Deep-Fried Classified

keep us smiling.

1

Drake Baker cringed.

He closed his eyes and reached into the mailbox, hoping to feel nothing but the warm, metal tin of the box roasting in the sun. An empty box was a good day. That was the fantasy, anyway, yet as soon as he reached inside, reality returned, his hand swallowed by the usual mess of paper demands—the kinds of demands that had terrorized him and his ma for years. He took a deep breath and opened the power bill first.

Disconnect Notice

Not again.

Drake shut the mailbox and collapsed on the curb, where he nearly squashed Pep, the neighbor’s Pomeranian. The tiny pooch squeaked her displeasure then hopped around on her hind legs. To her, mail time was game time, a game in which Drake usually played the role of chaser. She pranced about, wagging her tail, expecting his full attention. Drake picked her up gently and pulled her close to his face so they could see eye-to-eye.

Hello, Miss Pep, he said as she licked the tip of his nose. Can I take a rain check? We’ll play tomorrow.

As if the fluffy ball of energy understood, she sprung from his grasp and chased after a squirrel. Both creatures darted across the endless lawn then plunged into the azaleas in a poof of pink petals.

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and hauled the mail up the driveway, an infrastructural wonder the mailman referred to as the million-brick driveway. As he walked along, Drake couldn’t help but admire the beautiful home his ma loved. She often reminisced, with glowing pride—that it was because of him that they owned the home.

Adorned in a crown of red Spanish tiles, the mansion stood atop twelve acres of plush zoysia, so thick it added altitude to anyone who stepped upon it. The lush turf was peppered with flighty dogwoods and white cherry trees and offered a hillside a hiker might easily mistake for a mountainside. Fat Loblolly pines had the structure’s backside in a jolly way, tossing cones like hand grenades each autumn. The men who had applied the original stucco facade must have wondered if they’d ever finish the job. Six separate chimneys shot up into the blue sky, casting mighty shadows across a well-manicured landscape of sleeping gardenia, French hydrangea, and peach trees. An ancient rope of wisteria climbed a white oak and waited patiently for the right moment—any moment—when it would fall back to the earth in a glorious cascade of lavender.

But the front door was where the fairytale ended, for the place had become a dark, empty shell inside, nothing but floors and walls and windows and open space—plenty of space. Sitting in front of a fireplace large enough to swallow it whole was the only piece of furniture that remained in the living room—an old sofa with a rusted spring popping from its cushion like a decrepit snake too tired to bite.

Drake dropped the bills on to the Mahjong table in the kitchen. He placed his backpack on the floor then sat down to wrestle with his trigonometry homework. After an hour, he realized he hadn’t solved a single equation. The problems on the page weren’t nearly as important as the problems spinning in his head. The only math problem that mattered was the most difficult one of all—their financial situation.

How many extra shifts would he need to work to help his ma keep the lights on this month? One way or another, he needed to earn more money. Bussing tables after school wasn’t cutting it, and with the rate at which he was getting kidney stones, they’d be sunk before long.

Unable to concentrate, he closed his trig book and went up to his room. On the floor in the corner sat his answering machine, its red light blinking. He stepped over his makeshift bed, a flimsy air mattress, and mashed the button down with the tip of his worn-out shoe.

Sorry it has to end like this, a young female voice said. "But I’m tired of your excuses. Ma, this. Ma, that. It’s as if you exist only for your mom. I suggest you grow up before you go gray. You’re an old man in the making."

Drake snatched up the phone and attacked the keypad in a panic. What was she talking about—old man in the making? The phone rang and rang, but nobody answered. Grow up? He hung up and redialed—nothing.

That was it. The only thing left was a house call, and it had to be the most amazing house call since Adam’s pursuit of Eve. She had to be home. He had to see her face-to-face.

He stepped into the bathroom and combed his messy black hair, parting it carefully to the side like she preferred. His face was so pale. Gwen once told him his eyes reminded her of roasted almonds, her favorite snack. Right now they felt more like dried prunes. He sprayed his T-shirt with the pricy bottle of cologne she once gave him for Christmas but he never remembered to wear.

Maybe she needed space, he thought while brushing his teeth. Unhappy couples at school talked about needing space all the time. Some even got back together.

He paced back and forth, running his fingers through his hair, smelling himself, wondering if he’d put on too much cologne. How much was too much? He picked up the phone and tried once more—same result.

He checked his reflection in the mirror one last time then sprinted downstairs. When he opened the door, a towering man carrying a clipboard smiled down on him.

Good afternoon, young man. I’m with Dixie Power. Folks home?

This couldn’t be good. No, sir.

I got orders to cut service, he chortled, tapping his clipboard. Non-payment.

But, sir, we just received the bill today. I thought you weren’t supposed to cut us off until the disconnection date.

Did you check the date on the bill? the sunburned face asked. We’re very careful about not making mistakes.

The man was right. The bill probably had sat in their mailbox for a while. Neither he nor his ma checked the mail regularly. It only brought them anxiety—vomiting an endless supply of bills, disconnect notices, junk mail, and coupons for things they didn’t need. What they really needed was coupons for bills like Dixie Power.

Can you please give us until next Friday? Drake asked in the most dignified manner short of begging. That’s when I get paid. My ma—she’s a widow. I help her pay the bills.

Tell you what, son, he said, winking at Drake. If someone was to write me a check, say… for three hundred eighty dollars, I might be able to pacify the pit bulls in collections.

The way the man winked at Drake made him feel as if he might be that someone to whom the man was referring. Might as well try, he thought as he disappeared to the kitchen. The bank account was empty, but luckily the check box was full. He riffled through old checks to see how his ma wrote one. After mimicking her choppy handwriting as best he could, he returned with a check. The man accepted it without question.

Drake gave the sly executioner a rigorous handshake then watched him pull out of the driveway, wishing he could pull out a bit faster. He flicked the porch light on to make sure it still worked. It was a good thing his ma wasn’t home. The last man they had sent to collect not only demeaned her, but did indeed shut the power off, leaving his ma in tears.

The surprise visit from the Dixie Power man completely rattled his nerves and sapped the only sprig of confidence he had left. Now his mind was all over the place. He didn’t know what to do. He took a deep breath before hauling himself back upstairs to reassess the crisis with Gwen. He had to talk to her—to at least explain how much she meant to him, how much he loved her. She was his world, his future. She couldn’t do this to him.

* * *

They had met as children, the day after Halloween. A little girl had come knocking on the door, pirouetting in her fluffy white dress, her golden hair adorned in purple and yellow flowers.

Trick or treat, she sang.

Who are you? he asked. Drake had never seen such a curious, beautiful creature. Halloween was yesterday.

I’m the Goddess of Wisteria, and I’m here for you to give me more of the big chocolates from last night.

Her bossy little attitude didn’t quite impress Drake, but it didn’t stop him from disappearing into the kitchen to do as she commanded. When he reached the boxes, he turned around to see she had followed him inside.

Wow, she said, looking up at a mountain of chocolate bars that touched the ceiling. She picked a large candy bar off the pile and tore at the wrapper. Wish I could live here.

* * *

Drake splashed cold water on his face and examined his tired reflection in the mirror. A new zit had joined the party on his chin. Following his ma’s advice, he put a smidge of toothpaste on it. He thought about calling Gwen again, toying with the hope that he could talk her out of her decision.

In all fairness, she had a right to complain. They rarely went on a date because dates cost time and money, and Drake had neither. What little money he earned went to bills, and what little time he had went to work. He had to work seven nights a week to help make ends meet.

He threw on his work outfit, a secondhand tuxedo, ran downstairs, and turned off all the lights, except the one in the garage, which he left on for his ma. He grabbed his bike, his only means of transportation to work, and peddled down the driveway with Pep following him.

He noticed another Dixie Power truck idling by the mailbox. Drake didn’t like that.

Excuse me, sir, Drake said. I paid the other gentleman earlier. I just wanted to make sure you knew.

What other guy? the man asked in a steep European accent.

I didn’t catch his name. Want me to go get the receipt?

Oh, the man chirped. The other guy. Kid, this company’s getting so big we’re stepping on each other’s toes out here.

The man tipped his hat and drove away.

Phew!

2

Drake limped into the restaurant tired and sweaty. He clocked in and went about the business of setting up the dining room. For a millisecond, the aroma of freshly baked bread took his mind off the tragedy of Gwen.

Don’t forget the wine buckets, the boss muttered.

Absolutely, sir, Drake answered. For whatever reason, the boss enjoyed reminding him of the wine buckets every day.

Oh, and kid, the old buzzard added, blowing his nose like a trumpet, go clean the crapper. It looks like someone took a machete to an ass in there.

Drake braced himself and headed to the restroom. He kept his cool at work despite the outrageous demands and for good reason.

Drake had approached his boss about a promotion, but he wouldn’t discuss it because of Drake’s age. In Alabama it was the law. He had to be eighteen to wait tables. Despite his boss’s strict interpretation of the letter of the law, Drake maintained hope. The restaurateur had once hired a fifteen-year-old to wash dishes, so miracles could happen. And when they did, Drake would be ready. For now, he had to play his cards right so he could, one day, convince the boss man to move him up to waiter.

For more than a year he had watched the waiters, paying close attention to their moves, learning how they interacted with customers, while at the same time, doing more than his busboy duties required. In fact, he practically did everything a waiter did except hand the customer the bill. What’s more, it was Drake who advised the wait staff regarding which wines to recommend to customers. This helped the waiters increase their sales which, in turn, increased the size of their tips. That’s how he knew waiters made the money.

The waiters found it amazing that a seventeen-year-old kid knew so much about wine, and often tipped him a few bucks at the end of the night, which encouraged Drake all the more.

Drake opened the door to the restroom and gagged. He made the sign of the cross and slammed the door shut so the stench couldn’t get out. How could someone make a mess of that magnitude and walk away with a clean conscience?

Sir, he called out in full retreat, hoping the boss wasn’t having one of those days. I really shouldn’t go anywhere near it.

It’s all you, the boss returned, checking the reservation book. It builds character.

Drake hated it when his boss talked like he was a life guru. What did cleaning somebody’s disgusting blow-out have to do with building character?

This isn’t even part of my job, he reasoned with a hint of indignation.

It builds character, the boss repeated, enunciating each word.

I don’t see how—

Get your ass back in there and clean it up.

But it’s toxic, sir, he blurted, standing his ground.

"You’re toxic, the boss snapped. Get out. You’re fired!"

Drake realized his manager was having one of those days. As much as he objected to the boss’s order, he didn’t want to lose his job. He stepped back and took a deep breath. Okay, I’ll take care of it right away, he conceded, trying his best to placate the man.

The boss pointed to the door. He looked more than serious.

Please, sir, Drake pleaded. I work around food.

Not anymore, the boss hissed with finality.

Drake got the message loud and clear. He wanted to fight for his income but had lost the will to reason.

He pedaled home in a mad dash through the pouring rain. On any other night, rain would have been a distraction but not that night. A good soaking during rush hour was what he needed. He rather enjoyed being cleansed of the day and sprayed by passing cars. Some drivers honked. Others flashed their bright lights. As he rode on, barely able to make out the road in front of him, one question churned inside him: How was he going to break the news to his ma?

He got home and collapsed soaking wet on his air mattress, forgetting about the wine opener in his back pocket. As the mattress deflated beneath him, he closed his eyes and tried to replace the challenges of the day with what he could possibly say to Gwen. He could do this. This was their defining moment, but he had to get it right. One word, one syllable out of place could entrench her in her new position of single-womanhood. He opened his eyes and dialed her number.

Yes?

Gwen, he said. It’s been the worst day.

I’m sorry, she cut in. But nothing you can say will make me change my mind, and it doesn’t matter how you say it either. You don’t have time for me anymore.

Click!

Drake held the phone to his ear in disbelief, listening until the dial tone turned to silence. So this is how it ends—with a dial tone? He got up, yanked the phone out of the wall, tossed it in the closet, and shut the door. He tried to be angry, to put the blame on her, but he couldn’t force himself to punch a wall or rip up her photo, because deep down, over time, he’d come to the painful realization that she could be on to something.

Maybe it was over. Come to think of it, it was amazing she’d stayed with him as long as she had. He’d always feared she’d break things off. She at least deserved someone who could spend time with her. Who didn’t deserve that?

Then, of course, there was always that little thing from his past. The thing he couldn’t tell her under any circumstances—the root cause of all their problems. If anyone deserved the blame it was him. There was something huge he wasn’t telling her because legally he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell a soul about the peculiar arrangement consummated years earlier. That’s what hurt the most. A little transparency would have done wonders. If she only knew what was going on beneath the surface, she might understand.

Propping his hands under his wet hair like a pillow, he stared at the ceiling fan and became hypnotized as the rain beat the window. He tried to remember the problem-free life he had enjoyed as a child. Those were the days. There was always food on the table, and their dinky apartment overflowed with love and happiness. Dinky had its perks.

After his old man had passed away, his ma was devastated for years. As for Drake, the sudden loss forced him to grow up fast and become the man of the house. At the tender age of seven, he vowed to take care of his ma, and as he grew older the vow became his way of honoring the memory of his old man.

Now, as he lay on the hard floor jobless, he couldn’t help but feel as if he had let his old man down. It was only temporary, but still. His dad, who had preached rugged individualism and self-reliance, never would have gotten himself fired. How had he managed to lose his job and his childhood sweetheart in the same day? He could get the job back, but the sweetheart part would be difficult since the job was partly to blame for the loss of the sweetheart. What did wives do when their husbands went to work? Sometimes girls made no sense.

As much as he wanted, Drake didn’t have time to sulk. He needed a new job fast, before his ma found out. He didn’t want her to worry. The best thing he could do was quietly hit the pavement first thing in the morning and find a new source of income.

Though he tried to fight it, he dug the phone out of the closet, reattached some wires, and plugged it back in so he could be ready if Gwen called to reconsider.

3

Drake woke up to the phone ringing. Sunlight cut through the curtain-less room like a hatchet. He groaned into the receiver, Gwen?

I’ve got a proposition, an unexpected female voice chirped.

Charlie?

Move to New Orleans for the summer. I need a handsome roomie.

Drake looked at his watch and realized it was late in the morning. Sorry, I can’t talk right now.

No, no, no, no, no, she dismissed. What could be more important than my call?

Work, he lied. Call back later.

After struggling to get off the phone with Charlie, Drake jumped in the shower to get ready for the day. Today was a new day. He was ready to start over.

Unfortunately, as optimistic as he felt about his day, that’s not how it turned out. Instead, it turned into one frustrating incident after another. Showing up unannounced put him at a real disadvantage as most managers refused to see him. One man had him wait for an hour and then forgot about him altogether. That was embarrassing. The final manager he met offered him the only position open. Drake took it without hesitation, grateful for the opportunity.

The manager handed Drake an apron, then led him back to the dish station—a sweaty, greasy mess of epic proportions. If the devil had a place for those who misbehaved in hell, this was it. Drake surveyed the carnage, wondering where to begin until a herd of lippy waitresses launched into him demanding clean forks, butter plates, and coffee cups. He spent all day working in the furnace, scraping crud, shoveling slop, scrubbing pans, and taking abuse from crack-smacking cooks.

It was well past midnight when he finally left the restaurant, smelly and spent. Cuts and burns tattooed his raw, aching hands while muscles he didn’t know he had cried out for a new line of work.

The day’s experience made him realize that bussing tables for a difficult manager was far easier than washing dishes in a busy restaurant. He kicked himself for being too proud to clean up that lousy restroom. Nothing could have been more treacherous than the dishwashing mess that owned him all day. No wonder the last dishwasher told the manager he had to move his car and then never returned.

With a back pocket full of applications, he rode his bike home, resolved to search for something better in the morning. He took a long shower and then collapsed on top of his deflated air mattress, where he examined the blisters he had worked so hard to earn. The phone rang, but he was too tired to answer it, so he let the answering machine do its job.

I know you’re there, Charlie’s voice rang out. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up the phone. Pick it up. Just pick up the darn phone. You’re killing me.

Drake reached for the phone. You’re killing me, he said with exasperation.

What kind of greeting is that? Charlie quipped. This call could change your life forever.

Will it cure blisters?

Drake and Charlie had grown up together. Although they were only months apart, she was a year his senior in school and much like a big sister.

Nobody owns you, Draky. Free yourself from the chains that shackle you.

I washed dishes in hell today, Drake said as he picked up a photo of Gwen and stared it down.

School’s out for the summer, Charlie pressed. Get on a plane. You can make some serious coin down here. It’s a paradise. Think of the gold rush. Right now I’m standing on a street made of gold bricks. They got restaurants piled on top of restaurants, for crying out loud. Waiters down here drive fast cars and live in mansions with maids and butlers.

Drake grinned despite himself. Charlie, he realized, would always be Charlie. Her no-nonsense way of dealing with life was something Drake could always count on—with Charlie, there was always a way in or a way out. It didn’t matter which way. She didn’t exactly live by a strict code of conduct—thus, her dream in life was to become a tabloid reporter.

Ma’s going to veto that idea for sure, Drake said, his interest suddenly growing. I guarantee it.

Not when she realizes how much money you’ll rake in. With all that shit you know about wine, you could make three figures overnight.

I’m seventeen. I can’t even serve wine.

Horseshit, Charlie scoffed. There’s no drinking age in New Orleans. It’s the Wild West. They got babies drinking on street corners.

4

Drake found his ma in the kitchen sitting at the Mahjong table in her nightgown with a pile of bills glaring up at her. The candle providing light for her had melted down to a puddle of wax, the wick offering one final gasp before drowning altogether. She noticed him with a warm smile then continued to poke away at her dollar-store calculator in the moonlight.

Open the light, she said. So I can see you better.

Drake turned on the light. The way his ma spoke always made him chuckle inside. There was something about her simple Filipino phrases that put a smile on his face—whether she was telling him to open the light or close the TV (before they had to pawn it, of course). He never found it in his heart to correct her.

She was five feet tall and tan, despite the fact that she wore long sleeves, a hat, and an umbrella in the middle of the summer to block the sun. To her, like many Filipinos, the sun could be quite the adversary—the lighter one’s complexion, the better. One of her proudest accomplishments, she often bragged, was that Drake inherited the fair skin of his Irish-German father.

I’m trying to see who gets paid this month, she said. Want me to fry you some SCRAM?

No, ma’am, he answered. I’m scrammed out.

She broke a smile. I brought home some of that chicken salad you like.

Now that’s more like it.

Drake opened the fridge, pulled out the chicken salad, and snagged a sleeve of crackers. He grabbed a bottle of cola and some hot sauce. Nothing beat chicken salad on crackers with a few drops of heat.

You should be drinking water so you don’t get more kidney stones.

Yes, ma’am, he said, placing the cola back in the fridge.

Ma pushed her glasses up the tiny bridge of her nose and shook her head in disappointment. Where I’m from, they don’t send you a bill for electricity, she said. The man comes to the house to collect. If you don’t pay him, he cuts it off.

It’s a good thing we don’t have a mortgage, he reminded her. His heart ached for her. He could tell she was exhausted. Stress had taken up permanent residence on her face.

His ma was a simple woman who loved the idea of America as much as she loved the American she had married. But when she had first moved to the states and experienced her first fall season, she became depressed when the leaves turned brown and fell from the trees. She thought the trees were dying.

Drake’s mother was also kind to a fault. Anyone lucky enough to stop by enjoyed a hot meal of chicken adobo, lumpia, or pancit served over a heaping plate of white rice. When religious enthusiasts came to the door looking to convert her, the unthinkable happened. They walked in Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons, and evangelicals, but they all walked out honorary Filipinos.

Everything okay? He placed a hand on her shoulder and dipped in for a kiss on the forehead. How’s your blood pressure?

She pushed the calculator away. I’m fine, Anak. It’s hard work being poor. You know that. I think I’m going to have to sell the house.

Drake stopped chewing. What?

The cost to maintain it is too much. I’ve sold almost everything we have just to pay the bills. This house eats too much electricity—eats too much everything. You should be enjoying high school instead of working to pay my bills.

I work because I want to. It’s what dad would have wanted.

You’re just like him. Her face lit up. You’re a good son. I don’t know what I would do without you.

Right then and there, Drake made up his mind. Ma, he said, taking her hand. I can’t let you do it. You love this house, and I’m going to help you keep it.

His ma studied him for a moment.