Oakie used his shirt sleeve to dry his eyes before he placed the “For Sale” sign in front of the building, then he walked round back to sit on the frond covered patio. He watched the bay rats brazenly gallivant on the vine covered trellis and wondered, “Twenty-nine years. Where’d the time go?”
Francis Xavier O’Connor’s mother nicknamed him “Oakie” before he could walk knowing it would prevent many a bloodied nose in the schoolyard. In recent years the only person to call him “Francis” was Mary Doll Zingarelli, a waitress he worked with for the last dozen something years. Mary Doll was a single parent somewhere past thirty who wore her shiny dark hair in a ponytail that swung like the pendulum of an over wound cuckoo clock with every step she took. Her eyes, filled with mischief and merriment energized Oakie the way a double espresso did. She was an excellent waitress; honest, detail oriented and a real hustler. She was Oakie’s pet and everybody knew it and boy, oh boy, how she loved to antagonize him knowing there would never be any consequences to pay.
“Mary Doll! Pick up now or you’re fired! Freakin” Mary Doll, so help me I’ll fire you!” Oakie was furious that night.
“The food is hot and ready to travel now!” he screamed as his errant cigar ashes found their way into the Bernaise sauce.
“A little extra fiber never killed anyone,” he mumbled to himself as he whisked the uncalled for ingredient into the popular sauce.
Mary Doll called out, “I’m shaving Chuck. I’ll be there in a minute, Francis.”
Instinctually she ducked to avoid the rubber spatula Oakie hurled in her direction. Unfazed, she guided the razor sharp blade of her wine opener northward on the lint covered seat of Chuck’s tuxedo pants. It was obvious that a fluffy white bath towel had found its way into his dark only load of laundry. When Mary Doll was satisfied that her friend looked presentable she hurried to the steam table and stacked the eight dinners she should have delivered some minutes ago onto a cork lined tray. She hoisted the tray into the air balancing it above her right shoulder and glided through the main dining room to the private alcove at the west end of the huge bay front restaurant.
The local wheeling and dealing attorneys were ready to eat. Mary Doll cleared their salad plates and served their meals.
“What jerks!” she thought as she refreshed their wine glasses. Didn’t they know that commercial kitchens got rid of inventory on the verge of spoiling by smothering it in this or that sauce? Oh well, they’d make the connection when they woke up in the middle of the night with stomach cramps and explosive diarrhea. She bid the patrons “bon appetite” and promised to check back with them before the dessert course. She giggled as she strolled back to the kitchen.
Mary Doll never had as much as a gratis cup of coffee in all the years she worked at the seafood house, which was one of the busiest on Miami Beach and had by far the filthiest kitchen. Whole fish piled high in greasy plastic bus pans lay on the floor for hours waiting to be filleted without so much as a single ice cube to cool their flesh. Each evening the line cook would repair the holes in the massive chowder pots by positioning his barely anchored pus infected teeth at just the right angle, allowing him to bite the sulphur tips off of the wooden match sticks he used to plug up the leaky vessels. Occasionally he’d give his hairy wax filled ears a good scratch with the match sticks before he attended to this chore.
October through May was money making time for Mary Doll and her co-workers; it was stone crab season! The awning proclaiming “All U-Can Eat Fresh Stone Crabs $21.95” was the lure that kept patrons lining up an hour before the restaurant opened for business for almost thirty years. Not once did she ever pinch a stone crab for her own consumption. Sure, the claws were fresh (once in a while) and when they weren’t the restaurant owner showed up and ordered the Haitian kitchen workers to fill a fifty gallon drum with water, bleach and lemon juice. The slime covered delicacy, by then fit only for the bellies of famished alley cats, was soaked over night in this elixir. The owner often threatened Oakie to sell the refurbished product “or else”. Oakie never once disappointed the man who signed his paycheck.
Going it alone is what terrified Oakie the most. He accepted the restaurant closing and losing his primary source of income, but he couldn’t come to terms with being separated from his crew, his friends; for god’s sake, they were his family. To heck and back with ‘new beginnings’ and ‘change is good’. Who would he spend the holidays with? Who would help him to shop for clothes? Would Mary Doll remember to include him in her early morning scavenger hunts on South Beach searching for a Bloody Mary in a chilled goblet rimmed with celery salt? Would he ever again have a surprise birthday party?
As if he didn’t have enough on his mind, he fretted about the futures of his staff, especially Bobby “Shakes” Conroy, a childhood friend from the old neighborhood in Brooklyn. Mother of god, what would happen to Bobby? Oakie knew that he would have to make a few phone calls on behalf of his old friend; oh, sweet Jesus Christ Almighty, what was he thinking? No one in the industry would give Bobby a job and provide the ‘benefit’ he needed to perform. Bobby was a top shelf waiter as long as he was allowed to sip straight vodka while he was on the clock. He shook like a revivalist’s tambourine if he was denied this on the job perk.
He wasn’t always that way. When Bobby returned from Viet Nam after three tours of duty he was offered scads of jobs by prominent corporate heads, all of whom clamored for Bobby Conroy, the war hero, to be a part of their team. Bobby took a pass on every opportunity and told Oakie he didn’t want to be rewarded for killing and maiming and had tears in his eyes when he swore on the soul of his mother that he would never kill another living creature,
“Killin’ makes a man weary. Takes somethin’ outta him. He ain’t never the same.”
As far as Oakie knew he never did as much as swat a fly, matter of fact Bobby once snapped an ankle while intentionally trying to avoid trampling an ant hill that was swarming out front of the local gin mill he frequented. Everyone thought he was drunk. He wasn’t back then.
Oakie had anxiety attacks worrying about Lola Foo, the pretty biracial kid he salvaged from the mean stretch of Biscayne Boulevard almost ten years ago. On that particular evening he was in the area looking to bargain for the intimate services of a mature, experienced professional. He was stopped for a red light at 36th Street when Lola, garishly dressed and looking as though she’d been experimenting with her mother’s cosmetics, hurtled herself into the front seat of his convertible.
She cooed, “I’ll show you a real good time, mister. What do you say? You ready to be nice to me if I show you a real good time?”
She was fifteen years old. He’d never forget the look on Mary Doll’s face when he ushered Lola into her apartment that evening,
“Whad’ja use for bait? A bag of jellybeans?” M.D. sneered.
It took some doing and Oakie had to pay Lola for ‘her time’ in cash, up front before he and Mary Doll were able to convince her that a career change would be beneficial for a young lady as enterprising as she seemed to be. By the weekend Lola was working as a bus girl at the restaurant. Oakie paid her salary from his own pocket back then.
Before long she was on the payroll and working the floor as a waitress, second only to Mary Doll when it came to earning potential. How Lola loved serving conventioneers from the Midwest! She’d hike her tight black skirt up above her knees and open the top buttons of her uniform blouse all the while bragging to her work mates how she was going to empty the wallets of the hick insurance salesmen seated at her station She’d scoot out of the kitchen before Oakie could grab her by the scruff of her neck and reprimand her, as one might a puppy.
Lola always returned to the kitchen fanning herself with the fistful of tip money she hustled from the out of towners, “Up sell, up sell, that’s the key! Convince them you got what they want! I sold that deuce a three pound Maine lobster!”
Oakie scoffed, “No big deal!”
Lola sassed him right back, “For an appetizer? Stuffed with crab meat? That’s a big deal!”
Oakie smiled, “Good girl”.
Lola skipped off to serve her next table quite pleased with herself. Oakie couldn’t believe it, she’d be turning twenty-five over the summer and was still thriving. It would break his heart if she ever had to resort to doing anything less than respectable to earn a living.
Thank god almighty Chuck was dead. He hated change. It would have destroyed him to be uprooted from his job after nineteen years. Oakie saved Chuck’s job application and it still made him smile; the purple ink, the calligrapher’s script, heck, that’s why Oakie hired him. He was desperate for wait staff that season and figured Chuck, in addition to having clean fingernails, would do a bang up job writing the daily specials on the chalkboard.
Chuck was as handsome as a man could ever hope to be: tall, blonde and green eyed with a well toned body. He invested quite a bit of his free time maintaining a healthy looking tan and he spent a major portion of his earnings on a head turning wardrobe. When the ladies would come on to him he was very honest with them,
“You’re adorable, but unless you have a brother who is equally adorable I’m not interested.”
Many of the women he sloughed off befriended him and set him up on dates with their gay friends and relatives.
Chuck was a conversational artist, a master charmer, he would have made a great salesman. On the Friday evenings that Chuck, Mary Doll and Oakie ventured out bar hopping after work Chuck would entertain all within earshot with the most outlandish stories regarding his adventures as a socially, sexually active homosexual. Chuck swore that ninety per cent of the men he had one night stands with were married.
He claimed to have met the majority of his betrothed partners in bookstores; the adult only sort of establishments in undesirable neighborhoods with placards in their front windows promising titillating peep shows for twenty-five cents. He described the merchandise and the ‘glory holes’ as only one who was a patron could,
“First, you browse through the literary offerings, nonchalantly wending your way to the adult toy display. I bought a cock ring on sale last week, fifty per cent off,” he bragged.
A wide eyed Mary Doll asked, “What’s a cock ring?”
Happy to educate her Chuck replied, “It’s an accessory. It’s a circle, a hoop, usually made of smooth, sturdy plastic, though I’ve heard that ‘Tiffany’s’ will customize in the precious metal of your choice. You tuck your genitals through the hoop, it should be snug. If you’re lucky a surge of blood will gorge your organ enhancing its length and girth. Quite the attractive visual when worn with a tight pair of jeans or scanty swimming attire.”
Mary Doll signaled the bartender to bring another round of drinks to the table and Chuck continued, “You make eye contact with a fellow browser, someone you’d like to spend fifteen minutes or less with, a quickie you know? Connection made, you pay the cashier and then you and your “date” are directed to adjoining ply wood booths. You enter and lock the door, securing the perimeter is mandatory. Then it gets exciting! The cubicle reeks of sex, you know, that instantly identifiable odor that tells you someone’s recently attended to their intimate wants and needs.”
Chuck went on to describe in florid detail how he would then massage himself to midway erection before guiding his organ into the glory hole (a thigh high circular cut out in the partition separating the cubicles). After a few moments of manual fondling his temporary paramour would orally stimulate and gratify Chuck,
“Bodily poisons dispensed and it’s tidy up time. Then it’s off to the market or wherever. Money well spent in my opinion.”
Mary Doll wanted to know, “What if the guy on the other side was a nut job and had a straight edged razor?”
Chuck laughed, “I’d sing soprano at La Scala!”
Mary Doll and Chuck often argued about his claim that ninety per cent of his lovers were heterosexual and usually married. This assertion upset M.D. to no end because she and Chuck were physically attracted to the same type of men: tall, dark, and beefy with battleship sized chests and hair free backs. He quelled her nagging when he insisted that she accompany him to his favorite adult bookstore on Father’s Day.
He took her on a tour of the parking lot overflowing with multi person vehicles equipped with infant safety seats. Mary Doll peered into the window of a family friendly vehicle and squealed, “Look! There’s mail addressed to Mr. and Mrs. on the dashboard. Let’s wait and see if this guy comes out of the bookstore.”
Wait they did, for more than an hour before Mr. exited the bookstore with his shirt tails askew and a sated look on his face. End of argument.
Oakie sure did miss the get togethers at Mary Doll’s place; good food, good friends and oh, so much fun. Chuck, not usually fond of children adored M.D.’s little girl. He crowned her “The Queen” insisting that Miami Beach had all the princesses it could handle. He played “Barbie” dolls with her and taught her how to coordinate the outfits for all of her dolls. When playtime was over Chuck helped the child to bed down her “Barbie’s” and he made sure that her two “Ken” dolls always shared the same shoe box bedroom. The Queen never failed to throw her arms around his neck and tell him, “I love you. You play “Barbie” dolls better than anybody.”
Oakie missed the day excursions with his two friends. What fun they had when they all went to the beach. They loved the stretch of sand in front of the Fontainebleau Hotel on 44th Street and Collins Avenue, however, if Chuck was feeling frisky they’d go to the gay beach on 21st Street, where he was sure to pick up a date for the evening. Chuck and Mary Doll would play a game they invented called, “Who’s A Big Boy?”. The object of the game was to correctly identify the size of an approaching gents testicles, rating them melons, peaches or plums. They’d sit close to the shore competing, laughing hysterically and drinking margaritas. Once ten unsuspecting gents strolled past, Oakie would tally up the scores and declare a winner. Chuck reigned as champion for nine consecutive summers.
That’s where Oakie was headed this afternoon, to the 21st Street beach to help Mary Doll scatter Chuck’s ashes which had been sitting on her end table facing the television set for the last three months.
Mary Doll sniffled, “He’d never forgive me if I tossed him into the drink before Erica worked out her latest crisis.” Erica was the vamp on a popular soap opera. Mary Doll saw to it that the cardboard box containing Chuck’s remains never missed an episode of his favorite show
Chuck was diagnosed with full blown A.I.D.S. shortly after Christmas of 1991. He faded rapidly. In less than a year he lost sixty pounds, his complexion turned wax banana yellow and his swollen liver caused his belly button to ulcerate creating a raw sore the size of a door knob.
His once bright green eyes went as dull as the ink on a raggedy dollar bill and his luxurious head of hair fell out in clumps. He could barely speak when his throat became infected with ‘thrush’ a type of fungus found in many A.I.D.S. sufferers.
Before Chuck had to be hospitalized Mary Doll helped him to put his affairs in order. He bought a one thousand dollar savings bond payable to the Queen upon his death. As sick as Chuck was Mary Doll pestered him to send a ‘sign’ from the other side, “I have to know for sure that there’s something after we’re done here.”
Chuck promised that he would think about an appropriate signal to send her from “up there”.
Just days before he died he strained to whisper to Mary Doll, “You’ll be my Noah. Every time you see a rainbow that will mean that I’m right there with you. Treat those days when you have a rainbow sighting as a lucky day, go buy a Lotto ticket. Now, promise me that you’ll bring my name up now and again. Don’t let me go thinking I didn’t matter.”
Mary Doll wept, “I promise.”
She wouldn’t leave the hospital that day until she convinced Chuck’s doctor to allow him to wear his favorite tee shirt, the one he wore on their beach days. The doctor was a kid, an intern, out of medical school for about ten minutes, which allowed Mary Doll to manipulate and flip him like an infant waiting to have his behind powdered. She supervised the doctor as he pulled the garment over her dying friend’s head. Tears streamed down her face as she arranged the shirt to allow the caption to be read by all who passed her friend’s room, “Beer…it isn’t just for breakfast”. The doctor ordered Chuck strapped to the bed and disconnected the life support machines. The morphine didn’t control his thrashing or gasping for air. That eons old survival instinct kicked in and he fought for his last breath.
Mary Doll managed to assemble quite a respectable group for Chuck’s send off; Bobby Shakes, Lola Foo, the Queen, bartenders from many of Chuck’s old haunts, fellow waiters and waitresses and the cashier from his favorite bookstore all showed up. Oakie waded out to chest high water where he submerged the box containing Chuck’s ashes and he watched as the ocean welcomed his friends remains. On his return to shore a flash of lightning interrupted the finale of the occasion. Thunder rumbled and a gentle rain fell.
“Saint Anthony! Lightning! I’m out of here! Meet you at “Wolfie’s” , shouted Mary Doll as she ran towards the safety of the restaurant. She never saw the gypsy cab barreling down Collins Avenue at twice the speed limit. She was killed instantly. Oakie made it to ankle deep water before he was struck with a bolt of lightning that incinerated him. The bizarre circumstances of their deaths made the national news.
The optimists at the memorial service for Oakie and Mary Doll offered that at least the separation anxiety Oakie felt was resolved. M.D.’s daughter agreed with the optimists, but she regretted that her mother never got to see the rainbow straddle the horizon once the storm cleared.
© 2016 Coreen Falco
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” here.
— March 18, 2016