All this weird stuff started happening in the apartment right around the time my boyfriend’s junk habit got really bad. And I don’t mean the usual annoying crap like bloody towels on the bathroom floor or cartons of OJ in the kitchen cabinet. I mean stuff that was just weird, stuff I couldn't explain. The whole thing started with a Greek salad.
I had been fantasizing about this salad all day at work. Hard to imagine, but if you knew how--Mmmm hmmm--flaccid my boyfriend was at the time, you'd understand. Every time a customer ordered a Greek salad, I was drooling over it. I couldn't wait to taste those olives. That feta. The slice of Spanikopita that came on the side. Mmmmmm. So as soon as my shift was over, I threw my salad together and headed out the door. Hungry as I was, the salad would have to wait. I wouldn't be caught dead at my job, not clocked in. If I'm not getting paid to be there, I'm out the door.
The walk from the G-Stop, which was the little hole-in-the-wall diner on Bedford where I worked, to my apartment on Humboldt, gave me just enough time to ruminate about my shitty ass day. And believe me, every shift at the G-Stop was a shitty ass day. The customers were one major problem. My favorites were the ones who called me “tootsie” and “baby cakes,” like we were still in the nineteen fifties, and I was some giddy girl on roller skates. I also loved the old ladies, the ones who would leave me a thirty-five cent tip as if they were doing me some kind of big favor.
"Here you go dear. This is for you."
"Gee. Thanks."
Every time I worked, there was at least one idiot, usually a high school kid, who would order "The G-Spot” cheeseburger deluxe while all his pimple-faced friends laughed into their Cokes and hid their braces behind their hands.
And of course there was my boss Mario, who was as tight-assed as they come. He was the other major problem with that place. Mario counted pennies the same way he counted fifties, slow and twice over, to make sure none of the coins had gotten stuck together.
It felt good to just stroll down the street with the sun shining on me, a Greek salad in my hand, and at least 12 hours until my next shift. Of course, I still had to deal with my my boyfriend who was hopped to the eyeballs back at the apartment, but at least he didn't try to pinch my ass when I walked past him. The problem was, I wished he would.
When I got upstairs, John was in la la land, listening to The Cure, (Yeah--he was kind of old) and the sink was full of dishes. Don’t ask me why because junkies don’t eat. But somehow he had managed to dirty every fork and plate we owned. Maybe he had had another one of his imaginary BBQs. I groaned, chucked my salad into the refrigerator, and started in on the dishes. I was tempted to just wash one fork and one plate so I could eat, but I knew the rest of the dishes would never get done without me. John was too busy nodding off and going to band practice inside his head.
Besides, I assumed my salad would still be there when I was done with the dishes. Big mistake.
When the last fork was finally clean, I dried off my hands and went straight to the refrigerator. “Finally.” I could taste those oily stuffed grape leaves and the salty Kalamata olives. "Salt and fat at last."
“Huh? What was that baby?” John could barely open his eyes. He nodded his head up and down, out of beat with the music.
“Nothing.” It wasn’t worth the effort it would take to explain. I took the container out and started unfolding the aluminum foil thing that goes all around the edges. But when I got it open, there was a stack of pancakes in there. No salad. And to add to the weirdness, they were half-eaten. I stared at congealed syrup and butter and my mind went into overload--cannot process--cannot process.
"What the--?"
“What, baby?” He opened his eyes and squinted up at me.
“Where did these pancakes come from?” I put the container down and opened the refrigerator again. The only thing in there was a bottle of ketchup. "Where is my effing salad!"
He shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. “They’re not mine.” His eyes started to close again. "I don't know, baby. Want me to make you some Ramen?"
I threw out the pancakes and stormed into the bedroom. I knew I was acting like a five-year-old, but I didn’t know what to think. Obviously it wasn't John's fault that my salad had disappeared and been replaced with greasy, half-eaten pancakes, but I felt like it was. Even though he was barely able to hold a conversation, I felt like he was playing mind games with me. He was the only other person in the apartment--who else did I have to blame?
I turned on the television and kicked off my shoes. I wasn’t even hungry anymore. I just wanted to zone out like John. After a couple of mindless sitcoms and a cup of peppermint tea, I chalked it up to a mistake at the diner. Maybe I had accidentally grabbed someone’s leftovers. It didn’t seem very likely. I made that salad myself. And Mario watched everything we did from his beer belly perch behind the counter. He would have never let me snatch a paying customer's leftovers instead of my $8.25-or-less shift meal, but it was more likely than Scotty beaming the pancakes up, or some Greek salad thief sneaking into the apartment while I wasn’t paying attention and John was nodding.
I went into the kitchen after a while, and John was starting to come out of his daze. He was scribbling something on a piece of paper. "Hey baby," he said. "I'm writing a song called 'The Pancake Phantom.'"
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. You're gonna love it. The pancake phantom floats around all day, zapping up whatever food he finds, leaving a stack of half eaten pancakes where the food was."
I had to laugh. Only John could come up with something that dumb and think it made a cool song. What a goofball. But he was a sweet goof ball nonetheless. “Sorry I was so bitchy before, but I really wanted that goddamn salad.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “I wish I knew what happened to it.” His eyes were half closed. “You want me get you another one somewhere?”
“That's okay. You keep working on your big hit. I’ll just make some Ramen.” Whenever John did anything other than drugs, I tried to encourage him. I was sure "The Pancake Phantom" would never make it to the top ten, but maybe it would keep him distracted from doing any more dope that night.
After a quick make-out session with John and my Ramen Noodle dinner, I
forgot all about the salad and the weird way it had disappeared. I knew I shouldn't have let my guard down. Something that weird is obviously just a preview of more weird things to come.
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