Calling Out Dead

I was working at a high-end restaurant in Bel Air as an assistant general manager. The joint was owned by Susan Disney Lord, an heir of the Disney family. She also owned the building and ran her charity and foundation in the offices upstairs. She was often around, but operationally, she wasn’t helpful. On occasion, she would answer the phones at the hostess stand and take reservations, but functionally, she didn’t work at the restaurant.

When I first started working there, there were two AGMs — myself and a Northeastern guy, about my age, named Jeff. Jeff’s restaurant background was more from the corporate-chain world. He cut his teeth at Chili’s and Applebee’s. He had a ginger goatee, rode his crotchrocket to work in his motorcycle gear, and changed into work attire once he arrived. Jeff would often stroke his red soul patch during meetings while contemplating, and although he was from New Hampshire, he had a bit of an unexplained Southern drawl. He and I didn’t get along from the very beginning: a bit of an oil-and-water situation.

Once, while Susan was out of town, which she often was, I texted Jeff letting him know that I wasn’t coming into work and he had to cover my shift because I had knocked my front tooth out.

In actuality, I was in Las Vegas, hungover as shit, and did not feel like making the 5+ hour drive back to Southern California. Referring to my absent tooth, Jeff replied, “Take a picture of your missing tooth. I want to see it.”

The audacity!

The team at Bel Air Bar + Grill was cut into two camps: Jeff’s and mine. It was split pretty much down the middle. The half that supported me understood fine(r) dining, enjoyed selling wine, and appreciated service. The half that supported Jeff were mostly there to work their shift, make money, and leave - understandable.

When I was hired, Susan made it clear that she wanted to improve the service and make it more upscale, and that was my specialty. My hospitality career began in country clubs, and the restaurant I left to join Bel Air Bar + Grill won a Zagat award and was ranked in the top five in LA. Susan also tasked me with updating the wine list, which was also my forte.

I took pride in my wine program and diversified the list by introducing Super Tuscan blends, Burgundian-style Pinot Noirs, and Oregon Chardonnays. When I took over, the majority of our inventory was fruit-forward Californian wines. Fruit bombs.

Jeff pushed back on every change I tried implementing and caused a real rift between the staff.

Jeff said, “So Susan brought you on to help out with the wine and service?”

”That was her proposal in my hiring packet.”

”You can take care of all that crap, I’ll run the day-to-day stuff and the staffing.”

”Do you consider overall steps of service to be day-to-day stuff?” I asked.

”You know what wine you should add to your new list thing?”

”What’s that?”

”Apothic Red. Ever had it?”

I replied, “The weird jammy red-blend?”

”Yeah, I love it with BBQ chicken flatbread. But leave the fucking cilantro off the pizza, y’know? That shit tastes like soap. Keep the greens off my zzah.”

”Jeff, you can buy Apothic Red at Vons. It’s a grocery store wine.”

”I’m just saying, it’s a crowd pleaser,” he replied as he lifted both hands above his head and glanced at my wingtip shoes.

Jeff and I argued often, but notably about one of our bartenders, Steven, who would gloat to happy-hour patrons about his recent DUI.

”Steven can’t be talking to the bar about his legal troubles, Jeff. Why does he seem proud of it?” I said.

”Chris, chill out. They love it - it sells more cocktails, hearing the bartender give the dirt. It’s a way of loosening up the vibe. It lubricates the room.”

”Not in Susan’s bar, Jeff. Not in Bel Air.”

Susan knew that having two assistant managers with the same level of authority was causing complications. She was the boss, but wasn’t around enough at the restaurant to make managerial decisions.

After Susan found out that Jeff was snooping through my emails on our shared desktop computer, she chose to relieve him of his position.

”I saw the writing on the wall as soon as you hired that snobby-wine prick,” he said to Susan during his termination.

In the wake of Jeff’s firing, Susan decided that I was not ready, nor did I have the skillset to be promoted to General Manager — I agreed with her. However, she did put me in charge of finding the new GM, with her assistance.

I was tasked with finding and hiring my own boss.

We hired an agency, and they sent over hundreds of applicants. After multiple rounds of interviews, my first choice declined the offer, and Susan and I settled on Douglas.

Douglas was in his late 50s, 6’2”, a charismatic, lanky gay man who swayed back and forth when he walked, wore tailored suits with shined shoes, and brightened up the room when he entered the doorframe. His hair was grey, short, perfect, and spiky. Douglas never wore a tie but looked crisp, particularly when he crossed his legs during a chat. The customers loved him, and Susan was head over heels with our decision.

My schedule was 9 AM - 4 PM, Monday - Friday, which is absolutely unheard of in the restaurant/hospitality world. I oversaw lunch shift, and when I wasn’t touching tables and kissing babies, I was booking events for Susan’s Sun Room, meeting with vendors, or doing tastings for wine list updates. My job was easy because I had such an excellent crew — the shifts ran themselves with little to no friction. There was a head waiter who preferred to be left alone, and a food runner who had worked there for ~10 years, who could pretty much handle everything without needing a manager present.

I had my own company credit card, which I used to get my clothes dry-cleaned, pay my phone bill, and cover other restaurant-related expenses. I had my own parking spot in the underground garage and an unlimited account that allowed me to order from the kitchen. Just swipe my card into the POS, order my food, and then immediately comp it. There were many perks to working for Susan.

Douglas charmed me in his first few months. He praised my palate and my work ethic and would compliment my wine list. Things were going swimmingly well.

Douglas spent his time outside of work writing novels. If you look him up, it says he’s “an Amazon bestselling author known for writing intense thrillers, suspense, and mystery novels. His work often explores complex human behavior and psychological tension.”

Douglas once told me a story about what a typical day off looked like for him.

”I wake up at 6, work on my Sammy Sax novel until I sweat through all of my clothes. Sammy gets me hot! Then I take a walk, fresh air, you know? Then I go get my nails done — when Mr. Lang hears the door chime, and knows it’s me, he only sees a large dollar sign on my forehead - I tip 50%, you know? Finally, I go get a martini at Spago, try to spot celebrities. One time I saw Michael Caine!”

Over time, Douglas’ compliments became fewer and fewer, and he started to complain that working the night shift didn’t bode well with his novel writing. He preferred to go to sleep early, wake up, take his “beauty walk” and write for a few hours. His new work schedule wasn’t conducive to his routine.

One day, during our overlap hour (he would come in at 3 PM and I would leave at 4), he asked me if we could have a sit-down chat.

We grabbed an empty booth at the back of the restaurant. It was mostly quiet because the lunch shift was over.

”So Chris, how ya doing?”

”I’m well. What’s up, what did you want to talk with me about?”

”You know, Chris, you are one of the best managers I’ve ever had in my career. Even when I ran the Sunset Tower, no one really was up to your standards.”

I didn’t believe him.

”You’re a wine specialist! That’s what you do - it’s your passion, Chris.”

”I do very much enjoy running the wine program here. Susan gave me free rein.” I said.

”Right! You took the words right out of my mouth.”

”What are you getting at, Douglas?”

”Hmm, well, I’m thinking that there should be a little switcharoo when it comes to our schedules and the shifts that we work.”

My heart sank.

”If you’re the ‘wine guy,’” he said with air quotes, “Shouldn’t you be the one on the floor at night? The one talking about wine? Pushing the wine? Showing your passion in the wine list that you hand-picked? This is your list after all.”

I knew I was being manipulated, but he did have a point.

”What do you have in mind? What kind of shifts are you thinking?”

”Great question,” he said. “I was thinking we should flip-flop. You start working the night shifts, and I will work lunch. You’re the face of the wine program. Own it!”

”But Douglas, that doesn’t really work for me. My daughter is young, and I like being at home with her at night. That is one of the main reasons I took this job, so I could be a father in the evening.”

He looked flushed and annoyed but tried playing it off with compassion.

”Right, right, right. I get it. I get it, Chris," he said. "Will you think about it?" He placed both his hands on mine.

I agreed to think about it, but I had already made my decision.

The next time I saw Susan, she and I were catching up about the goings-on in the restaurant, and she said, “Oh, I heard you and Douglas are switching shifts moving forward. I think it’s an excellent idea. It’s so thoughtful of you to be open to change so that Douglas can focus on his writing in the mornings before work.”

”Did he say we already agreed?” I asked, confused.

”He said you’ll start working the dinner shift next week. This also gives him and me more opportunities to get face time, since I am mostly here during the day. I think all around, it’s an excellent move. Good on you for suggesting the change.”

He got to her first and spun it to her, as if it was my idea.

Over the next few months, my rapport with Douglas began to decline, and I loathed working nights. Working the evening shift meant that my drinking could not begin until ~11 PM, which meant I would have dinner late and also fucked my sleep up. In every way, the schedule change was bad for me.

I began to resent Douglas and the decision I had made by hiring him, especially now that he and Susan worked side by side on a daily basis. I started coming into work late and not caring as much. My wine program declined, and I wasn’t on top of reordering as I once was because I didn’t see my wine reps as often, as they stopped by to chat during lunch hours.

Working later also led me to party later. One evening after work, I went out with some friends from the industry — a waiter, a prep cook, and a sous chef named Pauly. We started at The Brig in Venice on Abbot Kinney and bar-hopped throughout the area.

I always found it funny that Pauly referred to the boulevard as “Abbot and Kinney,” as if it were a 40s comedy duo during a world war.

”Should we meet down at Abbot and Kinney?” he would say.

”It’s Abbot Kinney, you idiot!”

Eventually, we ended up at the Marriott lobby bar near Mother’s Beach in Marina del Rey, where Pauly and I ran into two ladies. You could tell they had been really going after it that evening. One of them asked us, “What year were y’all born?”

”82,” Pauly said.

I replied, ”83.”

”Ahh shit. ‘80s babies, gone crazy!” she said.

Pauly was a Tom Leykis disciple and refused to buy drinks for women.

”Where are you girls from?” Pauly asked.

”Nonya,” one replied.

”Where’s that?”

”None ya damn business.”

I somehow ended up back at home that night, and woke up late at 2 PM the next day, remembering nothing after the Marriott: a complete blackout.

I had one hour to get ready and get to work. I showered, put on my suit, and recall noting to myself that I felt funny. More brain fog than a usual hangover.

On the drive to work, I noticed that everything felt in slow motion. The drive to Bel Air was 25 minutes, but it seemed like it was taking forever to get to work. My eyelids were heavy, and my head kept wanting to point down while I was driving, as if a string were attached to my forehead, pulling it toward the floor.

I arrived at work and parked in my spot in the garage. While entering the elevator, I saw my head bartender, Jaron, and I held the door for him. When he got inside, he gave me a funny look and said, “You doing OK?”

”Yeah, why?” I asked.

”You don’t look so good.”

”What do you mean?”

He came closer to me and said, “You look fucked up, man.”

I immediately had a panic attack and ran into the bathroom to look in the mirror. My pupils were pinned and the sacks under my eyes could hold potatoes. I reached for my wallet and discovered that all of my cash was gone.

It hit me — had the ladies from the night before roofied me?

I splashed water on my face and did a trial run in the mirror, trying to act normal. I had to get out of work before Douglas saw me. I found Jaron and told him I was having an allergic reaction to seafood and I needed to seek medical attention. He seemed reluctant, but agreed to relay the message to Susan and Douglas.

By the time I had reached home, Susan had already texted me to check in. I let her know that I was going to the urgent care for allergy relief. Her response was motherly and caring, but short.

On my next shift, I saw Douglas, and he said, “Hey, we need to talk. Susan is up in her office.”

We made our way upstairs, and Susan was behind her desk with her glasses on the tip of her nose.

Douglas began, “What on earth happened yesterday? I heard you came in, went to the bathroom, and then left. Just like that, in and out. One, two, three, and Bob’s your uncle.”

”Douglas, I was having an allergic reaction to monkfish. I’m sorry I had to leave.”

”Monkfish? Why didn’t you at least come and find me first before you left? I had to stay late last night and work a double because you scurried away. Fourteen hours, Chris.”

”I needed to get to urgent care, I wasn’t OK.”

Susan sat there quietly, concerned.

Douglas replied, “I heard you looked like you were on drugs. Your eyes were bugged out,” as he made a gesture with his hands like something was falling out of his eyes.

”On drugs? Douglas, do you consider Benadryl a drug? I was breaking out in hives!”

Susan finally butted in, “Chris, we feel like you’re not being as responsible as you should be. You’re the assistant general manager here. There are certain standards you’re not living up to. You’re over 30 now.”

Then Douglas said, “Don't cha think it’s time to grow up?”

I felt humiliated, but they were right.

I tried getting my act together, but working nights still wasn’t panning out for me. I hated it. I missed my daytime crew, having my nights off, and felt like a shitty father, all while failing at work.

In addition to everything else I had going on, I had recently moved. During my housewarming party, and while being enamored by a pair of Catholic breasts, I sat in the hot tub for three hours, only to discover later that my phone was in my swimming trunks — fried and ruined.

All my money was being spent on bars, truffle oil, heirloom tomatoes, and wine. I needed a new phone, but I was low on funds. I decided to go to AT&T and use my company credit card to purchase a new one.

A few days later, Douglas informed me that companywide employee reviews would be conducted and would begin with me. He handed me a five-page pamphlet with questions and a rating system marked 1-5. He said all his reviews were done by having the employee evaluate themselves first, then he’d do the same and compare during the meeting. He said, “You got yourself some homework!” and skipped away. I wanted to slap him.

On the day of the review, Douglas was marching around the kitchen, flirting with a line cook when I found him. “Hey, I am ready to do this if you are,” I said. He told me to meet him in the conference room.

Once we sat down, he said, “I’m nervous about this. Are you going to attack me?” He was joking, but I could tell there was a sliver of truth in what he said.

We compared my ratings; I often gave myself a 4, and he’d give me a 2 or 3. On reliability, I gave myself a 4, and Douglas gave me a 1.

”A four, Mr. Christopher? Are we thinking of the same person?” Douglas said while he smirked.

”OK, maybe a four is generous, but a one? I don’t deserve a one, do I?”

After the review was conducted, I was told there would be no pay raise for the year, and I would be placed on a performance watch. There was no mention of using the company credit card to buy the phone. I felt it was odd that Susan wasn’t involved at all.

A few weeks later, I went out with friends again after work and really tied one on. This time we met at the Four Seasons lobby bar and drank overpriced cocktails while watching the uber-rich interact and mingle.

The following day, I woke up with a top-ten hangover. My head was pounding, and next to the bed was a half-drunk bottle of red wine that I must have decided to get into after the bar.

I knew I was still too drunk to drive, but I couldn’t miss work because I was on performance watch. I tried showering and pounding water, but that didn’t help. My body had the hippy-hippy-shakes, and my hands would not stay still.

There was no way I could call out sick - I would be immediately fired, but I thought, what if something happened to me instead?

I got on my phone and Googled “2008 Toyota Yaris blue front end damage,” and went to the images tab. I meticulously sorted through photos of cars that looked similar to mine that had been in accidents, but without a front view of the license plate, and it also needed to look somewhat like California.

Finally, I found the perfect one — it was the same make and model as my car, a similar year, and the photo was taken from the side. I saved the image and started a text thread that included Susan and Douglas that read, “Just got in an accident off the 101. I’m OK, the car is not. Will update you later.”

Susan instantly replied, “Oh my gosh, stay safe. Call me later.”

I felt bad for lying to her, but I knew that if I decided to drive, I would risk getting a DUI and losing my job. I didn’t care what Douglas thought at this point. He never responded to my text about the accident, anyway.

For the next few weeks, I parked in the residential neighborhood instead of the parking garage to hide the fact that I hadn’t been in an accident. One day, as I was getting out of my car, I heard someone say, “Hey Chris!” I turned around, and it was Tommy, one of my employees.

Tommy said, “Why are you parking so far from work? Don’t you have a parking spot in the garage?”

Fuck. Had I been exposed?

”Yeah, I am trying to get some steps in beforehand.”

”Don’t you get enough steps in while working the floor?” Tommy said.

”Mostly, yeah, but trying to get some fresh air before going in.”

I noticed Tommy inspecting the front end of my car, and I was sure that he was onto me and would report back to Douglas.

Later that evening, Douglas texted me, asking me to arrive early for the next day’s shift. Recognizing what was likely happening, I emailed Susan directly, without copying Douglas, to inform her of a family emergency back home that required me to return to Illinois: I faked a death in the family.

Douglas would have to work many doubles before finding my replacement, thus halting his daily morning routine of working on his Sammy Sax novels.

I got out before Douglas could have the pleasure of firing me — car still intact, and my new phone.