Franky Franky Frank -TS-C8-

Frank introduced himself to new customers and old timers at Steak & Shake by sneaking up behind them with a yellow "Wet Floor" cone and, using it as a mega phone, mooed loudly. Like a cow. Startled, the patron would jump and turn around, staring wild eyed at the Nubian giant behind them. He feigned ignorance, asking if the pranked had seen a cow. Because he could swear he heard a cow. This joke really didn't get old. Like dogs can pick up on tension in a room before humans because of some innate connection to their environment, Steak & Shake servers learned to watch Frank's artful approach to his attack. He used his janitorial job to blend in and deflect attention. He was a superhero in disguise. We'd watch his shifty eyes searching for prey. Very nonchalant, he'd grab a cone like he was just going to mop the floor. Everyone not trained in Frank-Study would believe it. We knew better. Scooting the cone closer and closer to his target booth, he'd gracefully lift it to his mouth like a Rabbi blowing a shofar and moo. The routine was predictable and totally hilarious.

Frank was really a fun, if eccentric, guy. In his mid forties, he bussed tables and mopped floors. He talked about his wife that left him for another woman and referenced jail time. The rumors about him stealing tips from servers did little to detract from his charm. The stories about him and a friend taking a woman behind a dumpster and going to town, however, did detract. The laugh accompanying the story worried me a little bit when sitting alone with him in the break room. He told the story leaning back in a chair pushed up against the wall. His feet crossed in a chair pushed away from him. His arms rested crossed on his chest. A dish rag covered his eyes and the wall supported his head. He kept shifting positions, trying to get comfortable in his makeshift hammock. The story rolled out, mixed in with chuckles and chair shifting fidgets. The straightforwardness of his telling caught you off guard. It was delivered to impress, a good joke you know told to a girlfriend's parents. "So me and my buddy raped this girl!" He never said rape, to be fair. Who knows, perhaps his dumpster indiscretions were consensual. Covered by a dish rag, the tale didn't seem like it came from the mooing Frank but some super villain in a wash cloth mask. "The Scrubber" they would call him.

One night, Frank in his thirty minute break position, wash cloth visor and all, asked me if I thought God would be upset if he fucked his wife up. He was upset that, to paraphrase, his slut wife was licking some dyke's asshole. If someone asks this question, do you really think they are looking for spiritual consent? From a white kid half your age, nonetheless? I tried to explain that, no, God probably wouldn't approve of whatever "fucking up" your wife entailed. Frank continued to defend his stance. He must have thought I didn't understand she was licking some dyke's asshole. I reiterated my position. Frank went back to work and I told myself I did my part. I hope Frank found his peace on that count.

Jovial and anguished, Frank's character weaved an untraceable double helix of an arc in my experience at Steak & Shake. He walked in the front door, shouted across the restaurant to Mac, "Hey Superman! What's up Superman?" because one time Mac wore a Superman shirt that Frank noticed. I don't think he knew Mac's name. He snuck up behind me and slapped my back, then spit out three sentences so fast I stared at him and asked, "What?" He laughed and didn't explain. Continuing the rounds of greeting, even Mike wasn't spared the overbearing friendliness. Mike was clearly afraid of him and would do his best to ignore the antics in a very un-Mike like fashion. Frank started mopping the floors. He flipped up all the seats onto their tables and did the necessary rearranging of other furniture. Then he set out his cones, making sure to moo at his victim for the night. Next he filled his bucket. Finally he got to work. We all knew the floor was Frank's at this point. More than once his darker side crept to the surface when a new server or kitchen staff stepped within his wet floor zone. Quickly they were informed in less than kind words that Frank did not play when it came to his floors, and they'd be wise to relocate.

The downfall of Frank, along with the night shift vibe of Steak & Shake, strolled into town with the decision to make the franchise nonsmoking. Frank wasn't a smoker, so this is a bit ironic. I remember that night well. All the staff heard we were switching to nonsmoking months before the actual date. It creeped closer and closer like Christmas though, without all the Hallmark reminders. None of us believed it, in classic addict manner. Finally, the night came. It was a Tuesday, a slow night, and the restaurant was empty when the clock started creeping towards midnight. The staff, led by Stovall, gathered in a booth and lit up what we thought was our last cigarette inside Steak & Shake. We finished and it was ten til midnight. So we kept going. Midnight struck and we cheered and cried. Stovall "swept the parking lot" a bit more than necessary that night.

The significance of Steak & Shake going nonsmoking is that afterwards, it became hell, mainly because Stovall was transformed into a more outspoken Mike. Deprived of his chemicals, he was angry all the time and blamed everyone around him. The screaming sessions became more frequent and less reasonable every day. Frank, after borrowing money from a server (as a server you always have cash from tips, so when someone asks to borrow three dollars it is hard to come up with an excuse), sat at the bar eating his eggs and bacon sandwich at three AM before he mopped the floors. I don't remember why, but Stovall had a problem with it. He decided this was the time to step his authoratative foot down on the man that mooed. Frank screamed, Stovall screamed, and no one was happy. Frank stormed out. He came back the next day but with promises to not stand for that shit. The shit kept coming, and Frank along with many others, including myself, couldn't deal with the new managerial style.

Frank was scrubbing floors at a steak house not long after Stovall's nicotineless-anger drove him out. I guess in the world of retail food, a steak house is a step up from Steak & Shake since they actually serve steaks. However, the peanut shells on the floor must be a constant affront to Frank's pride: the sparkling floor. Control is what it comes down to. He controlled that floor. He was a grown man. He couldn't control his dyke wife and her ass licking inclinations. He couldn't control his senseless boss or his addiction. But that floor. That was his goddamnit.