Everything is a salad. In all his years in the kitchens, Bill would discover that when it came to eating, everything was a salad. Shrimp salad. Chicken salad. Chef’s salad. He rarely ever ate a meal in and of itself, even after only a few months in kitchens.
Lunch at the steakhouse was usually a roast beef sandwich. He didn’t eat dinner except maybe to take a few bites of meat he cut for one of the waitresses. But when he did take a plate, it was usually a salad into which he put a selection of different things like a meat, a cheese, some olives, maybe some shrimp or chicken or tuna or any combination he felt like at any given time. Sometimes he would just pop cocktail shrimp into his mouth a half dozen at a shot, one after the next. He’d stand over by the pantry, pick a shrimp, dip it in cocktail sauce, pop it in his mouth whole, over and over until he’d had enough.
Bill would discover women were like salads too. They were mixed, mixed colors, mixed textures, mixed treasures. Like the meats or the shrimp, they were all the same but they were all different.
Arlene was his first redhead. She was a redhead all over, he would discover. Just another addition to his salad.
“Wow,” she said when all was quiet in the kitchen, when the remaining three dishwashers, Paulie, the hyperactive kid, Jimmy, the would-be pimp, and Andy, the one with the roaming eye, had finished and were gone off in the van to downtown. She had brought Bill another beer and she stood on the opposite side of the serving counter.
“Yeah. Wow,” said Bill.
“Bebe told me what she saw. Far out.”
“Much more than trippy,” said Bill. “Good thing I wasn’t too drunk or messed up on top of being drunk.”
“Were you scared?” Arlene asked.
“You asking me if I need a hug?”
“No. Do you?”
“You want to hug me?”
“Why would I?”
“Just checking it out.”
“You want to hug me?” Arlene looked at Bill from across the counter. “I’m very huggable.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
“I heard that downstairs some wild things go on.”
“Did you now?”
“I sure did. And I heard that many times you were part of those wild things.”
“How old are you?” Bill asked.
“About to be twenty.”
“You go to school?”
“I did, but I dropped out because I couldn’t afford the fees.” Arlene shifted her weight on her feet and looked down toward the floor then back up at Bill. “I plan to go back when I save some money,” she said.
“You got a boyfriend?”
“Not really.”
“How come you don’t work nights?” Bill asked.
“I have a sick mother. I like to be home with her as much as I can. During the day she gets help.”
“How come you don’t have a boyfriend?” Bill asked.
“Why does a girl need a boyfriend? Anyway, maybe I like girls.”
“Do you?”
“Nope.” Arlene smiled and walked around the counter. She sidled up to Bill and stood almost touching him. “I like guys,” she said. “But what makes everyone think a girl needs someone? Maybe some girls just like to be alone.”
“You like to be alone?”
“Most of the time.”
Bill didn’t say anything. He leaned against the counter and lit himself a cigarette. He understood that there must not have been any customers outside if Arlene, all by herself on the floor, were able to be here in the kitchen. He wanted to ask, but he didn’t bother.
Esserine had finished up all the work and double checked that her station was ready to close. The last thing she did was flip the stainless steel top down over her counter. She was ready to go downstairs to change.
“We done?” Esserine asked.
