Actually, McCool didn’t trust one person in the kitchen: Foster.

Technically, Willson Grill has been in operation since 1987. At its two former locations, it was known as Pumphouse. Unlike most other businesses in Henrico County, Dave’s restaurant marched progressively east toward Varina. Pumphouse began its life in the rapidly-growing Short Pump area. It was a cramped local eatery that increasingly seemed out of place as rural grills gave way to Panera Bread. The first move, in 1998, was on Richmond-Henrico Turnpike near Richmond International Raceway.  It was a hit during the races and State Fair but tended to be dead any other time. It didn’t help that the State Fair moved to Caroline County, thus killing the Pumphouse equivalent of Black Friday.  Dave used the obscene amount of money he received for his prime Short Pump property to stay afloat until he decided to compete with Varina Grill.

The idea actually came from Foster. He arrived as a high schooler in 1999 and decided that 12th grade and working at Pumphouse was good enough. The summer after graduation, he moved into an apartment with a spectacular view of Gate 10 of the raceway with his then girlfriend and his then best friend. Instead of trying to convince Foster of the value of higher education, Dave simply said, “Stick with me, kid, and one day you’ll own the place.”

Foster took that to heart.

He often quietly raged at McCool being manager. He saw the well-spoken bastard, who often talked about awaiting an opening at Style Weekly or any other Richmond publication as an usurper to the throne.

Or would if he knew the definition of usurper.

While trying to score some pot, Foster spotted the building across New Market from the established grill. Given the traffic on the road and the established restaurant, he saw no way for it to fail unless the current grill had unparalleled service. Dave, who was looking for an excuse to leave the turnpike, took the risk. As Varina Grill sat at New Market and Varina, Foster suggested Willson Grill as the name for the across-the-street neighbor on New Market and Willson.

And Mr. Smart Guy waltzes in and, after almost leaving for good, gets picked as manager.

He made sure McCool understood that the job wasn’t supposed to be his. Foster was, is and will be king of the grill when Dave claps his hands and makes it so. Foster just knew it.

Dave had hoped Foster would ask why he wasn’t chosen after over a decade in various roles. It was because he seemed to have no drive to do better. He acted as if he was entitled to the position. He sometimes showed up late and, at times, the marijuana use was obvious. He screeched into the parking lot like a bat out of hell in his partially-modded early ’90s Honda Accord blasting commercial rap. He had been told one too many times not to have friends visit.

He had management potential.

The move to Varina led to sales that equaled and then exceeded the original Pumphouse. Dave just needed Foster to grow up and he would be crown prince.

With some faith and maturity, he’ll own the place when Dave is good and ready. The biggest step is to talk to Dave and stick with him. The next largest step is to refrain from undermining McCool.

That most likely wasn’t happening soon. And was why McCool was always on guard.

Slide.

With every turn, his half-eaten container of inadequately named hot and spicy beef moved from one side of the passenger side floorboard to the other. The container was made of plastic and McCool figured it would generate static electricity and Lord knows what would be drawn to it. Although none of it would touch his food, it slightly disgusted him. He would have put it in the passenger seat but there was a stain from the steak he placed upon the charcoal upholstery. He promised himself that he would put his lunch in a bag and get the seat cleaned. That was nearly two years ago.

Slide.

Donald McCool passed his namesake. His correctly spelt namesake. There wasn’t a point in his life where his friends didn’t call him McCool. It was the ultimate built-in nickname. He traced his family history once and discovered that their once owners were named McCoul, like the name of the street he just passed as he traveled to the end of Old Osbourne Turnpike in eastern Henrico County.

Slide.

McCool smirked at his mobile lunch as he flicked on his cruise control on Route 5 and coasted at 60 mph. Each day, he hoped that no one would turn in front of him and impede his progress. He learned over the years that, at any given point, he could approach a piece of farm equipment plodding along at 20 or a ridiculous amount of cars going no faster than 45. The speed limit was clearly marked as 55. There were far too many times that he pinned the accelerator down in the few passing zones to get ahead. There were points where he would make a point of setting his car to 55 and speed past two vehicles in the passing zone as if he were going 80. It was amazing that Varina was in the same county as the West End. Anyone going 10 under on Patterson or Staples Mill Road would have been blown out of the water.

Slide.

McCool looked gleefully at his lunch because it was the first order of business once he got to work. He was certain that his boss, Dave, was wondering where he was. He didn’t seem to grasp that McCool was late on Tuesdays and Thursdays because there was no way he could get out of staying until the 9 p.m. close and there was nothing for him to do before noon. If Dave ever said anything to him, he would sit there and get two 12-hour days a week. He was OK with 96 hours in a paycheck with time and a half going into 16 of those hours. He was still kind enough to try to save Dave money. It was the least he could do since he was never offered salary, which he felt was ridiculous since he was the goddamn manager.

Slide.

His lunch amused him every day. If not for his own office, access that didn’t include the dining area and kitchen, and his own microwave, bringing his lunch would technically be illegal. McCool worked at Willson Grill. It was the former home of a bar and grill, a seafood restaurant and a barbecue restaurant opposite the former Varina Grill. It was a seemingly ramshackle but sturdy brick building at New Market Road where Willson Road transitioned into Varina Road. McCool half-jokingly came with the building. He had a degree in journalism and a love for cooking. He worked at the grill as he plodded along at Virginia Commonwealth University. He cut back his hours when he was hired at the Richmond Times-Dispatch and fell back into full-time when he became a swift casualty of “last one hired, first one fired” when newspapers began to fail under the outrageous ignorance of the changing of media for the media. McCool was 30 and being the thrice-inherited worker of Willson and New Market was not where he expected to be. Or anyone, for that matter. It was the restaurant that slew the competition but the bare fact was that there was barely enough patrons to keep either open. Willson just happened to get a tiny bit more. A few months prior, when Varina shuttered and traffic grew dramatically, Dave Michaels promoted McCool to manager at the expense of Foster Brown.

SLIDE.

McCool probably could have made the light at New Market and Laburnum but sent the container far into the front well when the light turned yellow. He often ran yellows after being rear-ended while on his way to a wedding. He stopped without screeching at the stop bar but the car behind him assumed he would run the light. His bumper still held the divot from that incident.

Slide.

McCool was amused at his lunch mostly because he never ate food at Willson Grill. He didn’t trust anyone working in the kitchen making his food. It wasn’t that he figured they wouldn’t hold the spit. Although he witnessed complete overhauls of the kitchen and saw it pass health inspections with flying colors, he had seen some things at New Market and Willson. There was no way in hell he was eating anything that had its origin from that building. He’d single-handedly open his own restaurant with a potato peeler and a stray goat from the farm off Rockingham first.

As McCool turned left into the parking lot, he realized there was nothing he wanted more than wanting out.

Slide.