I remember him coming into the restaurant and chatting up the counter girls excessively. To the point of backing up orders. He had an arrogance to him which I never take well from any man. An entitlement to everyone’s time and some imagined special treatment. His order should be made first and at a discounted price because of who he was. We’d get these types every so often, the high and almighty who decided to go slumming and grace us with their presence. I responded coldly by sticking his ticket further back in the queue, the longer he lingered as a distraction to my servers. Perhaps this was shitty of me as a cook, removed from customers and leaving the staff to answer to the haughtiness that would ensue.
“He wrote for this paper and that magazine and he’s on the radio.”
Piss on him. To me, he was just another thin skinned old white guy who believed the world owed him, right down to the little peons that worked at Greasy Spoon. And when I quit, I forgot all about him.
13 years went by and in that time I left the city and returned and worked in several more kitchens and not kitchens. Now I was in retail and he walked through the door of the shop, one afternoon. I recognized his face, first and foremost. I’m good with birthdays and okay with names but more so, I always remember a face. I watched this man in a Hawaiian shirt and baseball hat wander around the store and I muttered something to a coworker about thinking I knew this guy. A name came to me: Steve. A regular… at the Greasy Spoon? Arranging the fragments of recognition in my head over and over, trying to piece a definitive answer together. Who was this guy? Fuck it, I’ll just ask.
“Excuse me, sir? Are you Steve? Did you used to go to Greasy Spoon?”
He seemed delighted that somebody recognized him, though maybe not for the reasons he wanted. There was no light of remembrance in his eyes when he scanned me, nor when I told him I used to be a cook at the old restaurant. He did recall one of the servers, a friend of mine, with great enthusiasm. How could he not? Rene was beautiful, charming, and a talented musician– unforgettable! We chatted about the restaurant and neighborhood for a bit. It was surface level friendliness and seemingly innocent. He mentioned he had just popped in to browse and had to go, it was nice talking to me… and he put his hand on my lower back.
“Tell Rene I said hello if you see her.”
He handed me a business card and then he was gone.
The card read “Steve Boletus: Journalist. Author. Fun Guy.”
I scoffed when I read that last part and whipped out my phone to text Rene.
[Remember Steve the writer from Greasy Spoon? He was just in my shop. He says “hi”.]
[Oh brother…] she replied.
[He wanted to whisk me away on a vacation cruise.]
[Haha] I responded and thought that was the end of it.
Nope.
A series of strange events took place in my life over the next few months. Maybe you could even call them coincidences. People from the past resurfaced but pleasantly so, and all connected to the Greasy Spoon. They were delightful reunions and I stopped trying to make heads or tales of whatever messages the universe was relaying to me and just enjoyed some of the best things about being human. The former owner of Greasy Spoon was in town on business and I had given her a few of my zines. She encouraged me to do more with my writing and suggested asking Steve for some pointers. I was kind of embarrassed by the mere thought of reaching out but I reckon we all have got to start somewhere. So after some internal debate, I decided to go for it. Pulling out the “Fun Guy” business card, I wrote Steve an email telling him about my zines and asking if he’d be interested in taking a look at them and give me an honest opinion. A few days later I got a response, “sure.”
From there, everything moved fast. Steve came by my work again and I handed off a couple zines. A very personal collection of short stories and a fun zine about my time working as a cook at Greasy Spoon. He ended up calling me with an idea he had, wanting to write a love letter to the restaurant Greasy Spoon. It was celebrating 20 years of being open, survived covid, and the current owners were tired and looking to sell. Steve wanted me to put him in touch with the original owner of the restaurant, some of the old employees, and he wanted to interview me talking about my time spent working on the line at Greasy Spoon. Somehow he intended to work my zines and writing into this article he was dreaming up, though I didn’t really understand. It was all there in the zine, what else could I say that would fit into an ode to a diner? He’d call me a few times at the worst possible moments to try and set up an interview. I was apprehensive and wouldn’t give him a definite yes or no to the concept. Something was bothering me about all of this. Every phone call was rushed and scattered and I felt like I was being pushed into a ridiculous project. I just wanted feedback on my zines, not to go on record about a place I hadn’t worked at in 13 years. Steve finally offered a connection, he’d introduce me to a publisher if I met up with him for an interview. Okay. I finally relented and agreed to sit down and talk about the god damned restaurant. After all, it’s about who you know…
The Greasy Spoon was still open and functioning as a shadow of its former glory days. That’s where we decided to get together on a warm Thursday night. I left work at 5 and walked through my old neighborhood, past an old apartment and to the corner tavern. I stopped to join the crowd and kill some time, I didn’t recognize anyone and nobody knew me, which was bittersweet. I still felt uneasy about this whole thing and texted my boyfriend, Mikhail, thinking it was just my nerves. I’d never done anything like this before and he had been a huge encouragement to step out of my comfort zone. Assuring me it was all gonna be fine, but yet I still invited him to join us at the restaurant. He was happy to oblige my neurotic ass and said it’d take him half an hour to get there. When I got to Greasy Spoon it was dead, completely empty on a night that it should have been hopping.
I was too nervous to eat so I just got a coke and made small talk with kitchen ghosts. Steve exploded through the door, 20 minutes late and sending the cowbell clattering obnoxiously. He talked in circles and very quickly and he stunk of gasoline. It was like he had taken a bath in it and he kept telling me he had spilled it all over himself at the gas station. True or not, it was just really bizarre.
I quickly realized the various facets of communication with Steve. It was one thing to make small talk with him at work, or over the phone. It was quite a different thing to sit face to face with him and follow his train of thought as he continued to interrupt himself and hop from one subject to the next.
I knew people like this. It took a lot of patience when they were particularly wound up and you could usually work out a rhythm in their speech. Steve was different, he was very fiddle footed and pushy with me. He set out a tape recorder and would hold it up to my face awkwardly after asking me a question.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” He’d repeatedly ask.
I couldn’t do more than pick at a basket of fries but I told him I’d wait until after Mikhail joined us. Another local artist who was a regular of Greasy Spoon in its hey day. Someone who had also worked for the original owner years prior when she was running a different restaurant. Mik would have a much better recollection of connecting names and places that existed long before I ever picked up a spatula in a kitchen. I’m not sure if Steve heard me or genuinely didn’t care if anyone joined us…until someone actually joined us. When Mikhail arrived, Steve totally changed. Suddenly this whole thing had nothing to do with me anymore as Steve focused on Mikhail and became dismissive with me.
Shhh, honey…the men are talking.
Mik ordered some food and kept trying to steer the conversation back to my zines. “The real story here is Krystle’s writing. She’s talented and that’s what your article should be about.” A displeased expression crawled across the Fun Guy’s face when he heard this. He sputtered from there out, becoming terse, attention span shot, and seeming to just want to end this meeting and leave. He stopped making eye contact and put the tape recorder away. The ghosts in the kitchen turned off the ‘open’ sign and brought out a case of beer, offering them to us. I accepted for nostalgia’s sake and so did Mik. Steve fully shut down socially at that point and abruptly left. That was it. Mikhail and I chatted with the ghosts for a bit and finished our beers before walking down the block for a stronger night cap. We joked about the absurdity of the evening, and Steve’s behavior…and the smell of gas. The whole thing had been a scene out of a nature documentary about mating rituals, as Mik pointed out.
Ah well…what an experience.
I got a call from Steve while I was at work a few days later. He sounded upbeat about this pending article and mentioned a photographer. He’d given my contact information to the local rag’s go-to guy for photos and he’d be in touch to schedule a meeting with me. Wasn’t long before he reached me, Caleb. A perky young chap on the phone, we set a day and time to meet back at Greasy Spoon to snap a few pictures for Steve’s article. Once again I asked Mikhail to come along. It was an even hotter day and the bus never arrived so we ended up walking a mile to the restaurant, late, which is always frustrating. Caleb didn’t mind when we arrived looking sweaty and unkempt, he was super positive about the photoshoot and very friendly with us. He kept asking what time Steve was going to show up. Neither of us knew and it seemed weird that he wouldn’t. Caleb tried to reach him on the phone a few times for some sort of direction when taking the photos since nobody really knew what this article was about. There were so many elements crammed into it and fucked if Mikhail or I had any ideas of what to snap pictures of. It was all so awkward and unprofessional but Caleb thankfully knew what he was doing. He had a schedule to maintain and took a few shots of the kitchen ghosts and customers before posing Mik and I at a table in some natural light. Click clack. It was over.
The article came out a few days before my birthday. It was a poorly written history of the restaurant, the author’s preferences of menu items, and then there was a weak tie in of myself. Slapped in there, a former employee that writes zines. It didn’t make any sense. I started getting texts and emails from old acquaintances who had seen the article. All wanting to know what the fuck was up with this shitty local color story. My former tattoo artist reached out to me and asked what the real deal was and if it had been written by AI. Others remarked that the photo of Mikhail and I made it look like we were buying the restaurant.
Steve called me one last time, while I was at work, even though I had asked him to stop. He had a meltdown on the phone with me about the editors butchering his story. A man in his early 70s basically having a temper tantrum. There was no room for words wedged into this stream of angry emotion on the other end of the phone. I just had to stand there and listen because for whatever reason, once again, I am expected to manage the feelings and eccentricities of an undiagnosed man who has probably never been told ‘no’.
Story of my fucking life.
Story of damn near every woman’s fucking life.
Don’t get me wrong, I could have easily hung up the phone and put an end to all of this. But I was on the hook, doing that gross thing that people trying to get somewhere often do. I wanted that connection he promised me. I wanted to be introduced to that publisher Steve had mentioned in exchange for doing the interview. So I bit my tongue and let him rant about how hard it is to be an opinionated white man in this world.
*sigh*
Then Steve Boletus disappeared. I didn’t hear from him the rest of the summer. I texted and emailed him a few times, asking how he was doing and if he was still interested in introducing me to his publisher friend. He never responded.
Well, that’s that… I thought.
“It’s just as well,” Mikhail said. “That guy was incredibly unprofessional.”
Steve never came into where I worked again and “Fun Guy” became an inside joke for Mik and I as the days turned cold and short.
At the end of November I had been thinking about the whole ordeal when my phone rang. It was Steve. Almost like he knew. I couldn’t help myself and ran outside to answer the phone with surprise and even a little bit of anger painting my voice.
“Well well well,” I snarked loudly. “Who is this stranger darkening my doorstep?”
“I’m back!” Steve responded.
“I was starting to get the impression you were avoiding me, considering I haven’t heard from you since July!”
Oh yes, I laid it on thick but Steve just chortled. Never offering any kind of explanation as to why he disappeared and not a single mention of this publisher promise from six months prior. He had a hot new idea for an article in a different local rag, kind of notorious for being a joke (or so I’ve heard). Steve wanted to write just about me and my zines. My stupid fucking ego got in the way of any common sense I may or may not have, so when the Fun Guy suggested we meet up at a 24 hour diner on the North side…I agreed against my better judgement. He asked me to bring a few copies of my zines, the same exact ones I had given him last summer. Maybe it’s possible he forgot or misplaced them, but I automatically assumed he never read them the first time, lied about it, and now wanted more. For free. It’s really not all that uncommon because over the last year I’ve learned that most people don’t actually care and won’t read your shit.
So we met at the diner, which hasn’t changed in years, much to my delight. I was early and nervously sipped on coffee. I began writing a postcard to my neighbor, describing this ridiculous situation I had willingly put myself in, and then there he was…
Steve didn’t smell like gasoline this time but he half sat in the booth, as if he was ready to leave just as soon as he got there.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he snipped. The interview hadn’t even begun and he was over it? I felt dejected and pissed at the same time. He’d made such a big fucking stink about this meeting and the article and now he was playing it off like he was too important for any of it.
“Hey, I left work early to meet you on time. At least buy me a meal for dragging me up here.”
I don’t have a poker face, my expressions broadcast my feelings pretty loud and clear whether I want them to or not. I can only imagine how tightly furrowed my brow was in this face to face moment. Steve laughed at this, which sounds like a violent gasp for air. He pulled two tape recorders out of his bag and explained to me in detail where they came from and how one isn’t working all that great and so he got this new one…and he was recording all of this retro tech info dump. So there was going to be large amounts of time to sift through to get any usable content for this article, unless he wanted to write about his recorders? He’d ask me a few questions, I’d start to answer and then he’d interrupt me to futz with his gadgets some more.
The food arrived at our table and I started to shovel it down. It was enough respite to steer the conversation in a more functional direction. Steve asked me if I had a mentor or some strong male figure to guide me in my writing career.
“What about that guy from last time, what’s his name? Mickey…Michael?”
“Mikhail? He’s a big support and inspiration but he’s not a mentor. We’re dating.” I answered, knowing damn well he was just playing dumb. Steve didn’t seem to like that response and the old familiar subject hop took place. Suddenly we were on the topic of normies and weirdoes and he was asking me if I’d ever change my mind about getting married and having a family. He reached up to a Christmas decoration hanging over our table from the light fixture, gently touching it like a bored kid who can’t help themself.
“It is Christmas time, after all. It’s a time of hope…it’s never too late.”
I cringed at his smile, when he said this. I didn’t know if he was joking or not but why bother reiterating my sentiments on the matter? He was just trying to stir me up and it was working. I had felt like I was on defense for the entire conversation and I was ready to go home. Thankfully he picked up the check and offered to give me a lift to the train station. Stupidly, I got in the car with him because one bad decision deserves another. Having put up with this nonsense for long enough, lets get a grand finale in this story I’d be telling for years.
He wasn’t a terrible driver, but did manage to get lost (even though he insisted he wasn’t) and stuck in a congested area, forgetting it was rush hour on a Friday. Steve leveled out for a bit while we crawled through traffic, his faculties all came back and we traded stories of our days at a semi-famous dive bar. 30 years might separate us but we knew a lot of the same people and that was kind of cool. But just before I got too comfortable, he said something sentimental like “Maybe we could have shut down the bar together…”
Suddenly Steve shouted, “I LOVE THIS SONG!” Startling me as he lurched for the radio and cranked Starland Vocal Band’s “Afternoon Delight” and sang along. Grand finale.
“Right here is good, Steve! Let me out here!” I yelled over the music.
He pulled the car over and turned the radio down once the song finished, “They just don’t make music like that anymore!”
I thanked him for the ride and the food and before I could get the door open he touched my shoulder. “Maybe you could send me a postcard sometime, I get lonely in the suburbs.” Then he did that dry gasp for air laugh of his. I still don’t know if this was a joke or not.
Steve Boletus emailed me a few times following the interview he treated like a date. Full of questions to clarify a few things he recorded on his double micro-cassette set up. He seemed really fixated on the names of places I’ve worked other than Greasy Spoon. Names of restaurants and funeral homes, specifically. This all seemed really pointless for the article so I emailed him back, explaining that I’m not comfortable giving those names out. I also asked him not to publish the name of the place I currently work at for safety reasons, of course. But also, I didn’t think my boss would appreciate having his business associated with the kind of stuff I write about in my zines.
The email I got in response was rather explosive. I had been warned by an old DJ and frienemy of Fun Guy that he was incredibly thin skinned. I got a full demonstration of that. Steve went on a tirade about how he’s been a journalist for almost 40 years blah blah and he knew what he was doing and blah blah my opinion’s worth in how he structures his articles…
I continued the email chain by telling him most of what he needs for his article is in my zines, he just needs to read them since this is supposed to be the focal point, not a recitation of my blue collar resume. I didn’t hear from him for awhile until he started leaving me voice mails asking for Rene’s number. He had written about her several months back on his personal website and she was not pleased. I texted Rene and she made it crystal clear she didn’t want anything to do with him. His texts and emails became a slow trickle once he realized he wasn’t getting anymore information out of me. Steve did speak with Mikhail over the phone, and it seemed to go rather well. But the final straw and last interaction with Steve Boletus the Fun Guy, came in the form of an email.
It appears as if he actually took the time to read one of my more personal zines and decided to pick a throw away short story about sexual violence I experienced. Sure, I had put it out there for the world to read but it was my story to tell and heavily coded when I published it. Steve was asking for intimate details regarding the assault. Why he’d want to write about this specific event is beyond me.
Knowing the type and having invested way too much of my time into this shit, I couldn’t respond and tell Steve off. It would never end if I did. I deleted the email and blocked his phone number. I was patient and tried to give him the benefit of the doubt but ultimately I fucked up and entertained this Fun Guy for way longer than any sane woman would have. I was done.
I texted Mikhail what had happened and he soothed the inflamed nerve, telling me to forget that clown and get some sleep. I woke up the next morning kind of mad at myself that I hadn’t told Steve to get fucked. But a few hours after I got to work, Mikhail was apologizing to me. Saying that after I went to bed, he contacted Steve Boletus and told him a thing or two. Shared some strong thoughts and Steve’s response was demanding an apology and threatening to pull the article. Piss on the article, it certainly didn’t matter anymore and I was deeply touched Mikhail had stuck up for me since I couldn’t do it for myself.
This is the week that the article should have come out, but it won’t. Steve did in fact pull it and replaced it with some shitty nostalgia piece for football lovers.
I hope that turd never darkens my doorstep again and there’s a lot of things I’m leaving out in the chain of events. I wrote this piece to make myself feel better about the whole stupid-ass shebang. You live and you learn, right? I understand these are the rules to playing the game but I fucking hate it and will take my notoriety the old fashioned way: long after I’m dead.
