Featherly

Tito Santana won his match with a figure four leglock; then Bundy smooshed Special Delivery Jones with a belly slam! And the action continued crazy and totally nuts with Junkyard Dog, Volkoff and The Iron Sheik, and Andre the Giant all winning wild matches. The big match, the one with Hulk and Mr. T, was just total madness; Muhammad Ali refereed—safely outside the ring—as the real referee got conked out by Rowdy Roddy Piper!

The Chicago Tribune, no less, actually documented all the blow-by-blow insanity front and center on the sports page.

I was definitely bummed out to miss it.

But, well, I didn’t really have a choice.

Believe it or not, right after the party, just when I started to open my car door, sure enough Tom pulled into the parking slot next to me.

“Kenny, thank god you’re still here,” he said, all breathless and rumpled as he got out of his car. “I need your help.”

Once I recovered from the surprise of his actually showing up, my first reaction was to be pissed off, not that I was in any position to let him know it — especially since I was still fully looped. But then I noticed the blood on his shirt.

“Jimmy…” he continued, “you know, Jimmy Hastings, the dishwasher?” I nodded. “He cut his thumb on the slicer during cleanup.”

“What a moron,” I said, and started to chuckle, which must’ve sounded pretty idiotic, because it wasn’t hard to do — cutting yourself, that is — if you forgot to set the blade flush with the meat holder tray.

“Well, it was a nasty cut, took seven stiches.”

“Ouch,” I said, and meant it, although it probably didn’t come across that way.

“Anyway, I had to wait at the hospital until his parents picked him up, and…” He trailed off and then sighed before going on. “Listen, I know it’s your day off and I hate to…but look, if we hurry, maybe you’ll only miss a couple matches.”

There wasn’t that much blood, not like Jimmy had an artery spraying all over the kitchen. But the slicer had become a dried maroon mess, and Tom had stupidly thrown a couple blood-soaked towels onto one of the food prep tables. The Health Department didn’t care about roast beef blood, but little Jimmy Hastings’ O+ or O-, whatever the hell it was, meant a triple wipe-down, industrial strength — no Hulk Hogan or Mr. T for Kenny tonight.

He took in a deep breath and smiled, sadly, I thought, and said, “Come on, Kenny, I need you…let’s just get through breakfast.”

So, yes, I missed WrestleMania, but in retrospect that probably wasn’t the worst thing in the world, especially since Russell didn’t come home to our apartment after the matches. If I’d showed up at Kelly’s, I would’ve seen him and Tina acting all goofy — which would’ve been tough. By comparison, wiping up a bloody mess wasn’t all that bad. And anyway, Tom offered me triple-fucking-overtime for helping him out. Okay, it only took a couple hours, so the money wasn’t that big a deal, but here’s the thing — I sure showed Tom he could trust me. I even threw in a quick clean of the grease trap, just for good measure; I mean, it wasn’t like little Jimmy Hastings was gonna stick his gashed-up hand in there anytime soon.

I was pretty zombied the next morning about everything, well, maybe more about Tina than missing WrestleMania, but I still arrived at work early, thirty minutes early no less. Deli Delight was all locked up though, lights out. I shaded my eyes looking through the window, but nobody was home. I expected to find Featherly already busy with the breakfast prep, and I was kinda psyched to tell him all that had happened, our shared misery, but there was no sign of him. After a while Anna showed up and, when she saw me, let out a long, tortured groan before unlocking the door.

At first I just stared at the empty kitchen; it was clean, that’s for sure, but I stood there paralyzed, not at all sure what to do. All of a sudden though, it was like something clicked deep in my brain and I sprang into action; it was like everything, my whole life, had led to this moment: I cracked ten dozen eggs, loaded multiple sheets of bacon into the oven, chopped vegetables—I was hustling like you can’t believe, back and forth into the reefer and the freezer, bagels unloaded, plates stacked. I was out of my mind, you’d say possessed, so much so that I didn’t even know Tom had arrived until I heard him clang open the cash register.

That’s when I started to hyperventilate; I was actually panting like a dog when he came in the kitchen. “Where’s David?” he asked, but I was scared to look him in the eye and just shrugged. That’s when he came over and looked me directly in the eyes — didn’t even blink. He said, “You got this?”

I fidgeted with my hairnet and said, “Yeah.” But then, out of nowhere, like some strange reflex I blurted out, “Are you going to close this place?”

He took in a deep breath and smiled, sadly, I thought, and said, “Come on, Kenny, I need you…let’s just get through breakfast.”

And just like that I was cooking, short-order style; what a trip.

Toward the end of the morning rush, Tom came in and said he’d called Featherly’s mom, but she hadn’t seen him. I was all reaction and action though, too focused to give his situation much thought. There were still six orders on the wheel, and then Anna added another, pausing as she clipped it in place to say, “Hey, Kenny — you’re a nice boy!” Of course I blushed, but I was pretty sweaty, so I doubt anyone noticed. I turned back to the grill and plated a couple over easy, thinking, man, eggs sure are a total bitch.

Dwight Hilson is a onetime businessperson now writing through the midlife crisis, an effort that has allowed him to rediscover the joy of creativity he first enjoyed at Boston University (B.S. in Public Communication, 1981), and also to accept the terms of time and fate. In addition to new short stories he is also nearing completion of two novels.