David Chow

Grandpa’s had this conversation with me at least twice. He’s in an “assisted living” complex, and every time I see him, I notice how strange it is to have your living assisted. Someone even unwraps the hard candy. “How are classes?” he asks. “The weather?” I answer him and respond with the same questions. Yesterday he had a drawing class and it was foggy.

“Remind me again,” he blinks rapidly, trying to find something that left years ago, “What’s the local delicacy of Rochester?” I realize this is my favorite part of the conversation I’m having for the third time, and an oversized grin grows on my face. “Well,” I begin, “if you can imagine all of your favorite fast food ingredients in your mouth at one time…”

~

I’ve walked these steps thousands of times before. Grandpa has been living with Mom and me ever since his back surgery. It’s a one-room apartment, above the horns, the exhaust and the muttering of the bums, but right now the 10 flights of stairs doesn’t seem worth it. I just got off of work, a graveyard shift at Sal’s, which is a greasy little diner tucked under the overpass.

30 bucks in tips tonight, from 12 cups of coffee and one grilled cheese on rye. But I can’t be miserable when the people I hand tepid cups of coffee to look like walking death. The TV stays on and I can hear the late night talk show host pretending like nothing’s changed. Time lurches along between the late late late show and mopping the beaten checkered floor. But that’s over now, and a walk through the morning air can do a lot for man’s soul. I get to the 11th floor, trudge through the hallway, and coax the door open. It squeaks in response, but gramps is already wide-awake. “Where’s breakfast?” he grumbles. Shit. Forgot. Again. “I left it at Sal’s,” I say, knowing full well it was going to be harder stealing from my own workplace when people started to show up in the morning. Back down the stairs.

~

My mouth starts to water at the naming of ingredients on the plate. “Well, for starters, you’ve got your hot dogs, but you can get cheeseburgers, red hots, Italian sausages, some chicken, grilled cheese, fish, ham…” Heart palpitating, my veins harden as I describe the options for the sides. “…home fires, baked beans, mac salad, corn, French fries.” Nonno’s eyes widen. I’m not sure if he’s impressed or concerned.

~

“Look, I’d like to help you out,” my boss says out of the side of his mouth. He’s lying. In the seven months I’ve been working for him, never once has he inquired about why I’m always so tired, or why I sometimes come to work in a uniform from some other crummy job. I’m asking him for food, practically begging for it. “I just can’t cut corners this time of year... you know how it is.” Can’t say that I do. This wasn’t a good idea. I hang around a bit, pretending to be waiting for a ride. A customer gets up to go to the bathroom, leaving a half-eaten cheeseburger on the counter. Tempting.

~

“No, no, no, that’s the best part! You’ve got the mustard, the onions, some catsup, maybe some bread too, just let that all go on top. You gotta eat two of these at once to really prove yourself. This is the kind of meal, well... it’s a competition meal, y’know what I mean? Experienced eaters only.” With that, I describe to my terrified gramps how you approach one of these badboys armed with nothing more than a plastic fork and a factory-embroidered napkin.

~

“Hey! Get the fuck back here!” Too late. I’m halfway around the block, and this guy has had too many cheeseburgers to catch up. Hell, I’m practically doing him a favor, I think. Not only did I grab his meal, but I’ve got an assortment of other customers’ hash browns and grits.

~

“Doesn’t that hurt going down?” my grandfather winces. I’m at the high point of my sermon, and my inner Italian is showing through my hands. With flair, I start reminiscing about the time I ate two and a half plates in one drunken night, leaving out the part I spent hurling outside.

~

It’s not like I’m trying to be a slob. I’ve got enough on my mind, and five hours to sleep before my next shift at the gas station. Mom hasn’t been home in two weeks, and no one’s going to bring home enough money to feed Nonno and keep the lights on. “He won’t notice anyways,” I mutter, assembling the saucy pieces together on the tray paper.

~

And the best part, Nonno, oh, you won’t believe this...is what they call the whole thing!

~

“It’s called a garbage plate,” I say, handing breakfast to grandpa.

Got a burst gut and a garbage plate story worth telling? Email short fiction to views@reportermag.com.