Chapter 8
I’d spent a futile night mulling over the same worries while the same images ran through my head. Christmas. Family time. My crazy new job. Malik worrying about me. The guys in the band waiting on me for drawings that were going nowhere. Marie-Lou pissed off when I admitted I’d been gambling. Debts, promises, lies; money, more debts. I’d need to win ten times more than I had the night before, but there wasn’t a machine in the world that paid out that big. I could see that I was going to break my word, and somehow lie to Malik, and the guilt was eating away at me.
That morning, exhausted, I’d fallen into an uneasy sleep, with a dream cycling in a loop. In my dream I won, and then lost, and then won again, in bars I’d never been to but recognized as if I’d always known them. Marie-Lou was there too, trying to find me, but I’d always sneak out the back without even bothering to pick up my winnings.
I yawned and stretched. I didn’t dare take out the wad of bills stuffed in my jeans pockets. The TV was still on with the sound off, bathing the living room in its blue gleam. You could hear the steady hum of traffic on Henri-Bourassa. My pager said 10:21; time to get moving. I got up off the couch and rummaged through one of my plastic bags, looking for clean clothes. The apartment’s central heating was throwing that dry heat that makes your nose bleed. I wasn’t sure working in restaurants was exactly right for me in the long run, but for now I didn’t really have a choice. Above all it would keep me busy. There was no guarantee Vincent would come home tonight, and I’d lost his girlfriend’s number. I tried his cell phone, but he was always out of minutes. No answer. I left a message and then took a shower. It seemed like my skin was still impregnated with the smells of the night before last, like I still reeked of that special blend of garbage juice, detergent, and fried food.
As I got out of the shower I saw someone had left a message on my beeper. I went to check, sure it must be Vincent.
Instead I recognized Malik’s voice, and I had to sit down to take in what he was saying. He wanted to see how I was, and let me know he’d be in town sooner than anticipated. He’d be here the day after tomorrow, for sure, and wanted to see me. I could call him when I got the chance. I hung up and thought a minute. I decided to wait before calling him back. Last night’s slip-up was still weighing too heavily on me, I wasn’t ready to talk to him. I’d call him tomorrow, or later today.
I was hungry. I went to have a look in the fridge. Nothing. I would have to leave soon if I wanted to grab a bite before work. I thought about Bonnie. I put on my last clean pair of jeans and a Maiden t-shirt, to show my colours if I got the chance. I hoped she’d be working.
I started picking up my stuff. Went through my tapes laid out on the coffee table next to the PlayStation game boxes and my sketchbooks. I took the mixtape Marie-Lou had made me out of my Walkman—Dark Tranquility, The Haunted, In Flames, and Samael—and put in another, seriously worn out from hours of use, with my favourite tracks from Bruce Dickinson’s Chemical Wedding intercut with a couple songs from Neil Young’s Sleeps with Angels, and a long blues number by the Allman Brothers, “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed,” followed by “Sleeping Village” and “Warning” from the first Sabbath. I changed my Walkman batteries and put in the tape.
I stuffed my work pants into my backpack—they were stiff with caked-on food—along with a pair of clean boxers, just in case I was soaked at the end of my shift again. Also an extra t-shirt, while I was at it, to wear under my work shirt. I didn’t want to make the same mistake as last time.
My hunger was giving me a migraine. In the pile of bus schedules on the hall stand I found one for the No. 69, and checked the time for the next bus. I did a final sweep of the living room to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. By the sofa leg, next to an empty bowl of chips, I saw the Derleth. I picked it up and worked it into my jean pocket. Then I grabbed my flannel shirt and my coat. With my bag slung over my shoulder, I left the apartment, locking the door behind me.
The cold was harsh. Last night’s humidity had subsided. The sun hadn’t come out. It was one of those days when you start feeling the onset of night around midday. The snowbanks were blue; the building walls orange. A mum and her three kids were already waiting for the bus. I turned up my Walkman to drown out everything else. I couldn’t stop thinking about the wad of cash in my pocket. The No. 69 eventually rolled up. Ten passengers got off, but the bus was still packed. I found a seat, shoved between a guy whose fat cement-coloured face stuck out of his peacoat like a shapeless excrescence and a Haitian woman around my age in leopard-print leggings, who was arguing with someone on her cell phone.
At Henri-Bourassa station I let the crowds sweep me along into the Metro and onto the platform, carried by the constant flow of the passengers. I managed to sit and tried to get some reading done, for the rest of the ride. I didn’t even have time for ten lines when the shaking of the Metro car made me nauseous. Rob Halford’s cover of “The Wizard” was winding down, and then “The Book of Thel” came on. The intro hit me just as powerfully as the first time I heard it. The rumbling in my stomach grew stronger, and a gnawing hunger was making me impatient. I climbed the escalator as fast as I could and headed out into the orange light. People were walking quickly, noses shoved in scarves. The Christmas-tree sellers had set up their stand, and the smell of fir trees filled the air all around the Metro station. City employees were putting Christmas decorations up on lampposts. I noticed the spot where Malik had dropped me off two days earlier. It felt like a whole week had passed.
I saw the Desjardins credit union almost across from the Metro, on the corner of Rivard. I decided to deposit my money. It would be safer in my account than in my pocket. There were no guarantees, but it was better than nothing.
I went inside. It was packed. Only one ATM was working. I joined the long line of people waiting. An employee was showing an old man how to deposit a cheque. Ten minutes passed and the line didn’t move an inch. I let it go. I could come back after eating.
At the Fameux diner I ate an Italian Poutine and then, hunger sated, read a bit, enjoying the deli’s warmth. When the waitress brought my bill I figured that, since I was in the neighbourhood, I may as well go check out the new arrivals at the record store. Free Son and Millennium were nearby.
It wasn’t until I rang the bell at the restaurant, two hours later, that I realized I’d forgotten to deposit my money. I swore loudly just as Renaud opened for me.
“Calm down, kid. It’s not that cold.”
I stuttered something, tried to explain that I wasn’t swearing at him.
“It’s all good, get in here,” he said, not listening.
I walked into the brutally lit dishpit. The machine was wide open, and you could hear a slow rain of drips falling into the water. A rack of dishes was drying. The pit was in an even sorrier state than last time. Everything had been stuffed in big stacks on a caddy whose sides were glossy with grease, varnished in dirty cooking oil, and dotted with dried, burnt bits of bread crust. The spray gun dangled over the sink like the broken neck of a giant turkey. A seafood smell rose up from the basement. Jason came and set a pile of dishes from the prep kitchen down in the one free corner of the floor. Under his chef’s hat his red hair was soaked in sweat. He ran back into the service kitchen. You could hear the clamour of pots and pans rattling and fridge doors slamming and tickets squeakily printing. I was already dizzy.
“Good, you’re early,” said Renaud. “We’re in the juice.”
They’d been slammed for the lunch shift. We were already deep into office party season, Renaud explained, while I followed him into the prep kitchen, where it was also noisy as hell.
Jonathan said hi without stopping what he was doing. I said hi back and narrowly averted hitting a tower of baking sheets, salad bowls, and greasy buckets. In a plastic bucket held between his legs Jonathan was mixing salad dressing or mayonnaise with a mixer the size of a bazooka. With a roar like
a Skilsaw, the machine drowned out the hum of the convection oven and the growling hood vent. The smell of lobster was overpowering, almost sickening. In among floating celery stalks red carcasses reared their head in the orangey scum bubbling on the surface. I was already dreading the cleanup.
Bonnie wasn’t there. Or maybe wasn’t there yet. A tall cook I hadn’t met during my first shift was leaning against one of the prep counters. His long skinny forearms stuck out of a chef’s coat with the sleeves rolled up, and he wore a Red Sox cap. He was busy placing balls of stuffing on strips of pasta, which he then cut into squares. Dave was standing next to him with his blond hair up in a ponytail under a net, swimming in a smeared white dishwasher’s shirt far too big for him. He was trying to seal the squares to make ravioli, but was struggling to keep up with the cook, who set the pace. I watched the operation with a mix of reverence and fascination, like a kid being let in on the Caramilk secret.
When Dave saw me, his face first relaxed and then lit up, as if I was here to deliver him from a terrible fate. He wanted to shake my hand. His were sticky with egg yolk.
“Dude, watch what you’re doing!”
The cook was flouring the counter, and said it with a friendly laugh.
I heard Renaud calling from the staff room. I nodded at Dave, who got back to work, and hurried back to see the sous-chef.
The hallway leading to the staff room made me think of the gangway of a spaceship, or maybe a mezzanine in a nuclear reactor, encumbered with piping, boxes of foods, and stockpots full of liquids of all kinds.
Renaud was sorting kitchen rags in the electrical room by the bathroom. The ones that were least filthy he was setting out to dry; the others he dumped in a giant jute laundry bag. Two servers were sitting at the table cashing out, concentrating like students at a final exam. The chef came out of his office in an undershirt, with his chef’s hat still on. He started when he saw me, as if we were old friends who hadn’t see each other in a long time. He came and gave me a limp slap on the back. One of the servers looked up at him with exasperation.
“I heard you saved the day, or the night I guess?”
His breath was sweetly alcoholic and his glassy eyes were shining over his red cheeks. The man was clearly soused. Half-hidden in the storage room, Renaud shot me an ironic smile in the corner of his mouth.
“Did you bring your contact info?” the chef asked me. “Come here, I’ll enter it in the computer and give you a punch number.”
He dragged his feet back to the office and threw himself onto an office chair on wheels. Despite his state, he typed fast. He entered the information I gave him, and as he gave me a punch card number said he was giving me a one-dollar raise on the spot.
“You seem dependable. Hardworking. We need good men like you.”
I wanted to add something, to convince him that was why I was here: to work hard. It was painful to listen to, I was laying it on thick, but I couldn’t help myself. The chef looked at me with his fishy eyes and cut me off.
“We’re in the middle of a pay period. So you’ll get paid next Thursday for your hours up to Sunday. The rest will be in the next period.”
I said that was fine, occupied with mental calculations.
“Okay, I’ll see you later, before I leave. Go get changed, there’s a lot to do. Carl’s coming in as second dishwasher.”
“Carl?”
“Yeah, Carl. The other dishwasher.”
It made me feel a lot better to know that this time I wouldn’t face the onerous workload alone.
“Renaud!” he yelled. “Do a prep list when you finish tonight. Bob’s coming in two hours early tomorrow morning.”
Renaud, still sorting rags and aprons, didn’t answer. Two servers had finished cashing out and were changing, and talking about their plans for the night. They were in their mid-twenties. They pranced around the staff room in socks and boxers. One was looking for deodorant in one of the lockers. The taller of the two was named Denver. The other one, a year or two younger, was Guillaume. His hair glistened with gel and he smelled strongly of cologne. You could tell Denver used Guillaume to prop up his ego. He chatted away as he brushed his teeth and kept going back and forth between his locker and the employee bathroom. They talked as if I wasn’t there. Denver was going on about how he’d ended the night with one of the bartenders from the Diable Vert. Guillaume told him not to get his hopes up, she’d never call him back. Renaud was listening, looking annoyed. I watched them out of the corner of my eye, waiting for them to clear out so I could get changed.
Then Dave came in. He took off his hairnet, which seemed to pain him as much as a crown of thorns. He repeated what the chef had told me five minutes earlier.
“Anyway, you made a good impression on the team. Bébert was talking about you yesterday. He said he’s happy you’re the one taking my place.”
I took his compliment as further reassurance. My position in the team seemed secure. Dave quickly undressed, revealing a skinny, pale body frozen somewhere before puberty. He threw his shirt into the dirty laundry bag next to the lockers, then put on a t-shirt far too big for him. He said he was sorry for leaving me so many dirty dishes, and asked if we’d be seeing each other at Cegep before the end of term. I said we would, and he wished me luck with an apologetic look on his face before disappearing down the stairs to an emergency exit I hadn’t noticed during my first shift. It was almost as if he were running away from something.
I got changed as fast as he had, and rushed into the prep kitchen.
I wanted to get started on the focaccia dough right away, but the pasta roller was being used by the cook in the Red Sox cap. He introduced himself, with a big smile.
“I’m Robert. Call me Bob.”
He could tell what I was going to ask him.
“No worries, I’m almost done.”
He turned around to knead the balls of dough that were waiting in their buspans on top of the fridge.
“Anyway, the dough hasn’t finished rising. Dave started them an hour late. Get going on your lettuces. I’ll give you a hand with the counters once I’m done this.”
Bob was deftly pulling long strips of pasta from the rolling machine, adding a sprinkle of flour to thicken it up. His movements were effortless, as if he was doing them for the ten-thousandth time. He’d calibrated the machine specifically for this job by taking out a few parts, and you could see all the rollers and gears turning away in the mechanism. I remembered Bébert’s story about the girl who’d got her hand caught in the machine. It sent a shiver up my spine.
I got busy with my lettuces. Filled the prep sinks with ice-cold water and threw in the heads of romaine. The noise of the hood vent was added to the turning wheels of the pasta machine. Bébert snuck up behind me and yelled “Hey!” in a deep baritone, a couple of inches from my ear. I jumped, and spun around, dropping a few lettuce leaves. He was standing there with his coat open, a massive grin missing an eye tooth, and bloodshot eyes. He’d clearly been up all night, or not far from it. A little bottle of Red Bull in his right hand smelled like candy. He guffawed.
“Didn’t mean to scare you, buddy!”
I picked the lettuce off the floor.
“Decided to keep the job? Good move!”
The chef, his greasy hair a mess, crossed the prep kitchen with his toque in one hand and an empty glass in the other.
“You’re late, Bébert.”
“I don’t know, Chef. The schedule hasn’t been posted for two weeks. Makes it hard to know if we’re late or not, eh.”
Bébert went to the staff room, walking by the chef without looking at him. We could hear him laughing as he made his way down the hall. The chef gave him a dirty look but didn’t say anything. I went about my business, trying to keep a low profile. He didn’t say a word to us. He trundled up the stairs, his heavy, tired footsteps audible over the bleating of the pasta mach
ine and growl of the hood vents.
Bob finished his ravioli with a calm efficiency that made it look like they were making themselves. He handled the pasta with an assurance that only comes, I later learned, with years of experience. His movements had a mechanical precision, but his face was completely relaxed, as if he were kicking back in front of a hockey game on Saturday night. Bob was cool. You could tell right away.
As soon as the machine was free and clean, I started making the pasta, alternating with the salads. Up on the main floor they were already yelling for the first batches of focaccia and calzone. I picked up the pace and tried to maintain it so I wouldn’t get buried under the wave of work that would inevitably crash over me soon. I tried to focus on the task at hand, without forgetting the long list of other things I had to do, a list that would only get longer as the night wore on. You didn’t just have to get it all done: you had to get it all done in time, when you didn’t have to get it all done at the same time. I’d only just started, and was already way behind.
While I was busy kneading my focaccias, Renaud, a few steps away from me, started swearing vociferously, as if he’d dropped an anvil on his foot. I turned to look at him. He was pouring out the contents of the steam pot into sixty-litre buckets. His eyes were wrinkled under his bony cheeks, in a mask of fury.
The Dishwasher Page 9