heard anyone come from behind me - usually the iron deck vibrates with footfalls and noise all day long. He was skinny and looked like someone who belonged on the Megan's Law database. He stepped inside the grill and immediately opened the refrigerator. He studied the cans of beer inside and then checked a tally chart next to the cash register. Satisfied that any missing cans were paid for by customers, he popped one open.
"Ever worked a grill before?" he punctuated his question with a burp.
"We grill all the time on the boat," I replied.
"Fine. You're the grill man, then," he said. To the Mexican kid, Riley, he said, "I guess you're free, then." The kid smiled happily and busied himself with prepping the front. What made him so happy?
"You're Jim, right?" he asked. I nodded. He took a sweat-stained painter's cap off of his head and ran a cheap black comb through what was left of his gray hair. "Jeb Francis," he introduced himself. "The walking stink over there is Riley."
Riley bristled. "Mom said you weren't supposed to call me that!"
"She says a lot of things," Jeb replied. He opened the door and stood well clear, allowing the air to circulate. His not-so-friendly eyes gave the horizon another sweep. "Your dad said you know how to work. Hope he's right." Having decided that it was safe enough, or maybe that time was wasting, Jeb began the job training.
The orientation lasted five whole minutes. "Clean this. Stock that. Register works like this. Don't give me any crap - I can get five kids to replace you. Any questions?" He hadn't looked at me once since he arrived and even then, I wish he didn't. Like I said, he didn't look friendly. I shook my head. Jeb nodded and disappeared through the flip-up section of the counter. He sauntered off in search of another pack of cigarettes.
"What's up with him?" I asked.
"He's a jerk," Riley said. "Only reason I work here is 'cause he's my step-dad. I can't quit and he can't fire me." He brightened. "I keep waiting for him to fall overboard 'cause then I'd own the place." He started slicing onions while I looked around a bit.
Riley talked about how many girls he'd met working here and hinted that they didn't just invite him out to their boats for fishing. It was a small place, but set up like a ship's galley - not a spare square inch. The cooking area was the size of a truck bed and most of that space was for the grill. Up front was the cashier/dining area.
The Grill was small but it still had a bar counter with five stools, a front area where we made sandwiches and refreshed a box of cold drinks that lived on a bed of shaved ice. The painted stools were of the home-brew variety; the paint job looked like someone filled their nostrils with different shades and then sneezed on it. From the cashier to the railing was about ten feet of deck and that gave the location plenty of foot traffic. Beyond that I could see the colony spread out almost like a map.
As the day wore on I got started making burgers on the grill and serving them. If you've handled the gas grill at home, there's really not much else to it. Riley had to show me how to work the deep fryer for fries and corn dogs but after that he kept his distance. The heat was murderous in that little shack.
The sun knifed off the water and cooked the corrugated steel roof of the Grill, turning it into an oven. I realized what Riley was so thrilled about when he heard I was going to be the grill man. By two o'clock it was over 115 degrees in that shack and would peg the little lawn thermometer next to the grill out at 120.
Riley gave me a battered Camelbak that he had filled with ice water. After I sucked down the first one, he added some Gatorade powder - it kept me from passing out. At the end of the day, my clothes were soaked and caked with salt. This was a hot, miserable job.
I was so worn out at the end of the day that I collapsed in a sweaty, smelly heap on the couch in the salon. I was supposed to help Dad with Pen
"Ever worked a grill before?" he punctuated his question with a burp.
"We grill all the time on the boat," I replied.
"Fine. You're the grill man, then," he said. To the Mexican kid, Riley, he said, "I guess you're free, then." The kid smiled happily and busied himself with prepping the front. What made him so happy?
"You're Jim, right?" he asked. I nodded. He took a sweat-stained painter's cap off of his head and ran a cheap black comb through what was left of his gray hair. "Jeb Francis," he introduced himself. "The walking stink over there is Riley."
Riley bristled. "Mom said you weren't supposed to call me that!"
"She says a lot of things," Jeb replied. He opened the door and stood well clear, allowing the air to circulate. His not-so-friendly eyes gave the horizon another sweep. "Your dad said you know how to work. Hope he's right." Having decided that it was safe enough, or maybe that time was wasting, Jeb began the job training.
The orientation lasted five whole minutes. "Clean this. Stock that. Register works like this. Don't give me any crap - I can get five kids to replace you. Any questions?" He hadn't looked at me once since he arrived and even then, I wish he didn't. Like I said, he didn't look friendly. I shook my head. Jeb nodded and disappeared through the flip-up section of the counter. He sauntered off in search of another pack of cigarettes.
"What's up with him?" I asked.
"He's a jerk," Riley said. "Only reason I work here is 'cause he's my step-dad. I can't quit and he can't fire me." He brightened. "I keep waiting for him to fall overboard 'cause then I'd own the place." He started slicing onions while I looked around a bit.
Riley talked about how many girls he'd met working here and hinted that they didn't just invite him out to their boats for fishing. It was a small place, but set up like a ship's galley - not a spare square inch. The cooking area was the size of a truck bed and most of that space was for the grill. Up front was the cashier/dining area.
The Grill was small but it still had a bar counter with five stools, a front area where we made sandwiches and refreshed a box of cold drinks that lived on a bed of shaved ice. The painted stools were of the home-brew variety; the paint job looked like someone filled their nostrils with different shades and then sneezed on it. From the cashier to the railing was about ten feet of deck and that gave the location plenty of foot traffic. Beyond that I could see the colony spread out almost like a map.
As the day wore on I got started making burgers on the grill and serving them. If you've handled the gas grill at home, there's really not much else to it. Riley had to show me how to work the deep fryer for fries and corn dogs but after that he kept his distance. The heat was murderous in that little shack.
The sun knifed off the water and cooked the corrugated steel roof of the Grill, turning it into an oven. I realized what Riley was so thrilled about when he heard I was going to be the grill man. By two o'clock it was over 115 degrees in that shack and would peg the little lawn thermometer next to the grill out at 120.
Riley gave me a battered Camelbak that he had filled with ice water. After I sucked down the first one, he added some Gatorade powder - it kept me from passing out. At the end of the day, my clothes were soaked and caked with salt. This was a hot, miserable job.
I was so worn out at the end of the day that I collapsed in a sweaty, smelly heap on the couch in the salon. I was supposed to help Dad with Pen
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