Issue 11.1 Fall 2015

11.1 cover image

 

About the Author

Chris Dungey is a retired auto worker living in Lapeer, Michigan. He has been writing short fiction all of his adult life. In addition, he feeds two-wood stoves, sings in a Presbyterian choir, hikes and rides his mountain bike daily, camps at sports-car races in season, watches lots of English football, and spends too much time in Starbucks. He has published more than 50 stories to date. During 2015 his work has appeared in Marathon Literary Review, Madcap Review, whimperbang, Door is a Jar, Literary Commune (UK), and Sediments Literary Arts. Another story is forthcoming in Aethlon (Wright State U.). His first collection, The Pace-Lap Blues and Other Tales from the Seventies, chronicles the sexual revolution and assembly-line angst in the Rust Belt. It is available from Amazon and on Kindle.

 

Flip-Flops

 

Chris Dungey

       

Hector Fritch drove down to Daytona by himself because Cheryl couldn't get time off from work. Her boss put in for the same week to go on a heavy-metal cruise. It was just an unlucky coincidence and Cheryl was the only other employee in that department.


Hector found a cheap motel out at the beach. It wasn't Spring Break yet or even Speed Weeks., officially. Hector preferred the 24 Hour sports car race in late January. He knew from past visits that the weather could be less than tropical. Sure enough, he needed his sweater and jacket in the morning. But there was nothing to shovel and no frost to scrape off his windshield. He got up early the first day to watch the sun come out of the ocean. Plenty of cold gulls were also waiting. There were too many clouds to get a picture of the sunrise so he only snapped gulls as they scavenged around some tidal pools. Then there was time for breakfast before the track opened for practice sessions.
           

He loaded his camera and backpack into the car. He remembered a Denny's half-a-mile from his room. In that distance, Hector saw something he hadn't expected: A homeless couple in heavy parkas wheeled a grocery cart up one of the beach access ramps. Then he passed an old guy hobbling down the sidewalk in the embrace of a sleeping bag. Well, it probably made sense.  Insensitive folks up north always said "why don't those people go south in the winter?" Here they were, Fritch thought. But where else could you go from here?
           

The breakfast rush hadn't even started yet when Hector parked at the Denny's. It looked like tradesmen in three scattered booths. Plumbers, bricklayers. Hector didn't know why he assumed that. Maybe because his motel was undergoing some renovations before the season. There was yellow caution tape and concrete forms to step around; a few guys still sipping coffee in their pick-up trucks, reluctant to wake up the guests. He climbed onto a stool. He had the counter to himself so far. A waitress behind there was just loading the morning receipt roll into the register. When he told her to start with coffee, she brought Fritch a mug and his own carafe.
           

He ordered a skillet that was supposed to come out of the kitchen still sizzling. The theme was Irish--corned beef hash, a couple of eggs. Rye toast sounded right. Hector reached down the counter for the morning sports section. He wanted to read the latest on race entries, but talk from the kitchen puzzled and distracted him. To begin with, a shift was coming on and it sounded like some of the staff had never met each other.  The man who seemed to be in charge had lots of grey in his Afro before putting on a white cap. He told a newcomer with a black bandana on his head where to hang a coat and punch in. Another guy said he'd need an advance of bus-fare if he was going to keep the job. A husky, middle-aged woman in a pants-suit came out of a small office. She introduced herself to someone. Hector heard the scrape of a metal spatula. Then something hissed on the grill.
           

"Who you got for me on dishes?" The top chef called to the manager.
           

Just then, a lanky kid in a grubby Aeropostale hoodie came in the front entrance. He passed in front of Fritch, behind the register and counter. He lugged a white garbage bag. At least one pair of jeans pushed, blue, against the bottom of the bag.
           

"Hey, now! Looka this here!" The chef smiled, looking up from eggs that began cackling on the grill. "Germaine come back in!"
           

The late-arrival flipped back his hood. His light, freckled skin looked ashen and his lips trembled slightly. Fritch saw the tops of everyone's shoulders moving and heard the soft slaps of dapping.
           

"I'ma 'bout to tell Maggie I'm gettin' tired trainin' up all these young boys onna machine, then they don't come back in."
           

The kid, Germaine, smiled sheepishly. "Well, where I'm gonna go, ol' man? I need the paper, get my young ass off the street."
           

"Couple more shiff, you can get in where I'm at," said the fellow who had asked about bus fare. "It a bus ride in, is all."
           

"OK, ya'll. Le's cut the shit. Plan ya'll's love nest on break. We good for the moment, Germaine, but you gotta bring the water up to temp. An' they a few mugs an' shit. Keep ahead like you done yest'day."
           

Germaine started to tug the hoodie off over his head.  The chef placed a hissing skillet into the service window and tapped a bell. Fritch's waitress swooped by to pick it up.
           

"Germaine, could you come in here for a moment?" The manager had been standing in her doorway. She turned toward her desk.
           

"Awww yeag, boy! You up now, son!" The second line guy teased.
           

"Hope ya'll shaved this mornin', boy!" Bus Fare called.
           

"You're on deck, Jones, if he can't get it done," Maggie laughed. "Close the door behind you, Germaine," she told the kid.
           

"Awww, shit," Bus Fare groaned. "Well….no job too big, ya'll!"
           

"I need biscuits and gravy up! Quick, dammit!" The chef interrupted. "Getcha asses in gear!"
           

Fritch admired his breakfast. He leaned down to catch the last of the sizzle. Right off, he could see that the hash must be homemade. The potato was just hash-browns mixed with corned beef. But it wasn't all ground up like hash from a can that always looked like dog food. Sure there was too much potato. But the corned beef came in big chunks and strands. It was all bound together by some kind of cheese with the eggs on top. A wedge of boiled and browned cabbage completed the theme.
           

Fritch was just arranging his first fork-full when Germaine stalked out of the office and headed for the entrance. He was pulling the parka back over his head. He touched a sleeve to his eye as he pushed out of the glass doors.
           
"What the fuck, Maggie!?" The chef peered out the service window, his eyes following Germaine across the parking lot.
           

"I'm sorry, Cliff. I just can't let him work like that." Maggie glanced about when she heard the f-bomb. She wasn't tall enough to see Fritch, apparently. She folded her arms, leaning against her doorframe again.
           

"Work like what? 'Cuz he homeless? We ain't got no dress code back onna Hobart!"
           

The manager sighed. "I understand that.  But he's gotta have shoes on at least."
           

"He dit'n have no shoes on? You shittin' me?"
           

"I am not. Didn't you notice?"
           

"I guess not. I'm gettin' busy an jus' glad to see his ass."
           

Maggie straightened up. She reached for a black smock on the apron hanger above the time-clock.

"Health would shut us down. You know that. An' they've been coming in twice a week lately."
           

Chef Cliff shook his head. "I know it, Gott dammit! Now I gotta use Rodney on dishes, we get busy."
           

Maggie deftly tied the smock behind her. "Well, Germaine has the option of coming back. But in footwear. He left his things so…"
           

A waitress tapped an order into the register while another gathered glasses of water behind the counter, blocking Fritch's view. He chewed the rye toast with a bite of egg forked onto it. He heard the chef tear the order off a printer in the kitchen.
           

"Just tell me what you need," Maggie said. "The temp service is supposed to send another kid for an interview around ten. If he shows up, he's hired."
           

"Yeah, awright," Cliff sighed. "Another day trainin' some drop-out muhfucker. Oughta get they asses inna damn Army!" He lifted a large breakfast platter with a side of pancakes into the window and tapped the bell. Then he chuckled, "Hope this nex' fool ain't half nekkid or some shit."
           

Now everyone laughed and there was more palm slapping. "Who's got a hairnet I can borrow?" Maggie grinned.
             

His waitress slid the tab in front of him and asked Fritch if his food was alright. "Wonderful," Hector said, still chewing. He usually managed to say this, no matter what. If the food wasn't especially great, he often bathed it in Tobasco anyway. This morning he hadn't reached for the little red bottle next to the catsup.
           

The pace of the morning rush quickened. Now it looked like tourists arriving. He wasn't going to eat all of the potato but continued to pick out the excellent corned beef. He tried to imagine how the kid could have lost his shoes. Why would you even take them off if you were sleeping out in the open? On the beach or anywhere else? Maybe if you were curled up in the lee of one of those motel break-walls. Could you bury your feet in the sand? Fritch thought that would be just as cold. And who would take the shoes and not the rest of Germaine's belongings? It didn't make sense. If he'd gone out the window of some illicit coupling, he'd have left everything behind. Fritch calculated the tip.
           

When he walked out to the car, the sun had climbed fully out of the Atlantic cloud bank. The northwest breeze was still chilly, but the transients could now cross to the sunny side of Atlantic Avenue. If he'd only known. If he'd had just a moment to think; there were spare shoes in the back of his car because he liked to travel with options. Yeah, but the kid was pretty tall. 5'10' or 5'11, Fritch guessed.
             

He headed south toward International Speedway Avenue and the bridge across Halifax River to the mainland. Waiting at the third stoplight, he spotted Germaine. The kid was handing some bills to a guy in front of one of the swimsuit and sea-shell tourist shops. The place couldn't be open yet. Germaine must have caught the proprietor just dragging Close-out tables onto the sidewalk.
           

There was no one behind Fritch when the light turned green. He pulled away slowly as the kid broke into a trot toward Denny's. In one hand swung a pair of cheap, rubber beach sandals, the kind Fritch kept in his gym bag for showering at the Rec Center. They were still clipped together by a thread of plastic. He winced at the thought of bare feet pounding the cold concrete. But he knew the kid couldn't jog in those things.
           

When Fritch looked in the rearview, though, Germaine seemed to be moving right along. He was making every effort. Hector flipped on the left-turn signal and got over to make a Michigan turn through the palm shaded median. Maybe he could save the kid a few blocks, if he'd get into a strange car.

 

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