Summer Haters

Chap. 1
My Dad is always telling me that there are two types of people: the Dreamers, and the Doers. His opinion on the matter: “Screw the Dreamers.”

Always blaming things on the dreamers. Jesus, if the mail comes late, it’s' the Dreamers’ fault. I’d pretend not to understand his obsession, but it’s easy to see where he’s coming from when the trash man misses our street and I have to clean up the raccoon damage.

Maybe it’s all just a bunch of old people crap. Sayings that don’t really mean anything.

The point is: if my dad hadn’t been so viciously against Dreamers, I might not have been stuck working my summer away at Marty’s 24 hour diner.

“Don’t be a Dreamer.” He’d said. “Be a Doer. Do your part, work hard, contribute to society.”

After three oil spills in the kitchen, an old lady who’d insisted on letting her miniature Pom Pom use the sink in the bathroom as a urinal, and waiting on a few beefy guys I was certain were a biker gang, I’d rather be a Dreamer.

Sorry, dad.

The bell at the bar rang, and not just once, like the polite people do. Incessantly. I guess I should be thankful that there’s some way to warn me I’m about to deal with living hell. Thanks, bell.

“Hey! Hey Mark!” the bell keeps dinging.

I don’t bother to look up from where I’ve been organizing the menus. I already know it’s Hector. “For the last time, you don’t get free stuff just because you know me.”

Which doesn’t surprise me, because this place is infamously cheap.

“C’mon, Landmark!”

There’s the nickname-and it’s not because I’m a sinch in geography (which I am). It’s because I happen to be the tallest person in Eleventh grade. Six foot three. Believe me, it’s not as great as it sounds. You know what would be great? If I had the muscle that’s supposed to come along with the height.

If that were the case, they’d be cheering 'Landmark' when I made a slam dunk for Dennis Freeman High, instead of when I’m pelted with basketballs in dodge ball. What can I say? I’m an easy target, and unfortunately, can't seem to get past my 130 pounds, which is pretty pathetic for a tall guy.

“The only free stuff you can get around here are the leftover crayon wrappers and fat from the grease traps.” I tell him.

Hector drums his fingers on the red counter-tops, not saying anything- just being there, and being annoyingly there.

“You know you’re loitering right?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re making me look bad.” I tell him, stacking the menus vertically in my hands and straightening them against the counter with a satisfying tharump.

“Aww, sorry buddy. Just trying to keep my best friend company!”

Hector is not my best friend. My best friend is Robert Dratting, who’s in summer school right now, and probably will be next year, and the year after. One of the comforts of this job is that I know that when my shift starts, from nine to noon me and Rob are miserable together at the exact same time. And after I’m done with my shift, I have nothing to do until two, when Rob is dismissed, so I’m STILL miserable.

It’s freaking magical, really.

Hector does his best to entertain me some days, but he can’t change the fact that he and I were probably arch nemeses in a past life, and awkward second cousins in another.

“Hey, you need some fun.” Hector tells me, leaning against the bar and throwing his head back, so his boy band hair tosses back.

I sigh. “I’d agree, but that would be illegal.”

“Huh?”

“Fun is for Dreamers.”

“Okay then. Be that way.” He propelled himself against the bar, pushing himself back onto his feet. “Talk in cryptic metaphors and act like an old person. What do I care?”

“You care because you have nothing else to do.” I say, sliding the menus into their cubby behind the bar.

He nodded wistfully. “Summer sucks.”

I would have disagreed- my summers used to be heartburn med add worthy: rolling green hills and biking to the pond, all of it passing in slow motion, our smiles pasted to our faces, Rob’s and mine.

And then I remembered that I’m stuffed in a Marty’s T-shirt with a drunk cartoon pancake on the front, taking orders from bag ladies and bathing in fryer oil fumes.

It had to suck for Grant, too. No soccer team meets, or games with everyone cheering his name, or pretty cheer leaders lining up outside the changing room to ‘Congratulate’ him on his seven goals.

Summer was a bitch.

No, summer was a freaking Dreamer.