Summary

Clint, the owner of Catfish Charlie's, is frustrated with his evening cook Herschel for leaving him to manage the restaurant alone due to a family emergency, leading to a stressful evening where superstitions and omens affect his state of mind.

Abstract

The narrative unfolds at Catfish Charlie's, where Clint, the MBA-holding owner, finds himself resentfully sweeping the floors, a task he deems beneath him. His irritation is directed at Herschel, his evening cook, who has called out due to his wife's childbirth complications. Despite wanting to close early, Clint is compelled to stay open for a new drop guy, a situation that underscores his lack of trust among the staff and his entanglement with the restaurant's operations. Clint's superstitious nature, inherited from his voodoo priestess grandmother, Lamona, surfaces as he interprets the shadows cast by the headlights of a late-arriving customer's car, which create an ominous sign involving Sammie, the restaurant's prized marlin. This incident triggers a panic in Clint, who struggles to reconcile his rational business acumen with his deep-seated belief in superstitions.

Opinions

Clint harbors resentment towards Herschel for leaving him in a lurch, exacerbating his stress and frustration.
He feels a sense of absurdity and entrapment in his role as the restaurant owner, being at the mercy of his staff's reliability.
Clint's internal conflict is evident as he oscillates between dismissing his superstitious beliefs and succumbing to the fear of omens.
The narrative suggests a sense of regret or guilt over an unspecified past action involving Charlie, which has led to a lack of trust from the staff.
Clint's thoughts reveal a desire to assert his authority and possibly terminate Herschel's employment as a result of the evening's events.

Catfish Charlie’s — Part 1 of 6

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Earlier. 5:56 PM, Saturday.

Damn you, Herschel, Clint thought. The curse had become a mantra he repeated while he swept up-sweep, sweep, sweep, curse Herschel.

Herschel was his evening cook. The man had called in. His wife had had some complications with her delivery.

Boo Hoo, as if they need a fifth child.

Clint would’ve closed early, but Leroy said they were breaking in a new drop guy today. They only dealt with him. He was the money man, the owner, the adult in the room. If they went down, he would too-mutually assured self-destruction. In the beginning, Clint had wanted it this way. After what he did to Charlie, few of the staff trusted Clint. Now, it felt absurd. He was the one with the MBA, yet he was at the beck and call of these high school dropouts. And it was all Herschel’s fault.

First chance I get, you’re gone, Herschell. Don’t let the door hit you where the good lord split you.

Instead of closing, he swept the floor, slaving away like some minimum-wage peasant. Madness.

Why the hell am I sweeping the floors? I’m the goddamn owner.

But he had grown up in the business, and it was natural to pick up the broom and do what needed doing.

His grandmother was a voodoo priestess. She’d practiced in New Orleans. Her gift to Clint had been a mild addiction to superstitions. When he was a teen working in her restaurant, he would play games she had taught him. His favorite of all the games was the one with the shadows. While he swept, he liked to play it. Clint played it now.

You could spend a lifetime mastering the game, but its objective was simple. You read the shadows around you. How they interacted was powerful magic, Lamona had told him. If a shadow touched yours, it could be lucky or unlucky. You had to know how to read the signs, his grandmother had told him.

Clint brushed the current pile of shrimp tails, dust, and crumbs into the dustpan and dumped it in the trash. He stood up in time to see headlights play against the front windows. He was in no mood to deal with a customer.

Keep going. Don’t stop here.

But the car didn’t keep going. It stopped. Its headlights cut a path through the main dining room while Clint gawked.

The path of the headlights cut a wild arc through the main dining hall. The shadows danced about as the car parked.

Remembering the game, his eyes fell to the floor. His blood turned to ice water.

The headlights threw a shadow of Sammie onto the main dining room floor. Sammie was the 347-pound Atlantic blue marlin hanging in the front window. Charlie had caught it the summer he opened the restaurant. Sammie and the wall of mounted catfish behind him were two of the things that drew people from far and wide to Catfish Charlie’s. When Clint looked at the floor it looked like the fish’s long sword was sticking out of his chest. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat.

Lamona, you should see this one. Rest in peace, sweet Grandmother.

This was a bad sign. Clint panicked.

Stop this. You’re a grown man. You don’t believe this junk anymore.

He felt nauseated. This was bad. He spent seconds that passed like centuries, working out the best way to separate his shadow from the marlin’s. He heard the car door slam, then the customer walking towards the front door. He took a deep breath and jerked himself away from where he stood. A burning pain flooded his abdomen. He told himself it was the extra hushpuppies he had had with lunch. He went to the counter to deal with the unwanted customer.

If Herschel hadn’t called in, then it would be him here dealing with this. Damn you, Herschel. The first chance I get, he’s gone.

Originally published at http://storiesbyshawn.com on March 17, 2024.