They’ve made it easy for me by boarding up the Olive Garden and “Bob Lobster” that bookend the Cheesecake Factory, whose doors are open. I walk in expecting someone to be standing at the host stand with a hundred-page menu of all the delicacies Fort Caroline has to offer. Oh, and how many ration coupons each one would be. But it looks nothing like I remember a Cheesecake Factory looking.
The entire restaurant is gutted and repainted white. The black tile floor is still there, but all the booths have been ripped out. There’s electricity here. The dim lighting meant to hide all the calories you’re consuming has been replaced with industrial-strength—daylight-white, God help us—bulbs. Even the ancient Egyptian-slash-Victorian pillars are gone. The walls on both sides of the restaurant have been cut open to pass into the Olive Garden and “Red Evans”—which is now even less distinctive.
Instead of a host stand, there’s a massive desk spanning the length of the restaurant, like a bank counter, blocking me from going any farther. Metal shelves filled with everything from shampoo to Dinty Moore run in aisles throughout the restaurant and the ones next door. There are about twelve people walking through the aisles, stocking shelves from shopping carts.
I approach the desk. The woman closest to me stops stocking the shelf and comes over with a polite smile.
“Can I help you?” She’s thirtyish, white, and wears a name tag that says Jennette.
“Hi, Jennette, I’m Andrew. My friend Jamison and I are new in town and while we were on a tour someone swiped our bags from the motel.” She nods, looking unsurprised. “I was hoping we might be able to get some food or supplies to replace what was taken?”
“Right. Hold on.” She puts up a finger and moves down to the far-right side of the desk. She reaches underneath and pulls up a small plastic box filled with hanging folders. She flips through quickly, scanning the tabs at the top. “You said your name was Andrew?”
“Yes. We only just got here yesterday.”
She stops looking and sighs, squeezing her eyes shut. “And of course it’s the holiday and we’re behind.”
“You guys get holidays off?”
“We get shift changes. They’re doing fireworks on the third, fourth, and fifth. But everyone’s so wrapped up in celebrations that the work slows down a bit. It doesn’t look like you’ve been processed yet.”
“Processed?” Their stupid questionnaire again.
“Yeah.” Jennette puts the box back and comes back over to me. “Your property shouldn’t have been taken from your room. Usually they just sort everything at the gates and then give you a voucher that lists your inventory. You bring it here, we double-check our records...” She waves a hand in the direction of the box. “And give you your ration coupons to replace it. But your stuff hasn’t been processed yet.”
“Gosh!” I’m trying to play dumb and nice. I lean forward on the counter. “Any idea when they’ll process us? I mean... I don’t want to be rude, but we were hungrybeforefinding you guys and now we don’t have any food.”
“I know....” She bites her lips. I can see her trying to figure out a way to blend her pre-bug southern politeness with Fort Caroline authoritarianism. “Let me see if I can find your bags. They should have been brought right here. What do they look like?”
I tell her and she excuses herself. I take the time to read the handwritten poster on the wall outlining the rules. Ration vouchers are handed out on Sundays, after church. What about the people who don’t go to church? Oh, that’s right, the questionnaire weeds them out.
Vouchers are colored. Red, green, and blue. On Sundays, red can use the Cheesecake Supply Warehouse between one p.m. and three p.m., green between three p.m. and five p.m., and blue between five p.m. and seven p.m. All other days the vouchers can be used at any time in the grocery store or pharmacy.
I scoff, imagining Danny Rosewood and the selectmen all sitting around a table coming up with as many rules as possible. Every time someone came up with a new one, they got a red voucher for themselves.
“Andrew?” Jennette is back and she’s holding up Jamie’s and my bags.
“Perfect! So what do we do now?”
“You can keep these.” She slides the yoga mats and sleeping bags over to me. “But I don’t think you’ll be needing them anymore.” She smiles brightly and I chuckle.
If you only knew, Jennette.
She unzips Jamie’s bag and begins pulling out our things. Jamie’s mother’s book, my old paperback ofThe Voyage Outmy aunt Saragave me, our food, first aid kit, and water bottle. No ammo. They’ve already taken that.
Jennette takes out a clipboard and begins writing everything down, checking things off as she goes along and then setting them aside.
When she’s done, she says, “All right, so with all this food you get eight vouchers. The first aid kit you can keep or donate to the pharmacy. And do you want the books? I don’t think the library needs any more.”
No. We saw them emptying it.
“The books are more sentimental. And I’ll keep the first aid kit, too.”
“All right, then that’s it!” She pulls the bags back but I reach out.
“Actually, can I keep the bags, too?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why? We have shopping bags.” She was fine with me taking the yoga mats and sleeping bags but she’s suspicious about the packs? Really?
