Chapter Seven: Co-creation

Co-creation: 2+2=4; 3x3=9; 4x4=16; 44 to the 10th power can change the world…working as a team=graceful ascension to the greater good!

The morning arrives fuzzy and out of focus for Jake. Julie pads downstairs in her white slippers and beige silk pajamas at nine a.m., and finds Jake sleeping in the living room. She kneels on the floor and gently shakes him. “Good morning, darling.” Jake moans. She shakes him a little harder. Jake moans louder. “You don’t look so good. What time did you get home? I didn’t hear you come in. Why didn’t you come to bed?”
Jake moves his head slightly and feels a wrecking ball shatter what’s left of his brain. “Four or five, I think. Couldn’t make it any further.” Talking hurts his teeth. “Julie, help me,” he whines through clenched lips. “Water. Aspirin. Aww, don’t make me sit up. I think I’m blind.”
“What’s all over your glasses?” She yanks them off his head as Jake whimpers. “Yuck! No wonder you can’t see, this is blood!” Julie pushes Jake’s head to the right; he thinks about wetting himself, but controls the urge to let go. “Good lord, man, what happened to your ear? Hold still, you big baby. Let me look. Dammit, there’s blood all over the sofa!”
Jake tries to sit up, but the effort makes him gag. “Melvin ran into a stop sign on the way home last night after the gig. Then I rear-ended Melvin. I think I hit my head on the driver’s side window. It was funny at the time. Then I threw up. I don’t remember much after that.”
“So I guess I don’t have to ask how the wake went last night, or whatever you called it.” Julie is disgusted. “Did anybody actually die?”
“Not that I know of. What time is it?” Jake asks feebly.
“Nine o’clock. We have to be at my parent’s for lunch in two hours.”
“No way. I’m sick.” Jake’s eyes won’t focus, but his gag reflex is working just fine. “Please call them and tell them I’m dying.”
“Get your ass up, Jake. You’re going.”
“Tell them I had an emergency at the hospital.” Jake rolls off the couch onto the floor, knee-walks to the nearest chair, and drops his head into the seat. “Shit, I can’t even stand up, Julie.”
“If you get blood on that chair I’ll kill you, you damn drunken sot.” Jake reaches a hand to his head and searches for the pitchfork somebody jammed in his ear. He holds out a hand, and Julie reluctantly helps Jake to his feet; she leans him against the nearest wall. “Mom has a surprise for us. I think she’s giving us the big hall mirror.”
Jake’s groan reaches its pinnacle of self-pity. “Oh God, Julie, that fun-house-looking piece of shit? It makes me gag just thinking about it.” He gags until his eyes bulge. “See? I’m not kidding. Ugh. I need to throw up.”
“I love that mirror. It’s an antique! It’ll look great in the foyer.” Jake’s gut rumbles like thunder. “You damn wuss. Go on before you vomit in here. Then, you better find the peroxide and start scrubbing this sofa. I’m not doing it.” Jake gags. “I mean it, Jake. Get upstairs and take a shower. You’ll feel better.” Julie turns for the kitchen.
“The only thing that will make me feel better is twenty-four hours.” Jake hugs the wall and painfully tracks around the corner with his backbone. “And maybe if that mirror shatters into a million pieces before you get it home.”
“You’d take seven years of bad luck, just like that?” Julie shakes her head at her pitiful husband. “I’ll chance it," he mumbles. "That thing’s uglier than the mess I’m gonna make in a minute. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve never wanted.”
Jake crawls up the steps, reaches the landing, and pulls himself into an awkward pose; balancing like a toddler, he stumbles into the master suite bathroom, and pauses long enough to look at his ear before falling to his knees and purging his leftover sins. “God, help me!” he cries. “I’m busy,” God answers. Standing carefully, he shuffles three feet to the sink, and washes his hands. He drops his boxers and, with the posture of an old man, creeps to the shower. He leans over to adjust the temperature and breaks a cold sweat. Jake gags three times, loses his balance, grabs hold of the towel rack and, as he falls, jerks it from the wall.
He’s lucky. He lands butt first and skids backwards into the closet door, not fully registering the stinging of the large, nasty carpet burn on his bare ass. He carefully picks himself up and steps into a cloud nearly as thick as the fog surrounding his brain. The hot water drives into his ear, making him wince. Jake bends his knees, grabs the soap, and works lather from top to almost bottom. He cannot lift his feet, so he wisely sits in the bathtub and pulls his feet to him, deliberate movement by deliberate movement.
Fifteen minutes later, Julie experiences a moment of concern when she finds Jake passed out in the tub with shampoo drying in his hair; it quickly passes. “Wake up, you damn idiot,” Julie yells as she shakes her husband’s limp body. “Come on, stand up.”
Jake moans. “Help me, Julie.”
Do I slap him, or laugh? Maybe both, she thinks. “Crawl over the side. I’ve got you. Come on now, you have to help me. I can’t pull you out by myself.” She grabs his arm and drags him over the side of the tub. “Ow! That hurt. Stop laughing at me.” Julie’s laughing hard. So hard, her teeth are showing. Only to Jake, they look like fangs. He closes his eyes and sees a three-headed dog at the gates of Hell. “I wish you could see your ass. It looks like your butt has measles on top of road rash. What the hell…? What happened to the towel rack? What did you do?” Julie reaches in the back of the linen closet for a dark-colored towel, a color that blends well with blood. “Here, get the soap out of your hair.”
“Just help me to bed. I don’t care about soap.”
“Want another shot of tequila, Jake?” How about a margarita? Stop gagging. Suck it up like a man.”
“Julie, please stop laughing at me.” Jake is whining now, on the verge of tears.
“I really need a picture of your ass, Jake. This is priceless. I’m getting the camera.”
“Too late,” Jake mumbles as he falls into bed and pulls the covers over his eyes. “Tell your parents hello. I love you. Tuck me in, will you?”
“Tuck your damn self in. See you later if you’re alive.” Jake is snoring within thirty seconds. He doesn’t hear Julie's laugh as she pulls back the bed cover and snaps a close-up of his dimpled and rug-burned backside. Too bad he's asleep because he’d laugh, too – soft laughter, the kind that tickles a dream and makes it sweet.

…

Sam is rarely awake before Mimi, but he needs some quiet time this morning and rises at six, takes a shower, and drives downtown to his favorite parking deck – the one overlooking the city’s finest architecture. Downtown is deserted at this hour, providing Sam a peaceful environment in which to clear his troubled mind. Sam leans against the upper deck rail and feels a slight, warm breeze on the back of his neck. A kiss from God, Sam thinks. Maybe AA is working if I’m thinking about God. Sam knows his personal challenge requires hell-bent, steadfast dedication. He is now sober for one year, three months, fourteen days, and two hours. Sam still feels the strong pull of the bar, his inner struggle against the riptide of self-destruction, as real this morning as it was last night.
Sam walks to the east side of the parking deck roof and says a rising prayer. The sun relaxes his shoulders, soothes his weary spirit. Tears roll one by one down his rugged face. Help me, Sam asks of the sun, and it does. The obliging sun melts Sam’s doubts; he is weightless.
Mimi hears the low growl of the old car’s engine, then the opening of the front door. Her husband looks refreshed and eager for the day, an unusual morning affect for Sam. She greets him with a smile and a hug. “Hi, darling man. Where you been?”
Sam hands Mimi a white bag. “To Hermann’s for pastry. I couldn’t sleep any longer, but I didn’t want to wake you.”
Mimi opens the bag and smells the goodness inside. “Yum,” she says, delicately lifting out the top pastry. “What’s the name of this scrumptious-looking toast? I can’t remember.”
“Brioche. Orange with toasted almonds. Go ahead, eat it. There’s plenty more.”
“I can wait. I just had an apple. But, that’ll be my piece since I touched it. Maybe just one bite…” Mimi is fresh out of the shower; she’s a low-maintenance kind of woman. Dry the hair, pull on a pair of jeans, a white tee and sandals, and she’s off to the races, the art gallery, or brunch with the Queen. “Fifteen minutes, Sam, and I’ll be ready.”
“Can I turn the music down, please? You’re waking the neighborhood.” Usually Sam doesn’t ask, but this morning he feels especially accommodating. Mimi walks over to the stereo. She feels accommodating, too. “I'll turn it off. Your fishing show’s on. Count how many times they say nice fish, purty fish for me, willya? I bet, oh, fifteen times in fifteen minutes, unless it’s a really hot hole, then I bet twenty-eight. Oh yeah, and lots of silver. They’ll say that seven times. Niiiice fish, purty fish, lots of silver. Maybe you can pick up a new menu item from today’s cooking feature.”
Sam grins, grabs Mimi’s half-eaten brioche from the bag, and turns on the TV. “Get ready, wench. You’ve just wasted two minutes of precious time making fun of my friend Bill Dance. Go on now, it’s show time! Biggest catch of the day, Bill, right here in my living room,” he whispers.

George Landis arrives at The Firedrake fifteen minutes before Mimi and Sam. He pulls up front and doesn’t notice the four cars parked in the back lot. George enters through the main door, goes immediately to the alarm keypad, disarms the system, and walks to the wait station to make coffee. As George pours water in the urn, screeching cats and wailing foghorns and yipping coyotes shatter his ears; he throws the pot in the air and spills a quart of water down the front of his shirt.
Then people, maybe they’re people, George can’t tell for sure, but there’s Dee, he thinks it’s Dee, and yes, he recognizes the busboy what’s his name and they’re running up the steps pulling on clothes and they don’t know he’s here because he’s in the back with his hands over his ears and they’re yelling what the fuck and then blessed silence.
“What the fuck, Dee?” says what’s his name.
“I don’t know. I didn’t set the damn thing last night. Must be a bug.”
“Well, it’s off now. God, that scared me. Do you think the police will come?”
Dee nods her head. “Oh yeah, probably. We better get everybody out of here. Grab the pot off the bar, too. Hurry! I’m calling the police now.” The bus boy runs out the unlocked front door, and freezes. Confused, he turns and looks at Dee.
George taps Dee on the back. “Tell them it’s a false alarm.”
Dee jumps as if shocked by an electric cattle prod. “GEORGE! Oh my God, what are you doing here?”
“I’m meeting the new owners here in fifteen minutes.” George looks at Dee sternly, and then averts his eyes. “Button your shirt, please. Who else is here?”
“Jesse and Susan, and I think a couple of guys from the band.”
“Get them out of here! And clear off this kitchen bar right now. I don’t want them to see this stinking leftover crab dip.” George rubs his forehead and takes a deep breath. His next words feel like a leather belt strap across Dee's heart. “What the hell were you thinking? I should have listened to Todd and never put you in charge of the bar. What’s the downstairs look like?” Dee is dumbstruck by George’s insult. “Forget it, I’ll go see for myself.”
“No George, don’t do that. I’ll take care of it.” Dee dejectedly turns for the stairs.
“ Well get a move on, sister. Geezus Christ! Look at the chalkboard! Who wrote Mother Fucking Cheesecake under the dessert choices? I hope to hell that wasn’t up all night.”
“I’ll erase it.”
“No, I’ll do it.” Dee watches as George walks toward the board. “Are you waiting for a hug? Get downstairs! I’d fire your ass right now if I still owned this place. Just get a bag and scrape everything into it and leave it out back by the bottom door. Then get the hell out.”
Dee tries. “George, I couldn’t let them drive home last night. They would have killed somebody. It’s my fault.”
“No, it’s mine. I should have been here. Get your ass in gear and get outta here, or I swear I’ll start shooting.” George turns around and quickly walks to the wait station, cleans up broken glass, brews a pot of decaf and takes the glass shards to the dish room for disposal. He hears the front door open and Mimi’s laughter enters first, but quickly makes room for a gasp, then a question. George wasn’t aware of his storytelling ability until this very moment. “I was washing up a few things from last night, got a cramp in my hand, and sprayed myself good. That dang dish hose has a mind of its own when the pressure builds up,” he continues, gaining confidence in his story. “Curled up like a cobra and spit at me.” He grins and excuses himself. “I need to run downstairs to, ah, grab some paperwork from the office. Meet you on the patio, help yourself to coffee. It’s decaf,” George says breathlessly. Lord God in Heaven, I’d make a good politician, he mutters.
George props open the bar doors, imploring fresh moving air to enter, begging for a strong, cleansing breeze to sweep out the scent of marijuana and stale beer. He checks the bathrooms and finds a bucket of gray chunky mop water in the ladies room, but no puke on the floor. At least they cleaned up the puke, George says, as he rolls the mop bucket outside. The parking lot is empty of bodies, but full of empty liquor bottles. He retraces his steps and heads up the stairs, stops, and turns around. George remembers to pull a file – any file – from the closet his inept manager calls an office. His heart is beating so strongly that he’s sure Mimi and Sam will see it pounding through his shirt. He takes a deep breath, composes himself, and calmly walks through the front door. He wonders if they will notice the insistent tic in his right eye.
“You guys, the kitchen staff is coming in tomorrow at ten a.m. to deep clean. I think you’ll meet one of our bartenders tomorrow, too. Dee mentioned doing inventory, and that will save you some time. She’s as honest as they come; you’ll like her.” George runs a mental marathon, and the big hills are yet to come. Imploring his mind to pace itself, he reaches for a cheese and spinach scone. After a few minutes of schmoozing, he’s ready to tackle the hard part and sprint for the tape. He looks at Sam and Mimi, takes a sip of coffee, and pushes on. “Now, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, but I promised Todd and Matt that I’d run something by you.”
Sam and Mimi look at each other, but don’t give anything away. “Who are Todd and Matt?” Sam asks.
“My two managers.”
“Which one has the slicked back hair and wears suspenders?” Mimi asks.
“That’s Todd. Here’s the deal: these guys want to make sure you’re comfortable with the transition. I told them I’d see how you’d feel about them helping you out.”
Sam’s immediate response is firm. “No thanks, George. I don’t have any use for them.” He takes a sip of coffee and watches as George rubs his twitching eye.
“Sam, wait a minute,” interjects Mimi. “Let’s give them a chance. I bet they can help me.”
Sam rears back in his chair. “How, Mimi? Just how can they help you?”
“Well, for starters, with the little things, like showing me how to run the credit card settlement at night, and maybe some shortcuts or something – some insight into their system.” Sam shakes his head. “From what I’ve seen, they don’t have a system.” George is looking at the sky and extending his right eye with his fingers, trying to stop the twitch. “Don’t mind me,” he says. “My eye’s spazzing a bit, but that’s normal. It’ll pass.”
“Come on, Sam,” Mimi says. “Let’s at least meet with them. It’ll be enlightening.”
Sam rolls his eyes and sighs. “George, call them and see if they can come around Noon. That’ll give me time to meet my crew and get some grease under my nails again. Looks like I’ll be jumping in to show these boys how to clean the hell out of a kitchen.”
George blinks a couple of times. “There. It’s gone.” He looks at Mimi and smiles gratefully. “I’ll tell you right now, Matt will help you all he can. Todd’s gonna be tough. He and Matt thought I’d sell the business to them. They’re pretty crossed up about it, so be prepared for some resistance, especially from Todd.”
“I’ll resist his prissy little ass right out the front door, George,” huffs Sam.
“Oh Sam, lighten up. You haven’t even met him yet.” Mimi dunks her almond brioche into her coffee; happy bittersweet flavors tap-dance across her taste buds. “Yeah, but I’ve worked with his type before. He’s a troublemaker.”
“We don’t have to hire them, honey.”
“And we won’t.”

Monday morning at nine o’clock sharp, an attorney seals the deal, exactly one week, five days, and two hours after the Killian’s first wedding anniversary. Sign here, the attorney says. And here. And here. And here. Last one, sign right here. Congratulations! It’s official: Sam and Mimi are the proud new owners of The Firedrake, an unpolished gem of a righteous restaurant, and The Dragon, her nasty little brother of a funktified bar.
Jarrod is the first to show up for kitchen duty on Tuesday morning. He immediately recognizes Sam as the mussels man from Saturday night and steels himself. I’m gonna be fired, Jarrod thinks. Mimi looks up from her first of many Tops composition books and smiles at him. Sam approaches, introduces himself and extends his hand. “How much are you getting paid, son?” This is not what Jarrod expects. Cautiously he responds. “Nineteen-thousand a year, sir. But I only work three nights a week. I’m off on Tuesday and Wednesday. Chef Van works those nights.”
“Is he any good?”
“Yeah, but he steals. You gotta watch him.”
“Can you work Tuesday and Wednesday nights, too?”
Jarrod lights up. “Sure, Mr. Killian!”
“Call me Sam, it’s shorter. Let’s take him to twenty-six, Mimi. Can we do that?”
“Yes boss man. Effective immediately.” Mimi grins at Jarrod, who isn’t sure what just happened to him. “I thought you were firing me for sure. Am I dreaming?” He looks at Sam. “Are you kidding? You don’t even know me.”
“No we don’t, Jarrod. But you impress me. If you help us keep this tub afloat, I’ll give you two cash bonuses a year, and pay half your health insurance after six months.”
“Thank you, Mr. Killian, I mean Sam. I can’t fucking believe this.” He looks at Mimi and apologizes. Mimi looks up from her composition book. “Hey Jarrod, don’t worry about it. You may hear me say it from time to time; it’s one of my favorite words. Who’s this coming in the door?”
“That’s Rod, our dishwasher. He’s not that good, but he really needs the money. He’s blind in one eye.”
Sam throws his hands in the air. “Now, that’s an asset. A blind dishwasher.” Ron walks past the table without uttering a sound. “Where’s he going?”
“Probably to the bathroom,” Jarrod says.
“Can he see us?”
“Oh, yeah, he knows we’re here. He doesn’t talk in the morning. But, he never complains. We can hand him dog shit on a platter and he’ll knock it off in the trashcan, wash the platter and have it back on the counter in a second.”
Mimi makes a face. “Have you done that?”
“Only once.”
Sam rises and stretches his back, prepping his body for the long day ahead. Jarrod waits for orders from the master. “Before we start cleaning, let’s take a tour of dry storage. I peeked in there earlier; looks like we inherited a couple of boxes of Diamond Brand kosher salt and a few cans of tomato sauce, but not much more. I need to know what’s in the freezer and the walk-in, too. Lead the way, son.”
“There’s a lot of alligator meat in the freezer, but not much else. It’s been there for months. It was Todd’s idea, but we can’t give it away. And Sam? We don’t have a walk-in, really. It’s more of a reach-in.”
“It’s more of a cold, damp food coffin,” Sam says. “You have to be a flippin’ midget to stand up or turn around in there.” Sam pounds his fist loudly on the bathroom door. “What the hell you doing in there, Rod? Let’s get to it, buddy.” Sam hears some shuffling, nothing more. “Answer me dammit, or get the hell out of my restaurant!” Rod cracks open the door and peers out, leading with his good eye. “Are you paying cash today?” Sam’s eyes are tired of rolling, but they can’t help themselves. “Yes, I’ll pay cash for a job well done, or I’ll fire your lazy ass if you’re a slacker. The clock starts now. Get moving, son.”
Rod crouches in the quarterback position, fades back, and heaves a pass to his receiver, but it’s a fake! He cradles air, breaks fast to Sam’s right, and dodges imaginary blocks on his way to the dish room. He crosses the threshold, turns and breaks into the chicken struttin’ victory dance. A sign hangs above the dish room door. ‘Ron’s World: A Scrub-Free Zone.’ Mimi cracks up. Two hours in, and she’s having fun.
Mimi makes notes in preparation for the meeting with Todd and Matt. She is counting on a positive experience, regardless of the outcome, and will gather as much information about The Firedrake and The Dragon as they will divulge. Mimi searches for clues with the focus of a morel hunter. She wonders through the restaurant slowly, one step, two steps, pause. Who cleans this place, she wonders? Apparently, nobody. The small, dark blue entrance hall is devoid of personality. No love here, Mimi thinks. No welcome mat. Cheap posters are tacked to the sauce-splattered walls in the front dining room. Mimi’s eyes track up; the ceiling fan is covered with soot. That’s an easy one to fix, Mimi thinks. We’ll take it apart and run it through the dishwasher. This place needs major decontamination, starting with a deep clean and ending with a smudge. I’ll ask the wait staff to help me, and we’ll see who’s made of what.
Mimi inspects each bathroom. There’s a buildup of grunge in the corners from months, maybe years, of dirty mop water sloshing and moving dirt around, but not out. A toothbrush will handle this. I’ll do the bathrooms myself, Mimi thinks. She glances at the register, but doesn’t touch it. Petri dish comes to mind; the keypad is breeding germs of epidemic proportion. Who cares about this place, Mimi wonders? Guess that would be Sam and me, she thinks, and grins.
The back dining room is small, but accommodates at least sixty people. Mimi makes notes in her book – draw diagrams and seating charts; find a table supplier. Paint! Mimi reaches over to straighten out a cockeyed picture and jumps back as two roaches appear from behind it. She shudders and scrawls call bug man immediately!!! in her book, and draws a roach with a fork in its back.
The wait station is in shambles. Mimi takes a quick glance, flips the page, and begins writing. Coffee grounds under espresso machine; bread left in warmer; dirty towels in hand sink; broken glass on floor. Mimi examines the wine glasses, and throws three chipped ones in the trashcan immediately. She holds one up to the light and gets a bright view of soap scum and lip stick. Oh my God! What’s the health rating in this place? Did we check?
The more Mimi sees, the less inclined she is to warmly welcome Todd and Matt. Within minutes, she is even less inclined than she is right now. Mimi makes her way downstairs, her feet audibly sticking to each step. She’s not smiling, and her brow furrows when she sees Todd behind the bar – bleach-blonde, pinky-sized pony tail, overly-tanned, pouty face, pink polo shirt, and blue jeans tighter than George Michael would be comfortable wearing. Same jerk, different day.
Mimi reaches the bottom step and says loudly, “Excuse me, may I help you?”
He dismisses her with a quick glance. “No, you may not. I know what I’m doing.
“I’m sure you do, but I don’t. I’m Mimi Killian. You must be Todd.”
“I’ll be with you in a sec, Mimi.”
“No, you’ll be with me right now, Todd. Come on out here. Right now, please.” Todd, avoiding eye contact, walks with the speed of a turtle toward Mimi, brushes by her closely in an alpha dog move, and stakes out the head seat at a nearby table. Mimi bites her tongue and asks, “Where’s Matt?”
“I’m here, Mrs. Killian, in the office getting a few of my personal things out of your way.” A chubby, bald-headed youngster wearing a big smile approaches her. “Hi, I’m Matt Sink. Nice to meet you! I really look forward to making this transition work.” He’s making the effort, but Mimi, reflecting on her self-guided tour of the wait station and bathrooms, is not impressed. “Thanks, Matt. Will you be kind enough to run upstairs and introduce yourself to my husband Sam? And ask if we can meet down here, please.”
Matt stops his shuck and jive routine, looks at Todd, and frowns. “Yes m’am. I’ll be right back.”
Todd tilts his chair back on its legs, looks smugly at Mimi, and begins his game. “So. Mimi. Do you know anything about the restaurant business?”
Oh, this is gonna be fun, Mimi thinks. “A little, Todd. Do you?”
“More than you do, apparently.”
Mimi walks behind Todd, pushes his chair into position, and leans in nice and close. “Listen to me, Todd. My husband will be coming down those stairs any minute now. All he has to do is look at my face and you are out of here without another word. I suggest we start this conversation over and find some common ground.” She backs away, and takes a seat directly across from him.
Todd rises deliberately and raises one thin eyebrow. “Excuse me, Mimi, I’m going to the bathroom. Go ahead and start without me. I doubt I’ll miss much.”
“Actually Todd, you might miss it all,” Mimi responds. Sam and Matt are in serious conversation as they head down the stairs. Mimi takes a deep breath, fiddles with her bottom lip, and heads behind the bar. “Matt, do you drink coffee?”
“No m’am, but thanks.” Matt looks confused. “Where’s Todd?”
“He’s in the bathroom. He’ll be right out. See, here he comes. Todd, would you like coffee?”
“Yeah, Mimi, black for me,” he says, noticing that Sam has taken his seat. Todd adjusts his crotch, repositions himself, and says, “So Sam, what do you know about the restaurant business?” Sam isn’t as polite as Mimi, but anticipates an amusing exchange. “Well, Todd, let’s see…oh yeah…I earned my first four star rating when you were shitting your diaper. Does that answer your question?”
Todd shakes his head and plays businessman. “Sam, you’re entering a different kind of situation here. Matt and I are prepared to help you in any way we can. It’s going to take a long time before you’re ready to tackle this restaurant on your own.”
“Yeah, Todd? Why is that?” Sam leans forward and adjusts his crotch, and Mimi chokes on her coffee. Todd pretends not to notice. Matt stops breathing.
“Simple,” Todd replies. “We know a bunch of stuff about this place that you don’t. Now, I have a restaurant deal waiting in Martha’s Vineyard and Matt’s moving to Florida in October. We’ll do everything we can to get you up to speed in four weeks. After that, you’re on your own.” Todd’s encouraged by Sam’s attention, and Mimi’s silence. Matt is turning blue. “I have several years of experience as a restaurant consultant, and I’ll be happy to pass along some helpful tidbits to you and your lovely wife here. I’m not cheap, though.” Todd cocks the chair onto its back legs; he looks from Sam to Mimi, waiting.
“How much is this service going to cost us, Todd?” Todd makes the unfortunate mistake of thinking Sam’s interested. “Matt and I will stick around for four weeks; it’ll cost you ten thousand dollars. Without us, you’ll lose at least ten thousand the first month anyway. You make the decision.”
Sam stands up, and looking at Todd, adjusts his crotch one last time. “Thank you, Todd,” Sam says politely as he slaps Todd on the back. “Now, get the hell out of my restaurant.” Todd shakes his head and looks at Matt, who is about to hyperventilate. “Why am I not surprised?” He looks at Mimi and says, “My prediction is you’ll fold within six months. Matt, let’s go.” Todd rises and starts for the door, but Matt’s not sure he can walk without help. “Matt, get your ass up. Come on, or I’m leaving you.” Matt submissively rises and meekly says, “Mr. and Mrs. Killian, nice to meet you. Sorry about this. I think you’ll do great here.”
“Thanks, Matt. Don’t worry about it. We understand. Good luck.” Mimi watches the duo walk out the door, Todd in the lead. “That went well,” Sam and Mimi say, in stereo. Jinx.
Mariachi music blares from the kitchen. Sam feels energized when he steps behind the line. “Who loves the restaurant business?” he yells. “I love the restaurant business,” Jarrod yells back, with perfect inflection. Rod grins, fakes right, falls back into the dish room, and launches a bullet to Jarrod. He connects! It’s complete! The mariachi band cheers.
Chef Van doesn’t show up. Vaya con Dios, mi amigo.
Dee pulls in as Matt, who looks like a deflated doughboy, and a sore, gelded Todd walk to the parking lot. Todd is in her face before she closes her car door. “You better quit while you’re ahead,” he utters. “These people don’t have a clue.” Matt stands behind Todd rolling his eyes, signaling Dee with his eyes that it’s okay; he gives Dee the high sign. Dee doesn’t respond to Todd’s negative vibe, doesn’t dignify it, and says to Matt, “Call me.” Dee and the rest of the staff have called Todd “Toad” for eight months, and she’s happy to see him go. Dee enters The Dragon, her grin stretching from dimple to dimple. Mimi welcomes her with open arms and a hug.

If you are a fly on the wall with an eight-day life expectancy, your sight magnified through compound eyes, you will be entertained by a most amazing mosaic of color and patterns, quality images that constantly flicker with movement, images that peak at the moment of your predictable death. In eight short days, a new life cycle has begun its gestation period in earnest. Sam and Mimi are sowing seeds for what promises to be a long and painful pregnancy.