New Year’s Day 2013

When I press my thumb to Jimmy’s wrist, the body is still warm, but I can’t find a pulse. It’s the eye that terrifies me. How it looks at nothing. Five minutes ago, I was sure my life could get no worse.

I should have been bracing myself for this inevitability. Jimmy was old enough to expire at any moment, for sure, but he was vital for a guy in his sixties. Just last week he was bulldogging a hole in a brick wall, cradling the rotary hammer like Schwarzenegger spraying the forest with a machine gun. He was slugging beers and twisting smokes. Tickling his girl’s ass and telling jokes. Shit, he was the loon who traipsed through Hurricane Sandy with a blind white rat in his black leather satchel.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I had assumed he was sleeping off his debauchery, so I went to the kitchen, filled a five-quart Cambro with ice cold water. Then I leaned my phone against a bottle of Jim Beam and pressed record. But someone had flipped the breaker on Jimmy’s nervous system and as the water pressure dented his cheeks, the ice cubes skittered off his face without eliciting a blink or twitch. No comedic groan or guffaw, just slow thoughtless drips in the aftermath and his pasty silver curls clinging to his gray skin.

Now his body lays prone and peaceful on the banquette at table 67. A supine cadaver mummifying in black jeans, a white tee and a Versace leather crew jacket. One thing about death, it confirms a person’s destiny. Even in the eyes of the faithless.

I’m on the spectrum with faith. I’m not sure where Jimmy is currently. The only existential certainty here is that, from now on, he will always be seated at the party table. No matter how many people come to dine here, I will never be able to unsee him as he is now: tucked in the corner behind the grand padauk and ash tabletop–a woodwork he and I built together at Bully’s shop.

There are things I would have liked to say to him. To let him know how sorry I am; to explain how opening restaurants makes people insane, that the industry can send owners over the edge. Like Dorian, the Brooklyn pioneer who sparked the comfort food renaissance. The genius who reimagined mac and cheese in the aughts and found a way to make short rib—a cheap cut—more delectable than rib eye.

Dorian used to drop by my bar, The Double, to chop it up, have some drink, and share industry gossip. Then, one night, he drove back to his childhood home, parked his red Saab in the driveway and left his brains in the back seat. How could a guy that successful shoot himself? Everyone at the memorial in Williamsburg was asking the same question. And they all knew the answer. It’s the nature of the business.

I want to tell Jimmy about that. I want him to know I’m sorry for losing my temper. For blaming him, for cutting him out. For firing him. Clearly, it wasn’t worth it.

Now I don’t know who to call. I don’t know why I’m the person who has to clean up this mess. I have an email address for Linda, Jimmy’s ex-wife, but that seems too ineffectual. I search the room for his phone. Maybe I can unlock it? Then a glint of orange catches my eye. Four empty pill bottles stand uncapped and neatly placed on the wait station shelf. The plastic cylinders catch the long light of the morning sun, their vacancy emphasized by the powdery residue left behind.

Fuck.

I call 911. I recount the events. The person on the other end wants to know if the victim is still breathing. I’m not sure. His face is like rubber. I lower my head to it, but I don’t feel any warm air. Or maybe I do. My mind is racing for alternate realities, rewinding time, imagining a fantasy world where it might be undone.

“I can’t tell,” I say. The operator lets me know an ambulance is already on the way. And cops? Will there be an investigation? I can’t really afford to have the cops sniffing around here. The landlord can kick me out for any illegal activity–it’s in the lease. Jimmy is not supposed to be sleeping here. His drugs aren’t supposed to be done here. Suicide is a crime.

I’ve got Band-aids on my swollen head, and there are scratches all over my arms from falling down a flight of stairs last night. The embarrassment still stings. I’m not feeling very credible right now. Like I could get sucked into the clutches of the law just for being on the scene. What if someone insinuates that I murdered him? Is there a motive? Sure, there is. What have I touched? Who is my alibi? The only person I can think of is my daughter, Ali. How will she reconcile herself with a father who has failed her?

I lift his arm. It is heavy, not yet stiff. A teardrop falls and lands on our laced fingers. His mouth hangs open, tongue pale and flaccid. And there on his face is the blush of livor mortis- the subcutaneous pooling blood.

I’m sorry, Jimmy. I’m sorry if I had anything to do with your decision. But you are an asshole for doing this, for doing it here. The only considerate thing you did was not leave a note.

Instinctively, I snap a photo of the four empty bottles. I don’t read the scripts. I’m sure it was a good trip, Jimmy. Were you back at The Fillmore? Did you fall in love again with Maggie? Did you have a last chat with Hendrix before it all went dark? Did you get to listen, one more time, to the greatest guitar solo of all time? I hope you did, pal.

Yes, I wanted you gone. But not like this. You should have learned. History does not stop for you or for anyone. And as insignificant as my life is, in the scheme of things—in the scheme of Brooklyn restaurants—it won’t matter to anyone if this restaurant ever opens, but I can’t stop for you Jimmy.

This concludes the first chapter of Soft Opening, a novel by Sam Barron. Next month, we'll be back with an inspirational profile of Dio, the refrigeration guru and literal coolest guy in Brooklyn.

Here’s what’s happening this month at my diner in Brooklyn. →

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Teresa has been blow torching a briar of four-foot-tall weeds. Dressed in tan Carhart overalls, thin strips of tank top, bare-shouldered and auburn hair blazing in the sun, she looks like a metal worker having just gone on a rampage. But when she approaches the low iron fence of her front yard, suddenly dainty Southern salutations pour from her lips like bird song.

She’s vital, vivacious and slightly devilish, so when our mutual friend goes to the back of his 4Runner to make space for her to sit, she jumps in the driver’s seat, looks at me and winks. Then she stomps on the clutch and makes grumblings with the engine like she might drive off without him or maybe put it in reverse and knock him with the rear fender just for laughs.

Mas Tacos started in a Winnebago with a sink. But really it started with a road trip. And as my eyes land on Teresa’s, I get a contact high. Yeah, she’s settled down. Her business has been running for 18 years now. But really, she’s still on that road trip.

It was a road trip to the Pacific coast of Mexico, in a town called Barre de Navidad, an area where there is still no English on the menu, a rural region that abuts the Marismas Nacionales, the largest wetlands ecosystem in North America, where she had her lightning moment.

Teresa had been looking to make a move. A big one in her life. To leave NYC and start her own Food and Bev biz. She was hungry for change and in need of sustenance when she saw a woman selling tacos from a mobile stand. The woman had a long line, while the other taco stands had none. Teresa looked at the woman and identified immediately. Long lines, she thought. Open when I want to. Go home when it’s all over. I can do that.

She was not a chef, but after years in the service industry in NYC, she knew she could provide what she calls “an experience.” So, when she returned to Nashville, she kept the road trip going in her Winnebago, cruising East Nashville and selling food to the late-night party scene.

To those eager and often inebriated taste testers, she is eternally grateful. Because their patronage financed her R and D; and after two years she had a recipe book with proven bangers. That’s when she signed a lease.

When we enter the brick-and-mortar Mas Tacos, there’s a cluster of outdoor tables full of slow-moving customers. Folks are savoring the food as much as the sun. There’s is a giant potted prickly pear cactus that looks like an old man in rumpled clothing feeding pigeons in the plaza. Time freezes. Except for the pickup calls to the customers that lollygag on the hot spring breeze.

Teresa insists I try the tortilla soup. And for good reason. The broth is divine. Clean. No oily bubbles on its surface.

It’s a light and savory bone broth. No mirpoix. The folks at Bon Appetit couldn’t believe it when they published Teresa’s recipe. If she wasn’t a chef when she started, she was recognized as one then.

Tortilla Soup Recipe

The workers at Mas Tacos all seem at ease. Even with the owner on premises. Most have been there for more than five years. Some as long as twelve. Their chatter ambles, Southern and languid. Everyone is having a good time. An experience.

Teresa talks about Mas Tacos like she can’t believe it; like it’s a brocade fabricated by some charlatan guru. The idea that she imagined these lines, and then they came to exist. The shirts she sells say it plainly: “I stood in line at the world famous Mas Tacos.”

When I ask her what her start-up budget was, Teresa blushes and giggles. She explains that all she had was $2,200 and she thought she was rich. When I suggest that perhaps she was slightly delusional, she agrees. “That’s part of starting a business on your own. You have to be a little delusional.”

Here’s what’s happening this month at my diner in Brooklyn. →

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Paul has no idea what happens after death. But he promises to write when he gets there. “I’ll send you a letter,” he says. “Let you know what’s going on. If I don’t get into heaven there’s gonna be an investigation.”

Paul finishes his beer, places the empty in the clutches what looks like an orange juicer. One crank on the iron arm and it flattens the can into a hockey puck. Paul tosses it into an overflowing bin. Then he pulls the tab on another, eyes sparkling Bud-Light blue as he takes a sip. It’s 11:30 am.

His work bench is cluttered with metal clips, black tubes and machine parts. Jumbles of hardware large enough to house rodents. The only clear space he keeps is for his ash tray. And unless otherwise indicated in this article, he is either lighting, smoking or stubbing out a Marlborough at all times.

Paul Ruggiero started tinkering with cash registers when he was twelve. And for seventy years he’s made a living off his mechanical talents and fluency in the American Cash Register machines.

Gone are the glory days of ACR, a company that once dominated IBM. Still, Paul has as much work as he wants.

According to Paul there are only two guys left that can repair a cash register. And the other guy charges too much.

When I wheel over my register for repair, Paul appraises it reverently. The machine, over a hundred years old, is in his estimation a real beauty, a classic.

“I should decommission it,” he says to me. “Could have bought it off you for scrap and then sold it for thousands.”

Because around the USA, the antique registers are still used by cash-only bars and saloons that love it for its grand aesthetic, as well as the magic it bestows on sales. Try ringing an order into some plastic ‘80s IBM rig, and you can feel customers lose faith in your establishment. Then ring the same order in with an ACR 313, hear the loud clink, drum roll and ding, watch the wooden drawer spring open, and you know you have their respect.

Paul has lived through the boom and bust of these machines. He tells me that in the 1970s there were nine cash register dealers on the Bowery and a brass ACR register cost more than a new Cadillac. But before that boom came a bigger boom in the early 20th century; an industrial revolution of retail that began with a wily capitalist named John Henry Patterson, a man whose company, ACR, has the only patent for the mechanical cash register. According to Paul:

The Pattersons, who owned NCR, started out running a Five and Dime. James and John Ritter, two saloonkeepers, invented the cash register because they believed bartenders were thieves. Patterson used to water at their bar and asked them to build twelve machines for his store. They did, and his sales jumped twenty percent.

He asked to buy the patent. James Ritter refused, so Patterson challenged him to a duel and shot him. Dueling was legal. Patterson then told Ritter’s brother to sell him the patent or he would be next.

Once Patterson controlled the invention, he made the machines beautiful with ornate brass cases and wood inlaid with mother of pearl. Store owners worried that installing a cash register would signal they did not trust their employees, so Patterson turned the register into a piece of craftsmanship.

As cash registers took off, Patterson bought out competitors. If they refused to sell, he challenged them to duels and took their businesses.

“How did he never get caught?”

He did. But dueling was legal.

Paul then explains how Patterson beat the charges and became a hero in Dayton, Ohio:

In the early 1900s, torrential rains were coming to Dayton, Ohio. Patterson employed half the town. Ford employed the other half. Anticipating the flood, Patterson stopped making cash registers and started building row boats, tying one to every house. When the dam broke and Dayton flooded, no one died.

Later he stood trial for several killings. He walked out of court with a verdict of justifiable homicide.

By then John Henry Patterson was already powerful across the United States. When World War I began, he made a deal with the government. He would supply all the ammunition they needed for free. In return, no foreign machines could enter the country until the next world war.

The government agreed. No foreign machines came in until after World War II. Meanwhile Patterson sold them everywhere else, shipping to Canada and across the world.

Crazy as a bedbug. But smart.

A nest of plyers and wrenches hang on the pegboard wall above where Paul slips a new ribbon into my machine. There’s a black and silver ATT punch button phone from the 1980s. A pair of pens jabbing out like lances. Brushes, wires, rolls of tape, a blow dryer and a faded aluminum oil can. At the top of the peg board is a row of clipped papers, dry and cracked, receipts and tickets that look like they date back to the presidency of Jimmy Carter.

Watching him repair my ACR machine, he explains the process. The two screws that allow the new ribbon to be installed. As he works, it all appears so simple. Not just the machines, but life itself, a mechanical procedure that lasts until your number is up, until the body machine fails.

When I suggest that I might do the next ribbon replacement in two years when the ink runs out, Paul puts on a voice, barks at me like James Cagney with a massive stogie in his teeth. “Shammy, Shammy boy. You’re a schmuck Shammy. You’re a schmuck!” People think they can watch once and learn his craft. He had a guy, made a video for him, exactly what to do to change the ribbon. Two years later the guy calls up crying and needs Paul to fix his machine. And I have to admit, my ribbon is still good, I’m only a few months out of Paul’s shop as I write this, and I couldn’t find those two screws today if my life depended on it.

Talking machines is his thing. But after his third beer and a shot of tequila, Paul breaches a new topic that relates to a thin red line on his neck where he recently had surgery on his carotid artery:

I went to do this carotid artery, and uh, surgeon fucking gave me a stroke. Could have killed me. I went through shit before I went there. I took an MRI. I took a Catscan. OK? I took a Stress Test. And then he fucked me up. I said cancer could have killed me too, you son of bitch. I’m in the bed, I said (to the surgeon) come a little closer. I was gonna grab his carotid arteries and hold him for just about a minute. He says, you know there’s a risk. First thing he was late. It was a Monday. I says you look a little tired doc. Oh no, I’m fine, he says. Let me introduce you to my team. A bunch of fucking kids! OK. Well, normally it’s a one-day deal and they keep you over night. And it’s an hour operation. I was in the hospital 5 days. They had an alarm on my ass. I get up out of bed, here comes the fucking nurses. Alarm goes off. Get up out of the chair. I says I can’t stay here. The food sucked! I wanna tell you the worst shit I ever ate in my life.

I did not have a nice time. No cigarettes. No beer.

Buddy Holly is singing on Paul’s “Serious Radio,” a Sirius boombox that’s forever on an Oldie’s station.

“I’m old. I forget shit. But I’m still alive. You know? Basically, Im in good health. If they don’t kill me with the stress test.”

“How was the stress test?” I ask.

“Stressfull.”

“Do you like working on the machines?”

“No! But it keeps me young. What am I gonna do? Hang out with my wife?”

And I wonder, what will I do? Not Paul. When the last of the register mechanics is gone. As if he’s read my mind, Paul concludes our chat.

“So that’s it and I’m still doing this shit. I’m 81. I gotta work until I’m 105. So, you’re ok. I’ll be around.”

Here’s what’s happening this month at my diner in Brooklyn. →

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