3
“UH-HUH, BABY, YEOOW W, GET OFF MY SHOES…”
No. That didn’t sound right. Or look right.
Keep the jaw loose. Eyes at half-mast.
Harrison squirted some more gel into his hands, rubbed it into his hair, and combed it up into a perfect ducktail. The Saturday lunch was light today, so he might as well use the time. Auditions were close—two days away—and he needed all the practice he could get.
Too smart, he thought, judging the look on his own face in the mirror. That was the problem. He shut his eyes just a bit, like his lids were too heavy. He let his mouth hang open.
There.
Mr. Levin was right. Add those two facial adjustments, subtract twenty IQ points. Now for the voice. Lower pitch, slower speech.
“Uh, ladies ’n’ genlmun, uh, thankyuh vurry much . . . ”
BOOM.
The door opened, smacking against the bathroom wall.
“WHERE IS THE PASTITSIO ON TABLE TWO?”
Harrison spun around to face his father, whose broad frame nearly touched both sides of the door. Kostas Michalakis, aka Kostas Michaels of Kostas Korner (Gus, to some of his pronunciation-challenged friends), was beloved for his jolly laugh, his ability to remember everyone’s name, and the quick service at his diner.
But there was a price to pay for all that popularity. He was a tough guy to work for. Especially if you were his son.
“Wull, I dunno, Daddy-o,” Harrison said. “Ask Niko. He’s da waiter. I’m da busboy, thankyuh vurry much . . . ”
“Why you talk like that?” his father said. “You don’t hear Yiorgo in the kitchen? He say, ‘The pastitsio is ready!’ and nobody answer. You have to comb the hair and make the faces in the mirror, not help Niko? You supposed to be busboy! Not girl!”
“Ooh, yuh call me a girl, make fun-a muh face, put me to work all ovuh the place—”
“HARALAMBOS—”
“Jes’ don’ drop pastitsio on muh blue suede shoes-ah!” Harrison said, rushing past him and into the kitchen.
“AND TAKE THE CIGARETTES OUT OF YOU SHIRT!”
Harrison took the pack of candy cigs from his rolled-up shirtsleeve, crammed them into his pocket, and quickly pulled the sleeve down. Behind the kitchen serving counter, George the chef was cracking up. “Wassup, Elvis?”
Harrison grabbed the pastitsio and put it on a tray. “Thankyuh vurry much . . . ”
“Don’t forget the side dish,” George said.
Turning back, Harrison grabbed a hot plate full of crisp green broccoli and headed out the swinging kitchen door, just as Niko, the waiter, headed in.
The thick wooden door could not muffle the sound of his father’s voice: “NIKO, WHY YOU SO SLOW? MY SON IS DOING YOU JOB AND HE’S ONLY A KID!”
Harrison rushed into the diner and headed for table 3.
Away from the war zone.