Gunnar Lundberg

The Copper Top Cafe was just an off-brand Dairy Queen in northern Wisconsin. We served chocolate and vanilla soft serve, Blenders, Silly Bars, and boasted a larger selection of shake flavors. At twenty-one I took the first summer job I found to save money for the school year. The manager, Sue, hired me on the spot after my interview. Though I had minimal experience in the service industry, she was impressed I brought a printed resume.

“Only here for the summer?” she asked. 

“Well, yeah,” I paused, “I still have another year of college.” She stared at me blankly.

“I’m just looking for a job until I head back in August.” She pursed her lips and blinked. 

“What are you studying?” 

“Economics,” I answered, and she nodded again. It wasn’t technically a lie. I’d recently switched my major to l literature, but I still had enough credits to get a minor. 

“Ok!” She rose from the chair. “You’re hired!” She extended her hand for me to shake. “We’re closed for remodels for the next week or so, but plan on opening before the Fourth of July.” The remodel she spoke of consisted of renaming the joint and plating the entire roof in gaudy copper. 

“Sounds great!” I said, shaking her hand, “I hear it gets pretty busy that weekend.” 

“Oh yeah! Busiest of the year.” She gave me the starting day for training and said the schedule would be posted on the board in the back.

It turned out that Sue got the long end of the stick with me. In the first week alone, there was a mutiny. The four teenage girls she’d hired all quit en masse when she told them they couldn’t wear their fake nails while serving food. “You can either take off the nails or head out the door,” she told them sternly, hosting her arm towards the exit. They all walked of.

I’d been hired to man the tills and serve ice cream. But on my first shift Sue told me that I was promoted to the kitchen––which meant operating the griddle and deep fryer. When I told her I’d never cooked a burger before, she nodded, as if expecting that answer.

“It’s easy,” she said, tossing half-a-dozen frozen patties onto the hot surface. “Just wait till they bleed.” 

“Bleed?” I asked, but she only nodded. Sure enough, after a few minutes, little red beads began to poke through the surface of the burger. 

“Is that really blood?” I asked. 

“Nope. Just residual liquid from the patties,” she said without looking up. “Now flip them,” she said, gesturing over the griddle. “Then, give them another minute and take them off. They’ll be cooked through every time.” I nodded, and she stood back. “Just remember. Wait till they bleed, and then they’re nearly done.

Blood was a recurring timer that summer. A few months before, at a regular teeth cleaning, the dentist took an x-ray. 

“Yep. Your wisdom teeth are impacted,” he said, “you’ll have to get them taken out.” I sat there blinking, my eyes still adjusting to the glaring overhead lamp.

“Oh, is it urgent? I’m only back from school for winter break.”

“No, no, not urgent. But definitely should be done soon.”  He ripped a piece of yellow paper from his pad. “Here’s a referral for the procedure.” 

I took the piece of paper and folded it. My tongue curled back, grazing the small bumps of enamel poking through my gums. I wasn’t worried about the surgery, only about being put under. I was worried about what I might say.

My friend’s dad was an oral surgeon, so I’d heard plenty of stories over the years about the things people confess to under anesthesia: crushes, embarrassing moments, obsessions. There was also a depressing list: griefs, fears, affairs. I was afraid I’d confess to the surgeon that I’d never been in love but liked to hook up with men in anonymous spaces. That I didn’t know how to link desire and intimacy. That afterwards I always felt ashamed.

The procedure happened at the beginning of summer. If I said anything, the surgeon never mentioned it, but I don’t think I did. I couldn’t even articulate the fear to myself. Recovery went well, but the exposed sockets in the back of my mouth still pained me. It was a convenient time to work in an ice cream shop. 

***

My favorite regular came in during the late afternoons, an older gentleman, probably in his seventies. He waddled up to the counter of the ice cream shop in staccato steps, like a penguin. His baggy cargo shorts and a billowy striped polo accentuated the look. Before speaking, he’d just stand at the counter and smile. A near-toothless mouth, save the few shriveled ones that looked dark as raisins, perched before me. There was such excitement in his eyes and even though I already knew what he was going to order, I asked anyway. 

“What can I get you today?” 

“A large butterscotch sundae please.” He said it all in one breath, inhaling sharply after; it took real effort. Then his smile came back—little black teeth swayed in the opening like crows on a carcass.

“Coming right up!” I replied as he took his usual spot. 

At three o’clock the cafe was usually empty, and he had his pick of the place. He always chose a booth by the front windows that overlooked the lake. The city of Minocqua is on a large peninsula, jutting into picturesque scenery. The shores are dotted with pine trees and mansions; immaculate old log-frames that sit flush with tips of trees. That summer they mostly sat empty, but in the past, Minocqua was the place to be. At its peak Bing Crosby, Elizabeth Taylor, and President Eisenhower were usual visitors. But this regular, he was my own sort of celebrity. 

I walked over to the table holding a sundae of ungodly size. It leaned like Babel, threatening to crumble entirely under the weight of molten butterscotch that surrounded the pillar of soft serve. The structure was adorned with whipped cream and the signature cherry on top. 

“Here you go!” There was something cruel in my smile as I handed it to him. Frankly, it awed me that someone could eat this nearly every day. From behind the counter, I watched him bring spoonful after spoonful of the too-yellow substance to his chapped lips. 

As days passed, a latent anger built inside me as I watched him eat. My smile disappeared. It was replaced with a rage directed at his craving for butterscotch. How could anyone want so much? I asked myself, glaring at him as his eyes fixated intensely on the soft serve before him. How could someone not realize how much they’re asking for? I watched his eyes fixate intensely on the soft serve before him, each spoonful a small shovel into the plot of his mouth. When he got up to leave, he swung back to the counter to fulfill the second part of his routine. 

“One large root beer please.” He exhaled at once, his little raisins staring me in the face. 

“Of course.” I turned to grab a large cup and walked to the soda fountain. The cup pressed into the metal and a soft fizz filled the air. I stopped. 

“How about today, I make it a root beer float?” I said, turning to the man. “Ice cream on the house.” 

He nodded, giddy as a kid. I approached the soft serve machine and pulled the lever, a large, creamy strand emerging from the nozzle. I let go when I saw a smooth, white tuft emerge from the pop. “Here you go!” I said, smiling bigger, giving him all I had to offer—and then more.

He took it eagerly, satisfying something beyond hunger. Filling some desire not through need, but indulgence. He had a cavity, probably numerous, that bore deeper with each bite. I wanted to get him toothless faster––to scatter the crows from the bones.  

***

I had another manager named Jeremy. He worked under Sue at a previous restaurant and then she brought him along when she was recruited to manage the Copper Top. Jeremy was a slight man, but there was a doughiness to him too, a small roll folded over his belt. His eyes sat pinned behind narrow wire-framed glasses, but when he raised his voice, the soft burst of hazel had a harrowing effect on those in his gaze. There were days when I successfully avoided his tirades, but not always. 

One time though, his voice was tender. He’d just finished a phone call, the kind where people put their hand over the speaker to give an illusion of privacy. But the store was small, and he knew I’d heard everything he said while mopping up front. There was a tense silence, but Jeremy broke it by bursting out in confession. 

“I used to be a heroin addict,” he said. 

“Really?” I answered, ringing the mop into its bucket. 

“Yep,” he answered, “worst time of my life.” 

“Wow. I can’t even imagine.”

“I mean,” he dragged on, “I was thirty pounds lighter when I was on the stuff. But I’d rather be chubby than dead.” He looked up at me, smiling. “Well, most of the time at least.”

“How’d you get addicted?” I asked before processing the nature of the question myself. “Oh, sorry, that’s probably way too personal of a question.” 

“No, no, it's okay,” he shrugged, “I don’t mind talking about it.”

“Okay.”  I set down the mop and looked up at him.

“It all started with this guy I was seeing.” My mouth dropped slightly. I hadn’t considered that Jeremy could be gay. 

“Oh!” I said, not meaning to sound so surprised. 

“Yeah…. He was an asshole. He started taking me out when I was seventeen. And at first it was great. He took me out to dinners, gave me booze, bought my gifts, the works, you know?” I nodded. “But then it got ugly. It got messed up real fast.” He sunk his head into his palms, quieting. I wrung the mop into its bucket again. His head raised. “But I’m dating someone new. That’s who was on the phone. He’s amazing. But I’m a mess sometimes, and I’m really trying to be a good guy.” I kept my eyes to the floor. 

“Should I mop the back too?” I asked. He stayed silent, looked at me, and just nodded.

After this conversation, I stopped taking pleasure in plying my favorite regular with extra butterscotch. My renewed smiles toward him weren’t laced with pity for him, but for myself. What I called his ‘indulgence’ was more of a reflection of what I considered to be mine. He didn’t feel shame; I was buried in it.

***

The Grindr grid in Minocqua was the scantest of menus. It was filled with blank profiles and headless torso pics. It’d been a pretty dry summer, but my nights were mostly spent flipping burgers and filling cones with soft serve. One night, when I opened the app’s yellow masquerade icon, a message was waiting. 

“Hey. Ur cute. Looking?” The man’s profile was a headless torso clad in flannel. 

“Thanks. Not so bad yourself ;)”

“Looking?”

“Yeah.”

“Give head?” 

“Sure.”

“Cool. I don’t recip.”

“Ok.”

It was simple as far as Grindr exchanges go, but there’s a template to these things. He sent me his address—one of the larger, upscale hotels in town. I brushed my teeth, chugged a glass of wine, and headed out.

“What room?” I typed. 

“214. Don’t knock, just message me when ur here” 

“Here.” I stood outside the door, my handing trembling slightly as I typed.

I was nervous and excited. The door opened, and he quickly ushered me into the room, his index finger over his lips, miming Shhhhhh. He dropped his hand and pointed towards the bed. It was hard to keep my shock quiet. There was a woman lying asleep under the covers.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, “she’s just a friend. Here, come to the connecting room.” I opened my mouth to speak as he grabbed my arm and led me through a set of glass doors, then he closed them softly behind us. 

“She won’t wake up,” he chuckled. “We’re here for a wedding and I had to carry her up after the reception. She’s wasted.” I stood by the doors while he moved to sit on a couch by the far wall. “Come over here,” he said, unzipping the fly of his jeans. I moved toward him. He began to reveal himself, awkwardly shifting his hips as he shimmied his jeans to the floor. I knew that in ten minutes I’d know nothing more about him other than how he tasted. Yet when he placed his hand on the backside of my head and pulled, I leaned into it. 

I spit on the pavement as I opened the driver’s side door. Even under the dim light it was bright red, like the maraschinos I doled atop sundaes. I wish I could say there was a butterscotch taste too. But what I called my ‘indulgence’ had a different taste to it.  I lifted a finger to my mouth and prodded the back sockets; one had burst open. Blood pooled from it. As I removed my finger, a smile spread across my face. I looked down at the spatter like a crow descending onto its own carcass. 

I was bleeding. It was time to flip. The metallic taste of the future slid down my throat. It was all I had left, and I didn’t even have it yet. The cherry on top of tomorrow— bright red, between my lips. The sweetness wasn’t there yet, but it could be. Afterall, I was only in Minocqua for the summer. My cavities––perhaps more numerous than my regulars––could heal. I bit down and swallowed.