobster on the sign out front, Brad figured, would probably love the stuff.
His thoughts were interrupted by the breathless appearance of Harold, the assistant manager. “Hamilton,” he said, “I need you to run an order for me. I’ll take over the fryer. Those boys over at IBM are really socked in, and I told them you would personally deliver their order within the hour. Can you just run it over in your car? I’ll reimburse you for gas.”
Brad dutifully unhooked his apron. “Okay. Just give me a minute.”
Brad fried up fourteen boxes worth of frozen cod and stacked them by the counter. He loaded the boxes into The Cruising Vessel, then went back to get the bill from Harold. The last thing Brad did was take off the buccaneer outfit and change into Levi’s for the drive to IBM. It was definitely worth leaving the fryer for a chance to take off that uniform.
Harold caught sight of him as he was leaving the Captain Kidd employees’ restroom. “Hey Hamilton, what are you doing? What are you dressed like that for?”
“This,” said Brad, “is how I dress all the time.”
“Come on, Hamilton. You’re going over to IBM to represent Captain Kidd Fish and Chips. I told them you would deliver those boxes personally. Part of our image, part of our appeal is in those uniforms!” He said it like he had nabbed Brad in the act of sabotaging the place. “You’ve got to be proud to work at Captain Kidd!”
“You really want me to change back?”
“Yes,” said the assistant manager, “I think so. Why don’t you change back.” He paused. “Show some pride, Hamilton.”
Now there was a time when Brad Hamilton might have said something, a time when he might have taken a stand. But those were the days, as he saw it, before the punching bag of life had come back to hit him in the face. His new policy was to shut up and make money. Gas was expensive. The Cruising Vessel didn’t run on pride.
“Okay,” Brad sighed. “I don’t believe you’re asking me to do this . . . but okay.”
He changed back into the buccaneer outfit and walked woefully out the door. He got in his car and rode out onto the Interstate. People in other cars were giving him strange looks.
Brad was on the Interstate when he realized what he was doing. It was already the time he would have normally taken off for lunch. But now he was out running errands for the assistant manager, delivering fourteen boxes of fish and chips—and the place didn’t even deliver. He was hungry.
Brad pried open one of the boxes and, so as not to disturb the careful order of the fish arrangement, grabbed a couple of fries. One thing he had to say: The fries were about twenty times better now that he was there. He had a few more.
He wondered how the fish tasted. It couldn’t be too bad; he had fried it himself. Maybe since he was the fryer that had gotten better, too. He took a nibble off one of the fish pieces . . .
It was the worst-tasting piece of shit that had ever passed for food. And that was a compliment. What was he doing at this place?
Brad threw the piece of fish out the window, a symbolic move that made him feel damn good. Some IBM executive would get one less piece of frozen Catch-of-the-Day cod. It would probably save the guy’s life, anyway.
In another car on the Interstate Brad saw a pretty girl looking at him. He smiled back at her, the winning Brad game-show-host-young-Ronald-Reagan-lean-and-hungry grin.
The girl started laughing.
The uniform! He forgot he was wearing that stupid uniform! And the swashbuckler hat! Shit! That girl had been laughing at him.
He whipped off the hat and tossed that out the window, too. And the plastic sword. And his little scarf. And even though Brad Hamilton knew it would cost him the last fryer job in town, he sailed right past the entrance for IBM.
Ritchie Blackmore’s Birthday
April was a big month for school events. It was as if someone in the administration realized that unless a couple of jolts were thrown in early, the long slide toward June/Total Apathy might get mighty steep mighty quick.
There was the student-faculty basketball game, a heavy-pitched event that was the culmination of weeks of morning bulletin announcements on tryouts, practices, and challenges. The students won, and Steve Shasta took Coach Ramirez to the ground in one fight for the ball. Big news for two days.