Burn, Baby, Burn By Michael Seale (Chapter 7)

 

Chapter 7

Oil slick

Bill had eyed me when I walked into the back door, but he said nothing. I suppose his hypocrisy about the whole drug thing finally got the better of him. My results weren’t back, but to hell if I was going to sit around another day. I needed to get paid, laid and drunk. Not necessarily in that order. 

Bill was drunk early during today’s dinner service, well earlier than normal. He was deep into his eighth gin gimlet by the time service was ending. Tom had to watch him the last hour just to make sure that he not only cooked everything properly but that he didn’t fall over either. 

Bill stumbled around his station, knocking over the salt. It spilled across the floor. 

"Shit. Fuck," he shouted. 

"Bill, not so loud." Tom reprimanded.

"Oh, fuck off." 

Tom knew better than to respond. We all did. When Bill was angry-drunk, it was best just to get out of the way. You never knew what he might do. The best thing for everyone is just to keep their heads down and ignore him. 

Bill ordered another drink from Yves, as the last ticket printed. He had just a few tables left to cook. Two filet, one ribeye and three quail. Then the painful and embarrassing charade of babying this douche bag would be over. 

Ollie and I had finished the salads; he was cleaning up. I had to make the desserts, so even though I was the one who finished first, I would be the last to leave the kitchen. 

"Make sure you clean the fryer tonight, Ollie?" Tom asked.

"Sure," he said as he checked to see if it was turned off.

“I turned it off about fifteen minutes ago; it should almost be cool enough, now.”

We used the fryer for the batter fried artichokes, there was over fried tempura batter floating over the top of the oil, all burnt and crisp. He grabbed a largest pot from the shelf to drain the oil into. Ollie set the sieve to catch the scuzz. Because Ollie is Ollie, he failed to see the flaw that would take this one horrible night and turn it into something than none of us will ever forget. A small amount of cold dishwater had settled in the pot's bottom. That should not have happened, but it did. Perhaps Gustavo is to blame for not wiping it out or perhaps Ollie himself had washed the pan hours before, who knows, but if Ollie had one ounce of brain in his head, he would have tipped the pot over and let the half inch of water drain out.

Instead, he opened the spout to the fryer. A rush of hot oil gushed out and into the cold pot and instantly mixing with the dishwater. The hot oil foamed and bubbled. It rushed up out of the pot and canvased the floor. Tom jumped up onto the row of lowboys that held his mise en place. Gustavo laughed from the safety of the dish station. I stepped into the hall between the kitchen and the office. Ollie stood by obliviously watching the oil run out of the pot and onto the floor. Bill was too drunk to react. 

He tried to stumble-walk-tiptoe out of way but in his inebriated state did not make it that easy. His left hand shot out over the grill as he slid and pressed on the grates. His other hand slipped on his lowboy he tried to brace himself on but it was slick with blood from the steaks. He went down, just as the oil enveloped his legs. He screamed out in pain. 

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Tom yelled, jumping to Bill's aid.

He waded thru the hellish flood of stinking fryer oil to Bill’s aid, thankful that he didn't adhere to the norm of clogs in the kitchen. His checkered pants were slick with oil, as Tom slid Bill’s pants down; he saw that it hadn't burnt him that bad, although his skin was bright red. His left hand was another story. The grill had branded him. The lines were black and blisters had already appeared. Thankfully, his drunkenness had numbed the pain for now, but boy would he feel it tomorrow.

I was trying to help Ollie scoop the oil up off the floor. Gustavo was letting off a tirade of Spanish curse words, berating him. The idiot’s hands shook, splattering the oil even more. I suppose he assumed that Bill would fire him. 

"Will you shut the fuck up? God dammit, Goose. Speak fucking English to me." Ollie screamed.

"Ollie, be quiet." Tom yelled from the office. The restaurant was still full. Not everyone had eaten, and the kitchen had come to a stop. 

Yves and Trish came back to see what was going on, Kimber was busy making coffee. Bill snapped at them both. Trish tried to comfort Bill. But he pushed her away with an oil smeared hand, leaving a stain on her white shirt. 

Trish slunk back to the service station like a beaten dog. Later, she told me she didn't know what to do. She wanted to make sure he was ok. But he hadn't wanted her there; he always wanted her there, unless… unless he knew.

Tom walked back to the kitchen, leaving Bill alone and without pants in the office. We needed to finish service. Ollie and Gustavo had cleaned most of the oil off the floor, but it was still very slick.

"Get a few pounds of salt from downstairs. Spread it over the oil, it will soak the rest of it up." Tom told them.

He slipped and slid over the floor to the grill station. A lone steak still sat there on the grill. It starred back, charred and black. The fire had almost died. He threw a few logs onto it and blazed back to life. He thought he might make Ollie eat the blackened steak, but he threw it away. Tom doubled checked the tickets. He seasoned the quail and the steaks. Marked them and put them in the oven to finish. I was busy making the few desserts for another table. Gustavo came back with the salt. He was smiling. 

"What's so funny?" Tom asked.

"El puto culo, fell down the stairs." He said laughing.

"What?" 

"His shoes were slick with oil," he said with his strong accent. "He slipped and hurt his wrist."

"Oh, god." 

Tom continued to cook. He couldn't help either of the two right now. We finished service without them both. Gustavo cleaned up and washed dishes.

Ollie finally made his way back upstairs, holding his wrist.

"Did you finally finish jacking off downstairs?" Tom asked with disdain. 

"I fucking slid. The oil."

The oil was right; he had left oily footprints all down the hall and down the wooden stairs, footprints that would be there the next year, a constant reminder of this night. 

Ollie had sprained his wrist. Bill's hand was burnt. Tom and I needed a beer or a joint or both. 

Bill left, saying nothing to anyone. He walked out the back door, slamming it closed. Trish watched him leave from the bar. She wondered if it was over. She wondered if she had ruined it.

***

Trish wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her mascara had run. She had worked late, but that wasn't why she was crying. 

"He knows." she said sobbing. We were alone in the restaurant's basement.

"How can he know?" 

She shrugged her shoulders. She was still beautiful, even with her puffy eyes and ruined makeup. I held her in my arms and kissed the top of her head. 

"And if he knew?" I asked.

“You don't get it. This is nothing... We were a mistake. Bill is everything. He is my world. I don't know why I did this.”

This is nothing, I thought. I had thought that perhaps it was more. I had hoped it was more. I had fooled myself into believing that I could steal her away and we would be together. But this is nothing, that's what she said. The words echoed like a broken record in my head. 

I let her go. Her shoulders slumped, and she sobbed.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean this is nothing. But..."

"It's ok," I said. "I know what you meant." But I didn’t. I didn’t understand. 

She kissed me for the last time.

***

Something inside of him changed at that moment. Mike felt her lips on his, but he wasn’t there. As if he was watching it all on TV. He was there but wasn’t, like watching reruns of his life. Thoughts raced through his head, thoughts he couldn’t control. That bitch repeated over and over. How dare she. 

Mike felt himself pace the room, he was sweating and panting. As if he was out of breath. But the scene played out like before, Mike was only watching. It wasn’t him in control. 

He felt his body shake with rage. Mike’s hand punched at the wall. What the hell, he thought. How could this be happening?  

Mike tried to force his eyes shut, no response. He could hear a faint laughing in his head. As if someone was taunting the fact he could not control himself. 

The laughing grew louder; there was anger to it. It was the laughter he knew from some distant place. He tried to remember; he flashed. 

The fire burned, and Mike looked into it. Its flames kissed the wood, the mattress and the junk his father had thrown on it. From where he stood, he could see his mother’s dress being licked by the blue-orange flames. Never in his life would he had believed, this would have happened, if he had he would've killed the fucker years ago. But there he stood, the old man, daddy dearest, laughing like wild hobgoblin, his mouth wide, an angry honking laughing, his eyes dead. Mike followed the dead eye gaze and saw her hair burst into flames. The laughing haunted him now.