Razzy’s
Pensacola, Florida

Rick Ragazzi washed down a couple more gelcapsules while he read the bottle’s label. He had all the symptoms of the flu, symptoms the medicine claimed to relieve yet he felt absolutely no relief after twenty-four hours of taking the recommended dosage. He wished he could just silence the jackhammer inside his head. Even Joey’s famous syrupy concoction did nothing.

He popped an extra capsule into his mouth and emptied the glass of orange juice just as he noticed another group of diners come through the restaurant door. Ordinarily he’d be pleased. Sunday evening and they were packed, even had a twenty-minute waiting list earlier in the evening. But his best waiter was still out. Something about stitches and a concussion. Rick wished he could blame a Jet Ski accident for his headache.

“Sorry, sugar,” Rita said from behind him. “I had to place them at one of your tables. The new kid’s a bit slow. How about you get their orders and I’ll shuttle all the food?”

“Sounds good.” It had become his easy response when he’d rather say he was out of here.

“You don’t look so good,” Rita told him. “Maybe you should be home in bed.”

I wish, Rick thought, but said instead, “I’m fine.”

He knew an owner shouldn’t show weakness or vulnerability to his employees and always lead by example. He had read that somewhere. Wasn’t it bad enough he let Rita call him sugar? But then she called everyone sugar in that lovely Southern accent that sounded so sincere each and every time and made you feel special.

Rita had handed out menus when she seated the three newcomers. Rick zigzagged his way through the tables as he tapped his pocket to make sure his notebook and pen were there. He insisted his waitstaff commit orders to memory. And yes, he knew that he should he be leading by example, but with the jackhammer headache he’d already gotten four orders screwed up. Better he slip a notch as an instructor than they eat any more of their profits in his mistakes.

All three menus were still open, tall accordions hiding their faces.

“Good evening. May I get you started with something from our bar? We have our special beach rumbas for half price this evening.”

“What the hell is a beach rumba?” one of the men asked as he slapped down his menu.

“Uncle Vic,” Rick said. “What are you doing down here in Pensacola?” He hoped his smile looked genuine and excited instead of mimicking his inner voice that was shouting, “Oh, crap!”