Everything is food

Kitchen

Frank Richards took a swig of bourbon reviewing the resume that he had put together for himself on his computer. It hadn’t taken him long to make, since he had been working at the same place for thirty years still, it looked relatively impressive. He had earned an MBA when he was 25 and gotten a job at a small software company.

 When that company had gone under due to massive financial mismanagement he had looked for work everywhere and finally had gotten a job at the Fill her up truckstop diner as a dishwasher. Over the years he had moved up to cook and finally general manager. He almost felt tears come to him but sadness was something he seldom felt anymore.

It was more a perpetual state of loathing which he attempted to mask with nervous awkward laughter. The bourbon burned as it went down and left a warm feeling in his belly. Frank usually wasn’t much of a drinker but the past few weeks had gotten to him. His bosses at J.M. Philips headquarters had been relentless, sales were down, they said, payroll is up, he would then cut hours which in turn would lead to his employees complaining about the lack of hours.

It was a lose, lose, predicament and no matter what he did the chips seemed to be stacked against him. Do I really even want another job? The question burned in his mind. It was something he had never asked himself before but now he pondered with more seriousness than ever. Every time he went to the bank to make the weekly deposit he pondered it.

Escape. Take the money, flee, change his appearance, take up some kind of assumed identity and live out the rest of his days on some beach in Mexico or something. He enjoyed concocting these impossible scenarios. Something he thought that maybe he enjoyed them because they were impossible. Because it was far easier to do that then to actually take the steps needed to make changes in his life.

 This evening had been the worst. The J.M. Philips company had invited him down to headquarters for a dinner to honor those who had been with the company longest. Frank despised the small talk and socializing associated with such events but as general manager he had no choice in the matter. Still he had harbored some hope for the event, as he had just come up on thirty years with the company. They have to at least acknowledge me, he had thought. So he had put on his best suit and endured the minutia, the small talk, the mediocre food and general superficial nature of those present in the hopes for some recognition. They had started with 10 years, then 20, as it went up Franks hope had risen, when they had gotten to 30 years he was certain they would call him, but then nothing. They called the manager of one of their gas stations. When it was all over he was dumbstruck.

 He had walked out to his car not really sure what had happened. Were they really such assholes? He wondered. He never even wanted a bonus, or a plaque or anything, just some kind of acknowledgement. Recognition. Some token words to let him know that he was appreciated. The ride home had been a blur. He was staring at the lines wondering what had gone wrong. How he had ended up where he was. He had declared bankruptcy already had a massive heart attack and no one seemed to give a shit. He felt like a ghost, a phantom. He scanned down the page at the job’s reading the descriptions but not really taking in the details, not really caring. He wished he could slow down time to this moment, 12:15 am and just keep it there for days, weeks, months, as long as it took for him to figure out a plan. Frank took another swig of bourbon, fuck, he thought, I have to go to work tomorrow morning.


 Jim ‘They don’t want gravy.’ Sara said pushing the plate back from the window. ‘It comes with gravy.’ Jim replied,the hostility thick in his voice. ‘Not it doesn’t.’ Sara said going back to the dining area. ‘I’ve been here ten years and it always come with gravy!’ Jim shouted. She would get her plate back, Jim thought, just not anytime soon. She did this every time, she would put in something wrong bring it back and blame it on him. Fuck this, Jim thought. He had eight slips going already and he was not about to bring everything to a halt for her. Amanda the girl who was supposed to be working with him had called out and the people had been coming in all day. In groups of four, to six, to eight, non-stop. He had had a smoke earlier around 9:30 but that had been short ten minutes at most. Sometimes when it was really going he barely got a break at all. He put the next order in the window and he was down to six. Fuck I got a hangover, Jim thought. He had a few beers in the afternoon after his shift ended and that after noon had turned into night which soon turned to morning and those few beers which soon turned into several.



 Why am I cooking alone out here? Jim thought, putting another plate up. He had seen Frank earlier in the office and he looked like hell. They had exchanged hellos but little beyond that. Frank was not the most talkative type Jim knew. Not that he need to say much, everyone there pretty much knew what was on his mind, misery. Frank was supposed to help him when situations like this arose, and this was certainly such a situation. Frank hadn’t come out of the office since he got in, but he’d seen him in the shed scratching lottery tickets and smoking cigarettes earlier. Fuck this, Jim thought and opened the office door. Frank stood at the computer staring idly ‘Could you give me a hand here I need a cigarette.’ Frank came out of his trance and got up. As soon as Frank came unto the line Jim walked out the front door, as he walked outside he heard Sara’s voice ‘Where’s my stuffed turkey?’ and allowed himself a grin.


The supply shed was a welcome site to Frank and he lit his cigarette. It was to most of the cooks at the Deerfield diner, it was a place of refuge of solace when you just need five minutes away from the hot kitchen. Marge the dishwasher was there and Jim nodded. ‘Busy in there?’ She asked. ‘Out of fucking control,and something’s going on with Frank. ‘ Jim said taking a drag. ‘ ‘Something’ had been going on with Frank for a long time now, though today it seemed worse than usual. ‘I heard his son got arrested last week.’ Marge mentioned, casually it seemed. Frank’s kids always seemed to be getting into something, weather it was getting pregnant, or arrested. Rarely was it something like getting a raise, or earning a doctorate. ‘Figures,’ Jim said taking a drag of his cigarette. ‘Four ‘oh clock can’t come too soon.’



 An  Island. In the pacific, maybe. Maybe somewhere else, in the arctic ocean, somewhere far removed from civilization. Maybe Northern Canada, in the woods, with land to grow crops on, start a farm. Maybe just leave today with all the money from the drop and disappear. Create a new life. It all seemed possible but when he thought of the detail’s of the plan it scared him to death. Going into the unknown, that was what he feared. Frank saw it, that booth, where had first interviewed for a job 30 years before. He had been young then, full of energy, hope. The crowd had long since dispersed and now it consisted of mainly a few straggler’s, a few truckers loudly arguing politics, a loner in a trench coat in the corner looking at a laptop ordering only coffee. It can’t hold forever, he knew, someday he’d crack. Someday this place would get to him, would be the death of him. It was only a matter of time. He could cook a 1400 dollar day by himself, but when he went home it was more of the same. He would get shit on no matter where he was at work or at home. One of them had to go, he knew.



 The phone rang in the office and Frank slowly walked over to get it. ‘Hello Fillin’ station Diner, how can I help you?’ in its entire existence no one had ever called it the ‘Fillin Station Diner,’ but it was how it was listed in the phone book so Frank usually answered this way. ‘Is this Frank?’ the voice said over the phone. ‘Yeah.’ Frank replied. ‘Well let Sam know that I can’t make it in tonight. Bad strep throat.’ Frank heard the news and knew it was Nick. ‘Yeah I’ll let him know.’ He said as he hung up the phone. Frank was thinking as he hung up how remarkably well Nick sounded on the phone despite the strep, and how from his tone he could tell he most likely would not make it in for the next couple of nights, considering how those nights were Saturday and Sunday. It always seemed to work out like that, someone would call out. Almost every other weekend. For some reason this place seems to attract lowlifes and alcoholics, Frank thought, amused.


 Although he was officially still the manager Frank had long since taken to leaving the hiring and interviewing of people up to Gary. He liked to talk so it seemed suited to him. Frank heard the door in the back open and Gary come in, going on about something. Fuck, Frank thought and hurried over to the computer to feign he was doing something important. The stale smell of cheap cigarettes lingered with Gary as he came into the office, ‘Frank, how’s it going?’ He asked. Frank grumbled something incoherent in reply. Gary nodded and looked at the schedule on the wall. ‘Nick’s not coming in tonight?’ Frank mentioned casually. ‘Why not?’ Gary said, frowning. ‘He says he’s sick. Strep throat.’ Frank was looking at his bank statement online, not that it was that encouraging more as it made him look like he was engaged in something. ‘So who’s coming in?’ Frank groaned inwardly to himself, you’re looking at the schedule you jackass, he thought. Instead he replied, ‘It’s Sam on tonight.’ Gary nodded, ‘I can always jump on the line if it gets busy.’ Frank said nothing. Gary liked to talk about his cooking skills, about how he had owned 5 or was it 9? 5 star restaurants in New York or sometimes it was New Hampshire, Frank had heard several different versions. Gary like to boast about how he could ‘cook circles’ around everyone here yet no one had actually seen him do it during the busiest times. He like to tell people it was because he didn’t want to. ‘You’ll be fine.’ Frank declared although it was more of a mumble.


 Gary had already walked out. Not that he was even listening to me. No one ever listens to me, Frank thought. He looked at the time on the computer 2:30, just got to make it a little longer, he thought. I need a drink. The thought came into his head entirely unbidden, but once the seed was planted he knew it would be impossible to ignore. Yes, I’ll have several drinks tonight, and do some serious thinking.



 Sam opened his eyes as the bright light from the sun hit him square in the face. The morning, my favorite he thought as shambled out of bed. Except something was wrong, the light was different, this isn’t early morning, Sam thought and checked his phone, 2:00, fuck. He thought. I have to go in to that fucking place. He thought that every time he had to go in but the weekends were the worst. You never knew who would actually be there, what would be broken, what they would be out of, kind of like an adventure. But not an adventure in the Indiana Jones sense, more of an adventure in the going off to fight in a war half a world away.



 Got to take a shower soon, Sam pondered as he walked up to his computer and took out his tray reaching into his desk and putting a few buds on it. It was his usual routine, usually to ward off a hangover. This one in particular was pretty severe. He crushed up the buds and placed them in the bong. He had been up until 4AM the night before watching a documentary on Queen Victoria on PBS and drinking vodka. As he watched the chamber fill with smoke, Sam wondered if Lindsay would be working tonight. Lindsay was the waitress he had been infatuated with since he started. She was thick like he wanted, but also smart. The best combination, Sam thought. But she also had two kids which always made things harder, and she seemed to have issues. Still he pined for her, so much so that just being in her presence made him feel happy, joy. Sam cleared the chamber of the bong and set it down.



 He sometimes wished he had camera’s at the Diner or maybe spies, who could tell him what exactly was going on on any particular day. Who had called out, how busy it was going to be, what was malfunctioning. A couple of weeks ago the dish machine had broken, and they had to wash all the dishes in the back sink. Then the dishwasher was an hour late, which had caused him to run out of plates. No one seemed to care there, no one was really in control. Sam walked into his small bathroom and turned on the shower. He stepped into the heat hoping it was would wash some of the filth and the hangover away. Unlikely, he thought. This one is going to stick with me all day. He could tell he knew his hangovers. When he had first started drinking when he was 18 it was only beer, those hangovers weren’t so bad. Sure they could be fairly intense, but it was the hard liquor that caused the throbbing, head splitting son of a bitch, hangover he had now. I wish I could fucking call out, Sam said aloud. Everyone else seemed to. Then they would call him. Except when it was on his days and someone called out they wouldn’t do the same. He liked getting the extra money but sometimes he pondered why he did it. No one was going to give him a raise, and very rarely did he receive so much as a ‘Thank you.’ Sam emerged from the shower drying himself off. What if I just didn’t show up? Gary would call him or course. Probably leave a voicemail or too. Likely he would get terminated. Yet Sam had seen other people do it on more than one occuasion. Sam packed his bong again and took another hit, going to be a long night. He had rolled a joint in a drunken haze the night before but had passed out before he could smoke it. Now he noticed it in the corner of his drawer and picked it up. You are going to be my secret weapon.