"Goddamn whore," I said, mumbling.
"Fucking bitch," Alfonso said, also mumbling.
"It's all our fault, though. We should have kept our fucking mouths shut."
"I guess."
Paula the A.M. overheard us as she made her way into the kitchen to announce that Dan the G.M. would be giving a little pep talk before the dinner shift. It wasn't like us to gossip or chatter or carry on about the other employees at the P.W. but sometimes these things had a way of getting ahold of people's common sense. Paula didn't care, though. She sent us a stare that would burn a hole through a steel-reinforced wall and we knew not to look directly at her searing eyes. She clapped briskly, the sound of her dry palms hitting together echoing throughout the enormous kitchen, ricocheting around and startling the other employees.
"Attention staff! Dan wants to speak to all of you in ten minutes. I want you all to gather around as soon as possible. Please grab anyone you know that is out on a smoke break or in the crapper or wherever. Got it? In 10!" she said, clapping some more, then stomping out of the kitchen, her thin legs gesticulating wildly under her immobile, bulbous torso, giving her the look of a spider scurrying away from a dropping human foot.
Laura Ann came into the kitchen after Paula escaped and noticed us against the wall--like kindergarteners being punished for disrupting the class--and knew something must have really upset Paula because of what we were doing for side work. It really was shit work, buffing and wiping those things, almost impossible to accomplish. She quickly found a package of table napkins--wrapped in brown paper and stamped with a logo of a panda bear wearing a chef's hat with a big shit-eating grin on its face--and quietly sauntered up behind me and Alfonso. She peeked over my shoulder, whistling a soft tune that sounded similar to the death march played when Darth Vader entered a scene in the Star Wars movies. I was surprised to see her behind us.
"Very funny," I said, huffing.
"What did you do?" she said, placing the brown paper package of napkins on the metal table, then tracing a figure eight on the table top, pretending to not know what happened but knowing full-well what happened. She was good at that.
"We said something we shouldn't have, about Paula," Alfonso said.
"Oh yeah?" she said, sarcastically.
"Yeah, we saw her at Levonne's party--"
"You were at Levonne's party last night? I didn't see you there."
"I saw you there," I said, looking up at her. She returned a quizzical look.
"Oh yeah?"
"But you left with some dude before I could say hello."
"I see," she said, continuing the figure eight on the metal table. "So what did you say about Paula that got you doing shit side work?"
"We saw her pawing on some guy last night, some guy that's not her husband. We were joking about it when she came into the kitchen earlier. We didn't know she was coming in."
"You mean, Jacques?" she said, drawing a smiley face on the table top, the warm impression from her finger remaining on the metal surface for a brief moment, the smiley face's toothy grin wide and maniacal, then vanishing. I perked up quickly and turned to Laura Ann who continued to look at the table top.
"Is that the guy's name?"
"He works at the salon next door," she said.
"I knew it! I knew he looked familiar!"
Laura Ann turned to me, squinting her eyes and wrinkling her nose as if to whisper, 'Dude, shut the fuck up.' I shut the fuck up.
"She's gonna give us shitty shifts, I just know it," Alfonso said. "Man, I have to make some money, my car won't start, we barely have any food in the fridge. This will be another turd dropped in our litter box called life. It's starting to pile up."
"That's gross," Laura Ann said.
"Life can be gross."
"I wonder what Dan is going to talk about," I said, placing the last bar glass into the plastic drying rack. I began to slide the rack over but Laura Ann stood in the way. I looked her up and down until she stepped back, giving me just barely enough room to slide by. I pushed the rack to the end of the table and placed it on a stack of other racks waiting to be pushed out to the bar, then to be hung up or put away by whoever was being punished over there. Alfonso's pile of silverware hadn't diminished at all so me and Laura Ann helped. I wiped some clean while Laura Ann rolled the clean ones in their napkins.
"Maybe somebody died," Alfonso said.
"Nobody died," I said, scoffing at the idea that one of our coworkers would be free from the hell hole that was the P.W.
"I heard there are going to be some changes made that will affect all of us," she said, looking at her handy work. "Some of our perks will prolly go away."
"Perks? Ha!" Alfonso said, slamming his palm on the table, rattling the silverware pile. "The only perk we've gotten lately is meeting a nice old lady who claims she knew Bob Marley."
"What?!" she said, her eyes opening wide, her mouth dropping. Then Dan came into the kitchen.
"EVERYONE! I need your attention," Dan the G.M. said, clapping his hands, then adjusting his grease-stained, paisley tie while also attempting to tuck his shirt into the back of his drooping, khaki pants. His fat gut protested his every move. "I have some important things to discuss with you."
Laura Ann squeezed Alfonso's shoulder as she leaned in front of him, squinting her eyes at his, trying to pull more information out of him about the Bob Marley comment with the tight gravitational pull of her stare. He smiled a big ass grin at her.
"I'll tell you later," he said quietly, then raised his finger to his lips and shushed her. Laura Ann huffed, crossed her arms, disappointed.
The staff huddled around Dan, 25 to 30 of them, from servers to cooks to bussers to dish washers to hostesses, even Paula rubbing her big belly like a fortune teller swirling her hands around a crystal ball, all of them heaped into a lazy formation, loose and tired. They didn't seem to want to get too close to Dan, as if he possessed the type of body odor that would permeate your own clothes and haunt your nose. Dan sighed.
"Come on, people. Get closer," he said, his head drooping forward while he raised his arms, waving for them to come closer.
Nobody moved.
"OK. I have some good news and I have some bad news. The good news is that you all still have jobs. That's good, right?!" he said, forcing a fake cheeriness through his teeth like an inexperienced comedian sensing his act was a complete bomb. "OK. OK. That wasn't so funny, I get that. Sheesh."
He motioned for them to come closer still and a couple of workers made a step or two but most stood where they were.
"All right, all right. So, here's the deal from corporate. As you know, all of you are entitled to meals at a discounted rate of 50 percent and that isn't going to change. But corporate feels that too much food is going out the door at 50 percent off so they are now limiting the number of meals per week that you can order food at 50 percent off."
"How many meals is that going to be?" someone said.
"Well, here's the catch. I know a lot of you people count on these meals and I hate to be the bearer of bad news--"
"How many?!" Alfonso said, his deep voice startling the others.
"Three per week." Heavy groans permeated the kitchen. Dan the G.M. placed his hands on his hips like a mother trying to cheer up her child after learning that the pet dog just got run over a few minutes before. "Come on, people. You still get three meals at 50 percent off. That's stupendous!"
"This sucks!" someone said, pissed off. Some tried to wander off to sulk.
"All right, all right. No one go anywhere yet. I'm not finished."
"You mean, there's more?" Laura Ann said.
"Yeah, one more thing. Corporate wants us all to mind wastefulness. Be good stewards of the inventory on-hand. Watch your portions when making salads. Watch your quantities when serving bread. Don't refill customers drinking glasses unless they explicitly ask for a refill. Mind wastefulness!"
"Is that all?" someone said.
"That is al
l," Dan said, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth from heel to toe, grinning from ear to ear like he won a prize he knew he didn't deserve. "Wait! Before everyone man's their stations, how about we sing the Pasta Warehouse Birthday Song? Huh?!"
The heavy groans returned, some turned and walked away.
"Oh, come on. I'll lead! From the pasta we make, to the bread we bake..."
None of the employees joined in except for Paula. She clapped along as Dan sang loudly, holding his pant waist with one hand, twirling his other hand in the air like a crazed Italian pizza cook. Completely ridiculous. After another bar or two of the song was sung, a few employees joined in but it was the saddest birthday song ever sung by human beings.
SALUD!
***
After the dinner rush and the disappointing collection of meager gratuities, I walked out to the alleyway behind the P.W., alone, and sat on the edge of the walkway of the loading area. I looked up and watched the thin, wispy night clouds slither slowly across the white freckles of the night sky. A cool breeze poured in the alley from Town Lake a mile or so away, stirring up the dingy stench of the dumpsters, mixing in with the yummy exhaust of deep-fried foods from the neighboring restaurants. I thought quite a bit about my journey so far in my life that led me to the P.W. and wondered how it all came about. Did my choice of studying literature at the university lead me down a path of poor career choices to choose from after graduating from school or did I make concrete decisions that led me to work long hours for very little money at a restaurant with half-decent meals? I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure of anything, actually. I would ponder these things occasionally but with so little life experience, the pondering just led to confusion. I usually tempered the confusion with nicotine and alcohol and marijuana and ecstasy. At that moment, it was nicotine.
I lit a cigarette that I bummed from Alfonso a few minutes earlier with the brass Zippo I also bummed from my homie. As I inhaled the hot smoke, I felt a bit of gratitude inside for having met such a good person in Alfonso, a friend that felt more like a brother to me, a brother I never had. I enjoyed having him as a roommate, something else I hadn't planned for after graduating from school, another turn of events that I didn't see coming. Is that how life was going to be from now on after leaving the structure of college life, where things are fit into daily schedules and weekly events and blocks of semesters, one after the other with holidays and breaks sprinkled in between? I didn't know.
My thoughts pushed my brain into a vortex of internal monologues and event rehashing, churning through these questions and mental replays of good times at college parties, until the sound of glass clinking on asphalt echoed through the alley, disturbing my malaise. I looked where the sound originated from and saw a shadowy figure sitting hunched over on the ground at the end of the alley, picking up a glass bottle that tipped over, lifting the bottle above its head, mouth opened wide to accept any drops that may drip out of it. It must have been empty because the figure tossed the bottle. It crashed on the hard ground. I looked closer and recognized the figure. It was the same bum I'd seen before in the alley, the one who seemed to always appear when I was taking a smoke break with my coworkers. The bum tilted his head back, resting it on the building wall, and emitted a sigh as heavy as his heart. I felt ridiculous thinking about how shitty my life was when obviously, it could be much, much worse, like hobo-level-in-America worse or begger-level-in-a-third-world-country worse. I felt the internal machinations of self-pity swirl down like toilet water flushing away a bad meal when the back door to the P.W. swung open, crashing against the brick wall.
Levonne emerged from the P.W., pushing his rickety plastic cart out onto the walkway of the loading dock, the cart stacked high with aluminum trays. He pushed it toward me then stopped, placing his fists on his hips like a pirate in an old movie surveying something he was about to conquer. A scowl appeared on his sour puss. I felt my appendages whither as I was being scowled upon.
"How come e'ery time I come out here, you fools are sittin' around smokin', doing nuthin?" Levonne said. "It's goddamn ridiculous, if ya ask me!"
"I was just taking a quick smoke break."
"I can see that, fool," Levonne said, leaning over to handle the cart, pushing it again, its wheels rattling on the cement landing.
I felt like a piece of shit. I stood up quickly, tossing my cigarette on the ground, and said, "I can help you." Levonne kept pushing the cart. "I can help you get done quicker so you can get home early."
Levonne stopped in his tracks, looked back at me.
"You'd help me?" he said, his scowl turning into limp relief.
"Yeah, as long as you quit staring at me like you're going to murder me."
Levonne's head flew back and a deep, guttural laugh bellowed out, his hand clinging to his gut, keeping his shirt from popping out from his too-tight pair of Dickies work pants. After he laughed a bit, he sighed loudly, his hand wiping his brow. "Man, if wanted to murder you, you'd already be smoked. You're crazy."
"Maybe," I said, chuckling uncomfortably.
"But if you want to help me, I won't stop you."
"OK."
I jumped up onto the landing and accompanied Levonne toward the dumpster. When we reached the end of the landing, I turned to Levonne, placed my hand on his shoulder.
"I got it, man. Why don't you go home?"
"What?"
"I'll do this. Go home. Maybe your family will be there."
"Are you sure?" Levonne said, one corner of his mouth perking upward.
"Yeah, I got it."
"Thanks, my man," Levonne said, wiping his hands on his apron. "And if you could, write down on the clipboard how many--"
"Just go. I got it."
Levonne smiled and placed his hand on my shoulder. I could see that Levonne's yellow eyes had lightened a bit, a little sparkle appearing at the pinkish corners. Then he shuffled back to the door and disappeared inside the building.
I stood there peering at the cart, a clipboard dangling on its side, a ball point pen shoved into the clip. I grabbed the clipboard and examined the grid of lines and labels on the spreadsheet, names of dishes I was familiar with across the top and labels of quantities and sizes along the X's and Y's of the grid lines. I peeked under the aluminum foil of the top tray to see what was inside but all I saw was a swirl of tomato sauce and an occasional noodle protruding out. Without digging into it, I wouldn't know if it was lasagna or tortellini or ravioli. And there were a dozen pans, at least, to dig through. I decided to just fill in the spreadsheet as I saw fit, marking under each header randomly: two lasagna, one ravioli, two tortellini, etc. I was pleased with this decision. I grabbed the top tray with two hands and stepped over to the edge of the landing, hoisting it behind me, steadying myself to toss the tray into the dumpster, when curiosity struck me. 'What was actually in the covered tray?' I thought. I sat the tray back on the cart and pulled the aluminum cover back. I buried my forefinger in the saucy mound, lifting slightly to examine its ingredients, then placed my finger in my mouth. 'Lasagna,' I thought, 'and a practically full tray of it.' I stood there for a moment, my forefinger in my mouth, my eyes on the dumpster, an image of my empty fridge in my mind, and I debated if the trays of food would actually fit into my smallish apartment refrigerator. I decided that it would be worth finding out so rather than toss the trays into the dumpster, I sat them one by one on the edge of the landing, completely emptying the cart. I placed the filled-out clipboard on the cart and pushed it back inside the restaurant kitchen. A few other coworkers were still doing their side work, rolling silver, marrying ketchup bottles, and whatnot, but Levonne was gone. And I too was gone, out the kitchen, through the dining room, passed the host stand, and out the front door.
I ran as fast as I could, my apron swinging back and forth with loose change in it, as I looked for my parked car. Finding it a block away, I unlocked it and jumped inside, squealing out of my spot down the street toward the alleyway behind the restaurant. I
parked behind the dumpster and popped my trunk. I loaded the trunk with the aluminum trays of food, stacking one after the other. With the last tray in my hand, I looked around to see if anyone was watching me. I saw the bum from earlier watching me from across the alley, his hands in his pockets, his head hung low. I raised the tray of food, as if to say 'this is for you,' and the bum quickly walked over. He grabbed the tray, looked at me briefly, then quickly ran off, holding the tray under his arm like an oblong football. I watched him round the building and vanish.
I closed the trunk of my car, hopped in, and drove home.
The Discarded Feast
When Alfonso was a little boy, he told me he refused to take a dump anywhere but at his home. He caused his mother an inordinate amount of grief because of this little problema. They could be way across town at a shopping mall with a perfectly good though mildly stinky bathroom for him to use when his adolescent sphincter would send him a warning and he would tug at his mother's pant legs incessantly. 'Mama, mama, we gotta go hooooome!' he would plead, clinching his butt cheeks together, his legs in a twisty shape. And because of her empathetic heart, she would drive him all the way back across town, cursing the whole way, so he could use the bathroom in the privacy of his family's home. What a little, pain in the ass! By the time Alfonso reached manhood, his little problema was ancient history but the memory of it tickled him whenever he took a dump in the dingy employee restroom at the P.W. He felt an ironic twinge tug at his insides and it wasn't lost on him that deep-down he still felt like the little boy he used to be in many ways, although he didn't have to go home anymore to take a dump. In fact, he quite enjoyed shitting at work. It was a great way for him to express his feelings about working at the P.W. in a very constructive way.