Kevin sits on the edge of his dormitory bed, cradling one of the quart sized canning jars in his well-manicured hands. He slides it back and forth, from left to right, and again cannot work his mind around one central question, pertaining to the package he received today: stewed tomatoes? What was he going to do with four Mason jars of stewed tomatoes?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this here in Omaha. It isn’t going to be like this out here, in Omaha. He hoists the jar higher and squints at it, through the light streaming from this eleventh story window, then repeats this process with each of the other three, mechanically, thinking back to the phone conversation two days ago, as if either action will explain the strangeness of this package awaiting him in the hallway, by his door, as he returned home from class this afternoon.
“I sent you something special, um, Kevin!” his mother had said with a giggle, “it’s not much, but I know you will find it useful!”
“Thanks Mom!” he’d replied, ever the dutiful son.
And he was truly, genuinely grateful. But after a day spent mulling, whenever his thoughts turned in this direction – and he had in fact lain awake in bed that night pondering it – the contents of this imminent delivery, what kind of wonderfully modern and useful item and/or items his parents had selected to accompany this, his brave first venture into the fully collegiate life, he had then spent the next day reminding himself that he was supposed to be… moving… moving beyond, moving beyond their influence, yeah, that was the word he’d been searching for. He was supposed to be more mature now, that was another one.
But what am I going to do with canned tomatoes? he muses, placing the jar back down on the windowsill next to three others, as if in a trance. New clothes, a new haircut, a new outgoing personality – the old him is HISTORY, dude – these are things he’s promised himself, and it may just be he needs to find a subtle, tactful way of interacting with her, too. Less mama’s boy, more the new Kevin Milligan. Socialite, man of the world. He stares at himself in a mirror hanging above the desk, grins at his reflection. Best not to think about that now, however, and who knew, maybe the issue would never come up again anyway.
He enrolled here at Omaha Business Institute some four months prior, as May drew to a close and the question of what he was doing with his future pressed most heavily. Though, true, it was the only school they’d visited, as he and his father flew out here that insanely humid weekend. But Kevin had taken one look at the campus grounds, the building in particular that he would be attending, the dormitories, and knew in an instant that this was a perfect fit. That four story square which would house the bulk of his classes, on a side street, Hibbert, despite facing something of an industrial complex of warehouses and semi-trucks…he and his father had stood in the front lawn, and gazed up at its magisterial charm, yet as his father pressed him again and again if he was sure about this, Kevin had no doubt. He could barely contain his excitement, in fact.
“It sure is a nice looking building,” his father did agree, shaking his head, but not in a negative sense, rather the way a person will sometimes when truly amazed by something. This, too, is how Kevin knows he picked a winner. This four story, white stone building, a perfect rectangle save for the asymmetrical bubble at bottom right, the Epcot-dome-like half circle of opal panels, slightly offset from one another, by just a handful of degrees, looming above the twin front doors. “Yeah boy, it sure is…hmm!” he says, and gives Kevin a shrewd, impressed glance as they turn to walk back toward their car.
Kevin had always been so thankful of everything his mother has done for him over the years, but as he has returned to his new home of this dormitory, the first Friday afternoon and therefore the end of his initial week at this school, he can’t help but find himself a little…well, disappointed and confused by this package. Tomatoes? Still, he couldn’t expect his mother to understand, or his father for that matter. He is a very edgy and brave guy for undertaking this endeavor, so many states away from home. Kevin reflects that they are just not as modern as he, and it’s really kind of sad that they never will be.
Yes sir, quite a week it’s been, yes sir. Kevin walks over to the open window and peers down at the grassy lawn below, eleven floors down, as hundreds of students traipse back and forth, into this dormitory building, or the one directly across from it, bordering this green expanse’s other side, or cutting through bound for somewhere else, hustling, possibly trying to make a late afternoon class. The students here are very dedicated, he can tell. He’s sure his fellow scholars will eventually assemble a social life, the same as he, but for now they are just trying to figure things out, at this tiny, two-year business college three blocks west and eight north of Omaha’s downtown.
Slowly, somewhat entranced by the late afternoon sun and his thoughts, Kevin pulls himself away from the window. He paces the length of his tiny room, back and forth, hands clasped behind the back, muttering, “Friday night, Friday night…,” to an audience of no one. True, he is a modern and happening enough guy to recognize that it’s somewhat, what’s the word, somewhat lame, yes, to be hanging out alone up here at the beginning of the weekend, but then again, he reminds himself, if you are boldly forging your own path in life, you will be cutting against the grain an awful lot, making brave decisions that might not win a lot of popular approval. He could find something interesting to get into, he could, but decides it’s in his best interests to remain here and assess the myriad events of this week just concluded. Maybe watch some television, but most importantly regroup from everything that has transpired. Besides, it’s surely true, nobody, particularly no freshman enrollee such as himself, is going to have developed a social life already after just a few days. So he’s really not missing anything.
He stretches out on his somewhat stiff bed and clicks on the remote control, still attired in the grey khaki slacks and bright pink polo he wore to class. First, there had been the anxiety filled first day. My, my, was that a doozy. If racing frantically from one end of campus to another, all in search of such and such building for this and that class, if all that hadn’t been enough, there was also the daunting prospect of trying to assimilate, yes, to figure out each teacher, where they were coming from and what they expected.
In addition to all this, aside from lofty goals he has set for himself academically, Kevin also made his mind up during the flight here – and really, for weeks leading up to it – to try and be a little more sociable than in the past. Sure, back in high school, he’s self-aware enough to admit, he had been slightly timid, somewhat forgettable, even, not making any enemies, but also not developing as many friends as he possibly could have. These are different times, however, and this new leaf turned is going to make for a FANTASTIC year. It really is. He purchased a few new outfits prior to leaving home, and with those, his fresh, outgoing manner he’s just recently developed, and, best of all, the way he had just recently begun to comb his hair, the somewhat – only somewhat, mind you – dorky old self was gone.
“Yep,” he says aloud, atop the covers, his channel flipping having settled on a somewhat familiar looking movie, with modern, popular actors he can’t quite name but is pretty sure he recognizes, it was an extremely popular college comedy that everyone else saw during his junior year, he thinks, but which he just didn’t quite find the time to catch. Well, this will certainly do.
He’s not even aware that his eyes are drifting shut in the waning sunlight, the nearest star prematurely shielded by that dorm building next door, to the west. By the time he awakens from this unplanned afternoon nap, the sky has turned dark outside and his telephone is ringing. Kevin sits up with a start, collects his fuzzy thoughts in the space of a couple rings, then reaches over with considerable anticipation to answer. Now it’s his father, checking to see how the first week went.
“….so I told him, look, either ya got a nice ass or ya got a big dick,” the short, somewhat sour faced, spiky haired brunette, Holly, is telling the quite large brunette – he believes her name is Michelle – first thing Monday morning. Kevin is trying to avoid being nosy and listen in on their conversation, because that’s just not the proper way to conduct oneself, but he can’t help it, considering that he is arranged in this cluster of desks with them, “cause there ain’t no guy I ever met had both, it’s impossible. So which is it?”
“Oh yeah?” Michelle titters, “what’d he say to that!”
Kevin’s a little confused because the two of them appear to be discussing a party they both attended Saturday night. Yet if he’s not mistaken, both are freshman and were just introducing themselves to one another when class began back on Tuesday. After considering the matter a moment, he concludes he must have that wrong, that they surely hail from the same hometown or something. Plus, the other weird thing is they seem like complete opposites, because Holly always wears turtlenecks and jeans, in other words looks kind of preppy like him, whereas Michelle has on sweatpants and a tee shirt every day. She also smells like cigarette smoke.
Four days a week, they are beginning their mornings here, in this Computerized Accounting class as taught by a Mr. Ammons. Some of the students have already been complaining that he takes the somewhat unusual off day of a Wednesday, when Friday is much more typical, but Kevin is determined to give the guy a fair shake. He thinks it’s kind of interesting that their instructor is doing things a little differently.
On the second floor of Stereck Hall, the Computerized Accounting wing, two classrooms hold a grand total of forty one students. Nineteen in his class, as taught by one Mr. Ammons, of which, curiously, just five are male, and the other twenty two in Mrs. Darling’s class of which, again, all but four are of the fairer sex. Kevin spent all weekend pondering this disparity, as he had much of the week, concluding nothing but good can come of such a fortuitous imbalance. He thought about it while eating alone at the union hall cafeteria both lunch and dinner Saturday and Sunday, in fact, because a guy just didn’t rush into decisions like this. Things are different now, he’s a mature adult these days, he is a modern and you might even say cutting edge guy – this he finally comes to terms with and is able to admit to himself, smiling into his dorm room’s bathroom mirror Saturday while washing his hands – and he will, being realistic here, have a number of females to choose from just as soon as he gets settled at this college.
But despite such extensive reckoning, Kevin still stands by a decision he made while walking back to his dormitory after the second day. He hasn’t jumped into anything hastily, you know, he’s analyzed the situation from all angles since then, just to be on the safe side, and these findings have confirmed that his initial thought was a sound one. He has decided that he will be pursuing Kim Horner, a petite blonde in his first class of the day. And while, true, he had went out with that Janet girl on four dates during his senior year of high school, which means he has at least a respectable amount of experience under his belt, if not quite a “veteran” per se – though, true also, he and Janet had even gone so far as to kiss on the third of those dates – he knows there are bound to be at least a couple slicker characters in his classroom alone, he knows he has to act fast. No sense in letting moss grow under his feet. Yet by striking this correct balance, Kevin is certain, a girl like Kim will appreciate that he wasn’t some sex fiend, to mentally quote a phrase he overheard a lot in high school, that he really took his time to consider everyone fairly without drooling after the first female who came around. By the same token, though, she will respect that he is resolute and decisive, which he read in this book from his parents’ den recently were important traits when courting a girl. So, therefore, he obviously has the perfect handle on being quick but not too quick, taking his time to select even while aware there are other smoother guys eager to make a move. Besides, the Christmas holidays will be here before you know it, by which time he hopes to have a girlfriend soundly in place.
A girlfriend he thinks, and takes a deep breath, allows himself to smile. But then he’s aware of a hulking presence over his shoulder, turns to face the source of this sudden shadow.
“The numbers?” Mr. Ammons’s dark visage demands, suddenly appearing at Kevin’s shoulder and grimacing beneath his thin salt and pepper mustache, “why are you not working on the exercise like everyone else?”
“Oh…….well I messed up this one so bad I thought there was no reason to….to continue,” Kevin stammers.
“You’re being timed nonetheless. I suggest you finish these columns as quickly as you can. We’re only taking the best of your two scores.”
“Right……,” Kevin frowns at the adding machine, turns his attention to it again. Three columns of numbers on a sheet of legal sized paper, to be added by the ten-touch method, which he’d never really mastered in his high school bookkeeping class and was hoping wouldn’t be so much of an issue here. He was hoping the material here would be more…advanced. Then again, this is only the first week.
The desks are arranged in random clusters here and have not been moved in the slightest since class began the previous Monday, suggesting that this was Ammons’s basic preferred configuration, for whatever reason. The professor’s desk sits facing outward from the longest wall in the room, directly opposite the door, near the middle of said wall with a solid panel of windows at his back. Ranging from Ammons’s chair, if one were seated in it and looking out at the classroom, as the instructor often was, from left to right in clock-like half circle march, there was a cluster of six facing a cluster of seven, then one of six near the door abutting another group of six, then the only group situated sideways, three against three, then a cluster of five against five, within which not a single soul in Kevin’s classroom sat, and then, finally, to the right of Ammon’s desk, his own island, the peculiar two facing three set of desks, his just about the closest eye contact vantage point for the instructor available in the classroom. This seat he had in fact specifically chosen for that reason.
“We need some fucking music in here,” the kid whose desk faces Kevin’s, Joe Hargill, mumbles after Ammons walks away. It’s Michelle to Kevin’s left, Joe across from Kevin, Holly beside Joe and the fifth desk in this cluster, to Holly’s right, forever unoccupied.
“Excuse me?” Ammons says, spinning on his beefy heels midstride, now standing with a hand on the hip of his black dress slacks, the bulge of his flimsy white long sleeved business shirt about to pop its bottom button, so tight is the tucked in fit, visible via a temporary parting of the slightly askew red and orange patterned tie, “not in this classroom, buddy.”
“Music?”
“No, the language.”
“Oh…,” Joe says, his sandy eyebrows crinkled together in confusion as he mulls over these peculiar circumstances. His hair, a shade lighter than the eyebrows, blows upward and outward from his forehead in an unruly, spiky mass, “but this isn’t high school, I mean, we’re all…”
“I don’t care. Stay home, then. Got it?”
“Got it.”
In jumbled fashion, Omaha Business Institute and its dormitories line this stretch of Pembroke Boulevard, a tree lined, only marginally busy thoroughfare running in a north-south direction within a calculator’s throw of the downtown’s sputtering, barely pumping heart. Many of the more prominent and well attended school buildings dot the spacious east lawn, as does the centerpiece, a twelve story, red brick tower that houses the union hall, admissions office, class advisors, faculty offices, and just about every other piece of bureaucratic business. Turning right onto Hibbert, other educational outposts dot this side street, though populated increasingly fewer by these and more by the industrial parks the further one drives along this almost dead end, one mile stretch. Stereck Hall is the second to last on the right, and though semis occasionally cut through en route to one spacious parking lot that does connect with another bustling avenue beyond, traffic aside from this and the occasional student is rare.
At OBI’s southern edge, Very Much China Fun announces you are either leaving or arriving at a palace of learning, depending on the direction one is travelling. It is at once a major campus draw and a scourge, again a matter of perspective. Kevin for one considers it very interesting indeed that he is able to enjoy a regional institution such as this – even if he has thus far only ordered the sweet and sour chicken with white rice, skipping for now the, you know, weird kind of stuff he really isn’t too sure about – and has read a little bit about the restaurant’s history in one of those free “getting to know campus” pamphlets they make available to freshmen. As chance has it, although this is apparently a yearly tradition of handwringing, the daily Omaha Explorer newspaper is running a massive piece on the chain today, too, as Kevin sits down for sweet and sour chicken with white rice for his exceptionally early dinner.
One major primary obstacle any of the hardy, barely surviving downtown restaurants have to overcome, this piece says, was figuring out how to rope in that tantalizing OBI crowd, geographically near, yet leagues removed in demographic. Various theories have been bandied about over the years, none convincing. Twenty minutes on foot, a third of that by bike, not even a remix single’s length away by the absolutely free student bus…and still, no traffic. What nobody in the industry seemed willing to concede, despite the overflowing bodies pouring from this establishment’s toothy orifice all hours of the day, was that this dearth of collegians with the munchies could be laid directly at the feet of Very Much China Fun.
A seven franchise chain, locally owned and operated from day one by Ming Ho and his wife, Very Much China Fun went from just scraping by for a solid decade with three locations, all inner city – the eastside spot being the oldest among these – to rolling the dice on one sprawling campus establishment, two stories and easily thrice the size of any other, right near OBI’s heart, on the east lawn’s corner of Pembroke and Oakdale. That was fifteen years ago, and from here followed a cautious climb upward, with Mr. Ho shooting down every suggestion that he might someday go national.
Debates raged as to whether the admittedly spectacular campus anchor, with its front wall entirely glass, as were half of both flanks, was the main draw, or whether this claim could be laid by the kitschy theme song, apparently a late night TV staple back in the early days only recently revived and made popular again by knowing hipsters. A thirty second, poorly exposed series of slides that were half greenish due to age, these were accompanied by a first generation sounding drum machine – the paper compares it to the beat from Hall & Oates’ tremendously popular I Can’t Go For That – and someone going crazy at random on a keyboard pitch wheel, as a somewhat flat yet curiously appealing female Asian voice (rumors that it was in fact Mrs. Ho had never been confirmed, nor denied) sang the only four lines of lyric, twice through:
Very Much China Fun… (then, in a higher pitch) Very Much China Fun… (still higher) new adventure you begin… (and now lower, back to the start) Very Much China Fun…
Kevin chuckles a little bit when the Explorer adds that it’s almost like a blues in form, except, well, not really. Then casts his eyes around the spacious dining room in a near panic, wondering if anyone overheard him and if this might qualify as one of those dorky moments he’s been reminding himself to eradicate from the repertoire. But nobody seems to be paying him the least mind, so he is free to continue eating, and reading, without fear. And he too has to agree with the article’s ultimate assessment, you know, when you get right down to it: if you consider the fact that their meals are surprisingly plentiful, surprisingly tasty, and can be had for a very reasonable price, not to mention that the campus spot is open around the clock, its vice grip on the OBI populace is not likely to slacken anytime soon.
Though his parents are depositing a meager stipend for living expenses into his bank account, every Monday, at his father’s gentle insistence Kevin does begin looking for a part time job, within a few weeks of arriving in Omaha. Very Much China Fun is the obvious choice, close and convenient, all the more so in that he actually had some experience as a busboy back home, and doesn’t doubt in the least his ability to contribute, to perform well in that role there, insanely busy though that popular campus haunt might be. It’s the thought of Kim Horner, however, which sways him from doing so – her and the other slightly less viable candidates in his classes at OBI. If he hopes to pursue someone of Kim’s ilk in earnest, he can’t risk being seen in such an…undignified setting. He needs to find something else a little more out of the way if not altogether more respectable.
Thus it is that the bulletin board in the lobby of Stereck Hall eventually attracts his notice. Splattered by notes and flyers in an array of colors, shapes, and sizes, some handwritten, some typeset, offering services in the form of babysitting and landscaping, musicians for hire, the expected missing pet photocopy or two, it’s an art piece in its own right and fascinating if for that reason alone. But there are also some legitimate job postings amid the clutter, and while working in the office at a local church, buffing floors after hours in a warehouse, working as the night desk manager at a hotel on the interstate and maintaining an apartment complex don’t really sound like much he’d be interested in or qualified for, a sky blue sheet of paper tacked to the bottom middle does seem to possibly fit the bill:
LOOKING FOR THE “TIME” OF YOUR LIFE? WHY NOT WORK FOR SANDWICH TIME!
Sandwich Time is of course a national fast food restaurant chain, probably not quite as famous as they once were, okay, but still a well-known and respectable establishment. Even so, he has to pass by this notice on countless occasions with merely a glance, peruse it start to finish nearly as often, his gaze absently drifting to that cartoon figure rendered in black ink at each of the rectangle’s four corners, almost like that charming little grandpa on the Chance and Community Chest cards in Monopoly, alternately clutching a fist full of money, or biting into a sandwich, in either instance with an expansive grin threatening to split his face in half. But eventually Kevin concludes, why not? And so jots the address down on the back cover of the first notebook extracted from his backpack. As an added bonus, the ad states that new applicants will receive a value meal on the house merely for showing up and filling out the paperwork.
The proverbial pickle chip on top, which he wasn’t aware of in the least until working up the nerve to walk the eleven blocks downtown – sure, he could take a city bus, but Kevin would be the first to admit he hasn’t quite gotten his…bearings straight, not entirely, not here in Omaha – is entering that brick location on one corner of Broad Street, in other words the main drag cutting east-west through downtown, and learning within five minutes of shaking manager-on-duty Todd Barnes’s hand that this is the original Sandwich Time location. As in, the first one ever. It all started in this very spot some fifty years ago. What are the odds? So clearly, this was just another sign that he was on the right track in applying here. Yes sir, everything was lining up precisely so here in Omaha, everything.
It actually seems so incredible at first that he imagines Todd – he insists upon being called Todd – must be pulling his leg. But Todd definitely seems to be a reputable guy, all business, and besides, Kevin eventually stumbles upon a framed collage just outside the men’s room featuring black and white photos of the original crew, a plaque commemorating its 50th anniversary, and then a little write up mentioning this location’s distinction as the first in what soon became a burgeoning franchise. Wow. Too cool.
As for the interview itself, this progresses nearly as smoothly, as far as Kevin can tell. Though Todd is short, he commands respect, no doubt about it. The guy just projects authority. As a result, though mostly bald up top, with just a ring of dark black hair around the fringe, he somehow pulls this look off, and the mustache, too, he doesn’t look the least bit ridiculous. Let’s just say Kevin is mighty thankful he took the time to neatly write his references and other pertinent information on lined notebook paper before leaving his dorm. That and brushed up on common interview questions in the campus library for a couple of hours the other day.
That said, it isn’t as though Todd is a total, as they say, stuffed shirt. They eventually discuss music and sports, near the interview’s conclusion. A diehard Cardinals fan himself, Todd’s mouth curves upward at the edges with mockery when Kevin admits that he and his entire family are lifelong Cincinnati backers themselves. “And how many World Series rings does St. Louis have? Twice as many? Heck, even the Rams won a Super Bowl,” he playfully taunts. Then they shake hands and part, at which point Todd mentions the free meal – Kevin had been thinking about it, but didn’t quite possess the nerve to ask – and gestures toward their menu, posted behind the counter and high above the dining room table where they are seated. He doesn’t want to admit not being entirely sure he’s ever eaten at a Sandwich Time (he and his parents had a tradition of hitting KFC for lunch on the way home from church every Sunday, and that was about the extent of his fast food adventures), but eventually works out from the cashier, mumbling to her after Todd has disappeared into the manager’s office, that a Pricebuster is their hamburger, ordered sans mayo, sans mustard, sans onions, the meal accompanied with fry nuggets and a drink.
By the time he begins his long walk home, nightfall is creeping around the edges outside. Eleven blocks won’t take an eternity, though his languid pace, absorbed in thought, does extend it by a good fifteen minutes. He’s not only analyzing every aspect of the interview and wondering if he’ll get the job, but also thinking about mustaches, or looks in general. Todd has a mustache. So does Mr. Ammons. How does a guy go about working up the nerve to grow a mustache? It seems like it would take an awful lot of courage, to decide on your own that you were going to alter your appearance, and then stick with it – without even necessarily knowing if it would look any good at all! Yes, this would certainly take a great deal of bravery.
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