GRILL! Page 4

  I hear the golf cart start up and come my way around the park. Are Bubba and Terry after me for scaring the kittens? Instead, they zoom past me laughing loudly about something, each holding a beer, leaving in their wake, thick, floating dust. How could anyone drink that much beer all day long and still function? I don’t get it! I see them disappear down yet another side dirt road further down, possibly another entry into the forest storage area.

  At about mid-way on my walk, I hear the grinding of a truck trying to get started. The sound is coming from deep within the cover of the pine trees; back there, in the forest. What in the hell is back there? I will explore this soon.

  Guests are enjoying their spaces, grilling up hot dogs and hamburgers, swatting flies, and most of them have satellite dishes set up or in the process of getting set up. So I guess the deal is to eat and watch TV in the presence of nature. I do not see many of them walking around. “Ouch!” I feel the sting of a mosquito bite on my ankle. “Gosh darn it anyway!” I hurry up our walk so I can go cover my legs and feet. Mosquitoes love this time of the evening. I am only wearing my flip-flops, a short-sleeved t-shirt, and capri pants. I look at the lake and see the thin layer of mosquitoes floating above and around the water’s surface. We pass the group of ducks resting beneath the cattail grass. I am very happy that the dogs did not notice them.

  As I round the front of the main building, bypassing the straight path to my trailer which is behind the main building, I hear the rumbling engine of a large and really old looking dump truck. It looks beat to shit! It shakes and rattles its way to the rear of the restaurant. There is a pile of trash bags about halfway up the teetering side wood panels. Oh, I get it. That’s where they put all the trash. Then what? Whatever, I’m sure I will find out later. Bubba is behind the wheel and Terry is following him in the golf cart. They disappear out of view behind the restaurant.

  The front parking lot is full of restaurant customers. The majority of the cars being Jeeps, well-used trucks, a couple of all-terrain scooters, and cars with license plates from many different states. Two logging trucks, empty of driver and logs, are parked with engines running on the other side of the highway. Three RVs are in line by the edge of the lot and some kids are climbing the small fence that borders the park. Someone is obviously registering for a space inside while the family waits. Billy must have quite a crew working for her! I suddenly feel very insecure and apprehensive about my new job as cook. This must be the only place to eat for miles!

  I walk the final curve toward my trailer and climb the inconvenient, awkward stairs. Once inside I unleash the dogs and peek out the window next to the dining table. I see Bubba standing with his back to me, looking at the pile of trash bags. He is standing in front of my pile of additional trash bags. His heavy stumps of legs are spread apart and his fists are planted on his hips. He lifts his baseball cap with one hand and scratches his head violently, the hat flapping back and forth. Terry rattles on dramatically about something, pointing in my direction. He turns around, looks toward my trailer, and pulls on some thick work gloves with a scowl on his face. Wow! Those two make me very nervous!

  Smoke is pouring out of a vent that is next to the back door of the kitchen. I smell the grilling hamburgers and steaks, my stomach growls. I open a can of organic vegetarian chili, not because I am a vegetarian, but because even though I enjoy meat, I try to not eat it from a processed source, such as a can. I heat it in my microwave and pour myself another glass of wine. I eat in the silence and watch the shadows fade while night approaches on my first night at Hacienda.

  “Darn it! I forgot about the front door!” There is still enough twilight outside to duct tape the hanging pieces of aluminum back on. As I begin, I hear the hum of a machine over by where Bubba is loading trash. He is placing the full bags of trash in some sort of large trash compactor. You can hear the snap from the contents of the bags as they slowly get crushed. He then tosses the flattened oozing bags into the dump truck. Glass explodes within the one he is currently crushing. I think it is one of the bags that I put over there because I had filled a few with old dishes and pans. The trash compactor makes a high-pitched screeching sound, and is then silent.

  “GOD DAMN IT TO HELL! WHO THE HELL PUT THAT SHIT IN THE TRASH? DAMN SON OF A BITCH, STUPID ASSHOLE! TERRY GET ME THE BIG WRENCH NOW! AND THE FLATHEAD SCREWDRIVER! HURRY UP DAMN IT I HAVEN’T GOT ALL NIGHT!”

  If Bubba is aware that the bag was from me, I cannot tell because he does not look in my direction. It was his yelling that seemed directed at me. Geez! Couldn’t he tell that the bag had heavy glass and steel in it when he picked it up? If it were going to break the machine, wouldn’t he have known not to put it in there?

  Terry hands Bubba a tool. “I SAID THE FLATHEAD SCREWDRIVER DAMN IT!” Terry’s panicky reaction, and Bubba’s loud demand reminds me of my childhood when I tried to help my father with his tools while he worked on his car. I could never pick out the right screwdriver. It’s interesting what makes the doors of memories open unannounced.

  I hurry and finish duct-taping the door as best as possible without looking in Bubba’s direction. I’m aware that the sound of the tape ripping off the roll is echoing across the entire park because all the noisy machines are silent at the moment. Duct tape is loud that way. The door looks horrible, like a badly wrapped, silver-gray, square mummy, but the small Plexiglas window is now covered up and held in with the tape and most of the hanging parts are covered with tape. I have to lift the door that is only connected by the bent bottom hinge and set it gently on the threshold. As it balances there I take the bungee cord and loop it through the broken door handle. I pull the hooked ends of the stretchy cord and hook them on the handle of the stove that is right next to the door. I’m proud of my ingenuity! It also serves as a door lock, which at this point, I think I need.

  I sit in the dark trailer with another glass of wine on the seating area by the table that faces out to the dump truck and Bubba. I have the curtain open just enough to watch what is going on out there. Who needs a TV when you have this!? The dogs are curled up on each side of me. “Darn it! I need a shower! I have to get up tomorrow and go to work!” The dogs jump to attention.

  It is more comfortable at this point to drive my car around the front of the main building and go to the showers. I don’t want to walk by Bubba and Terry.

  The showers are roomy and the water is hot. The warm water running down my legs makes my new mosquito bite burn. I lift my leg to see not one, but five new bites beginning to swell. There is a big bruise on the top of my foot from when the door fell on it and another tender purple area on my hip. I feel the bite on my neck and can’t believe that it’s more swollen than earlier today. Day one and I already have battle scars. I dry off and change into some sweats. As I walk out of the building I can hear the dogs barking through the screen door of the trailer, which I can see across the lake. A family is walking their dog by my trailer. I drive back to my trailer. I made the shower quick because I am exhausted and need to just sit down for a while.

  The pile of trash is loaded by the time I get back. Bubba is trying to start the engine of the dump truck again. The air stinks like rotten food and I need to swat several flies out from my face as I enter the trailer.

  I return to my spying spot at my dining table with my wine and tea tree oil, dabbing the oil on each bite. I wonder if Bubba ever got the trash compactor fixed.

  The dump truck suddenly fires up and Bubba roars the engine alive several times, as if he were taking out some aggressive behavior in the form of noise.

  As Bubba drives away, I am left in a space of time where I can feel my feelings again. My heart begins to beat a little faster as I become aware of the craziness of the stupid choice I made to take a working vacation. “Be accountable for your choices!” That’s one of Dr. Phil’s famous and favorite statements. I just love Dr. Phil! I’ll try, Dr. Phil. I’ll try.

  A bright outdoor light pops on from the edge of the roof behind the kitchen. A fe
male comes out to smoke a cigarette. I can’t really see what she looks like. She looks nervously around and pauses as she looks in my direction. I don’t hear the dump truck running anymore, but I hear the golf cart on the other side of the lake coming back around the other way. It stops when I presume they are back at their trailer. Someone else comes out the back door and throws several cardboard boxes into the cardboard box pile, which at this point, looks to be about ten feet high and fifteen feet wide. It’s Betty! I can tell by the way she is moving! Roller-skating with boxes. Roller-skating back into the kitchen.

  Car lights shine through my front curtain window and the sound of gravel crunching fills the quiet night as a vehicle slowly passes by on its way to the rear door of the kitchen. As soon as this occurs, I hear the golf cart fire up again and charge in my direction. Three people exit the back door of the kitchen. Bubba and Terry buzz by and halt at the van that is now parked. Everyone seems to be talking at once to the two passengers who are exiting the van. I hear Bubba belt out a loud laugh. It must be Billy and Ray returning from shopping in Redding. Bubba opens the rear door of the van and everyone starts hauling the tons of heavy boxes into the kitchen. I worry again about my new job. I have a feeling that working here and living here at the same time is going to require spontaneous involvement at odd hours. Am I expected to run out there and help right now?

  Ray is rolling his oxygen tank behind him as he wanders over towards the big oil-drum-barbeque by the lake. He lights a cigarette. The van gets emptied and Billy drives it back around to the front. Terry walks by the fifth wheel on her way home, leaving the golf cart for Bubba. She is not very steady on her feet, and is mumbling as she passes my open window.

  Bubba joins Ray over by the oil drum and starts wading up newspaper, and then stuffs it into the barbeque. They are talking, but I can’t quite hear the words. Bubba lights the newspaper and flames light up the whole area. Ray says something and Bubba rolls Ray’s oxygen tank over to the back door of the kitchen away from the flames. He goes inside the kitchen door and returns a few minutes later with a drink for Ray and a beer for himself. He gives Ray his drink and sets his beer on the redwood picnic table where Ray is sitting, then goes back over to the pile of cardboard boxes and grabs several. He brings them back to the fire and drops them on the ground. He starts ripping them apart and tossing them into the flaming barbeque barrel. Both men stare, as if in a trance, into the fire, their faces glowing orange. Bubba goes back for more boxes.

  This talking, ripping, burning, and drinking goes on until I feel myself falling asleep at the dining table. I get up and set my alarm for 5:30, crawl up into my bed, and close my eyes to the flickering glow outside. I drift off to sleep with the sound of coyotes yipping somewhere close by.

  Chapter Three

  There was no need to set my alarm. Bandito was tapping my back gently with his paw. He does this when he needs to go potty. I look out the window and admire the beautiful pre-dawn indigo colored sky. I see that it is 5:10, so I turn the alarm to off. Bandito is staring down at my face like he is in a hurry. His muzzle is turning gray now. He used to be pitch black from head to foot. Bonita, who is pumpkin in color, peeks her head out from under the covers. “Okay! Just a minute. Let me get some shoes on.” I had slept in my sweats, so there was no need to change into clothes. They start bouncing around on the bed like excited children. The holding tank still has an unpleasant odor. I will need to empty and refill that one more time before I go to work. After leashing up the dogs, I carefully unhook the battered door and hook it open to the outer wall of the trailer with the bungee cord, then close the screen door.

  No one is around yet. I see lights on in some of the visiting RVs. The oil drum barbeque has a thin trail of smoke coming up from it, and I notice that the pile of cardboard boxes are now gone. The golf cart is still parked where Terry had left it last night. Bubba must have walked home. There is a dog looking at us from the lawn area next to the main building. It looks like one of those cattle herding dogs and does not seem interested in us. The dog lies back down on the porch area by the lawn.

  Bonita and Bandito have done their business, so I return to the trailer. They climb back into bed and lay down. They know my routine. They do not bother with me until I’ve had my coffee, and today I need it bad!

  While my bottled water is boiling on the Coleman stove, I walk around the trailer to open the holding tank drain valve. I’m hoping that this will do it as far as cleansing goes. I put the water hose into the toilet to refill the tank. I heat up some soymilk in the microwave, and put coffee in my small, single cup, Melitta drip filter. The tea kettle outside is beginning to whistle.

  With hot coffee in hand, I sit and watch the sky turn to day and enjoy the quiet. A man walks along the shoreline of the lake with a fishing pole. I assume that Billy must stock the lake with trout. I hear the approaching quacks of the ducks as they waddle towards me along the shoreline coming from the direction of Bubba’s trailer. I can hear a logging truck coming down the highway. It barrels by, disturbing the peace and quiet of the morning, reminding me of what I got myself into—a working vacation. I turn off the hose and pull it back outside and take a second cup of coffee into the trailer to get ready for work.

  My dogs begin to growl when they hear the heavy crunching of logging boots walking past my trailer. I look out to see Bubba passing by holding a cup of coffee. He hacks up a loogie and spits next to my trailer. What a gross man!

  The group of quacking ducks is at the end of the ramp that leads to the kitchen. Bubba opens up a side storage unit and comes out with a pan full of feed. He carries the pan near to the lake. The ducks are quacking like crazy following him. They scramble to eat as fast as possible when he throws the seed on the ground. Bubba then disappears into the kitchen. Well, he can’t be all that bad if he likes ducks and feeds them! They must live down by his trailer.

  By 6:30 I am adding the blue chemical into the toilet. I take the dogs out one more time, and then settle them in the trailer for the day. I’m hoping I get a lunch break so I can let them out for awhile. I leave only the screen door shut thinking that the dogs would at least have something to look at, and hopefully, not bark at. If I were to leave them in the fenced area they would bark all day! Fifteen minutes later I walk past two RVs waiting for propane on my way to the front entry of the main building. Stopping at the doorway I read the restaurant hours: 6:30AM to 8:00PM. Two cars and one motorcycle are in the parking lot. Billy’s van is off to the side near, what I think, is her connected home. I take several deep breaths and walk into the unknown.

  A tall bulky woman wearing Bermuda shorts and a brilliant white T-shirt with the American flag imprinted on the front is standing behind the register. She looks to be my age and is admiring her long acrylic fingernails, which, even from ten feet away I can see, are also American flags. Because of her concentration on her nails at the moment, I have a few seconds to observe the restaurant area. There is no Bubba’s special, instead the chalkboard reads: ‘TRI-TIP BBQ TONIGHT! 4:00PM.’ People are at the tables eating huge piles of pancakes and hash browns. At the same moment that I am looking in the direction of the kitchen, Bubba walks over to the chest high meat counter holding a large chopping knife.

  “KAREN! HOW DO THEY WANT THAT STEAK COOKED?”

  “Rare!” I hear a voice answer, but do not see her.

  Bubba’s eyes catch mine in a brief instant of recognition. He does not smile at me, but I smile at him. He turns around and lets loose with one single loud laugh. I exhale away my sudden irritation.

  “I have the feeling you must be the new cook,” she says.

  “Yes, I guess I am. Hi, I’m Denise.”

  “Glad you’re here. I’m Helen.” Helen reaches out to shake my hand, but up high, with fingernails fluttering so I can take a better look I guess. We don’t really shake hands, as one would normally do. Instead, I am forced to take her hand softly, up high, like you would with a queen. I do not comment on her nails, because I person
ally think they’re horrid!

  Helen starts taking charge of my day. “Billy and Ray are still sleeping, but she’ll be up after a bit and get you going later at the grill, probably for the lunch shift when Bubba has to get the barbeque going. Come on back here and I’ll show you our time sheets for the week. We have a lot of things to do today. It’s always crazy when we have a barbeque.”

  I fill out my personal information and my time sheet for 7:00AM.

  “Now I’ll take you over and introduce you to Bubba and Karen.”

  I feel a knot clench up in my stomach at the thought of being face to face with Bubba.

  Helen walks ahead of me. I now notice her red tennis shoes. She walks and dresses as if she does not realize that she is in her fifties. We walk past Karen who is taking an order from a family of five, probably RV guests, and Helen leads me behind the meat counter to the grill area. We pass the dishwashing area where many used plates, bowls, and cooking utensils are piled. Many of the plates have partially eaten pancakes on them. We then walk by a chopping table with a huge bowl filled with the makings of potato salad. Celery, onion, and black olives wait to be chopped next to the bowl. A vat of boiled potatoes are cooling and the skins are peeling and cracking. Bubba looks very serious as he turns the many piles of hash browns with one hand, and with the other hand he is rotating two fried eggs in a Teflon pan. A pile of bacon is being kept warm on the edge of the huge flat grill where the hash browns are cooking. The left over space on the flat grill is filled with three giant pancakes. There is a grated grill to the left of the flat grill that has two steaks sizzling with the smoke floating above in a thick layer. The microwave behind Bubba goes off with a high pitched buzz and Karen rushes past us on her way to some sort of cold storage unit located in-between the microwave and deep fryer.