The Breakdown: A Short Story

The incessant pounding of rain comes down on the world around me as I try to unify my thoughts…. My thoughts are cluttered, and the weather isn’t helping. Not in the least, so the blog I have for today is a short story I wrote a while back. Just so you know, it is NOT autobiographical, and is entirely a work of FICTION. No character described actually exists. The narrative is simply a loose interpretation of how easily our lives can spiral out of control. It is called “The Breakdown”, and it’s tone mirrors this dreary fall day.
I hope you enjoy.


THE BREAKDOWN

“Goddamnit,” he muttered. Debris flooded through the ceiling tile and onto table 20, the worst table in the restaurant. Every restaurant has a worst table, and Pat and Linda Johnson were sitting there tonight, and celebrating their wedding anniversary. Not to mention he is the president of the chamber of commerce. They needed to make him happy.
“Why does this shit have to happen tonight, to this table” he cursed under his breath making his way through the crowd over to their table, and continued audibly this time, “Folks I am so terribly sorry – Mrs. Johnson, let me have your hand,” he said, helping her out of her seat. The table was covered in dust, and detritus - the pounding of water against the seventy-five year old roof had taken its toll. He escorted them to a dimly lit, corner table that was supposed to be seated within minutes – the company accountant and his wife were bringing in their daughter and son-in-law. He was a pain in the ass anyway, he could wait. Besides, he eats for free.
“Why do we pay $6500 dollars a month in rent and they won’t fix this fucking building, huh Danielle,” Sammy the Maître’ D screamed across the bar, “It doesn’t make any Goddamn sense. Not a bit of sense – get me another glass of cabernet and a glass of chard,” he demanded trying to amend the situation. He wasn’t usually like this. Something was more wrong than usual. The Johnsons were first time diners, and it wasn’t the impression he wanted to make. Curse words stuck in his mind, and spun like a rolodex out of control.
Transforming into the personae he was paid to be was easy. This, he thought as he approached their table with a fresh glass of wine in each hand. He placed them adjacent to the water glasses that sat directly in front of the butter knives. The glasses had yet to be filled. “I am so terribly sorry – just so you know, everything you have tonight is on us, my most sincere apologies and please don’t hesitate to let me know if there is anything you might need. I am here for you.”
Sammy had a way of smoothing things over; he was a bullshit artist, and a master of his trade. Dressed in a two piece pinstripe suit that lay snug against his chest he walked towards the kitchen attempting to get things under control. A full restaurant saw the embarrassing sequence of events, and the dishwasher was now out in the dining room cleaning up, trying to hide the evidence. Mrs. Johnson had bits of rubbish nested in her graying hair, her charcoal shawl was specked with white, and Mr. Johnson’s navy blue blazer was now pinstriped and damp.
“Table 20 is now 41 – they moved – damn ceiling tile fell down right on top of them – right fucking on top of them. They are VIP – make sure it all comes out good – can you get me a tartare app on the fly – I wanna get something in front of them. “
“Actually I got one right here. Take this one - Hector I need one more Tartare to sell - now,” the chef uttered. He was nearly in the weeds.
“Thanks chef, I owe you one.”
He grabbed the plate and headed back over to the Johnsons who were now laughing at the situation. Their wine was void of debris, their table clean, and their plates were shiny.
“Folks I have our signature trio of tartares – beef , bison and venison. I hope you will enjoy,” he smiled finding a place in the middle of the table that would be accessible for both of them.
“This looks fantastic. Thank you so much, that is very kind of you…… Oh, and just so you know, I have a great roof guy – he would probably come out here tonight if you really needed him,” Mr. Johnson said teasing, knowing the torrential rain didn’t seem to be going anywhere. There was now a bucket of water on table 20 nearly full,catching the water that dripped from overhead.
“Very funny sir – you have a better sense of humor than I do. I would still be cursing right now if I were you.”
“Actually it is my brother, and he does great work. I will give you a card before we leave, I think I have one buried in this purse of mine.” This, Mrs. Johnson chimed in as Sammy leaned over, brushing specks of white from her husband’s shoulder.
“I might have to take you up on that offer. Y’all enjoy the rest of your evening, and I will check back in a bit. Just so you know, the sauce drizzled over the bison has a bit of heat and tends to sneak up on some people – so be careful!”
Sammy made his way towards the hostess stand, knowing he had fixed that situation, but there was now a restless crowd. They were assembled around the podium like protesters. Every table was full, and the hostess was nowhere to be found. She was probably on a smoke break at 7:30 on a Friday night. Sounds about right. The accountant Mr. Gibbs was loud, excessively annoying and trying to ensure that Sammy knew he was not only there, but was also waiting. He made every attempt to divert the situation.
“Sammy, come on baby – we have been waiting for fifteen minutes. Whatcha got for me,” Gibbs yelled across the crowd of people.
“I am working on it sir – It won’t be too much longer. Mrs. Gibbs you look beautiful tonight. Y’all go grab a couple of martinis while you wait for your daughter to arrive and we should have something ready for you shortly,” he said, hoping to ease the situation. Sammy then walked away, and into the office. There were too many people out there, and each needed something. A drink. An ashtray, or maybe a cigar cutter. They tug at his shirt trying to steal his attention. Sammy, could you talk to my four top, one of their steaks was overcooked, and they are being a real dick about it. Sammy, is my table ready? Just wanted to say hi. Hi. Is that a new suit, it fits you so well. Mom and Dad why are you here tonight, I told you we were full and there aren’t any cancellations. The roof caved in on a busy night. Goddamnit. Why tonight?
The restaurant one night at a time was destroying his life. He was only 29. He reached for a paper bag, then breathed into it– inflating and deflating it rhythmically. He reached for his pouch of pills, grabbing two, and a bottle of water – medicine always seemed to help. There was a restaurant out there; a kitchen that was buried, waiters were knee deep in the weeds, and a bar piled with drunks. Concurrently, food piled in the kitchen and soon there would be nowhere to put it, and no one to deliver to the appropriate table. The food runner only had 2 hands. On the computer he pulled up the cameras that documented nearly everything going on in the restaurant…. Everything that was going on outside the door he was too petrified to open. The cameras confirmed what he thought. This place was going down in flames. His hands were shaking, and the beat of his heart couldn’t keep pace with the anxiety presiding over him.
“I need a drink – a fucking drink,” he said over and over, reaching for the bottle of scotch hiding in the office. It was Macallan 12 year. Pulling the top off, he tilted his head back and swallowed. One, two, three. Therapeutic was the burn of alcohol, so he took one more generous sip, emptying the bottle, and fell into his chair knowing he had to face the crowd outside before things worsened. The agonizing pound of his heart dissipated over the next couple minutes, and his hands ceased to shake. The medicine had done its trick. Before heading back into the restaurant Sammy swung the safe door open and pulled out a ziplock bag, emptied enough powder to get him through the night, lined it up, and leaned towards it…….


“Sammy, Sammy – are you in there, open the goddamn door.”
It was loud and the clatter of people made it hard to distinguish whose voice it was. Sammy, laying in the same chair as before, looked at his watch, which now read 10:15PM – three hours from when he originally escaped to the office. His white shirt was tinted red and a strip of dried blood had crusted and ran the length of his face and down to his shirt collar. His shirt was soaked with perspiration as he sat, choosing to ignore the voices outside. The ziplock bag had fallen to the ground and emptied itself onto the floor of the office. It was smeared into the carpet creating a white cloud in the contrasting, dark checkered carpet. Moments later the door swung open, and a crowd of coworkers peered in.
“What the fuck is going on – get out of here,” he pleaded.
Bob McFadden entered, pushed the crowd away and closed the door behind him. He had a right to be here – he was the owner, and had been drinking at the bar when the chef alerted him of Sammy’s absence. McFadden was a large man with a demanding presence. He looked at Sammy for a couple of moments trying to gather the right words.
“Sammy,” he paused, “What is going on?”
“Bobby, I don’t really know – I don’t. I… I….I broke – I couldn’t handle it,” he responded, glossy eyed and sedated.
Mcfadden kicked the empty plastic bag towards the trash can, shaking his head, and paused. For longer this time.
“Look at you…. Let’s get you out of here. Chef can close up tonight. I will give him some keys and we can do the money later,” the boss insisted with visible disappointment.
“Did the Johnson’s leave happy,” Sammy questioned, diverting the attention.
“They did, they actually said you were great.”

Sammy actually was great… always. Atleast from a distance. From someone looking in from the outside…. someone from the audience. He is a thespian. The curtains eventually draw, and Sammy exits stage left, returning to the green room, He will hang his costume in the wardrobe and wash his face of makeup. Beneath it all is a tormented soul – a soul masked by an award winning performance. A performance that is put on every night. Alcohol and drugs had taken hold of him. They had gripped his soul and wouldn’t let go. The Johnsons would never know this. Neither would the Gibbs, or most of his coworkers. Guests would come in, and enjoy great food in one of Atlanta’s prized settings. That is what they were supposed to do. Their enjoyment was fundamentally dissociated from the performance put on by Sammy and the others that make this play go on. They are all actors. They all go home to their own lives of dysfunction. Lives of crying babies, their nearly foreclosed homes, and their love affair ruined lives. One of the cooks at the end of the night returns to the Fulton County jail where he is serving the last six months of a four year prison sentence. No one would have ever guessed. Here, it is their job, and they are paid to leave it all behind. At some point it all begins to catch up with you - there is nowhere else to run, no one else to turn to, and no one else to confide in.
McFadden walks Sammy out the back door where waiters and cooks gossip. They amble to his car and McFadden, from the remote on his key unlocks the car. They get in. A few words exchange before exhaust begins to pump from the back of the car, mingling with the humid air. The fogged windows hide the vehicle’s occupants as they drive out of view, leaving the busy restaurant in order to tend to more important things, the things that really matter. Atleast the Johnsons enjoyed the rest of their meal. Speaking of that.
“Did you get a business card from Mrs. Johnson before they left…. She was saying that her brother does roofing and we could maybe use his help since the damn landlord can’t seem to get it right” Sammy chimed in beginning to come out of sedation.
“I sure did – I was gonna give him a call in the AM, and I figured by the time you get back, we will have it all fixed up.”
“Back from where,” Sammy questioned.
“Let’s get you some help – I think you could use some,” Sammy’s boss suggested in the most earnest of tones.
They sat for a couple of moments in silence. Then Mcfadden turned the radio on so that it was barely audible. Sammy knew not to fight it.
“Okay, I can do that, let me get some rest tonight and we can talk about it tomorrow. Will you promise me one thing though,” he asked.
“Anything in the world,” Mcfadden insisted anticipating a serious request
“Let’s invite the Johnson’s back the night after the roof is fixed. I think they earned it tonight.”
“It’s a deal. I just hope it rains, they sit at table 20, and we don’t end up taking care of their tab again.”
Mcfadden patted Sammy on the back, rubbed his shoulders and smiled over at him. He was the father Sammy never had. Maybe that is what it all came back to. Sammy would have plenty of time in the coming weeks to think about that and the other plagues of his adult life. His time to start thinking started now, on his ride through the city back to his lonesome three bedroom house on a night he would never forget. Maybe it’s a good thing the tile over table 20 came crashing down. This he thought, and smiled, thinking about the debris that was probably still sitting loosely in the gray curly hair of Pat Johnson.