Grade Pending

The facade of Los Harry’s Diner was as unkempt as Chad hoped it would be. Tiny flakes of green vinyl rained down on him from a faded awning as he entered the oversized cracked iPhone screen they called a door. And, most glorious of all, duct-taped to its graffitied exterior, was a certified government document reading: Grade Pending.

Chad got a close-up of it before turning the camera on himself.

“Hey, fam. The time has finally come for me to try out Los Harry’s in Morrisania. With a Yelp rating of one-point-three-seven stars and no fewer than two hospitalizations since August, this could very well be the grossest food I’ve critiqued yet.” Chad retrieved a few essential items from his backpack. “Tums? Check. EpiPen? Check. Appetite? Check. Remember, when the Department of Health and Hygiene says, ‘Proceed with caution,’ Chad says, ‘I’ll have the shellfish, please.’ Welcome to another episode of The Unpalatable Plate.”

Chad grabbed a table in the back and gathered footage of dusty plates, smudged silverware, and the graveyard of waterbugs being swiped about by the saloon doors before the waitress sauntered over.  He ordered the soup of the day, which, in his experience, meant it had been sitting in the pot for about a week; a house salad with blue cheese dressing, which was just welted Romain and ranch with a few blue cheese crumbles; and an eggs benedict with extra hollandaise, which, at 3pm, was Marti Gras for bacteria.

After a half hour of burps, giggles, and the occasional dry heave, he paid the bill and hopped in an Uber. He was writing the script for his voice-over—filling it with hyperbolic descriptions and rather rude puns—when his manager called.

“How’d it go?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked.

“Same as always, Lisa. I ate bad food. I filmed some questionable practices. I made some jokes.”

“That’s why the people love you.”

“I’ll be honest, I’m getting kind of bored of these outer-borough restaurants. I want to critique something different. Something… bigger. Ya know?”

“Are you crazy? You don’t change horses mid-stream. The ‘repulsive review’ market is on fire right now. You’re on fire right now. You just surpassed Tabitha’s Tasteless Treats in total views.” The phone was silent, but somehow, Chad knew Lisa was removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose. “It’s just burnout. It happens. Look, it’s President’s Day weekend. Why don’t you take a mini vacation? Take some time to relax and unwind. By next week, you’ll have a new lease on life.”

Chad got goosebumps. Not at the prospect of taking some time off, but at the idea of staying at a resort. A very specific resort.

“I think you’re right, Lisa. I could use a couple of days away from the city. Can you book it for me?”

“Absolutely. What are you thinking? The Poconos? Mount Airy Lodge is lovely.”

“How about Upstate New York? Cattaraugus County.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Come on. This could be what I need.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lisa. Book me a flight to Weston Mills.”

“It’s more like a MegaBus to Elmira followed by a ninety-minute Uber and some light hitchhiking. But Chad, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Book it.”

The Weston Mills Resort ’n Spa Delux was not only the Shangri-la of inedible delights, but its hospitality was, as TripAdvisor described it, ‘unprofessional, unbearable, and unbecoming.’ Its kitchen had been shut down for health code violations twice last year, and they were awaiting the results of an appeal they made for this year’s transgressions. The resort may not be in business much longer, and Chad wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass him by. This could be the evolution of his brand: from unpalatable plates to vile vacations. 

Leisure be damned.

After a brisk six-hour bus ride and a scenic tour of Route 86, Chad pulled up to the grand entrance. And the entrance was—presumably at some point in the nineties—quite grand. A wooden perron ascended to a charming rotunda, where hand-carved double doors greeted the guests. Granted, Chad’s foot got caught in the rotted cedar stairs, the dome was now a public toilet for Mourning doves, and one of the doors was rusted shut, but from a distance, the snow-covered landscape made it all look rather majestic on camera.

He couldn’t locate a doorbell, or an intercom, or even a door knocker, so he resorted to giving the ingress a hearty pound.

“Just come in,” a girl’s voice shouted from inside.

The handle wouldn’t budge. “I think it’s locked,” Chad responded.

“That one doesn’t lock.” He could hear her chewing gum in between syllables.

“Your front door doesn’t lock?” Chad silently rejoiced that his camera was still rolling.

“No. Just put some muscle into it, man,” a deeper voice shouted with a hint of an Italian accent.

Chad yanked the handle and stumbled in from the momentum of his push. He found two employees reclining on a couch ten feet from the door.  One, a teenage girl wearing khakis and a jacket emblazoned with Weston Mill’s eight-bit logo; the other, a heavy-set man in his fifties with a thick mustache and thicker shoulder hair. He was wearing a white tank top and a chef’s hat.

“Can I help you?” the girl asked, not bothering to get up.

“I’m checking in. Farland, Chad.”

“What’s with the camera, Farland? You doing OnlyFans or something? Because I gotta check with the boss to make sure that’s okay.”

“I like the-a pictures of the feet. Girls feet, ya know, with the painted toes. I buy-a sometimes.” The man raised his eyebrows at Chad, seeking some perverse comradery.

He ignored him. “I just want to get situated in my room.”

“It’s probably upstairs.” The girl pointed to the carpeted, mauve-colored stairwell.

“Don’t I need a key? And a room number?”

“For Christ’s sake,” she exclaimed, spitting her gum on the floor and shuffling over to the front desk. She was barely visible from behind the clunky computer screen. After some loud typing and louder sighing, she handed over a key that looked as if it could open a wardrobe closet from the eighteen hundreds. “Room three. It’s the one with the ‘three’ on the door. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.” 

Chad’s room was complete with mismatched wallpaper, a television set resting on a cart whose wheels had been removed, and a single dresser drawer that was home to an active spider web and a few cigarette buds. He opted to leave his belongings in his suitcase.

There was a knock at the door.

Chad opened it cautiously. “Yes?”

A tall man with a ripped fleece and a broken smile shrugged at him, his hands never leaving his pockets. “I’m Matty. The owner here. I was told you were asking about conducting pornographic activity on the premises.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Just, if you could, perhaps include our logo and maybe a link to our website. We could really use the publicity. And maybe the girl—or guy, I don’t judge—can say something like ‘Get your thrills at Weston Mills’ or—”

“Sure,” Chad attempted to close the door.

“I don’t know if Zara, my little cousin at the front desk, gave you a rundown of our activities. But tomorrow, there is a breakfast buffet, two-dollar Bingo, a napkin folding class, and around 2:30pm, the staff and I will be staging a play I wrote. It’s a prequel to ‘House of the Dragon,’” Matty carefully checked over his shoulder. “But no cameras, please. We don’t exactly have the rights, and I don’t want ‘Homeless Dragons’ to get shut down this early in its run. So, yeah, packed day. You won’t want to miss it.”

Nor did he want to. The resort was a gift that kept on giving, and he would critique every bit of it.

After the shortest sleep and coldest shower of his life, Chad visited the breakfast buffet, which comprised of two boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and a container of 1% milk. The Italian man, who was now wearing a nametag that read ‘Sal,’ refused to let Chad pour his own bowl. This resulted in a triple portion of cereal and a strand of black hair that dangled from his spoon like Rapunzel’s from her tower.

Matty waltzed into the dining room wearing a thin tuxedo whose shoulders were too big and whose inseam was too small. He was dragging a cart with a circular cage, a small amplifier, a microphone, and a handful of colorful cards. “Wow, looks like we have a full house.”

Chad looked around; there were six other guests, all of whom were thrice his age. Zara distributed the Bingo cards, Sal poured coffee, and Matty fumbled with the microphone cable.

A woman with a thick grey perm and glasses sat beside Chad. “I’m Delores,” she said.

“I’m Chad.”

“Good luck.” She spread her cards across the table and retrieved an ornate marker from her purse.

The sound of rattling plastic balls filled the air. When it stopped, Matty dramatically threw his hand in, fishing for a number.

“You have to admire someone like that,” Delores said, motioning toward their Bingo host. “It can’t be easy.”

“N8,” Matty announced. “I have an innate feeling that the bank is going to foreclose on us. N8.”

“What do you mean?” Chad asked.

“The poor thing’s been struggling to keep this business afloat since his dad passed. Trying to keep his memory alive.”

The balls tumbled once again. 

“B4. I hope we can turn this place around before I lose my life savings. B4.”

Dolores leaned in closely. “Me and the other ladies come here as much as we can to support him, but I don’t think it’s enough. Little Zara is doing this as an internship, and Sal, well, Matty lets him live here in exchange for working in the kitchen. But even so—”

“I30. I can’t believe I thirty and have no transferable skills. I30.”

“Is he always this forthcoming when he hosts Bingo?” Chad flashed a smug smile.

Dolores shrugged. “It’s therapeutic, I guess. So what’s with the camera? Are you making a commercial for this place on the TikTok?”

“No, no. I’m a food critic. I document my culinary experiences online. But I’m venturing off into sports and leisure venues as well.”

“Right. ‘Culinary experiences.’” Her grandmotherly demeanor got a bit chilly. “I wasn’t born yesterday, kid. I know a smart ass when I see one. You’re just here to have a laugh with your little internet friends while real people like Matty are struggling to stay in business.”

“Look, lady, it’s not my fault they’re racking up violations and scathing customer reviews. I just film it and give my two cents.”

“Proud of yourself, are ya?”

“Yeah, I am.” Chad shoved the camera in Delores’ face. “Care to tell us about Cattaraugus County’s most luxurious resort? Did you splurge and get a room with window curtains?”

“You little punk.” Delores swatted at the lens.

“Is everything alright?” Matty’s voice cracked ever so slightly. “Does someone have Bingo?”

“No. All we have here is a city boy who needs to learn some manners.” Delores whistled. “The Weston Mills way.”

Zara snatched Chad’s cell phone from the table and scanned his face to unlock the screen.

“What are you doing? Give that back.” Chad almost cried.

Zara began filming him. Suddenly, Sal was behind him, securing his arms as Delores yanked down his pants and underwear, exposing his nether regions to the world. A chorus of laughs came from the ladies as the staff hurled a slew of comments that were, quite frankly, unprofessional, unbearable, and unbecoming.

“This is illegal. I’m gonna sue,” Chad threatened.

“Sure you are, tiny.” Delores cackled. “Right after you get a taste of your own medicine.”

Zara began typing feverishly. “One-point-three-million followers. Wow.” She narrated as she typed. “Hey guys, please critique my petit four, thanks. Posted.”

Sal released Chad, but the girls kept his phone until dinner, which, unsurprisingly, was quite unpalatable. But the hardest thing to swallow was the comment section of his Instagram page. 

It was flooded with insults and reviews of his manhood. Most of which simply read: Grade Pending.