The Case of the Missing Sombrero: An Ed Schott Mystery
The continuing adventures of a hero who lives on the edge of life and death… because he could die at any moment… unless he kills you first... The geriatric Jack Reacher, the misogynistic Mitch Rapp, the racist John Rambo. We not-so-proudly present:
The smell of vinegar brings me around and I check my pants. Not to see if I pissed myself again, but rather to make sure my wallet’s still in place. It’s there. Big ol’ chunk of American-pastured rawhide with enough plastic inside to choke a sea turtle.
But where am I?
There’s laughter. As the world swims into focus and I remember. I’m at La Plancha, the best economy Mexican restaurant in North Myrtle Beach. There’s the remains of a meal in front of me. The number seven combo, judging from the husks of chile rellenos. My signature order, but I don’t feel full or recall ordering it. If I can’t remember, I’m not paying for this.
The smell of vinegar brings me around and I check my pants. Not to see if I pissed myself again, but rather to make sure my wallet’s still in place. It’s there. Big ol’ chunk of American-pastured rawhide with enough plastic inside to choke a sea turtle.
But where am I?
There’s laughter. As the world swims into focus and I remember. I’m at La Plancha, the best economy Mexican restaurant in North Myrtle Beach. There’s the remains of a meal in front of me. The number seven combo, judging from the husks of chile rellenos. My signature order, but I don’t feel full or recall ordering it. If I can’t remember, I’m not paying for this.
Did someone drug me? I have a lot of enemies, folks whose lives would be a lot better without ol’ Eddie Schott breathing down their necks.
My memory’s coming back. This is an outing. Sunset Estates, the premier retirement community in the low country, regularly sends us on lavish junkets such as this. It’s not much, but serves as a sort of thanks to people like me, a true American and hero of the Korean War whose bravery is eclipsed only by my modesty and cunning. These days, I mainly solve mysteries and right wrongs, but a fella’s gotta eat.
More things are coming back. I think I’ve figured out the unexpected blackout. A half-finished margarita appears to be the culprit. Must have reacted with one of my pills. Drops me faster than a black guy leaving his pregnant girlfriend, pardon my language. I can shake off the fugue state better than most (I had to talk my way out of memory care a couple of times), but whatever happened during my absence is usually gone for good.
Maybe they did drug me after all. You’d want me down if you’re planning on trying something. But what? And why here, at a place that’s historically been off limits to the nonstop international intrigue that regularly seizes northern coastal South Carolina.
The answer hits me like a hammer. Instinct tells me to look left, and I see the problem immediately. El Mejor is missing from its normal spot on the wall.
I feel a trickle of panic, but push it aside. Remember your training, Schott. Observe and report.
I glance around. Maybe some other table has a celebration that requires El Mejor’s presence. La Plancha is known throughout the civilized world for their legendary birthday sombrero. Say the right thing to the hostess, and a celebrant could easily find themselves being serenaded by every worker in the joint while wearing El Mejor, a deep purple, eight-pound velvet ceremonial sombrero with gold stitching and so many sequins it makes your astigmatism decompensate into macular degeneration. I don’t want to brag, but I’ve worn El Mejor a few times over the years. Thrice, actually. It’s an experience without equal. I’ve witnessed the birth of two of my seven children, but let me tell you this: wearing the ‘brero was far more memorable.
And, yeah, I look good in it, but it’s not the fashion that matters, but rather the power than comes from wearing it. You put on El Mejor, and you’re basically calling the shots at La Plancha. Free dessert and 15% off, fully stackable on top of the senior discount and happy hour kicker. It’s the cheat code of a lifetime and, with funds running low in the house of Schott, I’d been counting on the stars aligning once I wore the crown. But that can’t happen with El Mejor missing.
On a Tuesday afternoon happy hour like this, El Mejor would certainly be in high demand. But no one in the place looks like they won the haberdash lottery (little joke of mine, heh) and I can’t hear the staff singing any of that “Feliz Cumpleano!” bullshit.
I check my watch. It’s 4:21. The early bird special ends in exactly thirty-nine minutes. If fourteen seniors aren’t back on the shuttle by then, the Chimichangas become full-price, and the staff gets a lot stingier with the complimentary chips and salsa. I’m working on a clock here. If we can’t get El Mejor back and on my head soon, we are totally, cataclysmically fucked.
Everyone at the table keeps laughing. Some joker at the other end of the table keeps cracking jokes, too far away to make out without my long-range reading glasses. Look at all these old shits with their fancy pensions and annuities, too busy having a good time to realize that, with no birthday celebration there’s no free fried ice cream for the table.
It’s on me, but that’s OK, because I’M ON IT.
There are certain tricks to solving crimes quickly. Sometimes criminals leave little clues. They can’t help themselves. For example, I used to go to an Asian place where they’d pass me the upcoming lottery numbers in a cookie. Never made it work, but I’m always ready to lay in the cut.
I’m not exactly sure how La Plancha does things, but maybe that doesn’t matter. The crook’s obviously gonna be back in the kitchen. That’s where the Mexicans are, cooking their food and taking our jobs. And possibly the fancy discount sombrero.
I need a diversion, something to get me away from the table for a few minutes so I can scout the back.
Instantly, I have a plan. I can borrow Hazel McElridge’s bronzing makeup (she uses it to mask her aplastic anemia), and dust myself until I’m the same shade as an illegal fruit picker. Then strip down to my undershirt, grab some empty plates and pretend to be a busboy. Perfect cover. But then Bob Cranston next to me says he needs to take a shit, and can someone please help him?
My memory’s coming back. This is an outing. Sunset Estates, the premier retirement community in the low country, regularly sends us on lavish junkets such as this. It’s not much, but serves as a sort of thanks to people like me, a true American and hero of the Korean War whose bravery is eclipsed only by my modesty and cunning. These days, I mainly solve mysteries and right wrongs, but a fella’s gotta eat.
More things are coming back. I think I’ve figured out the unexpected blackout. A half-finished margarita appears to be the culprit. Must have reacted with one of my pills. Drops me faster than a black guy leaving his pregnant girlfriend, pardon my language. I can shake off the fugue state better than most (I had to talk my way out of memory care a couple of times), but whatever happened during my absence is usually gone for good.
Maybe they did drug me after all. You’d want me down if you’re planning on trying something. But what? And why here, at a place that’s historically been off limits to the nonstop international intrigue that regularly seizes northern coastal South Carolina.
The answer hits me like a hammer. Instinct tells me to look left, and I see the problem immediately. El Mejor is missing from its normal spot on the wall.
I feel a trickle of panic, but push it aside. Remember your training, Schott. Observe and report.
I glance around. Maybe some other table has a celebration that requires El Mejor’s presence. La Plancha is known throughout the civilized world for their legendary birthday sombrero. Say the right thing to the hostess, and a celebrant could easily find themselves being serenaded by every worker in the joint while wearing El Mejor, a deep purple, eight-pound velvet ceremonial sombrero with gold stitching and so many sequins it makes your astigmatism decompensate into macular degeneration. I don’t want to brag, but I’ve worn El Mejor a few times over the years. Thrice, actually. It’s an experience without equal. I’ve witnessed the birth of two of my seven children, but let me tell you this: wearing the ‘brero was far more memorable.
And, yeah, I look good in it, but it’s not the fashion that matters, but rather the power than comes from wearing it. You put on El Mejor, and you’re basically calling the shots at La Plancha. Free dessert and 15% off, fully stackable on top of the senior discount and happy hour kicker. It’s the cheat code of a lifetime and, with funds running low in the house of Schott, I’d been counting on the stars aligning once I wore the crown. But that can’t happen with El Mejor missing.
On a Tuesday afternoon happy hour like this, El Mejor would certainly be in high demand. But no one in the place looks like they won the haberdash lottery (little joke of mine, heh) and I can’t hear the staff singing any of that “Feliz Cumpleano!” bullshit.
I check my watch. It’s 4:21. The early bird special ends in exactly thirty-nine minutes. If fourteen seniors aren’t back on the shuttle by then, the Chimichangas become full-price, and the staff gets a lot stingier with the complimentary chips and salsa. I’m working on a clock here. If we can’t get El Mejor back and on my head soon, we are totally, cataclysmically fucked.
Everyone at the table keeps laughing. Some joker at the other end of the table keeps cracking jokes, too far away to make out without my long-range reading glasses. Look at all these old shits with their fancy pensions and annuities, too busy having a good time to realize that, with no birthday celebration there’s no free fried ice cream for the table.
It’s on me, but that’s OK, because I’M ON IT.
There are certain tricks to solving crimes quickly. Sometimes criminals leave little clues. They can’t help themselves. For example, I used to go to an Asian place where they’d pass me the upcoming lottery numbers in a cookie. Never made it work, but I’m always ready to lay in the cut.
I’m not exactly sure how La Plancha does things, but maybe that doesn’t matter. The crook’s obviously gonna be back in the kitchen. That’s where the Mexicans are, cooking their food and taking our jobs. And possibly the fancy discount sombrero.
I need a diversion, something to get me away from the table for a few minutes so I can scout the back.
Instantly, I have a plan. I can borrow Hazel McElridge’s bronzing makeup (she uses it to mask her aplastic anemia), and dust myself until I’m the same shade as an illegal fruit picker. Then strip down to my undershirt, grab some empty plates and pretend to be a busboy. Perfect cover. But then Bob Cranston next to me says he needs to take a shit, and can someone please help him?
Perfect, until it wasn’t. I assumed Bob just wanted some help finding the shitter, but he needed the full service. I didn’t want to, but I’ve been on the other side of this situation, and you don’t leave a comrade on the pot. I learned that in Korea.
So I helped Bob with the unbuckle, then belayed him onto the toilet seat and worked him through the breathing exercises. Bob wasn’t hydrated, so it took him awhile to gain steam. Then I lost patience with him and he started crying about his dead wife and how this was their favorite restaurant and it was tough, today being their anniversary, and so then I had to pretend to cry too. And then the old coot wiped forever, and went into a second roll because we’d used the first one as tissues during the crying jag. Anyway, by the time we finished wiping him (man’s anus was like a magic marker, btw - just kept coming up brown!) twelve precious minutes had passed. I had to get moving. No time to wash my hands.
The kitchen was right next to the bathroom. Oops, no, that one led to the rear parking lot. But there was another door that opened onto the kitchen.
I slip in, smooth as Parkay. But it’s the last-second early bird rush and the kitchen is packed. Jesus, they work like they live - there are like a dozen guys crammed into like ten square feet.
I’m spotted, and a pair of goons close in.
No way I can take them all. Not with my torso so weak after helping Bob with his big shit. So I get creative. “INS!” I shout. “Everybody run away! INS! Mexican patrol!”
No one shows even a hint of fear. Tells me these are maybe cartel guys. That’ll make it more complicated - if I kill this crew, they’ll just send more.
Eh. I can handle it. I’m Ed Fucking Schott, and the colors on this VFW hat never run.
I do a spin move and launch an elbow. The swarthy Chicano I’ve targeted dances back, while another refills a drink from the soda pop dispenser while maneuvering for position.
I focus on the leader. Some primal instinct tells me to headbutt him, but I can’t get close. My opponent is a skilled fighter. He dodges and feints away from each strike I launch, but seems leery of launching any counters of his own. They must want me alive. So I can answer questions. Maybe they want to know which American business they can take over next. Or learn about the political agenda we’ve got planned to take them down for good. Well, I’d sooner die than give up a secret. I’m the strong, silent type (unless you want to hear my views on abortion).
So I helped Bob with the unbuckle, then belayed him onto the toilet seat and worked him through the breathing exercises. Bob wasn’t hydrated, so it took him awhile to gain steam. Then I lost patience with him and he started crying about his dead wife and how this was their favorite restaurant and it was tough, today being their anniversary, and so then I had to pretend to cry too. And then the old coot wiped forever, and went into a second roll because we’d used the first one as tissues during the crying jag. Anyway, by the time we finished wiping him (man’s anus was like a magic marker, btw - just kept coming up brown!) twelve precious minutes had passed. I had to get moving. No time to wash my hands.
The kitchen was right next to the bathroom. Oops, no, that one led to the rear parking lot. But there was another door that opened onto the kitchen.
I slip in, smooth as Parkay. But it’s the last-second early bird rush and the kitchen is packed. Jesus, they work like they live - there are like a dozen guys crammed into like ten square feet.
I’m spotted, and a pair of goons close in.
No way I can take them all. Not with my torso so weak after helping Bob with his big shit. So I get creative. “INS!” I shout. “Everybody run away! INS! Mexican patrol!”
No one shows even a hint of fear. Tells me these are maybe cartel guys. That’ll make it more complicated - if I kill this crew, they’ll just send more.
Eh. I can handle it. I’m Ed Fucking Schott, and the colors on this VFW hat never run.
I do a spin move and launch an elbow. The swarthy Chicano I’ve targeted dances back, while another refills a drink from the soda pop dispenser while maneuvering for position.
I focus on the leader. Some primal instinct tells me to headbutt him, but I can’t get close. My opponent is a skilled fighter. He dodges and feints away from each strike I launch, but seems leery of launching any counters of his own. They must want me alive. So I can answer questions. Maybe they want to know which American business they can take over next. Or learn about the political agenda we’ve got planned to take them down for good. Well, I’d sooner die than give up a secret. I’m the strong, silent type (unless you want to hear my views on abortion).
Thou shalt not kill. That’s it. That’s what the bible says. We’re a Christian nation, and as far as I’m concerned, Jesus Christ won the last forty-five elections. We got Roe v Wade, now we’re gonna go after the bullshit child support laws. Because honestly, I can’t be held responsible for a woman’s decision to have a child I don’t want to support. Amy Barrett basically agrees with me, and she’s a chick. You know who else agrees? Tucker Carlson, and he’s rich. Disagree with the Tuck and I’ll kill you without a second thought. Unless you’re unborn, of course.
Where was I? Right, the savage ballet in the commercial kitchen. In my weakened state, the cartel chef is toying with me. Or maybe I’m toying with him. I juke left, pretending to stumble, and he darts in low, looking to tackle me and maybe take things to the ground. However, instead of continuing to topple over, I surprise him by regaining my balance and going the other way, towards a huge mound of complimentary chips. If I can just make it to the end of the prep station, I can lose him in the chips and pick them off one by one.
Against all odds, I make it. But then I encounter a yawing lake of salsa. The cilantro hits me and it’s curtains. Schott kryptonite. I pass out. It’s the damn low-salt diet. I can make myself hypertensive to increase my speed and strength, but you eventually gotta pay the piper for all that extra prowess.
I’ve gone down unexpectedly quite a few times in my day, and let me tell you, this was one of the cleaner floors I’ve had the pleasure of decorating. I scanned low, but no sign of El Mejor. Next thing I know, they’re on me. I get in a cock shot on the dishwasher, but two others pin me down as they haul me into a chair.
They don’t cuff me, but they are somehow restraining me, because it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I stall for time.
“Are you alright, sir?” my captor asks. Fucker actually speaks english. Trying to pass.
I moan to make them think I’m weak. “I got lost on the way from the bathroom.”
“Just rest here,” he urges. “We’re going to find help.”
I can imagine the kind of help they have in mind. Lock me in the walk-in, or waterboard me with Sprite. But it appears they have something even more sinister in store. Three feet away, one of the cartel chef’s assistants has fired up a fryer, and another guy grins maniacally as he starts frying a chimichanga, right there in front of me. Showing me just how devastating warm peanut oil is to the human body. It smells delicious. I wonder if I’ll smell as good when they start frying me, then whether or not I’d be a cannibal if I was trapped on a dessert island. Or is it desert? God, the deserts here are amazing. Exotic, too. Honestly, I thought flan was a kind of tumor until I ordered one here.
Where was I? Right, the savage ballet in the commercial kitchen. In my weakened state, the cartel chef is toying with me. Or maybe I’m toying with him. I juke left, pretending to stumble, and he darts in low, looking to tackle me and maybe take things to the ground. However, instead of continuing to topple over, I surprise him by regaining my balance and going the other way, towards a huge mound of complimentary chips. If I can just make it to the end of the prep station, I can lose him in the chips and pick them off one by one.
Against all odds, I make it. But then I encounter a yawing lake of salsa. The cilantro hits me and it’s curtains. Schott kryptonite. I pass out. It’s the damn low-salt diet. I can make myself hypertensive to increase my speed and strength, but you eventually gotta pay the piper for all that extra prowess.
I’ve gone down unexpectedly quite a few times in my day, and let me tell you, this was one of the cleaner floors I’ve had the pleasure of decorating. I scanned low, but no sign of El Mejor. Next thing I know, they’re on me. I get in a cock shot on the dishwasher, but two others pin me down as they haul me into a chair.
They don’t cuff me, but they are somehow restraining me, because it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I stall for time.
“Are you alright, sir?” my captor asks. Fucker actually speaks english. Trying to pass.
I moan to make them think I’m weak. “I got lost on the way from the bathroom.”
“Just rest here,” he urges. “We’re going to find help.”
I can imagine the kind of help they have in mind. Lock me in the walk-in, or waterboard me with Sprite. But it appears they have something even more sinister in store. Three feet away, one of the cartel chef’s assistants has fired up a fryer, and another guy grins maniacally as he starts frying a chimichanga, right there in front of me. Showing me just how devastating warm peanut oil is to the human body. It smells delicious. I wonder if I’ll smell as good when they start frying me, then whether or not I’d be a cannibal if I was trapped on a dessert island. Or is it desert? God, the deserts here are amazing. Exotic, too. Honestly, I thought flan was a kind of tumor until I ordered one here.
Where was I? Right, captive in the kitchen. Time for a little reverse psychology. Get ‘em mad so they get sloppy. Then I’ll tidy their asses up the same way I tidied up Bob’s. Wait- Uh, you know what I mean.
“The taco salad is the best thing to ever come out of you people,” I snarled.
“The taco salad is the best thing to ever come out of you people,” I snarled.
“Uh, thank you,” their leader replies. “We just added it to the menu last year.” Punk just took it like the bitch he is. The cartels are getting so soft. We’re winning the war on drugs. Finally.
Well, D.A.R.E. to get fucked up by an octogenarian, motherfucker. I’m getting ready to make my move. Some feeling is coming back into my neck, and the tingling in my left arm suggests I’ll soon be capable of my signature dish (a double-handed slap, heavy on the fingernail gouge). There’s a cleaver on the counter to the right. If I can get it, I can maybe make it to one of the prep stations for a last stand and shove some Yankee Doodle Dandy up their asses.
It’s my Alamo moment, but just before I become a MAGA martyr, Maddy, our home health coordinator from Sunset Estates showed up. Is she involved in this?
Maddy kneels by me and asks if I’m OK and whether I needed medical attention. I need medical attention every damn day, woman, but I’d be damned if I was going to show weakness in front of these bastards. So I just shook my head, and all of a sudden I was crying again. Maybe a hangover from the Bob bathroom stuff, or maybe just the emotional release that naturally occurs after a good brawl. “I just want my hat,” I sobbed.
“You’re wearing your hat,” Maddy says. “From the VFW. Do you remember being in the war?”
Well, D.A.R.E. to get fucked up by an octogenarian, motherfucker. I’m getting ready to make my move. Some feeling is coming back into my neck, and the tingling in my left arm suggests I’ll soon be capable of my signature dish (a double-handed slap, heavy on the fingernail gouge). There’s a cleaver on the counter to the right. If I can get it, I can maybe make it to one of the prep stations for a last stand and shove some Yankee Doodle Dandy up their asses.
It’s my Alamo moment, but just before I become a MAGA martyr, Maddy, our home health coordinator from Sunset Estates showed up. Is she involved in this?
Maddy kneels by me and asks if I’m OK and whether I needed medical attention. I need medical attention every damn day, woman, but I’d be damned if I was going to show weakness in front of these bastards. So I just shook my head, and all of a sudden I was crying again. Maybe a hangover from the Bob bathroom stuff, or maybe just the emotional release that naturally occurs after a good brawl. “I just want my hat,” I sobbed.
“You’re wearing your hat,” Maddy says. “From the VFW. Do you remember being in the war?”
“I killed people in Korea,” I hiccuped.
Maddy nods sympathetically. “I’m sure you had to.”
“I didn’t kill people because my country asked me to,” I said, angry at how dumb Maddy was. “I killed people because I enjoyed i-” I cut myself off. Cameras are everywhere in our new nanny state, and there’s no statue of limitations on murder. Even if it's only one of them.
Maddy walked me back to the table. Then she went to find our head coordinator, who was probably still helping Bob off the pot, where I’d left him in the men’s room.
I checked my watch. Things were getting dire. Just a dozen minutes left until the window snapped shut. The battle in the kitchen had left me bruised and battered. I can take it, though; a dollop of Aspercreme and a handful of pills and maybe some Glucophage and I’ll be fine. The best medicine right now, even better than a bone scan, would be that big-ass novelty sombrero.
There’s one more play available to me. Maybe I could try diplomacy, go through official channels. A few staff members had witnessed my back-of-house escapades, but our waitress was probably oblivious to the fact that I was on to them. For that, I had my fellow seniors to thank. Our table had run our girl pretty hard. Boomers know the value of a buck, so our waitress was going to have to really work for the extra dollar she’d make. That’s per person, mind you. Or at least per couple. Or at least per couple where they both order an entree (and not from the kids menu, because kids don’t tip). Actually, she’s lucky some of us still believe in tipping. Tucker Carlson doesn’t tip, and he’s rich. Instead, he leaves bible tracts after he gets his change. Far more valuable than any material reward.
But our waitress couldn’t know that, so for the next eleven minutes, she belongs to me. And I know exactly how to pull the strings on this puppet.
I snap my fingers to summon her. “Hey! Juanita!”
“My name’s Magdalena,” the waitress said. This one’s got a bad attitude.
“Whatever,” I replied. “Listen, you wouldn’t be averse to making a little extra money, would you?”
Juanita shrugged and looked like she was going to call the manager. Maybe they talk to each other or something.
“Anyway,” I pressed on, “how’d you like to make an extra hundred tonight?”
“This again?” Juanita asked.
I fished the edge of a bill out of my wallet so she could see a glimpse of President Benjamin Franklin and the ‘$100’ in the corner. Juanita shrugged more enthusiastically, but it was clear she wasn’t entirely convinced.
Now, I wouldn’t normally do this, but I know a few words of Mexican. Enough to get around in situations like this, where I need to turn up the charm.
“I need you to do something for me, Juanita,” I said. “I need El Mejor on my cabeza in the next-” check the watch “-nine minutes. No zapato, no dinero. Comprende?”
Juanita sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The minutes crawled by sans-brero. Time I didn’t have. Nevertheless, my body was telling me it needed fuel. I flagged another waiter and ordered a refill and a second chile relleno, along with the fried ice cream. It’s not technically free until you get the hat and birthday song, but that’s how confident I was that the sombrero would soon be in my possession.
Unfortunately, service was slow, and by the time my lactose-intolerance meds kicked in enough for me to scarf down the rations there were only about three minutes left before we all turned into full-price pumpkins. Seriously? Did the Mexicans have some sort of technology to accelerate time and shorten the discount window? It wouldn’t surprise me. This is basically extortion on their part.
Now it’s crunch time. I shoveled a final fistful of complimentary corn chips into my mouth and took a peek into my wallet. No cash, no checks (not even those promotional ones I got with that teaser credit card offer), and the only card that wasn’t for sure maxed out is my Diner’s Club, which technically expired in 2004. Should be good here, but this was no time to take chances. Not with the audit and the hearing coming up.
Clearly, the restaurant was playing games with its most valuable demographic. I knew why, just not where. Think, Schott - where would you stash El Mejor if you didn’t want it found?
Answer: the lost and found box. It’s under the hostess stand. I’d seen it before, when I’d get impatient with the wait and read the extra menus so I could fantasize about what I was going to order.
My plan was to locate a payphone, call the restaurant, make a reservation under a fake name, find a disguise (maybe as a woman?), show up, go to the table they gave me, repeat the process to throw off the scent, then wait until the hostess stepped away.
No, that would take too long. Even coming up with the plan had eaten most of the remaining discounted seconds. So I threw caution to the wind and, like all the other times I’ve done so, I got lucky: the hostess stand was completely unguarded.
I rooted around in that box like a pig looking for a truffle, and let me tell you what I found: not a goddamn thing. I did walk away with a few umbrellas, a woman’s purse (no cash, sadly) and a pager (the poor man’s Life Alert!), but what I needed most wasn’t there.
A deep sense of dread filled me as I walked back to the table. The other residents were packing up and getting ready to go. I checked my watch, which only confirmed what I knew - I was out of time.
The concept of accepting that things aren't going to go my way was so foreign that I refused to accept it. So what if I couldn’t find El Mejor? There’s more than one way to skin a cat, and the army teaches you to be resourceful. As I looked at the empty dining room, I realized that everything I needed was right in front of me. I simply took a few steps next to a recently abandoned four-top, glanced down, then scooped the three loose singles on the table into my pocket.
It took longer than I thought to harvest enough to cover my part of the check. There was a soiled table from a large party that had been in the same room we’d used. I don’t remember seeing another group (especially one with kids; a bunch of dishes looked like they'd come off the kid's menu), but let me tell you, these people tipped like absolute shit. Seriously, there were nickels on the table. Where the fuck do people get off doing stuff like that?
Fortunately, I found some more reasonable gratuities at the bar (as well as an eighth of a margarita, which I polished off).
There’s a lot of discussion nowadays on the ethics of taking tips to pay your bill. My position is, this is all God’s bounty. Thou shall not steal doesn’t apply. And besides, these people are CRIMINALS. They come here and don’t pay into medicare or social security and then reap all these entitlements. Why should we be tipping someone who’s already getting food stamps for free? The way I see it, these people don’t want to work. Yeah, they’re doing a job, but they don’t WANT to. So by taking their dollar, I’m really showing them the value of it, and that’s way more important to them than a tip could ever be.
In short, I’m morally and ethically unimpeachable. Just like Trump (both times). So much unimpeachable that I helped myself to a full $15 of table cash, even though my check was only $8.95. The bible states “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” so I basically owe it to my faith to do it this way. But the illegal immigrants this place hires don’t have Jesus’ love in their hearts, so I was careful not to let any of the staff witness my act of Christianity.
After topping up, I joined the others in the line to pay. As I reached the front of the queue, my breath caught in my throat. Hanging above the register like a tortured god on the cross was El Mejor, shining bright as a discount diamond in a mall kiosk.
“How did that get here?” I whispered, nodding at the magnificent disc of cardboard, fabric and dreams that had somehow eluded the best efforts of a trained military hero.
“We keep it near the register now,” the cashier replied. “People kept taking it off its hook for pictures and got salsa and queso on it.”
“Bastards,” I breathed bloodlessly.
“Yeah,” she agreed.
The register. Clever of them. The one place I’d never go near.
La Plancha’s showboating left a bad taste in my mouth (or maybe it was the secondhand margarita? No, it was probably the showboating). Anyhoo, it didn’t feel right to pay, so I followed my gut. Instead of settling up, I pretended I’d left my coat behind at the table, then snuck out the front door. Proudly walked out, I mean.
Let’s be brass tacks here: this place is pure evil. Cartel running the back of the house. Uppity waitstaff, and no complimentary mint in the check folio? Bush league. Based on what had transpired, there was no way I could pay for my meal in good conscience. Hell, they’re lucky I’m not hitting them with a nuisance lawsuit. McDonald’s lost a billion dollars over a little hot coffee, and South Carolina has more personal injury lawyers than they do teachers. You know these things when you're in the ambulance being chased.
Fact is, I’m doing them a favor, letting them walk away with their business. But make no mistake: these people are trash, and I let them know that when I crumpled up my check and left it on the carpet in the lobby. That’s 100% red-blooded American dominance, right there.
As we shuffled/strolled/moto-scooted from the restaurant, I heard a surprised voice from the dining room yell Aye-Yay-Yay or some such shit. Here’s a tip, Miguel - get your money up front!
Nevertheless, we needed to move our wrinkled asses before they had time to come back on us. I blended in with the other seniors and we made for the back lot, where the fifteen passenger accessible van we roll in was parked.
While the space-sucking invalids waited for the van’s ramp to be lowered, I happened to spot a familiar face. The waitress I’d asked to track down El Mejor was sitting on a milk crate, smoking a cigarette by the back door. She’d failed me, and I don’t tolerate failures.
Better let her know. I walked over to Juanita. “You never came back,” I said.
Juanita looked up. “Sorry?”
I stepped in and fixed her with my steely, cataract-enhanced gaze. The one that let all my ex-wives knew they were about to catch a slap. “I said you never came back to our table. I thought, oh, I don’t know, while you were gone maybe someone BUILT A WALL you couldn’t just scramble over.”
It was a good joke. I’d heard it on an AM radio show (Wide Awake Patriots with Tommy and Lou. Check them out; in addition to being some of the smartest guys in media in North Myrtle Beach, they also sell a mean pain cream, home title theft insurance, vitamin supplements, patriotic cell phone plans, and whole life insurance. Use code 100%WIDEAWAKE for 10% off). I made a note to use the line later, and to say it like I’d just thought of it then.
Maddy nods sympathetically. “I’m sure you had to.”
“I didn’t kill people because my country asked me to,” I said, angry at how dumb Maddy was. “I killed people because I enjoyed i-” I cut myself off. Cameras are everywhere in our new nanny state, and there’s no statue of limitations on murder. Even if it's only one of them.
Maddy walked me back to the table. Then she went to find our head coordinator, who was probably still helping Bob off the pot, where I’d left him in the men’s room.
I checked my watch. Things were getting dire. Just a dozen minutes left until the window snapped shut. The battle in the kitchen had left me bruised and battered. I can take it, though; a dollop of Aspercreme and a handful of pills and maybe some Glucophage and I’ll be fine. The best medicine right now, even better than a bone scan, would be that big-ass novelty sombrero.
There’s one more play available to me. Maybe I could try diplomacy, go through official channels. A few staff members had witnessed my back-of-house escapades, but our waitress was probably oblivious to the fact that I was on to them. For that, I had my fellow seniors to thank. Our table had run our girl pretty hard. Boomers know the value of a buck, so our waitress was going to have to really work for the extra dollar she’d make. That’s per person, mind you. Or at least per couple. Or at least per couple where they both order an entree (and not from the kids menu, because kids don’t tip). Actually, she’s lucky some of us still believe in tipping. Tucker Carlson doesn’t tip, and he’s rich. Instead, he leaves bible tracts after he gets his change. Far more valuable than any material reward.
But our waitress couldn’t know that, so for the next eleven minutes, she belongs to me. And I know exactly how to pull the strings on this puppet.
I snap my fingers to summon her. “Hey! Juanita!”
“My name’s Magdalena,” the waitress said. This one’s got a bad attitude.
“Whatever,” I replied. “Listen, you wouldn’t be averse to making a little extra money, would you?”
Juanita shrugged and looked like she was going to call the manager. Maybe they talk to each other or something.
“Anyway,” I pressed on, “how’d you like to make an extra hundred tonight?”
“This again?” Juanita asked.
I fished the edge of a bill out of my wallet so she could see a glimpse of President Benjamin Franklin and the ‘$100’ in the corner. Juanita shrugged more enthusiastically, but it was clear she wasn’t entirely convinced.
Now, I wouldn’t normally do this, but I know a few words of Mexican. Enough to get around in situations like this, where I need to turn up the charm.
“I need you to do something for me, Juanita,” I said. “I need El Mejor on my cabeza in the next-” check the watch “-nine minutes. No zapato, no dinero. Comprende?”
Juanita sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The minutes crawled by sans-brero. Time I didn’t have. Nevertheless, my body was telling me it needed fuel. I flagged another waiter and ordered a refill and a second chile relleno, along with the fried ice cream. It’s not technically free until you get the hat and birthday song, but that’s how confident I was that the sombrero would soon be in my possession.
Unfortunately, service was slow, and by the time my lactose-intolerance meds kicked in enough for me to scarf down the rations there were only about three minutes left before we all turned into full-price pumpkins. Seriously? Did the Mexicans have some sort of technology to accelerate time and shorten the discount window? It wouldn’t surprise me. This is basically extortion on their part.
Now it’s crunch time. I shoveled a final fistful of complimentary corn chips into my mouth and took a peek into my wallet. No cash, no checks (not even those promotional ones I got with that teaser credit card offer), and the only card that wasn’t for sure maxed out is my Diner’s Club, which technically expired in 2004. Should be good here, but this was no time to take chances. Not with the audit and the hearing coming up.
Clearly, the restaurant was playing games with its most valuable demographic. I knew why, just not where. Think, Schott - where would you stash El Mejor if you didn’t want it found?
Answer: the lost and found box. It’s under the hostess stand. I’d seen it before, when I’d get impatient with the wait and read the extra menus so I could fantasize about what I was going to order.
My plan was to locate a payphone, call the restaurant, make a reservation under a fake name, find a disguise (maybe as a woman?), show up, go to the table they gave me, repeat the process to throw off the scent, then wait until the hostess stepped away.
No, that would take too long. Even coming up with the plan had eaten most of the remaining discounted seconds. So I threw caution to the wind and, like all the other times I’ve done so, I got lucky: the hostess stand was completely unguarded.
I rooted around in that box like a pig looking for a truffle, and let me tell you what I found: not a goddamn thing. I did walk away with a few umbrellas, a woman’s purse (no cash, sadly) and a pager (the poor man’s Life Alert!), but what I needed most wasn’t there.
A deep sense of dread filled me as I walked back to the table. The other residents were packing up and getting ready to go. I checked my watch, which only confirmed what I knew - I was out of time.
The concept of accepting that things aren't going to go my way was so foreign that I refused to accept it. So what if I couldn’t find El Mejor? There’s more than one way to skin a cat, and the army teaches you to be resourceful. As I looked at the empty dining room, I realized that everything I needed was right in front of me. I simply took a few steps next to a recently abandoned four-top, glanced down, then scooped the three loose singles on the table into my pocket.
It took longer than I thought to harvest enough to cover my part of the check. There was a soiled table from a large party that had been in the same room we’d used. I don’t remember seeing another group (especially one with kids; a bunch of dishes looked like they'd come off the kid's menu), but let me tell you, these people tipped like absolute shit. Seriously, there were nickels on the table. Where the fuck do people get off doing stuff like that?
Fortunately, I found some more reasonable gratuities at the bar (as well as an eighth of a margarita, which I polished off).
There’s a lot of discussion nowadays on the ethics of taking tips to pay your bill. My position is, this is all God’s bounty. Thou shall not steal doesn’t apply. And besides, these people are CRIMINALS. They come here and don’t pay into medicare or social security and then reap all these entitlements. Why should we be tipping someone who’s already getting food stamps for free? The way I see it, these people don’t want to work. Yeah, they’re doing a job, but they don’t WANT to. So by taking their dollar, I’m really showing them the value of it, and that’s way more important to them than a tip could ever be.
In short, I’m morally and ethically unimpeachable. Just like Trump (both times). So much unimpeachable that I helped myself to a full $15 of table cash, even though my check was only $8.95. The bible states “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” so I basically owe it to my faith to do it this way. But the illegal immigrants this place hires don’t have Jesus’ love in their hearts, so I was careful not to let any of the staff witness my act of Christianity.
After topping up, I joined the others in the line to pay. As I reached the front of the queue, my breath caught in my throat. Hanging above the register like a tortured god on the cross was El Mejor, shining bright as a discount diamond in a mall kiosk.
“How did that get here?” I whispered, nodding at the magnificent disc of cardboard, fabric and dreams that had somehow eluded the best efforts of a trained military hero.
“We keep it near the register now,” the cashier replied. “People kept taking it off its hook for pictures and got salsa and queso on it.”
“Bastards,” I breathed bloodlessly.
“Yeah,” she agreed.
The register. Clever of them. The one place I’d never go near.
La Plancha’s showboating left a bad taste in my mouth (or maybe it was the secondhand margarita? No, it was probably the showboating). Anyhoo, it didn’t feel right to pay, so I followed my gut. Instead of settling up, I pretended I’d left my coat behind at the table, then snuck out the front door. Proudly walked out, I mean.
Let’s be brass tacks here: this place is pure evil. Cartel running the back of the house. Uppity waitstaff, and no complimentary mint in the check folio? Bush league. Based on what had transpired, there was no way I could pay for my meal in good conscience. Hell, they’re lucky I’m not hitting them with a nuisance lawsuit. McDonald’s lost a billion dollars over a little hot coffee, and South Carolina has more personal injury lawyers than they do teachers. You know these things when you're in the ambulance being chased.
Fact is, I’m doing them a favor, letting them walk away with their business. But make no mistake: these people are trash, and I let them know that when I crumpled up my check and left it on the carpet in the lobby. That’s 100% red-blooded American dominance, right there.
As we shuffled/strolled/moto-scooted from the restaurant, I heard a surprised voice from the dining room yell Aye-Yay-Yay or some such shit. Here’s a tip, Miguel - get your money up front!
Nevertheless, we needed to move our wrinkled asses before they had time to come back on us. I blended in with the other seniors and we made for the back lot, where the fifteen passenger accessible van we roll in was parked.
While the space-sucking invalids waited for the van’s ramp to be lowered, I happened to spot a familiar face. The waitress I’d asked to track down El Mejor was sitting on a milk crate, smoking a cigarette by the back door. She’d failed me, and I don’t tolerate failures.
Better let her know. I walked over to Juanita. “You never came back,” I said.
Juanita looked up. “Sorry?”
I stepped in and fixed her with my steely, cataract-enhanced gaze. The one that let all my ex-wives knew they were about to catch a slap. “I said you never came back to our table. I thought, oh, I don’t know, while you were gone maybe someone BUILT A WALL you couldn’t just scramble over.”
It was a good joke. I’d heard it on an AM radio show (Wide Awake Patriots with Tommy and Lou. Check them out; in addition to being some of the smartest guys in media in North Myrtle Beach, they also sell a mean pain cream, home title theft insurance, vitamin supplements, patriotic cell phone plans, and whole life insurance. Use code 100%WIDEAWAKE for 10% off). I made a note to use the line later, and to say it like I’d just thought of it then.
Juanita shrugged at my riposte. Too highbrow for her tiny brown brain. Time for my finishing move. “Remember how I told you you’d get a crisp hundy if you found the sombrero?” I asked.
“Mm.”
“Well, joke’s on you!” I said, ripping a piece of paper from my wallet and hurling it in her general direction. “It was just a bible verse printed on a green piece of paper that looks like money!”
“Mm.”
“Well, joke’s on you!” I said, ripping a piece of paper from my wallet and hurling it in her general direction. “It was just a bible verse printed on a green piece of paper that looks like money!”
I couldn’t hold it in any longer, and broke into a triumphant cackle. Juanita just smoked her ciggie and didn’t reach for the crumpled verse. How disrespectful - there were holy words on that paper she left laying there in the gutter.
“I know the trick,” she finally said. “I was your server before. You propositioned me, remember? Tried to pawn off one of those a few visits back.”
“Oh.” I paused, as it clicked into place. “You’re the one I said ‘I Jua-NEED-a blowjob’ to?”
Juanita nodded. “Please leave.”
I smirked. “I’ve been telling you people to do that for years.”
With that, I turned heel and triumphantly strode into the 15-passenger. Shotgun was taken, but I scored second row.
“Turn on AM 1450, Maddy,” I said. “Hannity’s on, and I need some new material.”
As we swung onto I-17, a profound sense of peace enveloped me. Maybe it was just the beans doing their thing, but the hot air coming out of me today smelled sweeter than normal. I’d done more than win an exchange. I’d won a battle. And not just for patriots like me, but also for the B-team folks who don’t deserve to live in the same country. Because that’s what heroes do. It’s our way AND the highway. Now take a bible verse and thank me for my service. Not the kind of service a waiter does, though, because the only thing I deliver are traditional American values with the crust cut off and a side of Ensure.
Ed Schott will return in: The Man In the Iron Lung: An Ed Schott Mystery
“I know the trick,” she finally said. “I was your server before. You propositioned me, remember? Tried to pawn off one of those a few visits back.”
“Oh.” I paused, as it clicked into place. “You’re the one I said ‘I Jua-NEED-a blowjob’ to?”
Juanita nodded. “Please leave.”
I smirked. “I’ve been telling you people to do that for years.”
With that, I turned heel and triumphantly strode into the 15-passenger. Shotgun was taken, but I scored second row.
“Turn on AM 1450, Maddy,” I said. “Hannity’s on, and I need some new material.”
As we swung onto I-17, a profound sense of peace enveloped me. Maybe it was just the beans doing their thing, but the hot air coming out of me today smelled sweeter than normal. I’d done more than win an exchange. I’d won a battle. And not just for patriots like me, but also for the B-team folks who don’t deserve to live in the same country. Because that’s what heroes do. It’s our way AND the highway. Now take a bible verse and thank me for my service. Not the kind of service a waiter does, though, because the only thing I deliver are traditional American values with the crust cut off and a side of Ensure.
Ed Schott will return in: The Man In the Iron Lung: An Ed Schott Mystery