Fast Times at Ridgemont High - A True Story

High Noon at Carl’s

Brad Hamilton reported for work as usual on Monday night at Carl’s Jr. He knew instantly that something was wrong.

“Hamilton,” said Dennis Taylor, “I need to speak with you about something.”

“Yo.” Brad had been setting up his fryer.

Dennis Taylor’s voice was neither friendly nor accusing. “Brad,” he said, “there was some money taken during your shift last night. A hundred-and-twenty-five dollars. We don’t know where it’s gone, but we do know this. We know who took it . . . and there was a witness. Do you know anything about this?”

“I don’t know anything about it, Dennis.”

There was a long pause.

“Jesus,” said Brad, “don’t look at me.”

But they were looking at him. There was a small cluster of the other employees, his golf-cap buddies, watching silently.

“Let me ask you this,” said Dennis Taylor.

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Hamilton,” said Dennis Taylor, “Carl’s has the voluntary program of a polygraph test. Would you be willing to submit to one of those tests and have this same conversation with me at that office?”

“You mean a lie detector test?”

“Yes.”

“You bet,” said Hamilton. “We all would take a test.”

“Okay,” said Taylor. “We’ll make an appointment for you tomorrow at the Harris Detective Agency, the agency that Carl’s uses in these cases; it’s located down at Third and Central. I’ll give you the card, and I’ll see you there tomorrow at, say, four.”

Hamilton looked at his friends. To his horror, they, too, were neither friendly nor accusing. They were more like a crowd of people across the street from a car wreck. They said nothing. Not David Lemon. Not Gary Myers. Not Richard Masuta. Not even Lisa. Brad felt it first as nausea. He was so angry, so confused, that only later would he try to remember who looked the guiltiest of the bunch. Who could have been a witness to his robbing Carl’s? Carl’s—his own turf?

“Aren’t you guys gonna say anything?”

They said nothing. None of them.

“You think I took that money, Dennis? You think I took that money?” Brad yanked off his Carl’s hat and apron and the country-style string tie. “Then you can SUCK SHIT because I QUIT!”

Dennis Taylor swung open the door built into the metal counter at Carl’s. “You can leave right now, Hamilton.”

Brad walked out of the top-of-Ridgemont-Drive Carl’s Jr., straight to The Cruising Vessel. He roared out of the parking lot.

Two days later, Brad heard that Dennis Taylor had discovered the money hidden in a paper sack in a dumpster behind the kitchen. When nobody called Brad to offer his old job back, he knew what had happened. Dennis Taylor had set him up. The I.C. had probably written a letter to the franchise, demanding Brad be fired. When the franchise called Dennis Taylor, well, that was where Taylor’s loyalty would end. He had promised to fire Brad, but was too spineless to do it outright. So he had set up a frame.

It was all beside the point, as far as Brad was concerned. He wouldn’t take their job back if they begged him. Pleaded with him. He didn’t care about Carl’s. He didn’t care about getting even with Dennis Taylor. He didn’t care about his friends who kept their mouths shut when crunch came. He didn’t even want to eat lunch with them anymore. Screw them. He’d find another job.