The Sand Trap

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The Sand Trap
 

Chapter 1
 

The temperature had dropped and the temperature was cold enough you wanted a jacket but some students still wore shorts and a sweatshirt walking around campus. Walking around the Pentacrest, the University of Iowa’s center of campus, it just didn’t seem that long ago I was a student with a bright future. Although I didn’t feel that old the students that passed me looked quite young. A guy told me one time. “Once you turn fifty you become invisible and only propped up by nice homes and cars.” Compared to the kids on campus? I could have been their father, minus the nice home and car. I didn’t care, looking at college age girls is never going to go out of style and always brings a smile to my face when I am walking around campus. Unfortunately, it is more of an exercise for the imagination than any playbook for action.
 

On this beautiful fall day I was looking for some information on submitting a piece to the Iowa Writer’s Workshop to maybe get a little recognition for some of my writing. A valiant first step in my path to writing a legitimate masterpiece was my initial thinking. Wrong. Not only would I have to enroll again as a student the only real recognition goes to authors who are already published. Me? I thought if there were anything fresh that was of quality they would want the material, right? Wrong again. Sure, the internet has changed a lot for submitting and publishing content. Social media does build an audience but most only follow others because they can do it for free. I needed some legitimate recognition that could be parlayed into an agent and a contract to write for money.
 

For me, it starts with winning small writing contests. Publishers can be accessed through submissions and samples via annual writing contests by the hundreds. They have an exact format, specific orders, contacts, agents and channels they want writers to use to be reviewed. This is a well beaten path. It is just like a job interview or tryout for the team; good news takes a little time, bad news is immediate. If they are interested they will be in touch. It was a tough first hurdle but I confirmed it on the internet in the library downtown Iowa City. I had no agent, no publisher and no masterpiece in the making.
 

I walked across Clinton St. and had taken no more than a few steps on the sidewalk when I heard someone yell out my name. I followed the voice to the white plastic fence and patio of The Sand Trap, a local and popular bar. It was Matt Miller. He still had the boyish face but had to be forty. Miller was a guy that I used to work with at MCI World Com in Cedar Rapids about 20 years ago. He was pretty good on the phone selling long distance phone service, but not a natural born hustler. I was his direct supervisor on our team of a dozen or so phone representatives. Of anyone who could verify our MCI World Com story all the way back to college and the 90’s it was Miller. Our team was one of the very best in the nation selling long distance phone service in the days before the internet and mobile phones. People had to pay for their calls based on distance; the further away and the longer duration of the call the more it would cost. We would call people at their residence on behalf of the company offering them promotions of ten free Block Buster movie rentals or a free month of service just to try out MCI World Com service for a month and if they didn’t like it they kept the movie rentals.
 

Most people got screwed, lied to and switched without their authorization. It might have been a company traded on the NASDAQ but it was a scam. Our sales team competed with others in call centers across America that were nothing more than floors of phone banks and people pushing the MCI World Com services and then storing the information in data bases. Our team in Cedar Rapids was part of one of the best call centers in the country. We won national awards with the company, team builders, trips to Las Vegas and New York staying at some the nicest places just like other big companies. That is about where the legitimacy stopped. It was all a fraud. MCI World Com was the largest billion-dollar bankruptcy in American history prior to Enron and Lehman Brothers during the recession. The CEO, Bernie Ebbers, is now in federal prison for the rest of his life.
 

I knew MCI World Com was going to crash. You know how? They hired people like Miller and I to start with. When I first worked with Miller I was probably thirty and he was nineteen. I was filing bankruptcy on $70,000 and had just failed out of the insurance and financial industry. It was a humiliating turn of events that saw me return to the job I had in college. I had no choice. I needed to support my young family and every decent job out there would do a background check and find out about my crappy credit score and would not offer me a job, except MCI World Com. It was literally the same job six years later; hustling long distance phone service.
 

It was no surprise the best performers on the phone were the 5 D’s as I called them; dirtbags, degenerates, drop outs, dealers and drunks. It didn’t matter; MCI/World Com hired anyone but promoted only from within its own ranks and rarely outside the company. I supervised the team Miller was on. Our team name? Team Dirty Sanchez.
 

There were always cash contests, daily uploads to a debit card and other recognition to drive performance. Weekly the sales manager would get on the microphone and run through the top ten performers and update us on our goals, contests and performance against other centers across the nation. The company was set up just like a sports franchise with regions, division, managers and all competing for promotion and higher pay. It might have been politically incorrect but it was hilarious when we did our weekly and monthly top ten on the sales floor. “Can we get a little love in the house for the new number one team in an upset over the Donkey Punchers last week; It’s Dr. Love and Team Dirty Sanchez at 144% to plan! Who is our man that sticks it in every customer’s ear? That’s right, the freakin’ Rancher! Yes indeed, again last week he was number one and banged out a 12 line sale in the process. If you can’t figure it out ladies the guy with the most cash this week is the Rancher. We got some hot ladies in here fellas and they only go out with guys in the top ten. Doubt me? Look at the girlfriends of the top ten performers and make your own mind up. We need to finish the month strong…” and so it went every week. There different names and faces but none of our top ten had any college education and would never be hired by another company for the kind of money they were making at MCI World Com.

On my team, each representative was given a name like race horses on the track. Most all the names had a heavy sexual theme or something disgusting just to keep people laughing while they got their asses kicked on the phones. There was The Southern Hot Stick; a twenty-one-year-old burn out. There was Dirty Sanchez; a natural born 18-year-old local hustler tattooed from head to toe. There was The Rancher, The Skeezer, Juicy Wad, Fonzi, and Potsie among others. Miller’s name was The Cleveland Steamer. My own handle was Dr. Love. I would call them out by name in our pre-shift, put their names on the dry erase board in our bay and monitor their calls with a wireless headset to make sure they properly packing it in the customer’s ass with a quality tone, presentation and accurately documenting the customer’s record.
 

The typical day? Sure, no problem.
 

“Some of you are close to hitting plan and we are loading the hot data right now. If you are not at 100% of plan at the close of business on Friday we are going to be talking next Monday on your weekly performance reviews.” There was no hot data. It was the same regurgitated and recycled records as before. One of my favorite stunts in our one on one meetings with the reps who were not hitting 100% of plan was to present the Burger King job application. I would tell them if they failed here they could always get a job at Burger King and I would give them a good reference if they agreed to give me a free meal when I came through the drive through. They would be insulted. It actually worked more times than not. Often I would yell out across our bay to my sales reps in pre-shift. “If you are struggling you need to be listening and monitoring our studs who are fucking pounding it on the phones and carrying us again this week; Fonzie and Potsie each with a tag team 47, Sanchez with 46, Rancher with 44. All you guys are trending over 200% to plan. That’s almost $300 in commission and you all hit your daily bonus of $50 on the Visa cards. For the rest of the shift; we are running get one and go; one more sale and you can go home early along with the double lines. You idiots not at 100% of plan? You call your mom after shift and let her know you will be needing a ride to work on Saturday morning for one reason only, you sucked ass this week.”
 

The reps could look at the dry eras board in our bay and their weekly and monthly stats on the print outs at the beginning of every shift. The statistics never lied. I would continue. “We got one hour left in the shift. The Steamer is down by one and The Rancher and Fonzie are battling it out at 17 lines each. Skeezer, you might as well call the fucking dirt bag on the motorcycle again to come get you and take your ass over to your grandma’s house again. Zero ain’t my hero, sister. You have been working that stretched out man pleezer for $8 an hour the last hour and you don’t even have $8 in revenue tonight. There are chicks down at the bus station working harder than that.”
The Skeezer would slam down her headset as the rest of the team burst out laughing. “Fuck You, Dr. Love. I have been calling all night and trying.”
“You call that trying? You throw down another zero in a shift and I will have you monitoring the fat Mexican guy on The Donkey Punchers the whole freakin’ night.” I usually replied.
“That is bullshit. He barely speaks English.” The Skeezer would complain.
“You are damn right. He also rarely takes a shower. But you know what? He has two sales. You have zippo.” I would point to the statistics on her computer monitor.
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and looked down at the new hire folder on my desk. “You’re not hiring that guy you were talking to before pre-shift to this team.”
I could see she was disappointed in me interviewing a clueless twenty something sent to the sales floor to be interviewed by our clueless twenty something in human resources. “Yes, I am. He’s taking your job, sweetpants.”
“You are such a liar. You can’t kick me off the team.” For 19 years old the Skeezer was pretty sassy. She also had the recurring habit of getting drunk and stoned and ending up having sex with several of the guys at work.
“Unfortunately, I can’t trade you either. No one would want you. Nice stats last week by the way; nine sales, two hundred forty-eight total calls and an average of forty-one second talk times? Were you fucking sleeping while you were over there chewing gum?” I looked up from the computer monitor showing The Skeezer’s abysmal statistics. It should have been about three times the performance. “The good news? One more shit week like last and I am going to have to put you on a verbal warning. Then its straight to the written warning the following cycle if you blow it again. Then it’s back to the bus station or Burger King the next time you don’t hit plan. Still living at mom’s and dad’s place? I bet the Harley rider would prefer to pack it in your shitter in your own apartment instead of mom and dad’s couch, yes?” I smiled.
The Skeezer objected. “You are such a pig. I could get you fired for that.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. However, I would deny everything, the managers would support me, the team would support me, no one heard a thing and you would lose your job in the process. You know why?” I asked
“Oh, tell me, Dr. Love.” She replied sarcastically.
 “Simple, performance. Look at the stats. We run. We make cash. But not you. C’mon, you are better than this.” I tried to steer her to encouragement. I knew she was good and was just in a slump and distracted. “Stop talking with the dipshit beside you while you’re at work too. I need him listening to Sanchez or The Rancher in the beginning and your over there sticking your tits in his face.”
“Oh bullshit.” She laughed because she knew I was right.
“Listen, I know you will probably be sucking his cock by the end of the week, and I don’t care if you do, however, you will have your ass at 100% of plan next week and you better not fuck me on your quality score by sending down a bunch fucking wood like you also did last week. You almost janked me on our team quality score too. You need 17 sales a week or you done. You used to get 17 a day. Who is fucking who here? Are we straight?” I gave her exactly what she needed to hear.
She agreed. “I know, I was just distracted by the new guy you hired. He’s not coming to our team is he?”
The alarm bell was sounded. It could only be one thing. “What is your problem with this guy? He is probably twenty and a college geek. He could be good. You on the other hand?”
The Skeezer leaned in close. “You can’t hire him. I fucked him. I don’t want him on this team.”
“Whoa, is this the same girl with nine sales for the fucking week asking me for a favor? Wrong. He will be sitting right beside you, Skeezer.” I confirmed.
The Skeezer blushed. “You can’t do that. Oh, I can. Next weeks, seating chart in the bay will be based on last week’s performance. Good luck.” I slid the diagram on the paper over to her.
“Dr. Love, You can’t. Please I am asking you. Oh shit, no, here he comes.” She looked over my shoulder and saw her former one night stand and our new trainee walk into our bay. She dropped her head. I turned around and stood up from my desk.
“Well, well, welcome to Team Dirty Sanchez. This is our new man ready for training, The Skeezer Pleezer. Yes, buddy, we know you packed it in The Skeezer’s man hole back in the day and you ain’t the only one on the team I will foreworn you.” I said loud enough so everyone on the team could hear it as well.
“Dr. Love you are such a fucking asshole.” The Skeezer raised her head and shouted out in humiliation from my desk behind me. The kid turned white as a ghost at the comment.
“Yes indeed, your former bung beatin’ boyfriend is joining the team, Skeezer. After a quick check of last week’s stats he is sitting by you too. You want to change the seating arrangement you might want to consider performance in your equation. The Skeezer Pleezer and you will be sitting side by side and he better not beat you in his very first cycle.” I smiled as I looked at both The Skeezer and The Skeezer Pleezer. They were both completely humiliated.
“Whatever, he is not beating me in his very first cycle on the phones.” The Skeezer threw down the challenge.
“Skeezer, spare me. My mom could beat your ass on the phone. Try half as hard on the phones as you are trying to get in the college kid’s jock. That’s why he is moving to the other side of the bay next week The Skeezer Pleezer is sitting by you. Only open seat left.” I held up the seating arrangement for the team to see in my hand.
“I think I would rather sit somewhere else if I could.” The new trainee was not happy being called The Skeezer Pleezer and sitting by the last girl in the building he wanted to sit by.
“Wrong, Pleezer. Shut your cock holster. Training is over. You will be lucky to be on the team by the end of the month.” I cut him off at the knees and set the tone as I did with all of them. “You got two objectives when you come to work; get paid and have a good time doing it. You hit plan you make your own name and sit where you want to in the bay. If you suck you will be written up and out the door doomed to the life you had before we met. Don’t be discouraged. You will have a good time and hopefully help us all get paid. If we ain’t getting paid, we are getting played. You have come to one of the best teams if you want to learn how to play.” I turned my attention to the rest of our team in the bay. “The rest of you blowhards that are not at plan will be working Saturday too. Make sure you tell your mom now or the skank you will be taking home from the bar Friday night you need to be at work by 8am to begin east coast calling or you will be written up. If you, or them, have a problem with that have them call me and we can discuss your next job. The good news? Anyone who gets a sale from now until end of shift gets double lines.
The Rancher shouted out as he looked over the wall of his cube at Fonzie’s screen and listened to his sale.” “Fonzie is on a 3 liner right now that looks like is going down with the international plan on all three lines too.”
Fonzie pushed on the mute button. “Thanks Rancher you fucking idiot. They can hear you in the back ground, dumbass. You jank me on this sale and am I am gonna smack you, fucker.” Fonzie released the mute button, “That’s right, sir, if you call anywhere you are guaranteed the lowest international rates on all three phones. If you don’t use it I wouldn’t worry, its just an added feature to the plan. This way if you ever do use it you can be assured you get the lowest rates…” and so it went.
 

Each line would get taxed $10 for the international service they were not using on each line they switched. Two months down the road they would call customer service and they in turn would try and save the sales from being canceled. They did an amazing job of keeping pissed off customers from switching back. The truth is most of the customers would need to call in a couple times to get the lines switched back. Hard to believe this was a commodity that could be sold on the NASDAQ. History proved that was only temporary.
 

This is exactly how I knew MCI World Com would crash. This was my day to day routine. The rest of the company consisted of the commercials on TV and the company trips. It was a huge scam from the top all the way down to the actual calls. There was manipulation, fraud and an asterisk on every statistic, accounting act, loan or otherwise business deal MCI World Com touched. The darling of Wall St. crashed and burned into bankruptcy in 2004 and left everyone from the top all the way down to Team Dirty Sanchez unemployed with a zero stock value and few transferrable job skills. That was almost a dozen years ago but the memories would last a lifetime.

I burned a few joints and drank a few beers with Miller many times back in the mid 90’s in the college days and when I came back to MCI. World Com. Miller appeared the same; tall, longer hair, needing a shave, holding a beer and pasty white. He was an honest guy and as The Cleveland Steamer on the phone back in the day he was average, not great, but always …The Steamer. He was naturally lazy, talked with a slow accent that sounded like a huge stoner but was smarter than the average guy. “Hey man, I thought that was you. I haven’t seen you in forever.” Miller said as I approached.
“The Cleveland Steamer. I haven’t seen you in years, man.” I exclaimed.
“Dr. Love, you remembered. That is hilarious. I haven’t heard that in years. C’mon in and let me get you a drink. I work here. It’s happy hour.” Miller laughed.
“Sure.” I replied. I had nothing to do and walked in around the doors and onward through to the other side of the patio.
 

The Sand Trap was a typical college sports bar with an odd golf theme. I am not sure if it was designed to try and draw in the future country club crowd but that was the initial feeling. There was a nice oak bar in the front with every liquor imaginable and too many beer taps to count. The walls were plastered with pictures of famous golfers and courses of the past. The typical Tiger Woods, Arnold Palmer and Rat Pack stuff purchased off the internet, put in cheap frames and screwed to the wall so it couldn’t be stolen by drunk college kids. There were flat screen TV’s and mounted speakers in every direction the eye could see. I was greeted by a cute blonde college girl. I smiled as I walked by and made my way to the patio. Miller was sitting alone on what looked like the cheap plastic patio furniture from the home improvement store with a beer in his hand.
 

“Good to see you.” I said as he stood up and I gave him a hug.
“You look the same, but older.” Miller sized me up. “Let me pour you a beer. I just got a pitcher.”
“You look like you rolled out of a Volkswagen van about an hour ago.” It was the same Miller.
“That’s funny. Same sense of humor.” He laughed as he poured me a beer. “No, I just got off. I am the kitchen manager with another guy.”
No surprise there. Miller had zero ambition. He was one of those guys who just found a way to make mistakes in life and justified them. I didn’t want to sound condescending. “How is that treating you?”
“It sucks, but it’s a job. The action is pretty good for Iowa City but, shit, I am forty now.” Miller put on his sunglasses as the sun was shining on our table. He took a swig of beer and belched. “These are all kids working here. What the hell are you doing?”
A simple question that I found difficult to answer. My life was far from ambitious too. “I was just down here trying to find out more about the Iowa Writer’s workshop.”
Miller scoffed. “Dude, those guys are deadbeats and burnouts hanging out getting drunk at the Dirtwood playing jeopardy on TV with the narcs.”
“I heard the Dirtwood is crawling with narcs.”
“It’s true. Stay the fuck out of there. The cops all have long hair and black tee shirts. The owner is a fucking Republican and he makes his money selling liquor to the burnouts while the cops stale the place out.” I heard that before but Miller’s confirmation was the final straw for the Dirtwood in my mind.
“I read your stuff on the internet, man. That shit is cool. I didn’t know you were a writer.” Miller said.
I was surprised. “Are you serious?” I couldn’t believe Miller actually looked up my stuff. “What have you read?”
“I read the bullshit with you and the cops. That was a good one. Fuck them guys, you were right.” He did read it.
“Yeah, that sucked.” I confessed. Miller didn’t care.
“I liked that other one with the two guys where you were just starting out.”
I thought for a moment. There were no stories like that I had written. “Miller, set down the bong, there is no story with two guys just starting out.”
Miller took another slug off the beer. “Yeah, maybe you are right. That was another guy.”
I laughed. Even if it was Miller it was good to have an audience. “Thanks for reading my stuff though. I guess that’s the idea with the workshop. Maybe I could get some publicity. Hopefully, get a little review or endorsement maybe. If I were lucky I could parlay that into getting a decent agent and see what is out there.”
Miller asked the million-dollar question, “What are you going to write?”
I smiled and raised my eyebrows. “That I don’t know yet. I want to try something about the culture here in Iowa City. The Princeton Review’s number one party school rating in America is worthy of an R rated piece from a twenty year Iowa City party veteran.”
“Dude, that would be smart. There is some crazy shit going on.”
“Like what?” I was curious.
“Dude its everywhere. I can’t tell you everything but the chicks are beautiful, everyone is drunk and there is money and drugs everywhere. The Sand Trap is an institution in Iowa City.” Miller exclaimed proudly. He was proud to be a part of it.
“I don’t know if it is a story. That stuff is also all over the internet and television already. There is more to life than just getting drunk and stoned, Miller. Plus, it’s been like that down here forever.” I replied as I sipped my pale ale.
Miller disagreed and shook his head. “It’s different now. It’s gonna crash.”
“What do you mean it’s gonna crash?” I asked.
“Dude, the entire town is morally bankrupt. You got these young girls getting shit faced drunk and fucking any idiot in the bar. I have seen it. Their all filming themselves on their phones having sex with these idiots. They pay for the food and booze on the credit card they should have never been given and the rest goes on their university credit card that goes directly on the student loan.” Miller paused to take a swig of beer. “They come to all the bars after classes. Happy hour is from 3pm-7pm. $2 pints and well drinks every day at almost any bar downtown. Can’t do that anywhere in downtown Chicago. Good beer too.”
This made me flash back to the drink specials of yesteryear. The nickel beer nights, kegs in the frat houses and unlimited alcohol for a cover charge had been banned years ago for a reason. “That is old school too. The quality of the beer is just a lot better now.” I thought back to the days of domestic beer specials that ruled all the taps years ago. American craft beers were more popular and stronger now. That trend would not be reversing with all the growth in local micro beer makers in Iowa.
“These kids know they can take the classes online and pass the tests.” Miller continued. “They spend the rest of their time partying or hanging out on their smart phones. It’s beautiful; coming here to Iowa City to study liberal arts for $15,000 a year, tune in, tune out, skip class and party. The Chinese think they are in Mexico. These guys have everything; the cash, the grades, the cars. They have everything except a white girlfriend in the passenger side. The university is not dumb; they aren’t hiring any of these liberal arts idiots to work at the hospital. They are only hiring from the other side of the river; medical, dental, law or science students. The guys on this side of the river in the college of liberal arts end up going back to where they came from or work a job like mine before they quit or get fired. Then they disappear.”
As we were talking a hot looking Asian girl was making out with some nice dressed burly Asian guy leaning up against a brand new Mercedes SUV. “Why do you think you see all the Chinese students here in town? Out of state tuition?” I asked.
“Bingo, the foreigners are paying out of state tuition rates at three times the price, in cash. Iowa recruits them.”
I agreed. “Yup, why sell cars for $10k when people will pay $30k for the same.”
“Dude, look around town. You see the kind of cars these chinks are rolling in? Fuck man, its Maserati, Mercedes and BMW’s. The guys are playing with monopoly money here and I am living in a shitty two bed room apartment working this job and I have been here twenty years.” Miller shook his head in disappointment.
“It’s true. They are everywhere now. It wasn’t always like that. But, c’mon man, the reason you are in here cooking is not because of the Chinese.” I had to level with Miller. He was the kind of guy that would be good back on the phones or in the office where he could be managed. On his own? He would regress back to being twenty.
“It’s no big deal. I have only been here 9 months and I am the assistant kitchen manager already. I worked in the kitchen of McPatricks for about three years. I saw this job on the internet. It’s more money and better action. The owner shows up once in the morning for about an hour to pick up the cash from the night before, watch over deliveries and set up and then he is gone. I am like the number two guy in 9 months. All the others have already quit or got fired.” Miller replied. He was making progress in a way.

Miller was not a dead beat. He just needed a good coach I always thought. “Its good you are working in the kitchen and not hustling drugs in the streets for your money or sitting on the couch playing video games. I respect that.”
“Fuck that. I am just looking for the opportunity. The action here at the Sand Trap is solid if you look past just the college kids drinking. It is a good pulse on what’s going on around town. But I need to get out. I need something new.” Miller confessed and looked out across Clinton Street at the Pentacrest.
I took a huge swig off my beer. “The action makes a white boy from Iowa feel like he is still a player?”
Miller started laughing. “Shit, I am forty and I am still paying on my student loans. These fucking kids in here are paying for drinks on their parent’s credit cards. These bars down here are making almost $5,000 a night Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays.”
It seemed reasonable. “That’s a lot of cash”
“It is.” Miller paused and belched. “They keep it all them fuckers. If you don’t own the bars or restaurants down here you are living in an apartment with a roommate making $10 an hour plus tips. It’s a racket.”
“What are you doing here then? Why don’t you get out?” I asked.
“Long story but I am the kitchen manager.” He paused. “Well, me and another guy. A young guy. He’s pretty cool. He’s is a drummer in the Phlegm Tones. They’re a local band. They suck ass like all the other bands around here. He doesn’t think so. He thinks he’s is going to Los Angeles with the band in a few months. I don’t care. He does what I tell him to do in the kitchen. Plus, his roommates have the hook up on coke and weed.” He confessed he was coasting like he always had.
 

I had spent the last year building up my own internet and telemarketing business. It was brutally slow, very little money and a ton of time. I should have never let the first one crash but the recession and the flood in Cedar Rapids of 2008 killed me. I tried some other stuff jobs but hated all of them and most of the people I worked with. For me, hustling on the phone and internet is like riding a bike and what I am good at. To build it back up I would need some other talent again sooner than later. Miller was the perfect guy. The problem with guys like Miller was all of these type of guys required cash up front because they were always broke and would always piss away anything they earned. I didn’t have the bank roll to come over the top. “So what’s the plan? You are the assistant kitchen manager, at forty? Where are you going with this?” I looked him in the eyes.
“I know how it looks but, dude, the action is hot. I am telling ya.”
I shook my head. Some things never change. “What is so hot about it?”
“My kid stays with her mom. I have a two-bedroom apartment off Mormon Trek Boulevard. She is a senior in high school. I see her on the weekends sometimes. She stays in the other room. But the time I don’t have her it’s hard to find a better place to party in Iowa. Shit, I fucked this hot nineteen-year-old two weeks ago.” Miller started laughing through the bragging.
He was telling the truth. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I am serious. She was in the bar drunk and acting stupid. I told her I was twenty-eight. We went to the Mayflower dorm and I fucked her. I told her the next morning I was forty and had a daughter almost her age. She told me I was a pig and to get out. I left, man. I didn’t want to get arrested. She was pissed because I was forty not because she didn’t like the thrill with me in bed. I was throwin’ down the one handers and slappin’ her ass. She loved it. Where else am I going to get that kind of action?” Miller was proud of his accomplishment and surely had shared this news piece with anyone in earshot.
I was laughing at the thought of Miller banging college girls. “You are fucking amazing. You are lucky you didn’t say you sexually assaulted her.” Girls get drunk, they have sex with some guy they shouldn’t have. They feel remorseful. Some think they were taken advantage of and they were. This is nothing new. Guys have been getting girls drunk to have sex with them since beer was created. However, some of those girls file reports now. It makes for good news. The universities all try and sell how fun it is to come to college. What is fun for an 18 year old? Getting drunk, getting stoned and having sex. This is nothing new. However, the colleges were now all trying to make it seem like they took binge drinking and unwanted sexual assaults serious and anything reported always ended up in the paper and on the internet.
Miller shook his head. “Dude, she was nineteen. That is legal.”
“How do you know?”
“I checked her ID. It was a fake. But I would say she was a freshman.” Miller was the kind of guy I didn’t want my daughter to be hanging around in a few years. “Bro, that is nothing. These girls now are fucking on video and uploading it to the internet nowadays. Hot girls too.”
I raised my eyebrows. “We all have seen porn too. Miller, you’re forty.”
“I know. I am just sayin’, man. I could be an internet star one day.” He joked.
“Sayin? What are you saying?” I wanted Miller to know there was more to life than getting drunk, stoned and trying to have sex with college girls, at forty. I would also be lying if I said I would turn down a hot college girl who thought I was twenty-eight. The comment reminded me of how flat my sex life was.
“Here try this.” Miller reached into his pocket. “It’s vaporizing hash oil. Tell me that isn’t the best.”
I smiled. I hadn’t smoked hash in a few years. It looked like the typical e-cig with the fat battery and a cartridge with liquid. “Where did you get this?”
“Comes out of Northern California or Colorado for sure. It is just like an e-cig but it is hash oil and not flavored nicotine. No smell.” Miller handed it to me across the table.
I pressed the button on the side and took a big rip and exhaled. The guy at the next table noticed nothing. “Oh my. That’s the real deal.” The sweet taste of hashish is unmistakable and not local.
“Dude, I got the hook up on those all day. That vapor will last me a week for $30 each.”
I took another big puff on the vaporizer and exhaled nothing. It was brilliant. There would be no stopping these across the country. “I am hungry. The food here any good?”
“No, its terrible. It’s all shit that comes off the truck.” Miller was honest.
“Processed, frozen and fried cooking?” I assumed correctly.
“Yeah, me and a couple other guys. We’re just lost a guy so now it’s going to be a bitch with only two guys. You want a job?” Miller caught me off guard.
“Doing what, cooking?” I liked cooking and always have.
“I know you can cook too. I remember that pasta and those chicken wings over at your place back in the day. Its only $10 an hour but you get free food and drinks when I am working.” Miller winked the offer. Free food and drinks is appealing when you are twenty or going to Mexico for a vacation. At this point in my life I needed to keep focused on the big picture. Like Miller, when I didn’t have the kids I did have some extra time. I could use some extra cash too. It would be a great change of pace I thought.
“I am almost tempted to take you up on it. I have every other weekend without the kids. Without a girlfriend it wouldn’t hurt to be a little closer to the action. I report only to you?” I asked out loud.
“Of course. The front manager just got busted in a coke deal Sunday and he is out. You will be working with the drummer, Pete. We just get drunk, burn weed out in the alley and serve these idiots the frozen stuff right off the truck. You won’t be learning any knew recipes, or make any real money, but you might get some content for your story. This place is fucking weird, man.” Miller said as he finished off his beer.

I knew it was the right idea. I had no other idea for a story and I spent too much time just sitting on my ass. I could try it for a weekend. If it wasn’t too bad it might not be a bad gig. I needed to get out of the house. Miller was correct in that there was a youthful vibe in Iowa City. There were not a lot of fat people, Harley’s and pick-up trucks like the Cedar Rapids crowd. Even the older women my age were fit and good looking. “I will do it. I do need to get out of the house and I do like to be in the kitchen too. The extra money could come in handy. I will do it for a weekend. If I like it we go from there. One weekend. $100 a night.” I offered.
Miller extended his hand. “Deal. I do the payroll for the kitchen. The other guy we hired for the kitchen just left last week before shift. I will fuck him on his hours and give them to you to even it out. He’s was a douchebag anyways. It has to be this weekend though.” I made a quick mental note that if I ever did make it big Miller would not be the company accountant.
I shook his hand. It was a deal. “Fine, I don’t have the kids.”
“Let’s drink my man. The big man, Dr. Love, is in the house.” Miller stood up and toasted with an empty glass. No one paid any attention.
“Dude, I don’t have to wear a uniform do I?” I asked.
“Hell, no. It gets pretty greasy by the fryer and the grill though.”
“I got a chef’s jacket I can wear. I also have a sweet chef’s knife I always use.” I kept the black jacket from a brief cooking job I had a year or two back. I kept it in my dresser at home. The knife was a $200 Messermeister I always used at home.
“Dude, aren’t you the pimp?” Miller laughed and headed towards the bar to get us another pither while it was still happy hour.
 

Chapter 3
 

Saturday
 

I got up early on the couch. I could hear Miller snoring in his room. I looked around and there was no coffee maker. I opened the apartment door, made my way down the stairs and out into the parking lot. A quick inspection of the car revealed no door dents or key marks scratched into the paint. I unlocked the car, grabbed my backpack and headed back up the stairs to Miller’s apartment.
 

I walked into the apartment to find Miller standing there in his boxer shorts without a shirt on.
“I thought I heard someone go out the front door.” Miller said as he scratched his head.
“Just getting my backpack. No coffee maker?”
“Yeah, but it is in the garage. I just moved in here and some of the stuff is still in the garage.” Miller looked at the clock on the stove. “Shit, it’s already 8:30. We need to be there by 9 a.m. The Hawk game is at 11 a.m.”
Saturday was game day. I forgot too. “Wow, I didn’t even think of that.”
“How could you not? It is a bar in Iowa City on Saturday during football season. We have to get dressed and get the hell out of here.” Miller looked stressed for 8:30 a.m.
“I need a shower. So do you.” I hinted to Miller. He sniffed under his arms to do a quick check.
“I will be fine. A little deodorant, some cologne and a clean shirt is all The Cleveland Steamer needs, Dr. Love.”
I laughed but disagreed. “You are a freakin’ dirt bag. I am taking a shower. You got soap and shampoo?”
“Yeah, I got the body wash stuff. I just put that in my hair.” Miller replied.
 

Thank God Miller had just moved in only a week or so ago because the bathroom in another couple of weeks would need to be condemned. Dirty clothes covered the floor. Hair and whiskers spotted the sink, and the spit from the toothpaste confirmed someone brushed their teeth, but there was no toothbrush to be seen. I kicked all Miller’s clothes into one corner, stripped down, and jumped into the shower. I am not sure what in the hell Miller was thinking when he bought his soap, but it was some overpriced organic lilac-smelling potion. Then it dawned on me; his daughter might actually use it when she came over. Hard to imagine Miller as a father, but his own daughter was a year older than mine. I squirted the stuff into my hands, and it smelled exactly like the stuff my old girlfriend used to keep in the shower. The smell brought back some good memories.
 

I quickly rinsed off and saw no towel. “Miller, you got a freakin’ towel?”
I heard him yell through the door. “Yeah, there should be one in there.”
I looked on the floor and in the pile that I kicked was a single wadded-up towel lying underneath some socks and underwear.
“Dude, are you serious? You don’t have another towel?” There was no way I was drying off with that.
“I told you. I just moved in, man.”
I tried to dry myself off as best I could with my hands. I threw my tee shirt, underwear, jeans, and socks on from my bag. The chef’s jacket I had might be a bit dirty, but I was clean underneath, and I could wipe that baby off with a bar rag when I got to the kitchen.

In ten minutes, we were on the road headed east down Melrose towards downtown. The traffic was already starting to pick up. If it were a home game, the streets would already be jammed, and there would be no getting through on Melrose. We played Iowa State in Ames this year. The Cyclones and Hawkeye game was always the biggest game of the year in the state, and I had seen plenty both in the stadium and in the bars. It was going to be a busy day.
 

We drove down Clinton and into the alley with the gated entrance. Miller jumped out and came over to my side of the car and punched the code on the buttons in the small box attached to the wall, and the gate started raising. Miller signaled me in, and he just walked in front of the car. The gate closed behind me as I pulled up. I could already see a couple of guys unloading some speakers and a drum kit from the back of a delivery van. The white van was rusting and old, and on the side of the van was a picture drawn of a monster mask-looking figure screaming into a microphone. “The Phlegm Tones. Iowa City, Iowa” was written underneath the caricature in calligraphy. It actually was a pretty decent drawing, I thought to myself.
“Yo, Pete, move that hunk of shit out of here, man. You know you ain’t supposed to be parking back here.” Miller yelled to no one.
Pete appeared out of the propped-open back door. “There is only a bass, an amp, and a speaker left, and then I will move it out. We are setting up in the corner before the game.”
“That’s cool, just get this hunk of shit out of here, or the manager of the Apex will start crying again.” Miller said loud enough I could hear him from my open window in the car.
 

I backed in against the entrance to the Apex kitchen and watched for a moment as the gear was being unloaded. I noticed a Mexican-looking guy I had not seen the other day exit the Sand Trap, go into the van, and walk back through the door carrying a speaker. It kind of made me jealous. My garage band back in high school and after the Navy never went anywhere. It would have been great to play in front of a bunch of drunk college girls. I couldn’t sing, and the rest of the band were forgettable as well.
 

Pete exited the Sand Trap back door, jumped into the front seat of the van, and turned it over. A huge belch of bluish-black smoke from the exhaust filled the air behind the van. He slowly pulled it around and out through the gate. I pulled my car into the place he had vacated. It was an odd-shaped alley. It was circular, and there was no through traffic. The gate kept people from roaming around, and without the code, the only way of getting back into the area was through the back door of the connected restaurants and bars or climb over the gate.
 

I jumped out of the car and walked in through the propped-open back door. The bar was quiet except for some shuffling around up front. Miller was at the kitchen order window with a calculator and a stack of meal tickets in one pile and a stack of bar receipts in the other, going over last night’s revenue. I walked into the kitchen and noticed the fryer, grill, and oven were already started. The vent over the grill and fryer had the fan running, and the lid was raised on the condiment portions. The floor was modestly cleaned from the close on Friday night, and the dishwasher was running through a cycle. I liked the feel and comfort of a commercial-grade kitchen.
 

“Hey, can you give me a hand with the truck?” Pete asked through the order window. “We have a few deliveries, and the guy doesn’t pull all the way into the back. He parks out on Clinton Street and uses a dolly to drop it off at the front door. We have to hump it all the way around back here into the cooler or freezer.”
I put my chef’s coat on that I left hanging on a hook by the entrance. “No problem.”
Miller yelled out as we headed toward the exit. “Beer truck will be here any time too. I need those kegs in the basement checked too, Pete. Have your boyfriend, Angel, help you out if he is just going to be standing around until the game starts. We are going to move about a hundred gallons of beer today, so make sure there are no empties before we open. I also need all the liquor bottles refilled at the bar too.” 100 gallons of beer sounds like a lot for a bar, but this was nothing. There would be easily 5,000 gallons of beer consumed just in the bars downtown on Saturday. Refilling the liquor bottles was also common practice. Bars buy the gallon bottles at a discount and then topped off the smaller bottles before each shift, so it looked like they were always brand-new bottles opened.
 

Pete and I came out from the kitchen and through the entryway and were greeted by the Mexican-looking guy leaning against the wall with a backpack. He wasn’t very big but had a friendly boyish face. “Boyfriend? Motherfucker, I oughta…” Angel began.
“Angel, c’mon, man.” Miller shook his head without even looking up from the calculator. “It is gonna be a busy day. Why don’t you help unload the food truck and I will give you some free wings and beer today.”
Angel raised his eyebrows. “That’s cool.” He replied and followed Pete and I out the back door, out the gate, and around to the front. It was raining slightly and overcast. It meant a ton of people would be cloistered in the bars to get out of the weather.
 

“Yo, Angel. You are getting an early start this morning.” The truck driver said as he nodded his head in a gesture to Angel as he walked the dolly with a few boxes of food down the ramp from the back of the truck.
“I am always here to help. It is game day. You know I am a huge Hawkeye fan.” Angel smirked.
The delivery driver rested the dolly in the street at the bottom of the ramp. “Yeah, right, and I am Santa Claus. Can you even name one guy on the team?”
“Oh, I know several. Probably best I keep that to myself. You should swing by after you get off.” Angel raised his eyebrows a couple of times hinting at a thinly veiled message.
The food truck driver took off his ball cap, scratched his head, and laughed. “I just might do that. I have a couple of hours of deliveries still, but you gonna be hanging out at the Sand Trap for the game?”
“Yeah. I should be.” Angel replied with a wink.
Pete snapped his fingers. “Yo, Angel, put your arms out.”
Pete peeled off a case of chicken from the stack and handed it to Angel. “Shit, man, that is like fifty pounds.” Angel complained of the weight.
“Wrong.” Pete corrected him. “Read the box; it’s twenty-two pounds. Try setting down the backpack.”
Angel appeared defensive. “Yo, I never set down the backpack. You know that.”
“Whatever, man. Just start moving back towards the kitchen with the chicken.” Pete said as he grabbed a box of chicken off the dolly and handed it to me. “Same with you, old school.”
 

It took about 20 minutes, but four cases of chicken wings, two cases of burgers, one box of lettuce, one box of tomatoes, three boxes of bread, five boxes of buns, and four twenty-pound bags of potatoes were stowed in the cooler and the pantry. Miller looked up from his calculator as I approached the kitchen.
“27 orders of wings last night. That is one off the record. There were also seven double orders of wings. That is a record. Nice job, Dr. Love.” Miller confirmed from the receipts.
I was proud. On the very first night, people were loving them. “Dude, I told you the wings are legit.”
“I know that. You should patent the recipe before I steal it.” Miller said. I sighed. I thought about having my own restaurant, but without the cash, it was just a dream.
“Yeah, it’s a good recipe.”
“Shit, speaking of chicken wings. Fill up the deep sink after you scrub it down and get about 100-150 in there thawing on the one side. Raw chicken means salmonella.” I was impressed Miller even knew about Salmonella. He had learned a few things about kitchen work in his time cooking in Iowa City.
“You actually do know some stuff in the kitchen, Miller.” I confessed. “I am kind of impressed, to be honest.”
“If you only knew.” Miller replied and took the receipts into the dark office. He opened the safe, withdrew the cash from the night before, and put it in a deposit bag after he counted a hundred in change for each cash register.
 

I returned to the freezer and grabbed a case of chicken wings. I sat them on the line while I started scrubbing down the deep sink. I rinsed it all down, filled it with water, poured in some salt, and dumped in the wings. I grabbed a deep sauce pan, started melting some butter, threw in some garlic, and got the Frank’s hot sauce to barely come to a boil. I shut off the gas stove and began filling a couple of squirt bottles.
 

Miller left out the back door with the cash deposit bag headed for the bank. I followed him out the back door. Immediately, I smelled the weed. Angel and Pete were smoking some pot out of a pipe. It smelled fantastic. Angel looked at me. “Go Hawks, right?”
“Old school is cool.” Pete said to Angel. “Dr. Love, I forgot to introduce you to Angel. He is our lead singer and kind of a part-time worker.”
Angel handed me a ceramic pipe. I took a big hit, and indeed, it was very high-quality green pot. “That is some funny shit. Why do they call you Dr. Love?” Angel asked.
“A long time ago, believe it or not, Miller used to work for me telemarketing. I gave everyone on the team a name, and mine was Dr. Love.”
Angel asked, “What was his?”
“The Cleveland Steamer.” I replied.
“That is fucking hilarious, bro.” Angel burst out laughing.
“It was a long time ago. The company crashed.” I said as I took another hit off the pipe. “Nice weed.”
“All day long, bro.” Angel replied confidently as he took a big toke off the pipe and handed it to Pete.
Pete replied, “Angel is also our hook-up other than just singing in the band.”
“Nice combination. I bet you pull a few ladies in with that resume.” I was jealous.
“You’re funny.” Angel smirked. “I do all right.”
“We need to cover the gig list tonight. I want us to open with Thunder Lover, then Closet Mary, and maybe Rocket Crotch after that.” Pete was serious.
“That’s cool. I got a new one too. I was working on it with Rod; See Through Panties.”
I laughed. “I wonder what that one is about?”
“Not tonight, man. He is out. He might be permanently out too.”
“I heard. He better keep his fucking mouth shut. I don’t give a fuck who his uncle is. I like the guy and all, but fuck man, he just better keep his mouth shut or he will end up in the fuckin’ dumpster.” Angel wasn’t too happy with Rod getting popped.
“Rod is cool, man. He won’t say anything. Plus, he is our weak link. We can find another bass player easy enough.” Pete said. Evidently, not having a bass player for the one-hour gig had yet to dawn on either of them.
 Angel replied, “These guys have so fucking much money it ain’t gonna matter. He knows that. He will get bailed out. But we are sitting on more weight than we ever have, and the last thing we need is for him to run his mouth.”
“He will be out today.” Pete said not too confidently. “I am sure he will come down here, and we can get the low down.”
 

I didn’t ask any questions, but my suspicions had been confirmed. It was always good to know a pot dealer when I needed one. Most of them were worthless, and if it were not for the fact that they sold pot, no one would talk to them. Angel seemed legit enough.
 

“Hey, stoners.” It was Lyndsey, the waitress. “The bar needs stocking, and the compressor outside the freezer is covered in ice and making that sound again.”
“Shit, man. Not again.” Pete said as he headed back into the Sand Trap following Lindsey via the propped-open back door.
 

I got a nice buzz off the pot and made my way back into the kitchen. I noticed Lindsey bending over to pick up a bar rag on the floor. It was hard not to. She was beautiful. I sighed. I was trying to think of the last time I had sex. It had been months, and it was a woman I met off the internet. It was a nice lady, and the sex was good. I think she was looking for a bigger fish as she deleted her profile on the dating site the very next day and never returned a single call or text after that. At forty-seven, all the decent women are looking for guys with a bankroll, not some guy serving chicken wings, no matter how good they are.
 

Lindsey walked around the bar with the remote control and turned on every flat-screen TV on the walls, and the front of the restaurant came to life with football pre-game analysts talking about college football. Miller walked back in through the back door. “$4,694 last night.” He said through the order window.
 

Pete stood next to the compressor by the freezer. “Shit, man. I got like $100 yesterday working a ten-hour shift. That fucker Gennaro is sitting on his ass somewhere in Chicago getting drunk in a hotel.”
Miller shook his head and replied. “Can you blame him? The guy is rich as hell.”
Pete scoffed. “Whatever, the food sucks, we need to change up the menu, we need a couple more people, and he could give a shit.”
“Who cares, man. He let us use the place to play to a packed house.” Angel said.
“The only reason it will be packed is because it’s all you drink for $5 disguised as a cover charge for you idiots. Don’t be blasting that shit either. It makes you guys sound worse than you really are. Who is gonna fill in for you on bass?” Miller laughed as he walked away back into the restaurant.
“Hey, fuck you, man. What do you play?” Pete said as Miller walked through the door.
 

I walked back into the kitchen and was greeted by a hungover-looking LaQwon. “Long night, bro?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know. How about an order of those wings? That was good shit.” He replied and turned his attention towards the front.

“No problem. Nothing gets you back in the game like some good wings.” I said to the back of LaQwon as he was already headed straight to the bar. I grabbed a dozen wings from the deep sink and threw them in a big mixing bowl with the cornmeal and flour mixture. All the wings would need to be breaded before the crowd started ordering them.
 

The place started filling up, and once the game started, the orders started coming in. Pete was working the spatula on the grill again, and I assumed the prep, dishwashing, and the fryer. Lyndsey was running back and forth from the tables to the kitchen with orders. Miller was working the bar with Alicia, who showed up late but just in time to start pouring drinks before the game. From the yelling up front, the Hawks were obviously winning the game. We got a little break in the action after the initial lunch rush, and I went to the bar to see if I could get a beer. Alicia and Lyndsey were busy working the tables and bringing dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Miller saw me belly up to the bar and approached me. He took a quick look around the bar and noticed all the glasses were filled. He stepped out from behind the bar to talk with me. “How about those Hawks? 21-0 at halftime. The Cyclones suck.”
“Of course, they do. But if Michigan loses and Northwestern wins, we are going to another Toilet Bowl in Florida.” I replied.
“The NCAA ruined the bowl games. It used to be cool, and now it’s just a bunch of corporate-sponsored bullshit. The Hawks suck ass too. If it were not for the Toilet Bowl games, we would never go to a bowl game.” Yoder looked up at the screen to check some other scores and took a big swig out of his plastic cup.
“I still like the old way better.” I confessed.
“Yeah, me too.” Miller replied as he spotted Angel. “Man, that fucker is going to get caught one of these days.” Miller said to himself aloud.
“Dealing?”
Miller nodded his head. “Shit, yeah. What do you think is in the backpack, books? Angel has to be the biggest dealer in town.”
“That has to be the shortest career in Iowa City.” I replied.
Miller started laughing. “Not as short as his career as a lead singer.”
I asked. “Is he any good?”
“He actually is good, but their songs are terrible, and their equipment sucks. The college idiots will listen to anything, though.” Miller took another big gulp out of his plastic Hawkeye cup that was probably half full of raspberry vodka. Miller watched Angel move to another table, give a guy a fist bump, and sat down in the booth with his backpack in his lap. He took a look around to see if anyone was watching and then began digging in his backpack. “ “The guy he is talking to now is some flunkie liberal arts professor who is a coke head. He is in here all the time trying to act like a big shot. I think he ficks some of the girls in his class for grades. About once a week, he is always in here with a different girl that isn’t old enough to drink.”
I was surprised. “Man, that takes some balls or is really freakin’ stupid.”
“It happens every day. See the old guy in the booth beside him with the Cubs hat on? He is a bookie from somewhere out of town who only shows up on game days. I’ve seen him sliding envelopes a couple of times to Gennaro. They go in the office and close the door behind them. When they come out, the safe is always locked. No one knows the combination to the safe except Gennaro and probably that guy.”
“Hope we don’t get robbed.” The last thing I needed was to get shot in a robbery at the Sand Trap.
Miller shook his head. “I doubt it. The niggers might jump college kids walking home on the sidewalk or hold up a place in Coralville but not downtown. There are just too many cops and cameras everywhere. Look up on the buildings in the Ped Mall sometime; there are cameras everywhere now.”
“It doesn’t surprise me.” Cameras and facial recognition software were revolutionizing the way law enforcement played out on the streets.
Miller continued, “See the tall white guy in the jacket by the jukebox? He is a recruiter or something for the Hawks. He might be wearing a Hawkeye team jacket, but the guy is known around town for pushing steroids. He is a fucking meathead that comes in here half the time in sleeveless tee shirts trying to show off his muscles.”
“Welcome to Iowa City.” I replied. There was no shortage of young guys trying to look tough.
“The old guy over there next to the two hot chicks at the end of the bar eating your chicken wings is our favorite Johnson County judge, Gerhard.” Miller scoffed and emptied his plastic cup.
“Is that the guy that got popped fucking the prosecutor in the Johnson County courthouse?” I heard the story. It happened before the Google days of hoisting all the negative content to the top of internet searches.
“That would be him. He doesn’t recognize me, but he was the judge in my drunk driving charge. He is an arrogant prick.”
“He was the judge in my case too, I think.” It was him, I just didn’t feel like admitting it. The look was unmistakable. He didn’t recognize me or Miller when he glanced over in our direction.
“He should have been disbarred. He is almost finished. If he orders another set of wings, spit in the sauce.” Miller replied.
I looked away from the judge and out the front window. “Looks like the rain is picking up.”
“Yeah. That means everyone will stick around a little longer, and anyone coming to see The Phlegm Holes will be standing out in the rain trying to get in. You want a beer?” Miller replied as he grabbed the raspberry vodka bottle.
“Sure. Pale ale.”
“I will get one of the girls to bring one back to you.” Miller replied as he headed to the other end of the bar to a customer wanting a drink, and I returned to the kitchen.
 

The orders kept coming throughout the game: burgers, fries, nachos, chicken nuggets, chicken wings, and wraps. The wraps and side salad were about the only thing on the menu that was halfway healthy if the customer ordered it with grilled chicken, shredded lettuce, and tomatoes. I could see through the order window that the place was still packed, and several of the patrons looked wet. Pete put two burger platters and a side of fries in the window, and Alicia yelled through the window, “I need two orders of wings and an order of nachos.”
“Can you handle this on your own, Dr. Love? I am going to step out back and have a smoke.”
“Yeah, no problem. It’s raining out.” I said to Pete as he headed out of the kitchen. I grabbed the two tickets out of the window and looked for my beer. There was none. I was going to yell at Alicia to have Miller pour me a beer, but she was already into the mix of people and out of earshot. I looked at the clock, and it was about 2:10 p.m.
 

Angel finished up his business in the booth and walked past the order window, headed out back to have a smoke with Pete. I dropped the wings in the fryer and started putting together the nachos. Gennaro was a cheap ass. He didn’t even order real cheese for the nachos; it was the cheap pre-melted stuff that was either half wax or plastic. The salsa came out of a one-gallon can and had been portioned into small 2oz plastic cups. It was true; drunk people will eat anything. I grabbed my wings from the fryer, added some sauce, carrots sticks, and celery, and put the orders up in the window under the heat lamp. I stepped outside to have myself a quick smoke. I was pretty sure Angel and Pete were getting stoned in the back.
 

The door was pried open with the broken mop handle, and Angel and Pete were passing a joint back and forth and talking about the band. Pete and Angel were tucked in right behind the door and under the small canopy over the back door, protecting them from the rain. Evidently, the stand-in bass player still hadn’t woken up, and the guitar player was at his girlfriend’s on the other side of the river. Miller popped his head out and almost smashed us with the door. “Did you post the drink special on your band’s Facebook page?” he asked.
“Hey, watch the door, man.” Angel said as he pulled on a joint about the size of a small cigar.
“Yeah, there were a bunch of people who liked it. The place should be packed.” Pete replied with confidence.
“I doubt it.” Miller laughed. “You got all the guys in the band ready?”
“We are working on it.” Angel answered as he exhaled.
“Shit, man, this is your big chance. But if you don’t have a full band, I am not going to let you just sit there and bang on the drums.” Miller said.
“Everyone will be here, don’t worry about it.” Angel replied as his mobile phone began to ring. He passed the joint to Pete and took the call.
Miller replied to Angel, who was not listening.“I am not worried. I am hoping they don’t show up, to be honest.”
Pete coughed and then chimed in, “Whatever, blow me. You’re always talking shit about our band.”
“Dude, try using all the proceeds from Angel’s backpack and get some real equipment. Where did you get that PA system? Did you steal that from bingo night at the church?” Miller slapped Pete down with the comment.
“We do need a new PA.” Pete admitted as he took a hit off the joint.
“Would you guys stop sitting out here getting stoned? We have orders in the window, and we got people wanting drinks at the bar.” Lyndsey yelled out the backdoor. She was pissed, but sexy.
“Whatever, I’ll be there in a second. Give me a hit off that.” Miller held his hand out, and Pete passed him the joint. Miller took a huge hit off the joint, passed it to me, and headed back into the bar. “I will tell LaQwon to start the cover charge at 5 p.m.”
“Don’t worry, I got it, Pete.” I said as he took a big hit off the joint myself. I exhaled the smoke and headed back towards the kitchen. There were two new orders in the window, and I walked through the entryway doors and pulled them down off the carousel in the window; two orders of chicken wings. I smiled. If I could ever get a place like this, I could sell a hundred orders a day. If I were in charge, we would stop buying the shit off the truck and start making our own chicken, burgers, and sauces too, I thought to myself. I grabbed about twenty wings out of the deep sink, threw them in the mixing bowl with the flour and cornmeal, and then threw them in the fryer baskets and sank them in the oil. I went to reach for my wing sauce in the squirt bottle when I noticed the light in the entryway flashing. I looked through the order window up at the bar, and the light above the bar was flashing too. The cops showed up unannounced.
 

I didn’t need to come around the entryway to see what was going on because Pete and Angel came bursting through the door, and Pete had the broken mop handle in his hand. “Cops are everywhere in the back.” He yelled through the window and kept moving towards the bar and disappeared into the crowd.
“Holy fucking shit. They are coming in the front too.” Angel said as he looked towards the LaQwon working the door. I suddenly heard the pounding on the backdoor. The look in Angel’s eyes was panic. He took his backpack off, hung it up on one of the hooks amongst a couple of other jackets and some aprons. The cocky look of the drug-dealing lead singer had vanished. He looked like a scared teenager. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly shut it off. “Keep an eye on this for me, old school.” Angel said as he set the phone in the window and tried to mix into the crowd up front.
 

There must have been about a dozen cops coming through the front door that afternoon, and two of them were K9 units. When I saw the dogs, I realized this was no random bar check. It was a raid on game day. I grabbed Angel’s backpack off the hook on the wall and walked back into the kitchen. I threw the backpack in the garbage can on the line and dumped the other garbage can on top of it. I threw a plate of my wings on the floor and was squirting my hot sauce on top of the garbage when the cops told me to freeze and come out up front with everyone else. Another cop opened the back door to let in some other uniformed officers. A cop with a bullhorn announced to the crowd that everyone was to stay put. They were all going to need to show identification and pass by the dogs before they would be allowed to leave. Anyone who tested positive from the dogs would be questioned further.

One by one, the cops turned off the TV’s in the bar and turned on all the lights. They made everyone remain in their seats with their hands on their heads. There was a cop at every table and three or four around the bar. One by one, each patron was sniffed by the dogs, and their identifications were checked for any outstanding warrants.
 

Within an hour, seventeen people were arrested on outstanding warrants, underage drinking, and possession charges. LaQwon was the first guy I saw get put in cuffs up at one of the front tables. It said in the paper Sunday that he had a felony warrant for his arrest in Chicago. The second person I saw arrested was Angel. He also had an outstanding felony warrant for cocaine trafficking. Fifteen other people were arrested and transported by twos to the Hotel Johnson County, four streets away, for booking. Some were held, and others were released in the morning. The rest, including me, were identified, searched, documented, and allowed to leave. There were several additional outstanding warrants being sought locally in Iowa City, the article read. The Sand Trap itself was closed indefinitely as part of an ongoing police investigation.