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"Uh, Linda? Something's wrong here."
"If it's the forty dollars for the Bath Pillow, I can explain. Ginger was watching Family Fracas and this infomercial came on, and you know how I like to fall asleep in the tub—"
"No, that's not—you spent forty dollars on something called the 'Bath Pillow?'" Bob asks, glancing away from the laptop screen. Not that he's exactly one to talk, cough cough Slap Chop cough cough, but, still. "Never mind, it's actually okay. We can afford it this month. We can, like, really afford it this month."
"What are you saying?" Linda leans over him to look at the numbers in their Budgeting 4 Beginners software demo. "What, like we'll be able to pay rent on time?"
"Ahead, even, and with a real check and no nickels." Bob scrolls back to triple-check the numbers, just to make sure he didn't imagine an extra zero or that the total doesn't actually have a negative sign in front. "It's only the 22nd, and we've already made enough to cover rent, all the bills and vendors, and still have some left over to set aside. Should we open a retirement account? Oh, God, we're in our forties—we probably should've opened a retirement account years ago. It's fine, we'll just start saving now. Which we can, apparently, because we've made real money this month."
"Wait, really? What does that say—is that number in dollars or cents, or rubles or something?"
"I—rubles?"
"Russians make software, Bob."
"No, I know, but—yes, Lin, those are dollars. I mean, it's not exactly Fischoeder money, or even Pesto money, but we can definitely get non-generic toiletries this month. Maybe finally replace that bottle of Windex that's just watered-down soap suds at this point."
"How did that happen?"
"I don't know. I guess we have been a little busier lately? There was that nice write-up in the paper about local undiscovered gems, and our Yelp rating is—well, still deeply mixed, but there have been some pretty good reviews recently." Bob drums his fingers against the keys. Even saying what he's thinking feels like a jinx, but— "Maybe this is it, Lin. Maybe things are finally turning around. I mean, it had to happen at some point, right? Are we successful now? Oh, God, that doesn't sound right."
"Of course it does! It's a crime it took this long. You're ten times the restaur-author that Jimmy Pesto is, and it's about time people started noticing that."
"Thanks, Lin.” Bob smiles, then blinks as her pronunciation catches up to him. “Wait, I think it's 'restaurateur.'"
She frowns. "What did I say?"
"Restaur-author—"
"Isn't that the same—?"
"No, that's like, someone who writes books about—"
"Restaur-author, restaur-author—"
"That's not—"
"I think we're saying the same thing here, Bob."
—
"Is it a bomb?"
"No, Louise."
The kids were sitting at one of the booths after closing playing shuffleboard with the salt and pepper shakers (badly, with very little focus on the actual rules of shuffleboard and much more emphasis on causing the biggest collision possible) when Linda came back from the basement with the three wrapped gifts. She'd barely set them down on the Formica before Louise had hers in hand, shaking it up by her ear like she does with all her presents.
"Is it just a box with paper around it?" Shake, shake shake. "Was someone having fun with the new napkin shipment?"
"Still no."
"Well, what gives, then?" She squints at them both, even as her nails—which she's practically got filed into points these days—go for the tape seams. "It's not Christmas, or any of our birthdays, or your anniversary, or even the anniversary of that time you got an extra five pounds of potatoes for free."
"Yeah, that was a good day." Bob clears his throat. "And, no, you're right. But, we didn't exactly get you guys what we wanted—or, what you wanted—for Christmas this year—"
"Or your birthdays."
"Right. So, this is like a do-over."
"Did we win the lottery? Did you rob a bank?"
"Did you find the long-lost millions of famous and enigmatic hijacker D.B. Cooper?"
"No, Louise, and no, Gene." Though that would feel almost more believable than the real answer. "We just—sort of started becoming successful? And hopefully, that's going to continue, which means you guys are going to need to step it up a bit. You've been doing great lately—I mean, mostly Tina. Basically all Tina—and I know you don't love the idea of more work, but trust me, this is a good thing. It's what we've been waiting for. So, yeah. Happy Merry Christmas-Birthday-Day."
"Does this mean we won't be able to play hockey with the stale buns anymore?"
"And do I have to give up my Coyote Ugly practice on the countertop?"
"That'd probably be good, Gene."
He frowns. "Do you realize what we're losing? Are you sure 'successful' is the right direction for us"
"Pretty sure, yeah."
"Well, I think it's great."
"You do, Tina?"
"Yeah." She smiles. "I've been feeling ready for a little more challenge around the restaurant, and you haven't had anxiety sweats in the last two weeks. You're not glowing anymore, but I think that's just supposed to be a pregnancy thing, so it's probably for the best."
"Oh, God, you guys know about my anxiety sweats?" He reflexively checks under his arms; still dry, all clear.
"Dad, everyone does."
"Sometimes, we play I, Spy with them from the top of the Wonder Wheel."
"I miss them already." Gene lets out a hammed-up sigh. "They were like an old friend. An old, damp, musty friend."
"Well, who knows if this will even last? I mean, it probably won't. It never has before. Why did I think this time it would last?" Oh, no, his chest feels really tight. Is he having a heart attack? This has to be what a heart attack feels like, right? "Lin, should we not have bought anything? Why didn't we save up for the next slump? What were we thinking ?"
"Hey, the anxiety sweats are back!"
—
It's a few days later when Bob hears two sounds in quick succession: the bell over the door, and the thump of Mr. Fischoeder's new, decorative peg leg (apparently he's decided to play up the whole pirate shtick, since he’s already got the eyepatch. Part of some new marketing angle for Wonder Wharf, but mostly he just seems to trip over it.) When Bob comes out from behind the grill, he sees Mr. Fischoeder putting something down on the counter.
"Bob?"
"Yes, Mr. Fischoeder?"
"I found this envelope in my mailbox with your name on it."
"Yeah, I know." Bob slides it back toward Mr. Fischoeder. "It's our rent money."
"Excuse me?" His tone is skeptical enough that Bob immediately starts second-guessing whether that's what's actually in the envelope. Or—oh, God, did Gene get a hold of the checkbook again and draw more cubist representations of his penis? No, no, it's fine. He'd signed it and put it in the mail right after.
Bob clears his throat. "It's our rent money? I didn't mean for that to sound like a question. But, you know, it's what we owe you to lease the space—"
"I know what rent money is, Bob." Mr. Fischoeder's non-eyepatched brow goes up. "I wasn't under the impression that you knew what rent money was, based on how infrequently you pay it. In another decade, you'd have been very familiar with the best of my bat-wielding, debt-collector carnies."
"Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. But hopefully, going forward, that'll change. —Not just because I now know that 'bat-wielding carnies' are apparently something you have."
The eyebrow stays up. "Orphans, Bob?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Orphans—got any running around here, now?" Mr. Fischoeder leans forward to peer behind the counter. "Maybe an elderly relative who's passed away and left you a nice chunk of change? That's how most rich people make their money, you know. Inheritances, and underpaid labor."
"Oh, uh, no. No dead relatives, and the only underpaid labor is—well, us. I guess whatever we were doing finally started working." This is maybe the first time he's said that and it hasn't felt completely like a lie. Bob smiles a little, but Mr. Fischoeder doesn't seem to notice (or, more likely, care.)
"Hm, interesting. Success with nary an orphan or uncle's gravestone in sight?" He drums his fingers against the counter, squinting as if Oliver Twist is going to duck out from the kitchen at any moment. "I don't buy it, Bob, but whatever your secret is, if it makes me money, then keep doing it."
—
Bob keeps waiting for their good luck to fade—because it has to at some point, right? However many years they've been doing this, and for all his hard work and good ideas (at least, he thinks so) and they'd never once seen the rewards of it. Maybe a good weekend here and there, making more than just breaking even, but that's it. Bob's Burgers is not a success, and he's made his peace with that.
But for whatever reason, even though he's sure that the well must be about to run dry, some spell of bad fortune to balance out all the good, it just—doesn't. Another month goes by, then two, then six, and all of a sudden it's August and Tina's about to start her freshman year of high school, and meanwhile, the restaurant is still doing well, continuing to turn a steady, inexplicable profit. Things are going strong enough that he and Linda talk about upgrading the appliances—not just waiting until they break and then spending as little as possible to fix or replace them, but actual preemptive upgrades—and getting a new car (well, a new used car, but still), and they're actually putting money away for Tina for graduation. So she can go to college. Community college, but even so, it's more than Bob ever thought he'd be able to give to any of his kids. And now it's in the cards, and who knows what else the deck has to offer.
He still wakes up in a cold sweat sometimes after a nightmare of it all going away—"Are those anxiety sweats I smell?" Louise will sing-song call down the hall—of only getting a half-dozen customers a day, if they're lucky, and those fancy appliance upgrades going to waste, and needing to sell their new used car or downgrading to a different model to make ends meet. God, maybe he should start putting deodorant on before going to bed.
But then he'll take a deep breath (and then a couple more, because he's still out of shape and the first one wasn't really so deep. He could actually join a gym now, if he wanted—he doesn’t, but it's nice having the option instead of circumstances making it a default no.) So he breathes, and he tells himself that even if all their success disappears, if they go back to paying bills in IOUs and couch-cushion coins, they'll still be okay. They won't be starting from square one, and they've got real assets underneath them and savings to fall back on, and they'll be okay. A slump isn't a bottomless pit. A few bad days don't cross out all the good. Whatever happens, they can handle it, and he knows that for a fact, because they've already done it once before and come out the other side.
But for now, things are good, and Bob's allowed to enjoy that, too. He doesn't have to feel guilty about buying organic, or getting new socks when his current ones grow holes around the toes. Letting himself be happy without downplaying it—or adding a qualifier about how this is all probably temporary—won’t suddenly make it go away. He's done everything he's supposed to. He gets to sleep easy now.
The "I'm Picklin' Up Gouda Vibrations" Burger
(Comes with dill pickles and Gouda)