*
Those ChefsWear pants bug the shit out of me. I want to strut to the back of the line, pull them up so only ¼ of his ass is showing instead of ½, and tie his black apron there so tight those pants don’t creep downwards again. This is a kitchen, not an MTV rap video. Plus, I like to think that ass is a little bit, well, mine, especially if I’ve seen more of it than most of these people.
“Halle, stop staring at my ass. I mean, I know it’s nice but, c’mon, a little digression.”
“You wish I was looking at your ass!” I yell over to him, whipping around to focus on buffing silverware again. But I know I’ll be sneaking glimpses of those hips jutting just above the checkered waist for the rest of service.
Greg strides into the kitchen and leans against the counter, next to me. His brow furrows.
"Halle, don’t make love to it, polish it!” The yellow rag becomes warm from friction under my quick fingers
“Dude, I don’t make love. I’m passionate and aggressive.” He cracks up. I love the way his eyes crinkle.
“You’re silly, boo.”
“I love that you and Laura call me boo. It makes me feel special.”
“Well-,” he pauses and looks at me with those white blue eyes, “you are special.”
*
“Hey Halle, can you keep an eye on things while I do some prep work in the back?
“Dude, you know you don’t ever have to ask.” Andy smiles the way an old friend does when nothing has to be spoken between you. I like to think we are heading in that direction.
“Uh oh! Watch out! Halle is behind the line!”
“You know it so don’t fuck it up boys.”
“That’s right, Hal, keep them on their toes girl!”
*
Laura is patient and beautifully serene, like aloe on skin; someone I feel as if I can tell all of my secrets to, even if they are small an insignificant or embarrassing. She would smile every time and make me feel like its ok to be me. I told her a few nights ago about my infatuation with “my boys.”
“They kill me,” I say over the rim of a Bordeaux glass, as if its circumference will conceal my words from the kitchen line. I don’t want those boys to know how I feel, my admiration seeping through my pores. “But it has to be the right combination of them. I love all of them, I really do.” They may give me shit but I thrive on it, nourishment for my exoskeleton that has taken 23 years for me to grow, only to be shed and restructured again.
*
That little tattered notebook lays on his bureau opened to the last few pages, running ink and dog eared, next to a foggy decanter that he snuck from the kitchen before it was able to be washed and polished. His room was cold on my naked skin as I searched for discarded garments. Now he makes lists on that notebook, and my skin is warm and dewy from the kitchen. I catch his eye and he looks away, busying himself with lists and I busy myself with polishing. His hands will work on me later.
*
“God, you guys are all going to kill me when I publish my book.”
“Well I’ll make myself a bit more interesting.” Mischievousness sprinkles the air. “Run this fucking food! I’m surprised that my reaction is to laugh, but perhaps it is because I know him now, that he can be stern but never harsh and stinging.
*
My legs ache from pattering around like a bumper car from one side the restaurant to the other and my mood has steadily sputtered into something a little less than pleasant. Joseph has already caught me shoveling a bowl of lentils into my mouth between platings and courses.
“Food running comes before eating, Halle.” He can’t even look up from his iPhone to address me.
“Halle, get back on your side of the line,” Andy snaps as he attempts to figure out which food goes to what table along with the appropriate seat. I find myself wishing I could tell him I’ve looked at those tickets more than he has tonight and could get the food out before it becomes mush. The cuts on my knuckles burn and tingle. Frustration makes the little severs throb in annoyance as if to scold me for fracturing too many glasses this week into shards sharp enough to slice through the tension pent up in the restaurant tonight. The plastic racks that hold freshly washed and steaming glassware have piled up as fast as I’ve emptied them and now they tower over me; red, blue, green, brown, like giant legos. Oscar asks me in his sweet broken English for another glass rack, light blue for wine glasses, so I empty one, hastily swiping the soggy cloth over the circumference of the bowl, stem and base in one swift movement, before I carry the rack back to the dishwashers station. I suppose, in hindsight, I knew the metal shelf where the racks sat above my head were filled with a soup of leftover food, soapy water and various forgotten beverages. Oscar only had certain moments between rushes to rinse the station clean of dishwater soup. But I wasn’t thinking about that festering liquid. My crankiness escaped through my fingers as I slammed the empty rack onto the shelf above my head. What I was not ready for was the backlash of that concoction into my face, mouth, and hair leaving me dripping with a foulness I could only taste on my taste buds, some of which I am sure were burnt off after the fact.
Everyone stopped in hesitation of what to do or say while I stood there, bangs dripping. Oscar halted amidst the dirty dishes, spray faucet still sputtering water onto the metal surface. Brian and Steve both snorted, knives in mid chop. Some “oh gods” and “uh ohs” floated around. But Frank’s response was the best.
“Well you’ve officially been christened with the dish tank money shot! You poor thing.” Andy tossed me a rag and I swiped at my face, giggling into the silliness that I embodied at that moment, a drown mouse, a damp bunny. I laughed and they laughed with me.
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