Bill worked side by side with Mary until everything she needed to do was either working or done. Then, to further help her out, he built the steam table by putting in the water and all the inserts with dividers. When all that was set, he went back to the back, gathered in his apron twenty baking potatoes from the sack. He tossed them into a sink, or rather let them fall by unfolding the apron. He scrubbed the potatoes clean, placed them on a tray, set the tray by the convection oven.
“What else you got?”
“I’m all set.”
“I’ll stick with you a bit.”
“Why?”
“Cause you’re all messed up.”
“Me? You the one messed up.”
“How you figure?”
“I ain’t hittin’ it with everything that moves and then going home to a fiancé.”
“You didn’t say anything when I was down on my knees. Why you got to say something now?”
Mary looked at Bill. She studied him a moment. “I seen you checking out that new girl’s ass.”
“Fine little ass it was too,” Bill said.
“I suppose you’d hit that too.”
“In a flash.”
“See you the one that’s messed up.”
“What else you need done?” Bill asked.
“Baste that round one more time.”
Bill did what Mary asked. Then he drew himself a coffee and headed out into the hall and down the stairs.
Henry Lee had already set up the grinding machine and was making the fresh ground beef for the hamburgers. He had done this by himself for most of his time at Suburban and he assumed he would do it himself again once Bill finally left. They were all sure he was leaving since his wife-to-be was graduating in June and they, the newlyweds, had no business in Columbus beyond her getting her degree.
But Bill was already starting to want to stay. OSU football was ending, its basketball was beginning and the UDC winter concert series was upcoming. He had quickly mastered the broiler, learned to cut meat and could do the prep cooking soup to nuts. He had already gotten two raises and he figured he was due for another one before the holidays. For what it was for him, life was good.
Of course that, the goodness of life, did not take into consideration his having a criminal record. It did not take into consideration the fact that he was not doing what he wanted and could not get a job doing what he wanted. He had no prospects of getting any kind of job using his degree or becoming a professional. Then there was his substance abuse and his general sense of fear. The arrest and jail ordeal made him afraid of everything. Staying where he was and becoming a restaurant manager for Suburban was not a bad idea, for him. Deep within, he longed for safety, for surety, for routine and sameness.
He didn’t have to worry about it just yet. He didn’t have to worry about anything just yet. For the moment, he could enjoy—and he did enjoy it—the regularity of the routine of the kitchen. He liked reaching for a plate and not having to look for where the plate was since every time it was there in the plate warmer and the plate warmer was there right in front of him at the Garland. Gravy, vegetables, baked potatoes were always in the same spot. Even the steaks in his reach-in, the counter-high refrigerator box on the line opposite the Garland, were always placed on the same shelves in the same order. Bill liked that. He found comfort in it and solace in not having to think. Even more, he took comfort in knowing how to do something.
“’Bout time,” Henry Lee said.
“Watch out for Mary,” Bill said.
Coming this month:
The Ghost Writer, Rose’s Story: A Look At The Worlds We Hide
