CHARACTERFARM

After I clocked in for the dinner shift at MonsterBurger, I checked the schedule and saw a new name: GrillMan - Adolph.

JJ, the assistant night manager, introduced us to the new worker before our shift started. His name was indeed Adolph. Adolph was taller than I was, and older. I figured him for at least a college sophomore. He had short blond hair, blue eyes, and a strong jaw. He also stood up straight with shoulders back, in comparison to the rest of us, who slumped and slouched around, letting our weight rest on any surface that would support us.

Adolph looked good, imposing even, in his new MonsterBurger uniform. His tunic was bright and shiny, his black pants had a sharp crease, and his black shoes gleamed with polish. His paper/mesh hat sat sharply on his head.

In comparison, my tunic was faded and permanently grease stained, my black pants shapeless, my shoes no better than a hobo's.

At the end of the shift, Adolph looked even crisper than when he had started.

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I found JJ in the cooler, counting tomatoes.

"Why would you hire a guy like that?" I asked.

"Like what?" JJ said.

"A Nazi," I said. "A guy named after Hitler."

JJ looked at me as if I had gone crazy. "Adolf Hitler, with an f," he said. "This Adolph is a ph."

"You don't see see any problem?" I asked.

"The guy shouldn't get a job," JJ asked, "because he has an unfortunate name?"

"Unfortunate, maybe," I said, "but not unavoidable. His parents named him that. They could have given him any name and they chose Adolf."

"With a ph," JJ said.

"Would you name your kid Lucipher?" I asked. "Would the ph make a difference? There's still a message, and most likely an expectation implied there."

JJ laughed out loud. "He's just a guy cooking some burgers."

"I'm going to keep an eye on him," I said, "as a favor to you."

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Adolph worked the grill for a few months. He kept to himself, didn't speak to any of us, didn't really acknowledge us at all.

During slow times, we all scattered, some outside for a quick smoke, some to the bathroom, some even restocked their stations. But not Adolph. He rarely left his post. When it got slow, he went to work with a spray bottle and a cloth, cleaning the outside of the giant grill, the counters, the steamer doors and the microwaves. His area was orderly and impeccable.

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"Looks like you were wrong about Adolph," JJ said. "He's become the best worker on the night shift."

"That just proves my point," I said. "For my money all that spit and polish makes him more of fascist Nazi bastard, not less."

"Don't let him hear you talking like that," JJ said. "He might goose step your ass right to the front."

"I'm Irish, myself," I said. "With a little German thrown in as well. I doubt I'm first on his list."

"You've gone insane," JJ said. "I may have to cut your hours."

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After some observation, I noticed that Adolph was stealing. He was using his obsessive cleaning routine as a cover. He rubbed and cleaned along the counter, until he got to the steamer where the fresh cooked burgers were stowed. With one motion, he opened the steamer, dropped his rag over a burger, and plucked it out, covered with the rag. After this he walked to the slop sink area in back, where I presume he stuffed down the burger.

I wasn't exactly shocked. Everyone who worked at the MonsterBurger stole food. But with most of us, it was an open secret. We covered for each other, handed CheesyMonsterBurgers over the counter to nonpaying friends and family, stashed stolen shakes in the walk-in refrigerators, casually grabbed a handful of fries when we walked past the fry station, and on and on.

It was the solitary aspect of Adolph's thefts that was disturbing. That and the fact that he was apparently risking his job over and over for plain burgers that had been covered with dirty cleaning rags. I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't know if he was a master criminal, or just a moron.

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One night I came to work a little late and went right to my station. I was busy and didn't notice for quite some time that there was a new GrillMan, a girl I recognized from my high school.

When the dinner rush was over I went back to the office and found JJ.

"Where's Adolph?" I asked.

"Gone," JJ said.

"For good?" I asked.

"For good."

"That's all you telling me?" I asked.

"That's it," JJ said. "I can't talk about it."

"Just nod if I'm right then," I said. "Was it the burgers under the cloth thing?"

"The what?" JJ said. "I have no idea what you're talking about. What burgers? What cloth?"

"So if it wasn't the burgers, then it was the other thing, wasn't it?" I said. "What I warned you about."

JJ didn't say anything, but as I was leaving his office I looked back just in time to see him give me an almost imperceptible nod.

Doug: Tall and skinny, death-white complexion, lank black hair, dead pig eyes, horn rimmed glasses.

His crimes:

In high school he worked as a cook at PancakePavilion. During his shifts he cooked extra dinners, carefully packed them in to-go containers and set them outside the back door. His burnout friends stopped by and picked them up. They were the the most well-fed group of pothead, speed freak, time wasting losers one could hope to see.

Doug lived across the street from a public golf course. His front door looked out on the 16th fairway. He regularly heard golfers cursing one particular tree that had been unfortunately, or unfairly, situated. In order to stop the complaining, Doug snuck out one night and cut down the tree.

One summer Doug invested in spray paint and stencils. With the stencils he made a template that said Lou Gravity. He spent many evenings spray painting that name on mailboxes throughout the township. This made the local papers.

When Doug was in college he convinced the facilities coordinator to donate outside space for community vendors to sell their wares. (In the interest of fostering good town and gown relations.) He then charged the vendors an arm and a leg for the privilege of selling on campus and pocketed those proceeds.

He got a degree in forensic pathology and a job at the state police investigations lab. One evening he slashed the tires of most of the cars in the lot ( both police and civilian vehicles). He was implicated, but not actually caught. He was dismissed, but not charged.

That's the last I've heard of him.

They rode up together on their bikes, big clunky no gear fat tire contraptions. One looked a little older than me, one a little younger. They both had stand-up crew cuts, and were both wearing white t-shirts, long green work pants, and alarmingly, black tie shoes instead of sneakers.

I'd seen enough tv reruns to have a reference point. They both looked as if they'd escaped from a 50's sitcom and had somehow materialized in my driveway years after the fact.

"We're the Ulrickeys," the bigger one said. "I'm Ray and this is Kurt."

"Hi," I said.

"We heard you just moved in. We'd like to be friends with you." Again from the bigger one. The younger one just stood there sporting a classic dopey smile. "Can we be your friends?"

I was only twelve at the time, but I knew a golden opportunity when I saw one. I'd also read Tom Sawyer and taken its lessons to heart.

I was standing there because my mother had sent me out to plant a row of bushes along the edge of the driveway. It was hot, the ground was hard. I didn't want to do it.

"We can be friends," I said, "if you plant these bushes down this row. I'll mark where each one should go."

This was to be the extent of my participation. I didn't want their help; I wanted them to do all the work. I didn't sell my friendship cheaply.

"OK," the older one said. He looked at his brother. "Let's get to work."

He took the shovel and started digging. I went into the garage and got a shovel for the younger one.

"Here," I said. "You can start on that end."

I went into the house and got myself a big glass of lemonade. I took it out and sat in the shade of the apple tree.

"If you get thirsty, there's a hose on the side of the garage," I said.

They were good workers. In just over two hours all the bushes were planted.

"Do you want to play now?" the older one asked.

"No, thanks," I said. "I have to go in."

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Tempting Ending: The Ulrickeys pedaled away. I never saw them again. When I asked around the neighborhood no one had heard of them or knew any boys matching their description.

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Alternate Ending: They did come back a few times, but I would never come out and play with them. A few years later the older one hit puberty and got big and mean and frustrated and came over and beat the tar out of me for my past behavior.

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Poetic Justice Ending: Instead of beating me up, the big one snuck back one night and ripped up all the bushes he'd been tricked into planting. My parents called the police but they were unable to generate any leads. I was too ashamed of my behavior to point to the likely culprits.

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Gothic Ending: Instead of beating me up, the big one snuck up and hit me in the back of the head with a shovel.

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From there - 1: It was a glancing blow, he ran away, and that was the end of it.

Or - 2: It was a direct hit. I spent several weeks in the hospital and barely avoided brain damage. I was unable to identify my attacker because of traumatic short-term memory loss associated with the impact of the shovel on my cranium.

Or: - 2a Additionally, I had to have a plate put in my head. This causes me endless trouble at airport security checkpoints.

Or - 3: All of 2 and 2a but I was unable to avoid the brain damage. I still suffer from seizures and have a mild form of aphasia which limits my ability to communicate in normal fashion, although it doesn't affect blogging.

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The Underside Of Suburbia Ending: It turned out that the Ulrickeys were well-known neighborhood characters. They were a little slow (as they said in those days), but hard workers and eager to please. Everyone took advantage of them. The guy across the street "let" them mow his lawn for years and never paid them a cent. Someone else actually signed them up for a paper route, then did their collections each week and kept the money.

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Armisted Maupin Ending: The older one was a burgeoning homosexual masochist. He loved being ordered around. He would grow up and move to San Francisco where all his tendencies could be indulged without pretense.

The younger one was grinning the dopey grin because he had figured out the whole setup. He was not gay, but he would also grow up and move to San Francisco where he would chronicle the lifestyle of his brother and of his brother's friends and parlay his inside look at this deviant culture into a three book deal.

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American Gothic /American Beauty Ending: The boys were forced to dress like 50's relics because of their controlling overbearing older father. He drank, abused his wife, and treated his boys like indentured servants. They were rarely allowed to leave the property.

From this - 1: The old man dropped dead of a heart attack and the family was released.

Or - 2: Things got worse and worse. There were screamings and beatings. The police were there more often than not. The shades were drawn. The grass grew higher and higher. The wife and kids were hardly ever seen. No one knew what the heck was going on.

Or - 3: As the old man grew older and the kids grew bigger, he was forced to ease up. The boys moved out after high school, the old man died, the wife moved in with her sister in Iowa.

The house was sold to a young vibrant family and the curse was lifted.

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"Who is that woman waving frantically at you?" LZ asked.

"I think that's Coach Dan's wife," I said. "I don't know her name."

"She's coming over," LZ said. "She looks very excited to see you."

"Hi," I said. "All ready for the start of the season?"

"You don't remember me, do you?" she asked.

"Aren't you Dan's wife?" I asked.

"I mean from before," she said. "Don't you remember me from before? I'm Glinda P."

I remembered the name. I'd gone to grammar school with a Glinda P. I could picture a girl with bangs and a square lunch box. The lunch box was wicker or straw, with a dark strap, probably leather. It was a curiosity in a fourth grade lunchroom of clunky metal boxes and brown paper bags.

"Now I remember," I said. "But didn't you leave that school?"

"Yes," Glinda said. "We moved when I was 9."

I only remembered her because of the lunchbox. How had she remembered me? Had I some bizarre possession or personality quirk that made me instantly identifiable after some 30 years? I didn't want to ask. I didn't want to know.

Glinda was now focused on LZ. I did a quick introduction.

"Why don't you ladies get acquainted," I said. "I'm going to walk over to the dugout and see how the team looks this year."