Authors: Craig Goodman
“Yes, Craig,” agreed Jack. “Just like it won’t be too long before they realize
you’re
gay.”
“That’s until they see me bangin’ your mom on the bar.”
“Oh wow…I am just
so
offended by my erection,” Jack said after a moment before scurrying away.
So at least I had a job, and it was great to have a couple of old friends around as well. But this would be my first employment of any kind outside of New York, and although it was clear that Randy was making a concerted effort to put the serious partying aside, it would prove easier said than done…for
both
of us.
4
I am in no way scarred by the uniform I was forced to wear at the Rock and Roll Café of Stamford, Connecticut—which leads me to believe it couldn’t have been too traumatizing. In fact, generally speaking, of all the restaurant jobs I’ve had this was clearly the most enjoyable as I shared a unique bond with the managers that could have only been forged from working in the trenches together, surviving Serendipity, and watching them suck each other off while I smoked crack and played the synthesizer.
As a result, the depth of my relationship with Randy and Jack was reflected in my performance as I was the model employee and always on time and never drunk or fucked up at work—which was more than a lot of the staff could say. And I really liked working there. There’s something about being treated with even just a modicum of respect by managers who, incidentally, not only expected the staff to pass that respect along to the customers, but that the customers reciprocate the same degree of courtesy to the staff. And though my stint at the Rock and Roll Café would be relatively short, there was more than one occasion during that period when Randy and Jack felt obliged to escort guests out of the dining room for having less than stellar attitudes with their employees. And if a customer should follow-up his rudeness with aggression over suddenly being asked to vacate the premises, management would almost always ask me to help facilitate the expulsion as they knew there wasn’t anything in the world I wouldn’t do for them.
“Hey Craig—give me a blow job.”
Except that.
“Nope,” I told Jack on several occasions.
“Why the fuck not?!”
“Do you actually have to ask?”
“Oh,
yes
.
”
“For the same reason you don’t wanna lick Paula’s pussy,” I told him.
“So then is this your way of implying that
you
wanna lick Paula’s pussy? Because if you do—I think I can make that happen.”
“I think I’d rather lick
your
pussy.”
“Well, you see then!
We’re sort of on the same page!”
Clearly, I had an unusual history and relationship with my direct superiors, and though they carried on in front of me in a manner that was seldom if ever seen by any of the other employees, every staff member absolutely adored and appreciated them for the respectful and mild-mannered way in which they treated their subordinates, which is largely unheard of in the industry. The interesting irony of the fact is that while a large percentage of restaurant managers, chefs and owners regularly mistreat, disrespect and violate the most basic rights of their underlings, many simultaneously drone on about a shortage of workers in the industry that take pride in their work. Thus, by making what can already be a distasteful job truly distressing, this upper echelon of service industry professionals have unwittingly created a self-fulfilling prophecy, as they make a practice out of treating their service staffs like shit and then seem surprised when their employees have no respect for themselves, their jobs or where they work. Consequently, when hiring time rolls around many restaurants are ultimately forced to bypass the labor pool for the cesspool because anyone with anything even remotely close to self-respect is likely to bolt by the end of their second week. So it’s not at all surprising why many restaurant staffs are often selected
from a field of largely subpar, unsavory characters that at best have little to no experience, education or work ethic and at worst—some pretty serious drug habits, criminal records and questionable characters. Now, of course, that’s not to suggest that while you’re wolfing down your Rooty Tooties at three in the morning—blue-haired Betty’s back in the kitchen doing lines with her panties wrapped around her ankles. I’m just trying to point out the fact that a lot of these restaurateurs are getting just what they ordered and exactly what they deserve.
Obviously, Jack and Randy’s attitude was extraordinarily refreshing to a group of seasoned employees accustomed to checking their self-respect at the door, and this only encouraged Rock and Roll staff members to linger at the bar after their shifts concluded. Certainly, this is something typically forbidden by proprietors always on the lookout for barkeeps treating coworkers to the occasional drink. However, this was never a concern at the café where staff was actually
permitted
a free shift drink as ownership was a little more evolved, a little less cost-conscious, and always absent and unaware of the open bar that would begin raging each night as the final customer left the establishment. Unfortunately, though, Connecticut bars and restaurants are required to stop serving alcohol at 1 a.m. during the week and 2 a.m. on the weekend, which would usually require Rock and Roll staff members to race against the clock and do some pretty serious consuming, as it wasn’t at all uncommon for Stamford police to wander by the restaurant after curfew to ensure liquor laws were being upheld. As a result, in order to avoid any unpleasant police encounters we had to devise a safer alternative, so after about 25 minutes of binge drinking we’d drive 20 drunk miles to a bar in New York where the fun didn’t stop until four in the morning.
Each night the group of reckless revelers was essentially the same, and though I would catch a ride with Randy and Jack there was usually a total of about twelve of us making the pilgrimage to Port Chester and a little dive called Calloway’s.
“Craig, you really should’ve shaved today,” Jack pointed out during my very first afterhours outing in Port Chester, from the same seat he always took at the head of a long, wooden, table in the corner of the bar.
“Yeah, I know, man—I’m sorry. I definitely shouldn’t have come into work looking like this.”
“Fuck
work
! I don’t want that prickly shit rubbing against my nut sack. Do me a favor and take a razor to it before you end up scratching my fruit bowl.”
“Why don’t you take a razor to your fruit bowl?”
“I already shaved and conditioned it this morning.”
“Really? You actually shave your nuts?!?”
“Every third day and believe me—
the shit is smooth…
like a baby’s behind.”
“This is a disturbing set of images.”
“Or a lady’s vagina.”
“And yet they keep on coming.”
“You’d
love
it.”
“I actually prefer my vaginas to be a little on the hairy side.”
“Why in the
world
would anyone wanna face full of
frizz
?” Jack said with an undisguisable degree of disgust.
“Oh—come now, Jack,” Randy decided to chime in. “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right—Pubic Head over there,” said Jack in what I thought might be a disparaging reference to my ringlets.
“The
Red
Pubic Head which is
really
disgusting,” said Randy as I was now certain of it.
“Maybe I’m a grown man and I like knowing I’m with a grown woman you fucking freaks!” I suddenly shouted in what was obviously a desperate, flawed, and ineffective retort that would’ve typically fallen well short of my standards—but I had to say something because it felt like I was
losing
.
“Hey, Craig—you sick motherfucker—what’s the worst thing about eating bald pussy?” Randy suddenly asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Putting the diaper back on!”
“That’s sort of disturbing—don’t you think?”
“I think you’ll be telling that joke for the next 10
years
,” said Randy as he finally fired off his own flawed retort because it’s already been much closer to twenty.
“What’s
more
disturbing is your fondness for a hairy snatch,” said Jack as he just couldn’t seem to let it go.
“Yep! Nothing like a warm, moist slice of furry fish pie to get me all FIRED-UP IN THE MORNING,
JACK!!
”
“EEEEWW!!”
he squealed. “That makes me wanna cry and throw up at the same time!”
“
GOOD
...
why?”
“
Why?”
Jack repeated back to me in a mocking sort of way.
“Because an unmanicured snatch is a horrifying thing.”
“Well I think you’re probably biased.”
“I’m fucking scarred!”
“Oh, that’s right!” Randy blurted out as if he was suddenly struck by a lightning bolt of recollection. “You know, Craig—
you’d
love
Paula’s hairy pussy.”
Paula Eruzione was a waitress at the restaurant in her mid-twenties, and ever since my very first shift I can remember Randy and Jack constantly making cryptic, inside jokes about her and her genitalia, and though I refused to give them any satisfaction by inquiring about their commentary, I decided the time had finally come to begin asking the obvious:
“How do you two faggoty fucks know anything about Paula’s pussy?”
“Well,” said Randy, “technically I don’t because she thinks I’m straight—but
Jack
does.”
“This just keeps getting weirder and weirder.”
“Paula’s completely in love with Randy—
can you fucking believe it?!”
Jack squealed at me with delight. “She’s been at the restaurant for months and she
still
thinks Randy’s straight.”
“Next to you—
everyone’s
straight,” I said. “Now I’m absolutely certain I’m gonna regret asking this, Jack—but how in the world do
you
know Paula’s hairy?”
“We went to the mall to model thongs together and I got all pissed off because I thought she was pretty much just standing around naked while I was sweatin’ to Deee Lite and workin’ the runway, and right when I started putting on my fuck-face I—“
“This is already ickier than it needs to be,” I interrupted him. “Point taken—you saw Paula’s pussy and it’s hairy. Let’s just leave it at that and move the fuck on for God’s sake.”
“Oh, fucking
believe
me, I’d love to move the fuck on
—
except for the fact that I never actually
saw
Paula’s pussy.”
“Then why are you doing this to me?”
“I never saw it because it was actually covered by a thong—a bright
yellow
thong that I didn’t notice because it was swallowed-up by the black moss and thick vines that came creeping out around the sides of that dirty fucking pussy!”
“
EEEEEW! EEEEEW! EEEEEW!” Randy
now found a reason to squeal.
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating a little, Jack,” I said.
“Fuck if I am! It was like
Little Shop of Horrors
.”
“Stop getting me excited.”
“CRAIG! She could braid that shit and floss her ass with it!”
“Ummmm—
YUMMY
,” I said as I actually licked my lips.
“
EEEEWWWWW!!!”
Jack screamed as he jumped up from the table and put his hands over his mouth before bolting to the bathroom…and it was comforting to know the vile little man had a breaking point.
Of course, like a shallow, predictable man, myself—with a sex drive that was just beginning to get in gear—after discussing Paula’s condition I immediately found myself giving her a little extra attention at work without even really being aware of why I
was doing it. Certainly though, somewhere in the back of my mind I was subconsciously drawn in by not only her unseen physical attribute, but also by the prospect of eventually being able to provide Jack with a few images that would likely put him in the hospital…
and then I’d finally win
. And though I didn’t share this with anyone—I actually thought Paula was kind of hot, well beyond the pristine, undisturbed bit of wilderness that apparently lay secreted away in her panties. In fact, during more private moments I actually pictured her as a fair maiden tucked away in some rustic Sicilian village crushing grapes with her feet when she wasn’t working at the restaurant. She was clearly of Italian descent, wore no makeup, had a dark complexion along with a head full of jet-black hair and was home-schooled her entire life—though I would soon learn she’d recently been attending a local college hoping to eventually earn a degree in criminal justice, which somehow only helped inspire a more deranged aspect of my interest in her.
Paula was born in Stamford, rarely left and had only been to New York a handful of times as she obviously led a somewhat sheltered existence. Furthermore, she was the only employee at the restaurant still completely unaware of Randy’s
true
sexual orientation and, for a variety of reasons, rather than fill her in on the details her coworkers preferred to remain silent and allow her to eventually figure things out for herself. Honestly, though, I found her naivety to be entirely refreshing and at first, that only intensified my attraction to her. Unfortunately, however, ALL of my plans for Paula were laid to waste when we had our first significant discussion which, not surprisingly, centered upon Randy.
“He’s a GREAT guy,” she said while we were folding napkins and getting ready for the dinner rush. “I know it’s really this environment that does it to him.”
“Does
what
to him?”
“Well, I mean, he supposedly moved here to get away from all the partying back in New York but I know for a fact he still drinks and smokes
a lot
of dope.”
“Practically everyone here drinks and smokes
weed
and believe it or not, Randy used to be way worse,” I told her.
“And as much as I liked him at first,” she said as she continued with her talking points, “I finally realized that Jack is just a
terrible
influence on him! I’m sorry, I know he’s a friend of yours, but I really care about Randy and I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.”