Burn, Baby, Burn by Michael Seale (Chapters 8 and 9)

 Chapter 8

Oil slick

Bill eyed Mike as he walked through the back door and into the darkened hallway, but said nothing. Mike supposed Bill’s flaming hypocrisy about drug abuse finally got the better of him. Mike’s test results weren’t back yet, but he thought to hell with sitting on his ass another day. Mike needed to get paid, laid and drunk, not necessarily in that order.

Bill was drunk early during then night’s dinner service, well earlier than normal, Mike thought. He was deep into hie eighth gin gimlet by the time service was ending. Tom hovered over him the last hour not only to make sure he cooked everything properly but that he didn’t fall over either. He stumbled around his station, knocking over the salt and several broiler pans, they spilled across the floor.

“Shit. Fuck,” he shouted.

“Bill, not so loud.” Tom reprimanded.

“Oh, fuck off.” he slurred.

Tom knew better than to respond, they all did. When Bill was angry-drunk, it was best just to get out of the way. At six foot nine, it was better to get out of his way. You never knew what he might do. They learned long ago 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 rib-eye and three quail. Then the painful and embarrassing charade of babying this douche bag would be over, for all of them.

Ollie and Mike had finished the salads; Ollie was cleaning up as Mike made the desserts, so even though he had finished first, he 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.”

They had used the fryer for Ollie’s shitty batter-fried artichokes which were served with a lemon aioli. Over fried tempura batter floated over the top of the oil, all burnt and crisp. Ollie grabbed a large pot from the shelf to drain the oil into. He set the sieve to catch the scuzz. But because Ollie is Ollie, this is where everything went to shit. He failed to see the flaw that would take this one horrible night and turn it into something than none of them will ever forget. A small amount of cold dishwater had settled in the pot’s bottom. That shouldn’t 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. Mike 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 and when he did it was too late.

Bill tried to stumble-walk-tiptoe out of way but in his inebriated state did not make it that easy. Bill’s legs slipped from beneath him. 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. The big man 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, thankful that he didn’t adhere to the norm of clogs in the kitchen. Tom pulled Bill to his feet slipping in the process but he kept his balance. They waded through the oil to the safety of the dishpit. Bill’s checkered pants were slick with oil, as Tom slid his pants down; he saw that the hot oil 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.

Mike was trying to help Ollie scoop the oil up off the floor, he was also trying to calm Ollie. Assuring him that Bill wouldn’t fire him, but deep down Mike thought that this just might be what will break the camel's back. Gustavo was letting off a tirade of Spanish curse words, berating the already scared man. The idiot’s hands shook, splattering the oil even more.

“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 rushed back to see what was going on, as Kimber was busy making coffee. Bill snapped at them both. Trish knelt down to Bill, who was now sitting in his office chair, and tried to comfort him. But he pushed her away with an oil smeared hand, leaving a greasy stain on her white shirt.

Trish slunk back to the service station like a beaten dog, tears welling in her eyes. Later, she confessed that she didn’t know what to do. She had only wanted to make sure he was okay, but he hadn’t wanted her there; he always wanted her there, unless… unless he knew, Mike thought.

Tom walked back to the kitchen, leaving Bill alone and without pants on in the office. They needed to finish service. Mike and Ollie 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.

Tom slipped and slid over the floor to the grill station. A lone steak still sat there on the grill. It stared at him, charred and black. The once red hot fire had almost died. Tom threw a few logs onto it and it blazed back to life.

“I should make the dumb cunt, eat the fucker.” Tom said as he threw the steak in the trash. Tom doubled checked the tickets. He seasoned the quail and the steaks. Marked them and put them in the oven to finish. Mike busied himself making the few desserts for another table. Gustavo came back with the salt. He was smiling ear to ear.

“What’s so funny?” Tom asked annoyed.

“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. They 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. Mike needed a beer or a joint or both, he needed to get the fuck out of the kitchen before something else happened. Bill left, not saying anything to anyone. He walked out the back door, slamming it closed. Trish watched him leave from the bar. Mike wondered if it was over between them and if he would be fired. Not once did it cross his mind that he had ruined their relationship.

***

Trish wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her mascara had run. She had worked late, but that wasn’t why she was crying. It had been a long night for everyone.

“He knows.” she said sobbing to Mike. They 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. Mike held her in his arms and kissed the top of her head.

“And if he knew?” Mike 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, Mike thought. It hit Mike like a gut punch. He had thought that perhaps it was more. He had hoped it was more. He had fooled himself into believing that he could steal her away and they would be together. But this is nothing, that’s what she had said. The words echoed like a broken record in Mike’s head. He let her go. Her shoulders slumped, and she sobbed.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean this is nothing. But...”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I know what you meant.” But he didn’t. He didn’t understand. She kissed him for the last time.

***

Something inside of him broke at that moment. Mike felt her lips on his, but he wasn’t there. As if he was watching it all on TV, like a live broadcast but without the sound. He was there but wasn’t. Thoughts raced through his head, thoughts he couldn’t control. That bitch repeated over and over. How dare she.

After she left Mike paced 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; a scene flashed before his eyes.

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, grayish-white smoke billowed around him. 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.

Chapter 9

Grunge is dead

“Nirvana is by far the best grunge band of all time, they started it all.” Bill stated to us all.

“What no way, I’ll give you they were there at the beginning and brought it mainstream, but they were never the best. Pearl Jam is by far the better band.” Mike replied.

A week had passed since the oil incident and no one had been fired and nothing more had been said about it. Bill’s hand was still bandaged but he had said that it didn’t hurt anymore. Him and Trish seemed to be going strong, but the first few days after it had happened, Trish hadn’t been in the restaurant. She had come back the day before without a word about where she had been. Bill seemed to be in a better mood of late and hadn’t been drinking as much as before. Things were beginning to calm down.

“It goes Nirvana, Alice in Chains, Soundgarden, and then Pearl Jam,“ Bill said.

“Are you fucking serious? There is no way you can put Alice in Chains in front of Pearl Jam. You know which band I always thought was underrated? The Lemonheads just listen to the cover Mrs. Robinson from Simon and Garfunkel or It’s a shame about Ray.”

“Are you to still on this?” Tom asked. “Grunge is dead.”

“Shut up, you’re going to tell us that grunge is dead. You wannabe. Look at you, you have no idea what good fucking music is.” Bill replied.

They all laughed. It was good to be back in the kitchen, everything more or less back to being normal again. Tom walked over to the CD player.

“Don’t you fucking touch it.” Bill laughed. He had been playing Temple of the Dog.

“I’m sick of this shit.” Tom complained. He had a copy of A Tribe Called Quest in his hand. Tom took the CD out that Bill had had on repeat for the last hour. A great album, but anything gets old if you hear it over and over, thought Mike. There would be no way he would touch the stereo now that things were calming down. All he wanted to do was not rock the boat and not get fired.

“When do I get to play my music?” Ollie whined.

“Your music is shit, “Tom said.

“Ah, let me see, whenever I have my polenta back, my hand is permanently scarred and my floor isn’t shiny with oil, then you can play your music, okay, feltcher.” Bill said.

“What’s a feltcher?” Mike shouldn’t have asked, but he did.

“No, no. You didn’t ask that. Oh, god no. I won’t be able to get the image out of my head for a week.” Tom laughed.

Mike shrugged my shoulder, he still didn’t know what one was. Bill laughed his high-pitched pig squeal of a laugh.

“It’s when a man sucks cum out of the asshole that he just came in.” he proudly announced doubling over with laughter.

“That is the nastiest think that I have ever heard. Seriously, who does that?”

Ollie and Tom groaned. Bill roared with laughter. He loved schooling them on everything nasty. He was only five years older than them, but they all idolized him. Mike did as well, even if he had gone behind Bill’s back with his girl. But that’s what makes the kitchen so great. They could all be assholes and do shit that no one else would ever accept but it didn’t matter. When it all came down to it, they were brother’s in arms. Fighting a never ending battle. They all loved and liked different things, but we were brothers in the kitchen, ready for anything, ready for battle, ready to take the piss out of each other and give a helping hand at the same time.

Mike was making the Port wine Vinaigrette, which he loved. Minced shallots cooked in a bottle of port wine until it is as thick as syrup. Then strained and blended with a spoon of Dijon mustard, red wine vinegar, oil and seasoned with salt and pepper. That’s it, super easy, but great with the baby arugula salad, poached red wine pears, candied walnuts and a shaving of blue cheese.

Bill bought the arugula from Ted, a farmer that grew it just a few miles down the road. Ted came in at least once a week, sat at the bar, ordered his salad, which they had named after him. The farmer ordered the same thing every time, a beer, Ted’s baby salad, a rib-eye with garlic mashed potatoes and broccoli rabe. Bill and the guys tried to buy as much as possible directly from the local farmers. They also gave the scrapes back to the pig farmers. Not the cooked stuff or the stuff from the tables, but the peelings and shavings from stuff.

As the afternoon wore on the kitchen quieted down. Music played, Tom went downstairs to work on his ravioli. Mike prepped the cold kitchen and while Ollie worked on the risotto. Tom had tried more and more to show Ollie how to do things in the kitchen, as Bill was still pissed from the oil and the polenta incidents and had refused to acknowledge Ollie’s existence. Bill said he had some things to do, so he had taken off for a few hours. He’d be back before service, which usually meant scoring some drugs or actually taking a nap. One of the two. It didn’t matter to Mike either way, because he knew Bill would come back relaxed.

Trish and Kimber prepared the front of the house, the rest of the service staff would come in later. They usually all would show up as soon as the guys cooked dinner for the staff. They ate together as a family, every night before service and just like a family there were fights and spats but also a lot of laughing and a lot of fun. They didn’t eat shit food either. Bill was the mind that if they ate well, that they would cook better and the service would sell more, Mike thought his logic was right on this point. Once, they ate house-made tagliatelle with truffles and fried eggs. That’s not really the norm though, the truffles left over from a special dinner that got canceled last minute; the old dude paid for the truffles and told Bill to feed them to the staff.

Mike watched Trish from the kitchen, she stood like a goddess at the bar, her hair lit up from the sun shining thru the front windows. It created a glowing halo around her; Mike was still seriously smitten with her. She had said, he was nothing to her, but Mike knew that she hadn’t truly meant it. It was just Bill, Bill was the problem. He had cast a spell on her or something. It didn’t matter, not now. Now he was happy just looking at her, he knew she was the most perfect woman he had ever seen. Mike needed to talk to her. They hadn’t spoken alone since the time in the basement. Maybe it was better that way, the rational part of his brain told him. She was with Bill now; they made it official, not that everyone hadn’t known already, but now they no longer hid their relationship. That had hurt Mike.

Trish was steaming the milk, probably making a cappuccino for herself. The restaurant would be open in about twenty minutes. Mike had to talk to her; it was now or never. He thought he could feign wanting a coffee.

“Hey Trish, could you make me an Americano?” Mike asked.

“Sure.” She replied.

“How have you been? I’ve missed you.”

“Stop it, okay. What we did was stupid. Please don’t make this hard.”

“What I was just saying that I missed you? Is that so bad?”

“Yes, I am with Bill. So drop it.”

Trish walked away without making Mike’s Americano and left her cappuccino unfinished. He watched her as she walked to the back and out the door. Mike felt like shit, again.

Tom walked through the restaurant, the purification ritual. He was tasked with the job from Bill, he would burn sage leaves, cleansing the air, wafting it throughout the front and the back of the house. Cleansing the spirit of the restaurant before each service. If Tom wasn’t there, someone else had to do it. Once Mike had forgotten to do it on Tom’s day off and everything went to hell. The lot of them are all really very superstitious. Mike didn’t know if it worked or not, but it did create an inviting smell. It was supposed to be relaxing. Mike felt anything but relaxed; he felt gutted. She wouldn’t even talk with him. That moment just ruined his day. Kimber walked up to Mike, she knew all about their situation. Trish had confided in her, the day after Mike and her had slept together the first time. Mike found that she was so easy to talk too. In fact, everything seemed to be easy for her, she made everything effortless. Mike looked at her with sad eyes.

“Just make sure she never tells Bill. He’ll kill you. Seriously, he dated a friend of ours a few years ago. They got really drunk, and she told him about this guy that hit on her. He went ballistic. He just about killed the guy. Thankfully, the guy hit Bill first. Otherwise he probably would have gone to prison. He spent three days in jail before he made bail.”

“She’ll never tell.” Mike said.