The goddamn accountants want to meet again on Wednesday, which means that by the time Dominic fights traffic all the way to Culver City and back again the entire afternoon is shot, he’s missed two workouts, and all he’s heard all fucking day is bad news. “You really ought to consider bankruptcy here, Dom,” one of them told him, some self-satisfied teenager in a slim-cut suit and Clark Kent glasses. Dominic didn’t pop him directly in his Ivy-educated nose, but it was a near thing. Since the bypass he tries to keep his temper.
He sails by the exit for the original location of the shop, in Sherman Oaks, then changes his mind and turns around. He’ll say hello just for a minute, he tells himself. See how things are going. It’s the only Meatball King he still visits with any regularity; it’s also the only Meatball King he still technically owns, but that’s just semantics, that’s all. Back when they first started expanding he used to like to drop in on all the other locations—mug with the customers, say the line—but after a while it was suggested to him by certain parties that perhaps the individual franchisees might not appreciate the imposition with quite such frequency. “I’m the face of the goddamn company,” Dominic reminded them, but what can you do? Times change.
He yanks open the glass door and sucks in the familiar smell of garlic, the dual hum of air-conditioning and industry audible in the background. Right away he feels his blood pressure drop. Dominic likes business. More than that, he believes in business in general and in his business specifically, in the honesty of a hard-earned dollar and the viability of the American dream. He’s had a job since he was ten years old, sweeping floors at Pathmark back in Newark; how he somehow failed to instill any sort of work ethic in at least three-fifths of his offspring remains a mystery he is unable to solve.
He looks around at the mostly empty tables—well, it’s not quite dinnertime yet—frowning at a half-empty Parmesan shaker, a smear on the dessert case at the front. Above the register is a faded picture of the girls from a beach trip back when they still lived in the Valley—June with her head ducked, digging for seashells; Lilly and Marianne in a fight; Kit and Olivia still in diapers, their rear ends thick with padding underneath their ruffly swimsuits. When Dominic thinks of his daughters this is always the image that comes to him: Five little girls with dark hair and sunburned shoulders. All of their faces turned away.
He’s used to a big hello from whoever’s working the counter but the girl back there today is one he’s never seen before, her expression devoid of any recognition whatsoever. “Can I help you?” she asks dully, no intonation at all.
Dominic frowns. “Who are you?” he asks, his voice coming out small and peevish. He feels old all of a sudden, doddering; there’s a moment where everything tilts and he’s worried he’s going to wind up demented in St. Monica’s like his father in New Jersey. Can you help me? he wants to ask her. Can you help me? I’m the fucking Meatball King!
Luckily his manager comes out of the back just then, a dark-eyed kid named Carlos who’s been with him for ages. “Hey, Mr. B,” he says with a smile, lifting a hand in greeting. “How you doing?”
Dominic feels himself relax. Ninety-two locations in fourteen states at the height of the business, he reminds himself, throwing his shoulders back. That’s hardly nothing. That’s something to be proud of, in the end. “Never better, Carlos,” he says cheerfully. “No complaints.”