by Lizz Lund
“What did you do, swim in it?” She shook her head, then checked her watch and got behind a cart full of continental breakfasts and pushed it into a banquet room.
“Mina, here!”
I whirled around to see Chef waving me over toward the line. My palms got sweaty, and my feet felt tingly. This didn’t look like dishwashing to me!
“Stir this constantly, like this,” Chef showed me, stirring a pot of creamy sauce. I took the spoon and paid full attention to the Sacred Sauce. Chef jumped to some burners at the end, and began flipping omelets, working his way down the line across a half dozen or so pans.
The sauce was reaching a nice velvety consistency. “Do you want me to…?”
“Shit!”
“Huh?”
Flames spewed from underneath one burner, and quickly spread to the next.
“Oh my God!”
Chef quickly plated an omelet, then poured salt on the burner. “Mina, shove the sauce to the back! Come here!”
He continued to cook another omelet at the next burner. I followed his lead and poured salt over the burner to put out the successive fire. We did this in rotation until the fires were completely out.
“I need omelets yesterday!” Hilda hurried back in. “Where are they? Oh, here they… what’s the matter with you two?”
Chef was leaning over the counter. I felt like all the blood had drained from my face.
“You better get a move on. Next party’s coming up.”
Chef nodded and dashed to the sauce. “Crap.”
“What’s wrong? Did I botch it?”
“Nothing you did. I mean, that I didn’t tell you to do.”
“Is it ruined?”
“Maybe not.” He grabbed some plastic wrap, and laid it over the top of the sauce, then carefully pulled it away. He looked at me. “If I had stirred, I would have mixed in the skin. That would have ruined it.”
“Gotcha. What happened with the stove?”
“Don’t know. There was probably extra grease on the linings. Maybe they didn’t get changed out.”
“Yikes.”
“Yikes is right. We’re both lucky we still have eyebrows.”
“Do you want me to change them?”
“Wait until they cool off. Right now, I need you to grab some fresh basil from the walk-in.”
“Sure.”
The walk-in was jam-packed. After peering around a bit, I found the herbs up high. I noticed a bucket full of stock on the floor. I stepped over the bucket, and reached for the basil. Stepping back carefully, I successfully landed my right foot smack dab in the middle of the bucket.
Shit.
I carried the basil and the bucket of unusable stock to Chef.
“Thanks. But I don’t need any stock.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“Why?”
“You don’t have any.” I put the bucket down, and tossed my soggy sock in the garbage.
Chef stared at the pot and shrugged. “Stock happens.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. In about a half hour, we’ll have a window to make sure we idiot proof the walk-in and the burners, so we don’t wind up in the weeds.”
“Thanks for being nice about it.”
He went back to his sauce. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“It would be to me.”
“Nope. I’ve done that. This is nothing.”
I stared at him, but he just kept stirring. I tossed the stock down the drain. It was a shame. It smelled wonderful. “On the upside, my foot smells really great.”
“I never noticed you not smelling great.”
“Huh?”
“Hurry up with that, or we’ll be late.”
“Oh.”
He stirred.
By about noon we’d finished up with the morning’s events, and got the kitchen back under control.
Hilda caught up with me as I pulled on my jacket in the locker area. “We’re really slammed today. Stop by tomorrow sometime, and I’ll have your check for you.”
“Sure. No biggie.”
Hilda sniffed. “Do you smell soup?”
“No.”
I got back home relatively painlessly (thank you, “Ave Maria”) and pulled up the driveway to find a geriatric chain gang stretching from my front door to Vito’s.
The seniors were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, passing cardboard boxes from my house and into his.
Oh no. Oh so very, very no.
“Vito!”
Miriam and Vito whirled around as did Evelyn DiSantos and Ed and a majority of the St. Bart’s crowd.
Vito held up his hands toward me. “It’s not what it looks like, honest!”
“It’s for church!” Miriam spluttered.
I looked at my own, wide-open front door and his, then rubbed at the migraine growing behind my eyes. “Where’s Vinnie?”
“We got him all tucked up comfy in your room,” Ed said.
Well, that was nice.
Ed sniffed and made a face. “Hey, didn’t you get your van cleaned last summer?”
“I did.”
“Phew!”
Evelyn walked toward me, and sniffed. “I don’t smell anything. No wait. I smell soup.”
I flapped my arms and went inside.
“We’re almost done. And I remembered to turn your heat down, so we didn’t waste your electricity,” she said.
“Peachy.” I looked at the thermostat. My home had cooled to a crisp 58 degrees. How long had they been at this?
I made my way past their assembly line and into the kitchen. The phone rang.
“Mina Kitchen?”
I sighed. “Speaking.”
“Hi. This is Tory from the HR Department at Countryside Mall.”
My heart fell to the floor. Were they seriously going to fire me before I worked off the new vest?
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. But I work for Jane Brubaker. She asked me to call you, to see if you can fill in for Barry at Santa’s Station.”
“What’s wrong with Barry?”
“He called in sick. Honestly, he sounds awful.”
I fidgeted. “Isn’t there anybody else?” While I could use the extra dough, I could have used a day off. Any more bruises and I’d be direct depositing my paycheck at the doctor’s.
“Sort of. But he’s a rookie; it’s his first shift.”
“Great.”
“Super!”
“Huh?”
“Can you be here for the one o’clock shift? We need you for the lunchtime crush.”
I looked at the clock. It was almost twelve-thirty.
“I guess.”
“Thanks! And Mina, make sure you have your vest with you, okay?”
I agreed and hung up the phone soundly, wondering how I could camouflage the birdie accident and avoid the purchase of another vest.
The phone rang again.
“I’m leaving as soon as I can, really!”
“Mina, that is not a proper salutation.” It was Auntie. Super.
“Sorry. I’m in kind of a rush. I picked up another shift.”
“That’s wonderful! With James?”
“No.”
“The chef?”
“Nope.”
There was a long pause. “You’re not still trick-or-treating as an elf, are you?”
“That’s Halloween. And I’m not an elf. I’m a Sidekick.” I thought hard for a moment about the “kick” part.
“Well, at least you’re working.”
“Thanks.”
“So, do you want to hear our news?”
OMG! “Did Ethel have the twins?”
“Not yet! She’s going to be induced!”
“Wow! Do they have a date yet?”
“No, they’re supposed to find out Wednesday.”
“Great! Call me then, okay? I gotta run.”
We said our good-byes and off I dashed away into the non-fallen snow.
&n
bsp; Vito was wrestling around in the back of my van while Miriam and the crowd of seniors looked on, holding their noses.
“Got it!” Vito yelped triumphantly, pulling out several bags filled with litter, and the stuff the litter’s for, from the wheel well.
“Yuck! I thought your guy got rid of those last summer?” I covered my face with my scarf.
Vito nodded. “He did, Toots. This here’s a different vintage.”
“What the heck?”
“That’s what I think. I’m gonna take these off your hands, and see if I can get them analyzed.”
“Geez, honey – it doesn’t take much to figure out what’s in there!” Miriam coughed into her glove.
Vito shook his head. “Whoever did this, was probably the mook who done it before. Just with a different spin.”
I stared at Vito, feeling the blood draining from my face. “You mean this time, there were no explosives set up under my van?”
“Under the van might be the least of your problems.”
I tried not to shudder. “I better go or I’ll be late.”
“Where are you working now?”
“The mall.”
Vito shook his head. “Maybe you want to borrow a car? Driving the Doo-doo may not be so healthy for you. If you know what I mean.”
“Well, of course!” Miriam yelped, springing toward the back of the van. “Here!” She whipped out a vial of perfume from her purse and sprayed the inside of the van for all she was worth.
We took a collective step backward.
“You like it? I’ll get you some!”
“What is it?” I coughed.
“Rosé Femanique! Smells just like fresh roses, don’t it?”
I nodded, clambering in and opening the windows. I started the ignition. It sputtered and died.
“Oh! You forgot, didn’t you?”
I pounded my head gently on the wheel. “Yes, Miriam, I did.”
“Well, that’s no problem! C’mon gang!”
I launched down the driveway as Miriam conducted the gang’s serenading my exit with, “There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays.”
The mall was packed. I waited in line to claim a parking space – even the employee ones at the way back were filling up. A dark navy blue Lincoln Towncar sped past me, leaving the mall. I looked up just in time to see Myron Stumpfs behind the wheel. Wasn’t that Buddy’s new Towncar? Or did they buy matching ones, for Mail-It-2? Weird idea for branding, if you asked me.
I pushed through the crowds towards Santa’s stand. It was empty, except for Santa sitting on his throne, eating a seven-dollar cookie.
I threw off my jacket and donned my Sidekick wear like a whirling dervish.
“What’s with the cookie?”
Santa pointed. “The ‘Cookie Break’ sign is up.”
“That was from the last shift.”
“You want the kids should think Santa fibs?”
I rolled my eyes back toward the North Pole. The line of kids waiting to sit on Santa’s lap was slightly less than one to sit on Justin Bieber’s.
I looked around, then stared at Santa. “Where’s the other Sidekick?”
“Got me. I’m not HR. I just make toys.”
“Very funny.”
I got ready to switch gears and launch into solo mode – ugh – when a high school kid climbed over the rope and stood in front of me. He continued to text.
“Can I help you?”
“Sure.”
“If you want your picture taken with Santa, you’ll need to wait at the end of the line.”
The kid actually broke eye contact with his phone. “I’m not having my picture taken with Santa!”
I shrugged. “Well, you do seem a little old for that.”
“I’m here to be a Sidekick! I’m supposed to report to the other Sidekick, Mina Kitchen.” He pulled on his Sidekick vest with as much disdain as a seasoned veteran.
“Really? Oh. Well, that’s me.”
“You’re a Sidekick?”
“Yep.”
“Aren’t you a little old for that?”
“My checkbook doesn’t think so.”
Several lifetimes later, we approached the end of our shift. As usual, my knees had been knocked, my shins smashed and for a little added variety, I stubbed my foot against a step and was pretty sure I’d broken a toe.
Text-boy did nada regarding crowd control. Zippo. He was the black hole of social interactions. Except online. He was instrumental at making sure the line stayed strong and linear via Facebook, Twitter, and God only knows what other social media. On the upside, he was good with the computer – so for once I didn’t have to call Nelson.
Jane came up behind us. “So, how did Stevie do?”
I whirled around. “Oh! Ah, great! Hey, can I…”
“Star.”
Jane turned to him. “You’re interrupting.”
“Mom, how many times to I have to tell you? It’s Star now, you know?”
Mom?
Jane rolled her eyes heavenward, and back to me. “So?”
Realizing that dissing the boss’ progeny might be unwise, I retro’d back to my Jersey roots: I lied like a cheap rug. “Terrific! He’s some kid!”
Jane smiled. “That’s wonderful.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Oh, and Kitchen, here.” Jane handed me a brand new vest. “I noticed the back of your vest is somewhat… soiled.”
“Another vest?”
“It’s all right, Kitchen. Just get yours cleaned and return the new one, and we’ll call it even.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“But just this once.”
The mall was open until midnight, so there were still throngs of shoppers packed inside. As I passed the Mail-It-2 kiosk on my way out, I noticed a closed sign. A huddle of disappointed gift-givers stood around grumbling.
“Crap.”
“Now what am I supposed to do?”
“UPS, here I come.”
“With that kind of delivery cost, I might just as well take it myself and visit them after all. Rats.”
I wondered why the kiosk would be closed with Christmas around the corner – less than two weeks away. It seemed funny that all three of them— Bernie, Myron and Dexter— would be off at the same time. Then again, they didn’t strike me as rocket doctors. They probably got their wires crossed and were going to have a fit and fall in it once they realized they gave themselves the same shift off, and their stand stood closed.
I drove home, muttering to myself about vests. I couldn’t take it to Lickety-Split – especially while Mrs. Phang was AWOL. And I really didn’t want to fork over another thirty bucks. I pondered the idea of calling K. and asking about his dry cleaning network, when suddenly I looked up and realized the car in front of me was at a complete stop and I was not.
My van banged nose to bumper with a dark green Crown Vic.
The driver got out and walked steadily toward me.
“Hey, Mina. I figured we’d run into each other again.”
“Ha, ha. ‘Run into each other.’ Good one. Wow, really sorry, Dexter. Complete accident on my part.” Dexter! OMG WTF?
“No it wasn’t. I made sure to slam my brakes hard. But the cops will figure it was an accident.”
“You’re calling the cops?”
He shook his head. “No need to. They’ll figure it out after they find your van.”
“Huh?”
He opened the door and grabbed my arm. “Why don’t you step inside my office and I’ll explain it to you?” He dragged me out of the van toward the Crown Vic.
I responded reasonably by slamming him upside the head with my clipboard.
“Youch!”
“Hey, how come the Doodoo’s pulled over? Your radio on the fritz?” Trixie pulled up in her Jeep. Mike was with her.
Dexter threw me down on the ground hard. Before I could look up, there was a squeal of tires and he was gone.
Mike helped me up. “Should I
call that in?”
“No. I don’t know. We had an accident.”
Mike checked out the bumper, while Trixie checked my bumps. “Yeah, I know about these kind of accidents. Usually these guys wait by a traffic light. Then, when the light turns and the victim accelerates, they ram into him, creating an ‘accident’. The victim gets out of his vehicle, ready to trade papers, and then he gets jumped.”
“But I hit him.”
“Really?”
“Actually, he said he hit his brakes hard on purpose.”
Mike looked at me. “You know this guy?”
I gave him the thumbnail sketch of our unhealthy mall employee relationship as well as Dexter’s psychopathic tendencies.
“You’d be better off staying clear of this guy.”
“You think?” I was about to tell Mike about feeling followed, and all the Crown Vic sightings I’d had. But something held me back. It was probably my humiliation-alarm warning me I was about to sound like a whacko.
“I just called Vito. He’s expecting you in fifteen minutes.” Trixie clapped her phone shut and shoved a piece of gum in her mouth.
“Vito? You sic’d Vito on me?”
Trixie shrugged. “You won’t get a cell phone. And we’ve got tickets. So I can’t follow you home.”
I pretended to kick a rock. “I can drive myself home. I don’t need a babysitter.”
Trixie shook her head. “If that looney’s this hostile toward you about some stupid mall job, he could be waiting for you at home.”
Well. That was a sobering thought. Maybe Vito and Miriam weren’t so bad after all. At least, as long as they didn’t make me eat their food.
“Actually, he might be sore about the bird repeating his conversation in the men’s room.”
“You were in the men’s room?”
“Just outside it.”
“A the bird was in the men’s room?”
“No. The bird was with me. After I rescued Walter from it.”
“Walter was with a bird? He hates birds.”
“I know. That’s why Ida Rose had me take the bird.”
“Ida Rose?”
“She was helping Walter with his book signing.”
“Damn! I knew there was something I forgot! So whose bird was it?”
“No one’s. It was up for adoption at the mall, and kind of got out. Along with the mastiff.”
“Mastiff?”
“Yeah. I was walking the mastiff and the bird back, when we overheard Dexter and Myron arguing something about boats and vacations and Buddy Bergers.”