waste! Drink it now you’ve made it.
I didn’t want it.
When he was gone I dutifully downed the
lot in one. Washed the cup. Went to the bathroom and
threw up.
His shouting had been relatively tame
compared to arguments I’d heard him have with the
head chef –
a hapless twenty-four year old
who’d recently lost custody so had his kids’ faces
tattooed enormous, haunting, heavily shaded
on his shins.
He had a temper too – this chef.
When the boss shouted, he’d explode right
back, throw pans and loudly quit before returning the
next day to prep.
He had these terrible ideas for restaurants of his
own. He’d sit as we were opening up and tell us
endlessly about them –
his big idea, Ava,
was a restaurant that served British classics
but as sushi –
think about it, he’d say, a full English, blended,
wrapped in rice and seaweed, cut into perfect little
mouthfuls – tell me you don’t want to try that!
Can you imagine?
Blended eggs and bacon.
Blended fish and chips.
And pie.
He also told us he was set to win the oyster
shucking competition that October,
it’s in my blood, he said, eight generations. It’s just not
possible for anyone to shuck faster than I can.
The morning after the oyster festival he came in to
pick his wages up. Both hands were heavily bandaged
and he smelled strange – sort of stale.
The Man who had Failed.
That’s what they’re really like, Ava,
not wandering philosophers offering wisdom to
little boys in caves.
