The Death of Dorian

Scum's.

His name was Dorian.

And then he died.

Well, there is more to it than that, but that is the basic works of his life. He was three weeks from twenty-five, although you would never guess it. Dorian was a career short order cook and a damned good one at that, but you would get blood from a rock before his boss would admit it. Dorian's boss, Frankie, was a lot of things. Sane usually didn't make the list. He owned the little diner titled after his family name; most people shortened it in reference to the general customer populace.

Scum's.

Frankie Pascum, as previously stated, was a lot of things. Vietnam draft-dodger, asshole, sociopath, and chip on Dorian's shoulder were most common. Sometimes a borderline pedophile and weighing in at fifty-seven years, he exclusively hired sixteen year old cheerleaders to wait the tables.

Despite his demeanor, his hobble, and the giant wart under his left eye, he never suffered a lack of waitresses.

Dorian tried to ignore the look Frankie was giving Jessica's ass as she cleaned a newly vacant table across the diner. He really did. Being the only short order cook at Scum's was already bad enough, the rest had either gotten fed up and quit, or had been fired by Frankie for trying to stop his perverted leering at the newly pubescent waitresses. Frankie was technically the other cook, but he'd never been found working the grill, unless you count when he came over to taunt Dorian to doing something stupid.

Luckily, Dorian always knew what to say. Nothing.

The truth was, Frankie hated Dorian. Not because he never talked other than to announce a finished order, but because Frankie knew early on that his diner would tank without him. Before Dorian showed up, Scum's survival consisted of about ten old and out of shape mobsters without tastebuds and an excess of time and money. They kept the place safe from street thugs and vandals, and kept the place out of the red by a slim margin. Of course, as the years passed they began to die off or take a government appointed vacation. The occasional customer would wander in from the street, which kept things moderately even. But the fact remained that the only question was how long the diner would survive, not whether it could.

Then came Dorian, a shiver under six feet and handsome in a quiet, naively unsettling way. When he asked for a job, Frankie had openly laughed and told him to knock himself out as he threw him an apron. He was a natural. He could multi-task, worked fast, hard, and made food actually taste good.

Unknown to anyone was the fact that Dorian's father had been a cook, and had started in a diner. Dorian had been a quick study. First, he changed the oil in the deep fryer to peanut oil, and his french fries turned one-time stragglers into regulars. He deep fried the hot dogs and Scum's became so popular that the lunch hour became the Death hour, Frankie equating the stress and anxiety of handling the customers to that of his escape from police and persecution in 1969 on his way to Canada. He did other things, but they aren't important. What is important is because of him, Scum's flourished.

And Frankie hated him for it.

At seven p.m., November 22nd, Dorian finished cleaning the grill and went to punch out. He was stopped by Jessica halfway to the clock.

"Hey, Dorian. Umm... can you, like, give me a lift?" She batted her lashes. "I don't want to walk home in the dark. It's not far. Please?"

He looked around the diner. Bethany was still finishing up her last table. "What about Beth? She has a car, right?" He motioned to the other head of air encumbered by a statutory body with breasts disproportionate to the rest of her body. "Why don't you have her take you home?"

Jessica shook her head, blonde pigtails battering her face. "She's getting picked up by her boyfriend, Kevin. She got a DUI a few days ago, and I'm not asking Frankie." She shuddered, "That pig freaks me out more than you do." She blushed and sighed a weak giggle as she tried to recover. "But that's, like, because you're just really quiet all the time."

Dorian was already feeling the migraine. It was going to be a doozy. Index finger and thumb massaging the bridge of his nose, he made note of Rule One. "Let me clock out, and then I'll take you."

She smiled and he almost certainly imagined her jump for joy as she ran to get her coat.

Slick. Click. Bang. He was now officially off the clock. Free for another few hours.

"You fucking hypocritical pillow-biter!" Frankie. Dorian was fairly certain he competed against himself for how many times he could offend Dorian's heterosexuality in a single day.

His record was ninety-two.

"You know it's illegal to fuck that tight little broad, if you could get it up for her, at least. She ain't got a dick, you know." Frankie was blocking the exit with his bulk.

Dorian responded the only way worthwhile, with silence.

"I bet you wouldn't even know what to do with her even if she did all the work, faggot," Frankie scowled. "And you guys call me the pedophile. I should make you go register yourself, but I can't let you enjoy having a work day off, can I? Probably use the time to go sell your ass to an AIDS-infected porchmonkey motherfucker."

Oh yeah, racist was on the list for Frankie.

Dorian was too busy wondering who 'you guys' were to feel the stinging words. He and Frankie were the only men that worked at Scum's.

"You know what? I think I should give her a ride home. Keep her safe from your herpes-infected shrivel dick that your dad seems to enjoy so much." Frankie must be going for a new record. Nintey-one so far.

Despite the insults to his manhood, Dorian mused, Frankie's insults seemed to always mention him in some kind of sexual encounter. Maybe Frankie was an angsty virgin. Something new to add to the list. He tried to imagine surviving that long without a simple hayroll. He would probably be an asshole also.

But, he would be really skilled at masturbation.

Dorian was almost able to stop himself from seeing an image of Frankie taking his bishop via pawn.

Frankie smiled. Dorian thought he saw horns. "You know what?" No. What. "I'm taking her home. It'd be better for her."

Dorian's hackles stood at attention as Frankie turned with a dark twinkle in his eye toward the back room. Jessica was back there.

Rule Number One.

"You should stop," Dorian voice was granite. "Right. Now."

Frankie stopped. Dorian wished he could retire with the look on Frankie's face. It was almost good enough to act as pension.

Almost.

"Like you said, she needs," Dorian's eyes were icily threatening. "A... safe... ride home."

Frankie began to come out of shock as Dorian gently moved past him and began escorting Jessica to the rear exit. He felt the explosion that was Frankie peak as the door squealed shut on its hydraulic pull. Something about a pig, Frankie's foot, and a soup spoon floated through the walls of Scum's. He decided not to try to piece it together and instead focus on getting the damned passenger door of his '50-something Aquacar open. This time without the door falling off.

Again.

It was old, and might have been cherry red at one time. When it was new it could drive in water and was rickety on the road; now, it would sink like any car and was still rickety on the road. The radio was pre-FM and the antenna was lost to a winter decades ago. A front tire wobbled incessantly, threatening to depart its lifelong companions. The door hinges played a hateful game of falling off sporadically, and to top it off, a seat spring consistently threatened to puncture Dorian's testicles.

But the gas mileage wasn't as bad as it could be and it got him where he needed to go.

It took a few tries, but the doors finally unlocked without falling off. Jessica found her way in to the passenger seat and, later, even managed to buckle herself in.

"I knew Frankie was a freak, but why would he want to do that to a pig?" The question was naively honest, but her shirt wasn't. She should really button up a little more.

"Ahem..." Always a good way to breach naivete. "I believe that I am the pig in his, ah... metaphor. You shouldn't really have heard that, though." Oh, Oh It's Magic made pitiful attempts to make its presence known through overbearing static. Dorian tried to focus on the road and not on Jessica's uncomfortably exposed breasts. His temples were throbbing.

After a few painful moments, Jessica finally worked it out and giggled. Then the giggles became sounds of disgust. "Omigod, that's so gross! Is he, like, totally gay or something? Oh yeah, turn right up here," she made an arbitrary motion with her hand. It was far too late.

Five minutes and horrible directions later, the drive ended exactly two blocks from Scum's. In the opposite direction from where they initially headed. Somehow, Jessica was missing her jacket and Dorian swore her shirt ever so slightly less buttoned.

Dorian honestly tried to ignore it. He really did.

They were parked in front of her family's apartment complex, but Jessica hadn't left yet. Instead, she spoke.

"Why is Frankie so mean to you, like, all the time?"

"Why do you say 'like' all the time? Different question, same answer." Dorian just wanted to go home. His head hurt.

Jessica just sat twirling her hair. Maybe her brain was powered via handcrank, like his emergency flashlight, except with less resistance. A few cranks and her brain was ready for another question.

"Does he, like, hate you? If so, like, why doesn't he just fire you?" Again with the eyelashes, and he was right, her shirt was more unbuttoned.

Sigh. Just go home already. Please? "I don't know."

His head hurt, and he wanted a drink. Why was she still in the car? Why was she looking at him, and why was he blushing? "Alright, Jessica. Good night." Just get out of the car.

She giggled. He didn't bother wondering why, his brain couldn't think that basically. "Good night, Dorian. You should really talk more. You're, like, kinda cute or something."

Dorian preferred to stay 'or something.'

Normally, it might be cute if a girl is giggling over the fact she can't get the car door open. If the girl is an airheaded cheerleader, it would be something that makes you roll your eyes. For Dorian, it just made him think he should get a new car.

Sigh.

He massaged his temples and squinted his eyes. "Hey, hold the door handle and lean forward." He silently considered it a stroke of luck that she understood, and actually followed, his instructions. She might not be such an airhead after all. Except for the thong underwear, he was slightly proud of her. He celebrated her intelligence with a crackling punch to the passenger door jam. The door shuddered from the impact, then fell off with a clang and satisfied thud.

Door, one. Dorian, zero. Door wins.

Jessica giggled, again. "Thanks, that was quite a hit. Bye!" A quick wave and off she went. She stopped long enough to watch Dorian work his door back on the latch. After a few sweat-wrenching minutes, Dorian was vaguely sure the door would stay on until he got home.

He made the drive home in good time and took the stairs up to his third floor condo.