CHAPTER ONE (8)

Without any hint of caution, Todd picked up the precious mixture and brought it to his nose like a fine wine.

“Mmm, hm.” He said pensively.

“Hint of the tropics; must be…” he hesitated, looking for the correct words, “yes, as I thought. Pineapple, and cherry, perhaps muddled together… Ah yes,” he breathed deeply, “The aroma is a bit oakey. Seems to have been aged for, say, no less than three full hours.” Todd tilted the entire stainless steel pot until his head was almost entirely inside. “And the defining factor! Yes – a two-thousand and nine purple haze from the Hermosillo region of central Mexico! Hence, the deep brown and almost green color!” This was all matter-of-factly, of course.

Toddy drank the mixture, finally, for he could tell that his being a conessiouer was beginning to get on Squirley’s nerves.

“The after taste, you ask, my good man Squirley? Complex, with a robust finish.”

“How do ya feel, though?”

“Complex and robust.”

“Give me some.”

And so schwampagne had been created. And so it was the main staple of Todd and Squirley’s “nights on the town,” which usually ended in Toddy going to jail. But he would always make it to work the next day, always sneaking glass jars full of schwampagne. It was a miracle that Toddy could function at work. Schwampage also constituted Toddy’s affliction for what he called “mischief”. Bar fights, petty theft, prostitution, and loitering were his main offenses of mischief. And Ryan would follow along on Toddy’s escapades, generally deceiving people into thinking that Toddy was really not out to get anyone. And Toddy really wasn’t out to get anyone. He was just a good guy who couldn’t think practically, even when he was sober. Hence, the creation of Schwampagne.

Squirley was not the opposite of Toddy by most means, but he resented the fact that Todd would let himself get into the business of a bank account. A self-proclaimed “paranoid,” Squirley would often bring up the fact that Toddy let them get his numbers. The dreaded numbers. Weren’t we all just dreaded numbers. Not me, Ryan thought. They won’t get mine. And why? Because in all this business helter helter-skelter, you never know when they are going to make a mistake and let out the only thing that defines a person; the only thing that makes one a person, that makes a human being. They might look like they have all their things in order, but really, they didn’t. Especially the banks, especially the government. It was bad enough having a social security number that anyone could just use to become someone else. Though Squirley hated this system, no, that he hated the system, he felt that if he had to live in it, he wanted his numbers kept safe – kept as far away from any muddling from the government. And things didn’t always go as planned, and you never knew when an entire identity theft would ruin your life.

So he was paranoid. The system had flaws. By some chance of events, schawmpagne had been created out of thin, chaotic air. If that thin air could so easily create Schwapagne, could it not also take his numbers? No one was safe from it. No one. 

A BREAK FROM RITTOS

I thought that I might take a little break from my Rittos. To be honest, they are simply getting on my nerves. So, I decided to take some time and work on an interesting application essay that I might need for law school or a master's program if possible. It isn't much, but I think that it gets the point across. Of course I haven't climbed Mount Everest; but it alludes to the fact that I like to mountain climb or at least wish to. Of course I haven't yet had a child, but I know that it will be one of those life changing events that I will have in my life (or maybe twice!):

I’ve climbed Mt. Everest; I got into the Harvard law school last year; I walked Che Guevara’s route through Argentina, Chile and, Peru; I met the Queen of England and got to shake her hand; I have been through childbirth; I know what it is like to be content; I know what it is like to read Shakespeare and understand; I have been in love for years; I ski every winter in the Alps; I have resuscitated a man; I have given to the Humane Society; I have walked with a llama in the Grand Canyon; I have photographed Niagra Falls; I have seen the destruction in Jerusalem’s markets; I have witnessed a miracle.

I have watched my own flesh and blood grow from a single cell; I have buried my father; I have prayed to God; I know what it means to be poor; I know what it means to be rich without money; I have seen the African bushmen; I have quoted Hemingway correctly; I have mastered English; I can “get around” in a foreign country; I have stayed in hostels; I have experienced wine from a vineyard in France (particularly Cabernet Sauvignon); I gave my shoes in the Holocaust; I starved during the potato famine; I knew the Czar Katherine; I have repented my sins.

I came from Germany; I came from Poland; I came from the Ukraine; I came from Ireland; I can speak Russian; I can drink whiskey; I can drink vinegar when there is nothing else; I can throw a left hook like you wouldn’t believe; I can go without food for 3 weeks; I can go without water for 3 days; I can go without air for 3 minutes; I am human; I am American; I am socialist; I am conservative; I vote; I can make up my mind; I can make the Volcan sign; I can recite Beethoven’s 5^th on the piano; I can run a mile in 6 minutes; I can do anything I want.

I can see the future. 

CHAPTER ONE (7)

“Bye, guys.” He addressed his small assembly. Half were paying him some attention, Toddy was fully entranced with anything that dealt with drugs, and the rest were mindlessly gaping at the floor that was vacant of all but Mitzi’s first table of guests. One might have expected him to announce that “the buck stops here,” or even, “I have a dream.” And normally Matt might get one of those phrases in, or one similar to it during one of his orations. Toddy would never have understood the implications, the sheer irony of tacking that on to his speech, but some of the servers might. Many of the servers under 25 were attending the university, still many others were attending the local community colleges. And then there were some like Toddy, who never had a chance of education.

There were rumors that Toddy had spent some of his early twenties in the California State Prison, which Todd liked to call euphemistically for his own purposes “A Correctional Playground.” He would never fully divulge his whereabouts during his twenties, and so the front of the house treated the situation as a mystery; a mystery in which one’s own imagination would fill in the blanks about Todd’s young adulthood. Some said that he never quite left the “party” stage, some said that he’s taken too many hits of acid, which explained why he was a server at the age of 31. It also explained his perverse urges, sometimes spontaneously exposed at work, his proclivity to something called “schwampagne”, and other odd things.

Schwampagne was first concocted by Toddy in a bout of extreme alcohol and marijuana binging, which, in this case, last for about three days. The scene was Squirley’s house; a studio house in the middle of Miracle Mile (the hangout for the rogues and desperados) that could not have exceeded more than 450 square feet. Clothes strewn about the fold in bed, dirty dishes strew… well strewn everywhere, Toddy and Squirley took a rip from a bong that cost more than two-month’s rent. Squirley’s peach fuzz haircut had grown sloppy and greasy, which was extenuated by the tiny baby curls his father had passed down. His dark brown skin (his mother was white, his father black) was also patterned with miniscule beads of sweat that accumulated to smaller drops around his hairline. Toddy was also beading sweat, and both of them had cussed the broken air conditioner in unison until finally submitting to the fact that yelling at it might not fix anything.

Ryan had a forty of Mickey’s in the palm of one hand, trying to balance it. In other other rested the bong.

“Yo, Ry. Give me the bong, it’s time for the smokin’ to begin.” They had been smoking for just under three days.

“I feel ya’, dog.” He passed the bong across the fold in bed with clothes weighting it down. The vertical blinds were slightly opened, enough to let the light fall on the clothes in increments. It was afternoon. There were Mexicans speaking Spanish outside in heightened voices. From what little Spanish Squirley knew, he could tell that one of them had screwed the other’s girlfriend and a fight was about to ensue. They perpetually fight about this girl, every day, 430 pm, thought Squirley.

“You got any more bud?” Asked Toddy.

“Todd, you know we’re out. We’ve been smoking for like three days now. I spent my whole damn paycheck.”

“Oh, yeah.” Todd took a hit. Tastes like Pinesol.

Suddenly, Todd stole the lighter away from the bowl. He had obviously touched his finger to the metal. The bong went flying, the weed in the bowl methodically sprung out and landed clear across the room into the kitchen. Earlier, the two had devised a plan to use the last of the everclear, rum, and fruitpunch to formulate an impromptu Jungle Juice and decided to put it into a large croc pot, for lack of anything better.

There was the clunk, then the sound of air bubbles exiting the caverns of the nugget of kind bud. Ryan and Todd caught eyes for a moment wondering what they were going to do next. Before Todd could explain the chaotic act of fate, Ryan clasped his large hands around Todd’s pudgy but tiny neck in comparison.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

“Ry – “ He was gurgling.

“We ain’t got no more weed, you useless sonofabitch! You fowl piece of perverted, smelly, cock-sucking, crap!” Ryan loosened his grip on poor Todd.

All was quiet. All was still. Toddy and Squirley listened to the last bubbles departing from the weed in the mixture. The final exodus, thought Squirley. The final exodus.

And thus, Schwampagne was created. An accidental progession of events led to what Toddy called “the greatest invention of the 21^st century.” Toddy coined the word schwampagne because the mixture, once settled with its alcoholic contents and marijuana, turned a murkey  (and often chunky) brownish-green color. The two, at the moment decided, out of desperation, to try the brew. Squirley was apprehensive at first:

“I dunno, man. It looks a little too weird for me. Why don’t you try it…”

                  These were the words Todd had been waiting to hear.

CHAPTER ONE (6)

O, to live in that reality where weed didn’t exist! And yeah, I realize you said Mexico, Toddy, with the insinuation that the same would happen here if we instituted the same policy. It's the same "Oh! The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" bullshit America has been fed for decades now. There's only so long people are going to continue swallowing that sorta flawed thinking before they start looking for another direction to solve the problem. Sorry to break it to ya pal, but less and less of us in THIS century are interested in hearing these sad attempts at fear-mongering. Drugs are in America. Just like drugs are in Mexico. People in Mexico, like people in America, Canada, China, Europe, Australia, you get the point..; who want to use drugs will go ahead and use drugs. People who do not, make a choice not to. If heroin were legalized today would it make YOU want to use heroin? Use some common sense. I love this concept that a law abiding, free thinking adult is incapable of this caliber of decision making in their personal lives. Let's remove ALL personal responsibility from the lives of Americans. We want Uncle Sam to make all the decisions for us. What kind of America is this?
Go back to 1984.

“Mitzi, Mitzi, keep cool, man. You’re preaching to the quire.” Toddy said, throwing his hands up ready to be arrested. Toddy was an aging 30-something free-spirit, who spent most of his days in bed and most of his nights drinking himself into the delirium that we did live in the kind of world that Mitzi described. Then he would get up at 3 pm, smooth back the gargantuan cowlick, Conan O’Brien style, and head out to the bus station because he had received two extreme DUIs in the last year and would never own a car again. He was fine with that, who needs a car anyways when there is the wonderful world out there to experience. The kind of optimist that even Carlos on a bad day couldn’t bring down, Toddy was the permanent happy-go-lucky-installment at Corrotto’s.

“So what do you propose we do? Toddy here said Mexico legalized it and now they’re killing each other left and right. Mexicans aren’t any different than Americans when it comes to addiction.” Said one of the servers, his face shadowed by the perpetual darkness in the restaurant.

“That’s where we differ, my friend.” Matt put his finger up and pretended to orate, “You ever sold any herb to a Mexican? They’re like mangy old dogs – you feed ‘em once, and they keep coming back for more. That’s where people like me and Squirley come in and sell it to ‘em for double. Then they feel like they are getting’ ripped off – “

“But – “

“And then they always take out their knives and want to start something. See, they don’t have the instinct of an American. They can’t smell out the good from the bad weed, they don’t care if its mersh or kind bud. All they know is that they need some more. When I sell to a white person, they check out the goods, they want a taste. They act like business men, regardless of how bad they need it. With the Mexis, it’s always, ‘You got what I need hombre.’ ‘Yeah I got it. You want a taste?’ ‘Naw, man, I trust you.’ I hate to say it, but they trust me too, much.”

“Hey, Matt,” called a hostess from the hostess stand, “I just sat you.”

CHAPTER ONE (5)

In all of the schemes he’d conceived to make enough money to live – for certainly no one at Corrotto’s with the exception of a manager could make anywhere near enough to live – growing weed was the only one that had accomplished anything. If he didn’t smoke too much of it, a profit could be obtained. That was rare. But when Squirley got wind of Matt’s first successful attempt, Mitzi knew immediately that he would be making proceeds.
It was hard to tell which one of the self-proclaimed dealers actually consumed more, Squirley or Mitzi. Squirley, on a rough estimate, being at on the heavier side and at least 40 more pounds that Mitzi, probably could consume more based on sheer weight. One, however, absolutely had to take into account Mitzi’s resistance; Matt had been smoking for more than half of his entire life (about 12 years) at a rate of at least a gram a day. This, in the restaurant world, as well as popular urban America, was known as a “stoner.” Mitzi’s excuse always was, “well, you see… uh… I was gonna do it… and then I got high.” Of course he would never say this to a manager for that would be a death sentence. But perhaps that is what Mitzi wanted.
Mitzi had been smoking weed for so long, that he became a permanently stoned server; he could not function “properly” with out taking a hit, nor could he focus. Ironically, he would make more careless mistakes when he was sober – which wasn’t much. At lunch during a double shift, Mitzi would go out to his ‘91 white and perpetually broken Camry and produce a large glass bong, proceed to fill it with mineral water (only the best for Mitzi) and smoke his way back to the sanity that he protested “Corrotto’s continuously stole” from him. Squirley would join him occasionally. Mitzi would demonstrate the phenomenon of his generation: how do we get away. Matt embraced the answer: we get high. And so he did, and so did most of the servers, busers, hostesses, back of the house Mexicans…
“I learned how to take a rip from a bong in 1996, and ever since then I have managed to get high every day all day. Let’s see, that’s about… say… let’s just say more than a decade. Why would I want to quit?” Mitzi harangued the rest of the servers, which seemed like it would eventually turn into its normal rant. He would always leave out the fact that he grew it himself, sold it to Squirley wholesale, who would then distribute it in increments to the rest of the Rittos at one and a half times the cost, and then let Squirley take the blame if anything should go wrong. He continued:

CHAPTER ONE (4)

Matt appeared from the marble flooring and gazed at the board, seeing right through Squirley.

                  “What up, Mitzi?” Ryan sometimes called Matt Mitzi. The Mexicans, one day, realizing that Matt’s name somehow sounded similar to Mitzi, a south Mexican born well-renown fashion designer who may or may not have been a cross-dresser, transsexual, or at least homosexual, decided that they would get a few cheap laughs for a couple weeks over the ordeal. Matt brushed it off, normally. He figured the Mexicans weren’t worth the trouble, and besides, he was a nice guy.

                  “Eh,” Matt shrugged and waited for Carlos to walk back into the office, “I’m actually too sick of this place to… shit, sautéed spinach again?”

                  “Yeah.”

                  Matt looked at the board with disdain. What was the point of having the same vegetable every day as “the vegetable of the day”? No rhyme, no reason. Matt kept cool. He was fuming inside, but he kept cool.

                  Ryan, on the other hand could care less. His concern was how he was to get some routing numbers that didn’t belong to him and still receive his bi-weekly paycheck.

                  I oughtta burn this hell-hole down.

                  Ryan let his eyes drift to Matt. Matt’s mouth was open. He may have been drooling. Matt was a little dumb, most of the time, but he was a damn good server. Matt once told him about Carlos’ addiction to cocain, and Ryan then became suspicious. Matt ignited some suspicious in Ryan, not just about Carlos, but about the whole goddamn institution. The whole web of addicted little fiends out to get the worker bees who really did the dirty wor-

                  “Hey Squirley. I got some news.” Ryan jerked his brain back into reality at Matt’s words.

                  “Is it Sparky?”

                  “Yeah, and me… Our first batch is ready.”

                  They both looked around for Carlos, but this was only instinct. Carlos wouldn’t of cared if he knew the context anyways; what his employees did outside of work was none of his business and he felt that this ideal should be reciprocated. Regardless, they walked to a more worthy place for secret words.

                  “Is it any good?” Squirley asked.

                  “Fuck yeah it’s good… Primo… pruprle haze-shit.” Mitze smiled showing his tiny teeth.

                  “Can I get in?”

                  “Depends. What’s your price?”

                  “I gotta try it first.”

                  “Deal.”

                  “But hey, don’t tell anyone its ready. I only got a couple pounds.”

                  Matt had now perfected the art of growing marijuana. It wasn’t easy, and there and been many failed attempts. But this batch was primo, and his life depended on it.

CHAPTER ONE (3)

So Carlos didn’t get his bank routing numbers, nor did he really care. Whatever pleased the rung above him. Whatever kept the cycle going.

                  Ryan brought him the board and said, “Yo, boss. I got me new socks today.” Ryan lifted up his cuffed Dickies to reveal the black socks, ending just below the knee.

                  “Good job, Squirley. Now where are those routing numbers.”

                  Oh the routing numbers again!

                  There was no way in hell that meandering little flap-jack beaner is gonna get my routing numbers, even if I had ‘em, thought Ryan. All he wants is my numbers and what next? My email address? My social? What next? What  -

                  “I need to talk to you about that, anyways, Ryan. Step into my office.”

                  Ryan stepped into the office and saw the picture of a perfectly dressed Ritto, something Corporate had sent to each store in order to represent what was supposed to be. Ryan simply was. He felt his black socks cutting into his pudgy skin on the calf, and hated Corrotto’s deeply. Besides, they were cutting off his circulation.

                  “Every other Ritto has given me their routing numbers except for you.”

                  Not me. Not me.

                  “Should I be concerned?” Carlos said in his refined Chileno accent.

                  “No way boss. The thing is, is that I don’t have a bank account.”

                  “Then get one.”

                  “I can’t.”

                  “And why not?”

                  “Because I won’t.”

                  Carlos paused for a moment. When one has but a minute amount of power, every step was important. Every word could mean dozens of connotations. After all, his miniscule amount of power was won by this mantra. Convince him, Carlos thought. Convince him.

                  “You see, Ryan,” Carlos began. The accent was thickened. Maybe Ryan wouldn’t understand and just nod his head, “we all must do things in our lives that we don’t want.” No! He didn’t want to sound patronizing. But how else? “When I was growing up in south Santiago, I had a teacher. This teacher was supposed to be one of the best in the city, no, in the country. He wrote books and essays on grammar and all of the little children followed him. They awed in his shadow,” this was beginning to get poetic. Maybe Ryan might appreciate this. “Anyways, one day he came to me and asked me to tell my mother – mama – to come to the school building that evening so that they could talk. About what? Ah – you see – I knew what about. I knew I had stolen eggs from the cafeteria. I knew he knew. He taunted me. But of course, I was in awe. Oh what must’ve happened if I had stolen hens! For god sake, what wouldv’e – oh look, I’ve gone off on a tangent. And so I knew that if I told my mother to come to the building that evening I would be sent to detention. Worse – expelled.” Carlos stopped here to reflect.

                  Jesus, do I have to go through these ridiculous stories. I barely understand him anyways. I’ll just nod my head and smile…

                  “But I told her. And do you know why?”

                  “Because you didn’t want to get in trouble.” Ryan subtly rolled his eyes.

                  Not exactly the epiphany-inspired response Carlos had expected.

                  “Well… yes… on the outer layer, yes. But I believed that it was for the good of the school that I did. I would be punished, and I knew it. But the point is, is that I did it for the team. The team that was my school.”

                  Ryan pretended to ponder, and realizing that Carlos wanted nothing more than to be awed himself, Ryan  exclaimed, “Ohhhh, I see. I’ll get those numbers right away sir,” no he wouldn’t, “makes total sense now.” No, it didn’t.