CHAPTER ONE (1)

And finally above the managers were the corporate managers. Every so often they would grace this particular Corrotto’s with a visit, in order to deal out their bi-yearly portion of vomit on the managers – which would later trickle down to other employees and then become nothing of the managers’ problem. Too many linens being used to fold the silverware in? Cut that. Servers’ ties a little too flashy? Go out and buy new ties. Food cost up six and a half percent? No more voids, you hear me? Ray and Carlos would drink in the unnecessary tid-bits like puppies waiting for a piece of bacon. The yes man attitude a farce. But hat corporation did not have its fair share of yes men? And it wasn’t their fault, for what could they do? – simply drink it in and pretend to enjoy it.

            These corrections would be made. And it was really the lower employees who had to deal with the corrections. Implementing them was a matter of “having one’s job or not.” To the managers, everyone was dispensible. In the back of their minds, creeping at them daily with blunt, powerful force, Carlos and Ray knew that they, too, were ultimately dispenisible. Hence the puppy love they gave to the ridiculousness of Corporate’s regulations. Hence the enforcement of black socks rule and so on. But the cycle continued because one merely had to eat. One merely had to eat.

            And the tin man and his noodle sat to observe all. Always observing.

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

            Carlos stared haneously into the screen. It had been a long day. No more guests thank god. The computer hummed listlessly and the intense smell of parmesean permeated the tiny office. It was 3 am.

            Fuck, I gotta get home. No, I can wait. I just gotta get my sales report done.

            When he had to close, Carlos Cuadros always wore pastels. It was his blend-in, “I’m your man” nuance. Stained. It had to be that fagioule. Damn that fagioul. It was on the khakis, too. He hated khakis, but he wore them anyways. They always went with the pastel cuffed shirt. But Dickies pants were beneath him.

            He thought of Natalia, the woman who managed the supermarket across the complex. Man, she had beautiful legs. Ray said, “If I wasn’t married, I’d be kissin’ that dame’s feet night and day.” Ray always spoke like he was from the forties. Probably some nostalgic attempt at getting back at the servers – they were young enough to be his grandchildren. Carlos suspected Ray was jealous. Fuck, the reports…

            After Carlos had come to the United States, he noticed these things. In 1971, before he left Chile, the old Chilenos would mock this language. “Tchilenos” they pronounced it. They were better than the working class, and the Tch sound was their rite. They were born with it apparently. But Carlos was too young, too stupid, really, to understand why they had to classify themselves and why they detested Ray’s speak.