Dead Man

24/7 Diner

When I roll through the back door into the kitchen, I know that everybody knows. I can feel myself reeling as I shrug off my backpack and throw it on the rack where all the line cooks and dishwashers keep their street clothes. I kick off my sneakers, wrestle on my nonslip shoes and head for the dish area. I need to see Carlito before I clock in, before I do anything at all.

Breathing deep, I look around the kitchen and everyone is busy. No one even noticed me! Pssshhh! It’s just a matter of time, homeboy. You’re drunk. You’re wasted. You’re busted. Boss man gonna kick your ass right back out that door you just stumbled through once he gets a load of you.

Shut up! I tell my inner sotted self. You got this. Find Carlito. He’ll take care of you. I’m fumbling with the buttons on my chef coat and trying not to make eye contact with anyone as I scan the room for my boy Carlito. I don’t see him anywhere. I finally get my coat buttoned and I take my time slowly and methodically putting my sneaks in my backpack. Mission accomplished and I’m still stalling for time waiting for sight of my boy.

I know I have a little bit of time. I came in here early on purpose knowing I was drunk and in a world of trouble if I didn’t find Carlito before the Boss found me. So far so lucky, so lucky so far: the Boss is nowhere in sight. But neither is my savior and it’s getting close to four when I’m supposed to clock in for my shift.

Diego, one of the prep cooks, is done for the day and he’s heading my way as he unbuttons his coat and takes off his hat smoothing his hair all in one motion. The dude is slick.

“Que honda, guay?” he greets me in passing as he simultaneously slaps my ass. I grunt and he clocks out and he's gone. Phew! One down, seven to go. I know I'm a goner. One of these guys is gonna notice soon. I should have just called out. I never should have gone day drinking with stupid Jeffrey and his brother. One orange crush at lunch had turned into two, into three and from there, to be honest, I don’t even know how I got here.

And suddenly, like an angel, there’s Carlito! And he sees me! He walks coolly across the kitchen from the bathroom retying his apron around his waist. He doesn’t say a word. He just grabs me real hard by the elbow and walks me out the back door where he throws me against the wall.

“Fucking borracho son of a bitch, why you don’t call out? Huh?”

Aw shit. I know he’s mad. I can kinda tell.

“Carlito? What? I had a couple of drinks. I’m good. I swear.” I tell him. I stand up tall and smooth out a couple of creases on my sleeve to show him.

“Bullshit, man! You’re drunk. I know you, bro. I can tell. What did Jefe say last time you come in like this? He say you fired, guay.”

Did I mention that Carlito is sort of the kitchen manager? Well, there’s no actual title but he’s been here the longest, he makes the schedule, he tells everyone what to do and the Boss stays out of the kitchen when he’s here. So, he’s got all of that going for him.

“Carlito, please! Help me! I can’t lose this job. I got bills to pay. Plus, my sister will kill me if I get fired from another job. Please, Lito, please.

Did I mention that Carlito lives with my sister in a nice little apartment over on Race Street?

He gives me the meanest look I’ve ever seen for about thirty seconds and says, “You get me in trouble, and I kill you myself, guay.”

“Oh my God,” I say, “Thank you, Carlito. Thank you so much. I’ll be good. I’m good. Kinda...Hey, you got anything on you?”

Did I mention that Carlito also sells a little bit of coke on the side?

He gives me a look like he’s going to make good on his promise to kill me right then and there but instead says, “You got cash?”

* * *

I go into the employee bathroom and lock the door. I take a long look at myself in the mirror and all that my eyes are really drawn to are my very own seemingly large and obviously bloodshot eyes. I take the little baggie out of my pocket, dump some on the back of the toilet and roll up a dollar bill. Then its sniff sniff and Whoot! Zop! Here I am! I wipe off the back of the toilet with my sleeve and cram the bill into my pocket. I turn on the cold water and splash my face. My eyes are already smaller and whiter and I feel composure creep back over me. Slightly. I’m still drunk and I know it, but I can possibly pull this off. At least I’m alert now.

I dry my hands and face and walk out. Time to clock in and feel the pain of whatever Carlito wants me to do. I still have a job and Carlito’s got my back.

I clock in and he’s immediately standing behind me. He says, “Stay the fuck off the line. Stay away from the front house. Stay away from Jefe. Go and do prep with the guys back there.”

I breathe a sigh of relief because I know I would crash and burn in seconds on the line what with the heat and the constant tickets and the pressure. I go back to the prep area and two of the young Guatemalan guys are whizzing through the prep work like it’s their job or something. Tomatoes are being sliced and chickens are being pulled apart. After all, this is a 24/7 diner and so the pep work is never ending. I stand there for a second just staring at the guys as they work. The coke is really kicking in now and I feel a lot better.

Carlito comes around the corner and catches me gaping and rattles off some Spanish to the other two. Then he turns to me and asks, “Better now?” as he slightly smiles.

“Listen to them. Keep your mouth shut and remember what I told you.”

He wheels away and heads for the line. I’m going to survive this, I tell myself.

One of the Guatemalans points at a case of bacon and a stack of twenty full sheet trays. Nice! I’ll sit back here and tray bacon all night if they want me to. I get to work feeling smooth as I pull waxed sheets of paper lined with bacon from the case and place them on the trays.

I finish this in about ten minutes and take the stacked trays to the walk in where they belong. I come back and my new bosses immediately put me to work weighing a case of ground beef into 6-ounce balls which I will next flatten into patties for burgers. I put on gloves and begin weighing. The Guatemalans have Latin music on and seem to flow with the music as they work. I’m already bored rolling and weighing the ground beef so I start to zone out. I’ll milk this task all night if I have to but I’m doing it at my pace.

I’m thinking about nothing at all and misweighing the burgers when one of the servers, a young cutie named Wendy comes into the prep area heading for the walk-in fridge.

“Hi Wendy!” I practically yell as I wave to her with one raw meat gloved hand. She laughs, goes into the walk in and returns with two gallons of cocktail sauce. She puts them on the prep table across from me, grabs a stack of portion cups off the shelf in front of her and begins filling the cups with the sauce. She’s young but well trained and she’s breezing through the two gallons whereas my allotment of ground beef seems to be staying the same or maybe growing.

I’m still high and feeling pretty smooth for some ungodly reason so I ask, “So Wendy, what you up to after work tonight?”

She apparently didn’t hear me because of the Latin music so I say much louder, “Hey Wendy! Wanna have a drink with me after work?”

She doesn’t miss a beat and doesn’t look up from her work saying mechanically, “I have a boyfriend.”

I smile and think of something else to say but nothing comes to mind, so I keep on weighing my meat.

She finishes portioning the cocktail sauce and quickly snaps lids onto each one. I watch as she stacks four trays of portion cups on top of each other and then looks at me like a vision of beauty.

“Can you help me carry these out front? I don’t want to spill them. Pleeease?” she says, and I am all hers.

I take off my gloves and throw them in the trash before giving the Guatemalans the smuggest smile I can muster. They look at me then look at each other and practically die laughing.

“Pince guay!” they howl but I’m off on a mission for sweet Wendy.

I follow Wendy through the kitchen and passing by the hot line I see the guys are killing it with a whole rail full of customer tickets. The grill is almost full of burgers, all the fryer baskets are lowered, and bubbling and salads are flying out the cold window.

Luckily for me, Carlito is preoccupied expediting the food to the servers as it goes out the window. Heh, he’ll never even know.

I have my eyes on Wendy’s posterior with two hands full of trays of cocktail sauce as we go through the swinging doors. A busboy comes flying through the other door with a bus tub stacked precariously high I astutely observe, and he bumps my left arm...HARD!

I try to stagger backwards to absorb the concussion and slip on a piece of lettuce or french fry or something. The trays and every single last portion cup filled to the brim with cocktail sauce go careening off onto the floor, half in the kitchen and half out onto the dining room floor. Of course, they all open upon impact and the floor looks like a tangy bloodbath. Customers seated civilly at their tables are staring at me in horror as are all the servers within earshot. I look down and am pleased to find that no cocktail sauce has found its way onto me but that I am wearing an apron whose front is completely smeared with raw ground beef. I look up to see the Jefe heading towards me through the kitchen. I turn to flee and there in my path is my savior Carlito. I am a dead man.