The Dishwasher

by Stéphane Larue

  Bob stretched, as if he was basking in the sun. Then he tapped himself on the thighs.

  “All right, let’s get back to it.”

  He tied his apron around his waist and addressed Eaton in English.

  “Thanks for the food, Eaton.”

  Bob rinsed his own plate with the spray gun and set off with two stacks of clean pans, one cast-iron and one aluminum. He went back up to the kitchen. I heard him laughing with the servers drying cloths under the heat lamps.

  The shift change was coming up. One at a time, the floor staff was leaving. I felt like a student struggling to finish a long exam while the rest of the class was already leaving the room. As the afternoon wore on, the prep list on the whiteboard just seemed to get longer. There was no time to breathe. And in addition to getting ready for the evening there was the prep room to clean. It looked like the day after an eighteen-year-old’s housewarming party.

  I realized it was four o’clock when Jonathan showed up. He looked bummed out again. He walked across the prep kitchen with his big headphones on, without saying hi to anyone. Bob came to meet me in the basement. He was still listening to CHOM FM, my dad’s favourite station. Bob could talk about the former hosts, and knew all the nineties groups, even the one-hit-wonders. We’d list them off, laughing, trying to find the most obscure of all, the worst of the worst. Smash Mouth. Matchbox Twenty. Chumbawumba. Bob always came up with the kicker, without slowing down as he filled up backups for the hotside. He was already getting ready for the night shift. He was doing a double as well. I was curious to see whether night would go as smoothly as the day had. Bob brought a different atmosphere to the kitchen. It wasn’t as electrically charged as when Bébert was working. Eaton would stay to help me until nine. That was the deal until we found someone to replace Carl.

  Bonnie showed up next, looking much happier and healthier than the last time I’d seen her. She came up to see me while I was washing lettuces, before even changing for her shift. Her cheeks were still red from the cold. She took a mixtape out of her bag and held it out to me. “That’s for you, man.” She’d added an accordion-style booklet to the case, that she’d fashioned from a collage of flyers from shows. The song titles were written in her graffiti style.

  “I put some good stuff on it. Hope you like it,” she said in English.

  She must have seen just how surprised and happy I was. It made her smile as well. I tried to find a clean place to put down the tape, and thanked her in my rudimentary English. She seemed to understand. She set off to the staff room with an amused look, her purple hair a huge mess under her toque.

  I spun the romaine. Though I longed to play the mixtape right away, I didn’t want to look too keen.

  While I was working away on the pasta roller, Jonathan was cutting up cherry tomatoes. He looked seriously down in the dumps. I had to ask how he was doing twice before I got an answer.

  “Sorry, didn’t hear you.”

  “You don’t look so good. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, just tired. It’s tough, working and going to school at the same time.”

  I was about to tell him I knew where he was coming from, but checked myself. What did I really know about Jonathan’s life? I knew he was in cooking school Monday through Friday, and that he worked five nights a week here.

  I finished my pasta and salads as fast as I could. After all I’d been through during the day, knocking off these two items on the list felt like a joke. And Eaton helped me clean the prep room. The guy was unstoppable. No matter how much work you threw at him, he just plowed right through it, smooth and steady.

  I headed up to the next floor. Fatigue was starting to get the better of me. The service kitchen was quieter than usual. Bonnie and Bob were chatting as they worked, in English. They seemed to have friends in common. They were comparing their versions of a recent party. Lots of funny shit had gone down. A guy locked himself out on the roof. A girl fell down the stairs, spraying the walls with yellow puke on her way down. Bob told story after story from the party, he had a knack for putting his finger on the funniest bits. When it was Bonnie’s turn she never quite reached the end of the story, she’d just start laughing halfway through a sentence. I couldn’t resist watching her from my hiding spot behind the stacks of pans and clean dishes.

  I stood around the order computer a while, to ask Maude for a fountain Coke. Jade wasn’t there. The room was only about a third full. Through the restaurant windows I could see big snowflakes coming down. I was pushing into my tenth hour of work. My mind was starting to wander. I was slipping into an alternate dimension where everything moved in hazy slow motion, like being rocked by a gentle swell.

  The night proceeded without event. Vague din in the dining room, routine clanging from the kitchen, businesslike chatter from the kitchen over Bob’s rambling monologue, chatting away as he dispatched table after table without ever once raising his voice. Around nine a wave of crushing torpor washed over me. It felt like I’d been at the restaurant since the day before. The noises were muffled, my movements followed unconsciously one upon the other in a never-ending series. No longer conscious of what I was doing, I ran racks through the machine, sorted cutlery, and scrubbed the tile wall. My mind was numb. I started seeing improbable landscapes in the dishpit’s sea of sauce and sodden food.

  Nick would come back periodically, disturbing my sleepwalking with a request for cutlery or coffee cups, or just to have a smoke. We chatted a bit.

  “Man, it’s dead tonight. We aren’t gonna make a cent.”

  I was loading clean saucers in a buspan while he finished his smoke.

  “How much do you usually make?”

  “I don’t know. A hundred, one-twenty, one-fifty? On a good night. Why?”

  I thought about Greg and the rounds of shots he’d bought the night we were drinking vodka. One-hundred-and-fifty wasn’t bad for one night, but it wasn’t enough to live like a rock star either.

  “Just wondering.”

  “Another one wants work out on the floor? Your buddy Dave never stopped bugging Maude to see if he could train out front.”

  I imagined wearing fitted shirts, tight pants and pointy polished shoes, tiptoeing across the floor with my hand full of dishes, kowtowing to customers. Even making peanuts, the dishpit seemed the more attractive option.

  “Nah, not for me.”

  “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

  He gave me a cocky smile and went back out with his buspan of cups and saucers.

  Eaton helped me until nine-thirty.

  The only real rush came around ten. It wasn’t enough to ruffle Bob though: just a group of thirty or so, going out after a play. All the orders came in at the same time, and pretty much all of them were for Jonathan. As the tickets piled up on the rack he grew increasingly nervous and swore quietly. Bob called out the plates like bingo numbers. Everyone wanted a different salad or focaccia, as if they were going out of their way to explore the entire menu. The little rush was pretty much exactly what you would order if your express aim was to torment Jonathan. A guy like Renaud would have left his garde-manger to deal with it on his own and gone out for a smoke, but Bob stayed close and helped him.

  “Make the focs, and I’ll do the salads. Then go grab a smoke.”

  Around eleven, the room started emptying out. Bob asked if I was hungry; I said I was starving. He invited me to come up and make my own meal, and used the opportunity to teach me the basics of pastas: how to deglaze the pan once the onions and garlic were starting to brown, how to properly cook prawns. He also showed me how to reduce the sauce so it coated to the pasta.

  “Trust me, you don’t want Renaud to show you. Unless you’re into linguini soup. Or you like your prawns boiled, not seared.”

  As I ate I could scarcely believe I could have cooked such a meal myself. It tasted even better than the food at my parents’.

 
; Not long after, Bob brought me the last of the kitchen dishes, so I wouldn’t get stuck with everything at the very end of the night. There was nothing worse than facing the toughest part of the day running on empty

  “All right. Tired of playing restaurant? I sure am. Enough for today. You coming out for beers?”

  By now I’d figured out that it wasn’t just Bébert: going out after the shift was an indispensable ritual everyone took part in. I managed to get my close done before the rest of the kitchen. Jonathan and Bob were doing a little prep for the next day down in the basement. Bonnie had snuck off, and was drinking her staff beer. I thought I might get a minute to talk to her alone. I drank my pint at the end of the bar, while Maude chatted with two customers.

  Séverine was entering something in the computer with a look of such intense concentration I imagined the machine might explode under the pressure. Then she slowly looked up at the door. I heard a little “Fuck!” slip between her teeth.

  I turned around to see what she was swearing about. There stood a massive bald man with a forehead that looked waxed to a shine, and a head and throat that seemed carved from a single slab, like a monolith. Giant hands stuck out of a black jacket. A jewel adorned his pinky. One of the waitresses kissed him on each acne-scarred cheek. Séverine put on a smile, like a mask, to welcome this man, though she hung back at the bar. Her heels weren’t clacking as loudly as usual. The huge man spoke in a deep voice, rolling his r’s.

  “How are you, beautiful?”

  It was mysterious: Séverine looked like a little girl in front of this man. Her voice became gentle. I’d never heard her speak like that.

  “What can I get you, Piotr? Want a drink?”

  “No, I don’t have time.”

  He sat down, with half his ass on a stool. Unbuttoned his suit jacket, then looked Séverine squarely in the eye. She met his gaze. Her smile didn’t waver.

  “I was wondering, Séverine. Is Greg here tonight?”

  “No, he’s off. Why? Can I give him a message?”

  “Ah, no. I just wanted to say hello.”

  The man’s fleshy lips stretched into a grimace intended to look friendly. I remembered him now. He’d been sitting at the bar the night of my first shift. It was hard to forget a man so physically imposing, so immaculately dressed. Behind the bar, I could see Séverine sitting up straight, feet slightly apart as if readying to parry a surprise attack.

  “Okay, sweetie. I’ll see you soon.”

  He got up slowly and left the restaurant, saying goodbye to all the servers. But he’d wiped the smile from Séverine’s face. She waited a moment, probably to make sure the guy was truly gone, then ran down the stairs toward the basement, slipping between Bob and Jonathan, who were on their way up, freshly changed, chatting about Renaud’s uneven portions of osso bucco.

  “All right,” Bob said as he punched out. “Who’s thirsty?”

  Chapter 21

  We walked up Avenue du Mont-Royal for a while. It was quieter than usual. We grabbed the first taxi that drove by. Bob and Jonathan took the back seat; I rode up front. As I did up my seatbelt, I noticed Bob reading the driver’s name on his registration.

  “Champlain and Ontario please, Mr. Jacques,” he said.

  Champlain and Ontario. Those two words echoed in my head, clearing a path right through the day’s accumulated fatigue. I thought about the rows of VLTs in the bars along Rue Ontario. I suppressed a shiver, tried to reassure myself with an occasional glance over at Bob and Jonathan. I figured I’d be safe as long as I stuck with them.

  “One of my roommates is at the bar. We’re gonna meet up with him.”

  “Which one?”

  “Desrosiers”

  “Cool. Haven’t seen him for a while.”

  The taxi drove all the way down Amherst, then turned left on the bottom of the hill, next to the market. At this time of night the buildings looked like eerie ruins, reminiscent of the cityscapes of a comic artist I loved named Druillet. Homeless people were sleeping between brick columns, sheltered from the wind by puffy sleeping bags. We drove by the Fun Spot. We passed the Desjardins credit union on the corner of Plessis. As we made our way farther east, more and more “video lottery” signs appeared in the windows of bars. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the stories the guys were telling.

  Both sides of the street were lined with closed-down stores, windows covered with faded posters, entranceways piled with dead leaves and stacks of flyers. In what was once a furniture store pieces of cardstock on which you could still read “final sale” in faded letters clung to the window by a single corner. There were massage parlours with vaguely erotic monikers, abandoned-looking hair salons, blue-and-yellow pawnshops with bars on their windows and marquees proclaiming “we buy gold.”

  The driver stopped at the intersection Bob had given him. To the west was an abandoned hardware store, its window display messier than Zellers on Boxing Day. Bob paid the driver. We all got out at the same time, and the taxi kept rolling down Ontario. We could hear, fairly nearby, the sounds of cars driving down Papineau to take the bridge.

  The bar was on the north side of the street. A skinny guy in a sporty outfit, not much older than me, was picking through garbage cans, walking fast and talking loudly to himself. He looked too preoccupied to catch cold. Two men in high heels and miniskirts chatted us up on our way to the bar. Bob said sorry, not tonight, his girlfriend was waiting for him at home. Their hearty laughs were raspy from smoking. Looking up De Champlain I saw the imposing silhouette of Notre-Dame hospital.

  We followed Bob into the bar. I was greeted by a row of machines with flashing screens. My temples constricted; I felt my ribcage tightening.

  The place was bigger than it looked from outside. It had a church basement speakeasy vibe, and somehow felt full though there weren’t many people: a few older guys with shaved heads and carefully trimmed white beards, a crew of guys around my age with abnormally thin faces that made them look like ghouls who’d lost their way. At the back of the bar a couple of forty-year-old muscle guys were shooting pool, wordlessly sharing a pitcher of beer. Each hand was like a massive ham, each finger a fat sausage. They wore sweatpants and football jerseys.

  A guy slightly smaller than Bob was sitting at the bar in a Thrasher toque. He had a seven-day beard, and looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He was watching the hockey game they were rerunning, with his arms crossed, in front of a big bottle of Laurentide and a pack of smokes. He turned around when Bob said his name. It was Desrosiers.

  Bob said hi to his roommate and the bartender, then introduced me. The bartender’s name was Martin. Broad shoulders, early thirties, flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up over thick forearms: he looked like a roadie. We sat at the bar next to Desrosiers. Bob ordered for us.

  “Nah, get me a pitcher, Bob. No school tomorrow.”

  Martin opened our beers with a flick of the wrist and poured Jonathan’s pitcher, keeping a blasé eye on the screen. He served us our beers and asked Bob for matches, then lit a cigarillo.

  The taste of the Laurentide reminded me of my first sips of my dad’s beer, at family parties when I was a kid. I asked Bob:

  “Is this your spot?”

  “Yeah, I come here sometimes. It’s chill. Close to home. I’m sick of places where you can’t hear yourself talk.”

  Desrosiers was telling Martin about his next hunting trip. When Bob joined the conversation they changed the subject, started talking about a hockey pool Martin had organized instead. Bob was in the lead, by several points. I tried to focus on what they were saying and get the machines out of my mind. They were almost all free.

  I’d hardly started my beer, and Jonathan had already drained his pitcher. He immediately ordered another. As he drank his tongue loosened, little by little. I was trying to get him to tell us why was in such a shitty mood.

  “I
’m fine, man,” he said. “I’m just tired.”

  “Cough it up, dude.”

  “I told you. I’m fine.”

  He turned to Desrosiers and asked:

  “Wanna have a game?”

  Jonathan was pointing at the pool table that had just freed up. The end of his finger was still bandaged. Desrosiers got change from Martin and they went over to the table, drinks in hand.

  “Is your roommate a cook too?” I asked.

  “He used to be a chef at a Red Lobster. He just skates now.”

  “Skates? Like, for a living?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I remembered the skaters from high school. The best of them used to hang around with a guy named Pierre-Luc Gagnon. I asked Bob if his roommate knew him.

  “Yup. He’s a buddy.”

  It’s funny but this insignificant proof of the world’s smallness made me feel as if Bob and I went way back. Or maybe it was his infectious calm, his unique way of setting everyone at ease.

  Jonathan came back and ordered a third pitcher, with a goofy smile and a confused look. Then he stumbled back over to join Desrosiers. I turned around to scan the pool tables. They weren’t playing anymore. I had a kind of cramp in my lungs, and felt a hot flash snake over me, all the way to my fingertips. Desrosiers and Jonathan were playing the VLT. Time stood still. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Finally Bob snapped his fingers in front of my face.

  “Hey! Dude! You okay?”

  “Uh, yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”

  “I was asking if you wanted to try cooking. It beats washing pots.”