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HUNTER
Home.
I can’t believe I’m considering making Mesa, Arizona, my home. It’s a million miles away from Atlanta, Georgia, and a world apart in just about everything. But if I’m going to do this the right way, I must make this move.
Atlanta is dubbed Hotlanta, but the heat beating down on me as I stand and watch the delivery truck pull into the loading dock of the Legendary Hall is three degrees removed from hell. Sweat drips in places it has no business being as I attempt to hide beneath the dock’s awning. I’ve only been working here a week and I already know there is nothing legendary about this Hall. It is an aging, poorly run, catering and event space that is closer to its end days than its glory days.
I lift my Atlanta Braves baseball cap and swipe my elbow across my dripping forehead, regretting not bringing my water bottle with me to the dock. I blink down at the chipped clipboard and shake my head. Based on the records I accessed on the computer, this order is five percent smaller than last week’s. A general trend which took me all of thirty seconds to discover. No matter where I look, I see signs that confirm my suspicions. The hall is in desperate need of help.
I tip my baseball cap at the driver as he leans out the window, backing into the space. I pull the beaten pen with a logo of a local diner from the clipboard and scratch out the line beneath the logo of the Legendary Hall - Mesa, Arizona’s premiere catering hall. If this is the best Mesa has to offer, I’m in big trouble.
The large man hops out of the truck, manifest in his hand, and I paint on a plastic smile. I point to the side of the truck, Kensmith’s Meats and Groceries, a graphic of sizzling steaks, and then shoot a finger gun toward the driver. “Chuck, right?”
A hearty laugh explodes out of his mouth at my juvenile joke. He chews on the last piece of a donut, crumbles cascading down his belly before falling to the concrete. “Ha, you remembered.” I’m good with names. I have to be in my line of work. It makes people relax, which helps to get them to lower their guards and reveal truths they wouldn’t normally share. Chuck pulls out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and pushes it in my direction. “I’m sorry, kid, your name…”
I’m not a kid, I just celebrated my thirtieth birthday and Chuck is barely fifty, if that, but I roll with it. “No worries. Hunter.” I extend my arm forward and tilt my neck as I close my left eye and mimic looking down the barrel of a rifle, knowing he’ll make the connection.
His laugh tells me I’ve hit a bullseye. “Of course. I won’t forget next time.” If my plan works out, there won’t be a next time for me.
Chuck whips open the rear of the truck and climbs in as I peruse the manifest.
“Hold up.” A mere three seconds needed before I spot the issue. “We ordered Porterhouse and T-Bone. The manifest only lists flank and strip. What’s going on?”
Chuck’s shoulders sag as he drops a case of meats onto the hand truck. “They didn’t tell you?” His voice lowers to a conspiratorial tone, a softness I didn’t expect.
When I shake my head, he gives me his back and grabs a fifty-pound bag of carrots, tossing it onto of the case as if it weighed nothing.
“Mr. Kensmith changed the order.” I step next to Chuck so he can read the confusion on my face. Kensmith is the owner of the market distribution company where the hall orders its bulk meats and groceries. “He sent an email to the manager.” Chuck pauses for a beat, glancing over my shoulder before continuing. “He’s concerned about the line of credit. They’re months behind. Between you and me, he’s doing you a favor. Most other businesses around here have already cut the hall off from ordering. Mr. Kensmith is at least trying to work with them.” Chuck grabs a sack of onions and I reach for the other end to assist.
As we lift the onions onto the hand truck, I bite my lower lip. “I guess I picked the wrong place to start a new job. Are you guys hiring over at Kensmith’s?” I half joke with zero interest in working there. I feign interest in hopes that Chuck will provide more insight into what is happening. An outsider’s perspective, especially one with a long-standing relationship, is critical for my mission.
The smile falls from Chuck’s face as he straightens up and stares at the building. “I’ve been delivering here for over twenty years. You should have seen it back in the day. They used to host the governor's ball. We had a string of four Presidents in a row hosting fund-raisers here. Nearly a dozen Presidential candidates.”
I know the history. The hall truly was legendary back in its time. Internet research is one thing. Hearing it from the pride filled voice of a local who lived and breathed it is another. “What happened?”
“I’m not telling you anything you haven’t already seen. Junior happened.” Chuck spits out the name as if it's a curse. Franklin Junior, or Frankie as he goes by. “Mr. Franklin retired three years ago and turned over the reins to his spoiled kid.” Chuck tosses two more bags of vegetables and pulls out a second hand truck and begins to load it with rice and more vegetables. “Kid never met a party he didn’t like. Hired his old college buddies who thought they were still back in the dorms. The place has been spiraling ever since. There’s a rumor Mr. Franklin may sell to protect his retirement. Good luck with that. Who in their right mind would buy this place? Junior has ruined the reputation of this place forever.”
I nod, even though I disagree with much of his assessment. Forever is longer than most people think. If you concentrate on the past, things may seem hopeless. Growing up a black kid in Georgia, history can weigh you down like an albatross, but my parents instilled in all of us to focus on the possibilities of tomorrow. While others may be handcuffed by history, I use it as a cautionary tale and an opportunity to blaze a different path.
That’s the reason I flew cross country to work at a place everyone has given up on. Where others see what could have been, I see what will be.
Chuck and I wheel the groceries to the enormous kitchen. I leave my truck with the vegetables by one of the prep tables while Chuck steers his through the quiet kitchen toward the walk-in freezer. “Thanks for the assist.” Chuck waves over his shoulder. “I’m going to check in with Chef.”
I nod, recalling the last delivery. Chuck and our head chef share a friendship that stretches over a decade. I’m sure they are about to share more stories about the decay of the hall and the latest town kitchen gossip. I make my way through the narrow corridor leading to the management offices at the back of the property.
Legendary Hall has been in operation in Mesa since 1974. It has a long rich history, but in the last few years mismanagement and plain neglect have nearly destroyed all of its gains. It didn’t take me a week to come to this conclusion. It was apparent on the first day I started here.
I knock on the door, not surprised to find Franklin Junior, i.e. Frankie, passed out on the couch in the office. It’s nearly nine a.m. but for him it's probably only hour three since he stopped partying. Other staff members have told me that Frankie doesn’t like being disturbed before one in the afternoon, but I have my reasons for disregarding this advice.
“Wha… what is it?” he growls and raises his hand up to block the sunlight streaming in from the window. Frankie is white, thin, unkempt dark hair, dark sunken eyes, and the blotchy pale skin one usually would associate with a life-long drinker. He’s only thirty-two.
I click on the lights without a second thought. “We just received the delivery from Kensmith and they’ve downgraded the cuts of steak.” I skip the preamble. I skip the hello. He doesn’t deserve either.
“So what? Most people won’t even notice.” He swings his bare feet to the floor, his gaze remaining down as if balance is a new concept to him. He sways for a second and I make no movement to assist. If he falls and hits his head, that’s on him. “Why the hell did you wake me up to tell me this? I know you’re new and all, but you should know better. Don’t do it again.” His voice is scratchy, and I notice the thimble of brown liquid in the glass next to the empty bottle of bourbon. While his paying customers get downgraded meat, he sips on the best liquor in the building.
“They say we’re behind on payments. I suspect…”
He steps toward his desk, his hands landing on the edge to help him balance. What a sad, pathetic sight. “There is no WE here, whatever your name is.”
