12. Flick
FLICK
“You’re at the snack shack for the morning shift,” Mossimo informed him the next morning. Flick rubbed his eyes. His mother and Stan’s party had gone late. “Afterward, come straight back up to the club. I need you here for the dinner party.”
It was the first golf scramble of the season, and the club was abuzz. Flick had no idea what a scramble was: another silly country club word that meant nothing to him. What he did know was that the lobster boil that night was a big deal, and he was looking forward to getting some big-deal tips.
“Am I working the snack bar alone?” Flick shifted from foot to foot. He’d never worked the snack shack before.
Mossimo twisted one edge of his mustache. “Yes. But don’t worry—no beurre blanc down there. Just burgers and hot dogs. It’s what the people want…” He made a face of mild offense, then quickly recovered. “Ricky will bring you down and set you up. You can handle a grill.” It wasn’t a question.
Flick’s small Queens apartment hadn’t even had an outdoor area where they could use a grill. But he had learned to use the gigantic Weber Stan had purchased for the new house’s outdoor kitchen. In fact, he’d done most of the grilling just last night at his mother and Stan’s first neighborhood party. Since they’d moved in, hosting a party so they could introduce themselves to the neighborhood was all Josie had talked about.
As soon as Josie picked a date, Flick’s insides had flip-flopped. So Darcy Birch would be coming over? To swim in his pool and eat steak and hang out hopefully in a bikini?
No, it turned out. She would not.
They were setting up for the party when Flick had asked. Armed with a gold candelabra centerpiece in one hand and pointing with the other, Josie was directing Flick and Stan on how to arrange the outdoor furniture.
“So, my boss and his family will be here tonight?” Flick tried to sound casual. The last thing he needed was for his mother to get in his business about a girl.
“The Birches aren’t coming,” Stan said quickly.
“They aren’t?” Apparently this was news to Josie. “They’re our closest neighbors, and I haven’t even met them yet. Did they say why?”
Stan shrugged. “I didn’t invite them.”
“What?” Josie did not look happy.
“He’s too uptight. From the first night he came over with that plant I could tell he was antisocial.”
Flick opened his mouth to disagree, but from the stubborn look on Stan’s face Flick knew better than to argue. Besides, he knew his mother would be all over this. Fitting into the new neighborhood had become an obsession for her.
“He came over with a plant? When?” She’d set the gold candelabra down on the table with a thunk and stared powerfully up from all of her four-foot-eleven-inch height to his six-foot-four frame.
Stan had actually leaned back. “Didn’t I tell you about that?”
“No.” Josie pressed her lips together. “What happened, Stan?”
Flick almost felt bad for the guy, shifting like he was from foot to foot. “Birch was whining about our gorgeous new RV. Said I couldn’t park it in our yard, or some nonsense. Can you believe the nerve?”
She narrowed her eyes. “It is a big vehicle, Stan.”
Stan threw up his hands. “So? It’s on our property. Do you want me to park it in front of our garage doors? Block our driveway?”
“This is not good. They’re our neighbors.” She rubbed her brow. “And he’s Flick’s new boss.”
“Don’t worry, sweet thing. In a couple weeks we’re taking the RV up to Maine. After that I’ll see if I can figure something else out.”
Josie looked relieved. “And you’ll tell the Birches that?”
“As soon as I see them,” Stan promised.
“Which you will, when you invite them to the party,” Josie added. “Since it’s too late to send one by mail, you should pop over. In person.”
Ha. Stan wasn’t going to do Ned any favors with the RV. Nor would he likely “pop over” and extend a last-minute invite that would only reflect badly on him.
And that was exactly what happened because the party went on and the Birches didn’t show. Still hopeful, Flick had changed into a burnt orange shirt that made his eyes pop (as his mother said), and worked the grill with a smile until it was clear Darcy and her family would not be coming. He’d eyed Stan, who, as usual, was talking too loud and too much. Around ten o’clock, Flick had grown tired of the neighborhood crowd (how many times did he have to tell people how old he was and where he was going to school in the fall?) and Stan’s music and had gone up to his room.
Flick didn’t like that Stan had lied to his mother. And he really didn’t like that an opportunity to socialize with Darcy Birch had been blown. Darcy was pretty. Darcy seemed cool. Stan was ruining his opportunity to get to know her. And maybe even pissing off his boss. Something had to be done.
Did the girl show? Mateo texted.
Nope. Thanks to Stan.
?
No invite. He doesn’t like them.
What a douche cramping your style. Wait until your mother finds out.
Yeah. I’m waiting.
Waiting on the girl!
Shut up.
Maybe you’ll see her at work.
Maybe.
Work your magic Creevy. Girls like you.
The girls here are different.
There was a pause before Mateo replied. Then, Don’t sweat it man. You’ll find your people.
Okay Mom.
FU.
Thanks man.
I know.
Now, Flick hopped in the golf cart and followed Ricky down to the snack bar.
“You’ll be fine,” Ricky said. “At least you get to avoid the scramble chaos.”
Flick was kind of hoping to be involved in the chaos. It sounded more interesting than sitting at a snack bar all day.
It turned out the snack shack wasn’t so bad. He got to be outside. There were a bunch of little kids and mothers on the beach, but there were a few hot teenage girls, too. Like Mossimo promised, the food was easy: nachos, burgers, hot dogs. There were packaged ice creams in a small freezer and bags of chips. He only ran into trouble when a college-aged girl asked him for an Arnold Palmer.
“Excuse me?” The name was so ridiculous he laughed.
Luckily, so did the girl. “It’s a popular drink here. You know, half lemonade and half iced tea?”
“I did not know,” Flick admitted sheepishly. “But now I do.” He’d have to look up who the heck Arnold was.
The girl slid her sunglasses up on her head and grinned at Flick. She was pretty. “I’m Iris. Extra ice, please.”
“I’m Flick. Nice to meet you, extra-ice Iris.” When he handed Iris her Arnold Palmer she took a long sip.
“Not bad. I’ll be back later for a John Daly.” She winked.
“Um, okay…” Now he needed to look that guy up, too.
There was a burger and dog rush around noon, with a few impatient moms holding red-faced toddlers. An ice cream blitz followed. By then the mothers were feet up on lounge chairs, done with feeding, entertaining, and sunscreening their noisy charges. Instead, they doled out twenty-dollar bills to their kids and sent them Flick’s way for more ice cream. He was relieved at three when Ricky drove the golf cart back down to collect him. “Survive?”
“Barely.”
Ricky assessed the snack bar. “Not bad, kid.”
The grill was scoured, the counter wiped down. He closed up the service window and locked the door, feeling pretty good about things. He was about to hop in the golf cart when Ricky pointed to the beach area. “Forget something?”
Flick followed his gaze. All three garbage bins were overflowing. Paper plates and cups spilled onto the grass, sticky ice cream wrappers lay stuck in the sand. Flick groaned.
By the time they’d emptied the bins and run the garbage back up to the stinking dumpster behind the clubhouse, a fleet of golf carts was already parked at the front. The exodus of players from the greens spilled onto the outdoor patio and milled about beneath the white tent. “Buckle up,” Ricky said. “Snack shack has nothing on a member dinner party.”
Flick eyed the crowd, who’d swapped their golf attire for linen suits and dresses and their irons for icy cocktails. A jazz band was set up on a small stage beneath the tent, and music tinkled softly across the lawn in their direction. What lay before him was exactly what Mateo had teased him about: the whitebread all-American summer dream. Flick was half tempted to snap a photo and text his friend. But he was too embarrassed—from where he stood, he wasn’t in on the joke. Now he was part of it.
Upstairs the kitchen was hotter than Hades. Mossimo stood at the center island pulling cuts of meat out of marinade bags and arranging them on trays while he shouted directions. “Corn! I need the corn to go out to the grill. Where the hell is the corn? And who is on steaks? These go out in five.”
Ricky was outside manning the boiling pots for the lobsters. Flick’s eyes traveled to the refrigerator which someone had left open. The shelves were lined with paper seafood bags, some moving.
“Behind you!” Wendy swept up around him and grabbed two bags from the fridge. “You working or watching?” Without waiting for a reply, she began loading bags of lobsters into a plastic crate.
Mossimo clapped his hands impatiently. “Help her out, help her out!”
Apparently there would be no review of the kitchen schedule today. Flick jumped into action. When the crate was full, he ran into the pantry for another, and they filled that, too.
“C’mon, junior,” Wendy said, as she hauled a crate up off the ground. “We’ve got to get these guys down to Ricky.”
The crates were heavier than they looked, and Flick staggered down the back stairs behind Wendy.
They handed the lobsters off to Ricky, who was beet red standing over the pots.
Wendy paused, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, looking around. “Pretty different out here, huh?” She nodded toward the white tent.
Mayhaven members mingled, selecting appetizers from trays as servers buzzed about them. Ice clinked against glasses. Laughter emanated from under the tent. Somewhere a cork popped.
“Not a bad scene,” Flick allowed.
Wendy squinted at the crowd. “Not my thing. They’re the honey, and we’re the bees.”
A microphone crackled onstage; the jazz band paused and one of the golf pros stepped up to announce the winning foursome for the day. Raffle ticket numbers were called. A deliriously happy woman in a golf dress trotted off with a gift basket wrapped in gold.
“Let’s just hope they get drunk enough they tip well.” Wendy went back inside, leaving him to unpack lobsters.
Flick understood he was new up here, but he couldn’t conjure the same ire Wendy seemed to hold. It was a country club; they knew what they were getting into. On the other hand, there were people here Flick was genuinely coming to like, from Mr. Birch who worked his tail off but was always smiling, to the older men who liked to tell him stories, and crazy old Bitsy Babcock, who always asked how he was doing and offered him a bite of whatever dish she’d ordered in the dining room. “Take a taste! No one’s looking.” Where before he would’ve made fun of these people, the more he worked there the less easy it was to dismiss them out of hand.
But, to Wendy’s point, there were also the Spencer Delanceys: textbook country club cliché. Flick spotted a cluster of members around his age. The girls were in short dresses; he recognized a few as camp counselors. The guys wore polo shirts and belts with lobsters and whales, looking like their mothers had outfitted them. There, among them, was Number One: Spencer, himself.
Flick watched him throw his head back laughing. Golden boy, Mateo would say.
But then Flick’s gaze landed on Ned Birch and his wife. Mr. Birch was dressed up in a sports coat, making the rounds and greeting people. Right behind him were Adam and Darcy. Darcy wore a light pink dress. She looked bored; beautiful but entirely bored. Adam fidgeted next to her, and Flick watched her lean in and whisper something in his ear. Whatever it was, Adam smiled and the fidgeting stopped.
Flick wondered why Darcy wasn’t with Number One’s group. Maybe her father wouldn’t let her. Or—even better, maybe she didn’t want to.
A hand rested on his arm, and Flick turned. Mrs. Bitsy Babcock was gazing up at him.
She put a hand to her forehead, her oversized ruby ring catching the sun. “My it’s hot over here in lobster-land. Would you be a dear and get a girl a refill?”
She held out a diminutive silver flask. Flick wasn’t sure why she’d brought it over to him at the lobster boil, but he took it.
“Hendrick’s, please. None of that cheap stuff… gives me a powerful headache.”
Why Bitsy was drinking from a flask at a dinner party where servers and fresh drinks were plentiful he did not understand. “Wouldn’t you prefer I get you a glass with ice?”
Mrs. Babcock laughed. “I would not.”
Flick glanced at the long line at the outdoor bar. Then at Ricky, who shrugged. “Be quick,” was all he said.
Bitsy put her hands together. “Straight up. Lime twist, dear.”
Flick wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but the bartender knew. When Flick handed him the flask, he shook his head. “Bitsy?”
Flick nodded.
She was waiting right where he’d left her, looking impossibly sober for a tiny woman who’d just polished off a flask. “How lovely.” She unscrewed the cap and before taking a swig, held the bottle out to him. “You look hot.”
“Oh, no thank you, ma’am.”
Bitsy frowned. “Never call me that again, dear.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Flick stammered, the word ma’am almost popping out again. “I didn’t mean…”
She lifted her flask between them, as if toasting. “Gin is what keeps me so young.”
Neiman Shrive joined them. He surveyed the boiling pots. “Cockroaches of the ocean.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Smelly messy endeavor, this.” Mr. Shrive was wearing a pin-striped blazer that was far more festive than the look on his face. “What you need is a good steak.”
Flick gestured to the large chalkboard menu. “We’ve got steaks on the menu.”
Mr. Shrive scowled. “I can read.”
Alright then. “Anything I can get you?” Flick asked. He needed to go help Wendy or he’d be dead meat himself.
“Yeah. A steak.” Old people liked to eat early. Flick knew this from his grandma, back in Queens.
“They’ll be right down,” Flick promised. He was relieved when Wendy waved him over, despite knowing he’d get an earful.
“Hey, junior. Unless you brought your seersucker suit, I think you’re wanted in the kitchen.”
“Sorry.”
Back upstairs the kitchen vibe had turned manic. Flick pictured all the Mr. Shrive’s waiting for their steaks.
Salads were aggressively tossed, dressed, and whisked out. Trays of corn, still steaming, sailed by. Steaks were hauled to the grill where Ricky threw them onto flames. Flick found himself running up and down the stairs, between both worlds. No sooner had dinner trays gone out than appetizer trays came in. The work never slowed, nor did the directives. Flick figured he basically ran for two hours straight until the dessert course. When the jazz band picked up outside, only then did the kitchen slow. Oven mitts were exchanged for kitchen gloves. Sleeves were rolled up and dirty pots lowered into soapy sinks as burners cooled on the range. Flick’s forehead was a sheen of sweat, salt, and cooking oil. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. Outside, tiny strawberry cheesecakes were passed on silver plates.
“Good work, good work,” Mossimo chanted as dishes were scraped and glassware loaded into the steaming mouth of the industrial washer. As the crew finished up, Mossimo disappeared to the upper deck with an old-fashioned wooden pipe. Flick had never seen the chef smoke. Maybe it was his reward. Veiled in darkness, Flick only knew he was there by the occasional flicker of orange and puff of pipe smoke.
Flick was exhausted. His Converse were filthy from spilled food, and his feet were sore. When the last of the stainless steel surfaces was wiped clean and the dishwasher empty, Wendy appeared. “Toast?”
She held up a mostly full bottle of Veuve Clicquot. “Not letting this baby go to waste.”
Ricky brought out clean glasses. Mossimo came inside. After pouring for each, Wendy took a swig straight from the bottle. Flick took a swallow of his champagne, the crisp notes bubbling on his tongue. “Damn, this is good.” Everyone laughed.
He was on his way home, slipping through the shadows beneath the deck when he recognized Mr. Birch’s voice. “You remember my daughter, Darcy, of course?”
Flick’s head snapped. He didn’t notice anything about the group of people at the edge of the patio except how long Darcy’s legs were in that dress of hers, and how hollow her smile. Like him, she wanted to go home.
Just then she turned his way. Flick stepped out of the shadows and raised a hand in greeting. She stared through him so long Flick wasn’t sure if she recognized him. And then something unbelievable happened. Darcy excused herself, and came to stand in front of him.
“So you’re my new neighbor.”
She was so close Flick was sure he could smell strawberries on her breath. He would bet his life on it. “I am,” he man-aged.
Her eyes flickered. “Let’s steal a cart and get out of here.”