The deep, thudding clink of two Jack Daniels bottles colliding in the recycling bin. Fistful of peanuts, sip of water, stick of wintergreen gum. Key in the lock.
Tommy was leaving slightly late for work, but not too worried about it. The sun was shining and the street was unquiet with the sounds of the Uptown Summer Fest setting up. The beeping of a garbage truck backing up. Something metallic clanking and stretching. Outdoor grills starting to sizzle. It made Tommy feel good, feel connected to his neighborhood.
The stitches and two days to lie on his couch had done wonders for his mood. He hadn’t woken up before noon either day. As soon as he woke up, he started drinking whiskey lemonades. Thinking of Tony Bourdain, he ordered an abundance of Popeyes—two-piece dark, classic sandwich, red beans and rice, mac and cheese, large lemonade to pour Jack into. He caught a James Bond marathon on cable. He noticed and appreciated how the blinds striped his prone, drunken body. He got up and did a few kung fu moves, until his hand hurt. Around 11 p.m., he took a walk for a slice of pizza, another bottle of whiskey, and the biggest bottle of water the corner store had. He passed out in front of one of the Roger Moore movies and woke up feeling ready to get back to his grill station, certain any fallout from his lie would be laughed off, and confident that this hilarious misunderstanding would simply bring them all closer together.
Down in the locker room, he brushed off a flashback of Diego discovering his duplicity. The people at Olly’s? What else was there to say—they were his friends. One by one, they started trickling in, no one really saying anything beyond good morning, probably because they hadn’t had coffee yet or something. These were his friends. Tommy was dicing potatoes. Juan Carlos began butterflying chicken breasts. Reggie began dicing onions. Everyone working together for the collective goal of breakfast. These were his friends.
“Tommy,” Martín said. “Talk to you a minute, guero?”
Tommy felt yesterday’s whiskey in his throat. They walked into the manager’s office, but Martín didn’t close the door. Whatever this was, an open door meant not that big a deal.
“What’s going on with that wound?” Martín asked. “Diego said he saw you changing your bandages the other day and it didn’t look like a burn. It looked like a big old cut.”
Tommy swallowed and regained composure. He’d practiced for this. Standing shirtless in front of his bathroom mirror, leaky showerhead providing a slow drumbeat of dripping water, spider hovering in the gap between toilet and wall, waiting for a summer’s fly to make a mistake. Tommy had figured Martín would ask something like this, and he was ready.
“Yeah, man, I, uh,” he started. Mara walked past the door and smiled. Tommy didn’t want her lingering on the other side of the door, listening in. “Yeah, I cut myself. Pretty bad. The other night? After we were all out and stuff, when we went to Squire’s? I went home, was making myself a nightcap.” Tommy glanced over his shoulder. There was no reason for Mara to be listening. She probably wasn’t. These were his friends. “You know, one of those nights where you just wanna open the windows and look at the city and sip a good cocktail, right? So I’m trying to get some citrus peels, right, some orange and lemon, because my drunk ass can’t remember which one goes in an Old Fashioned.”
Martín laughed. “Been there.”
There was no reason for Mara to be listening. So Tommy figured he could continue.
“Martín can I get $50 in change?” Amparo asked. She was walking toward the office with her head down, light glimmering off of her pulled back black hair. “Oh, hey Tommy. Sorry.”
“No no, it’s okay,” Tommy said. He laughed. “It’s kind of a funny story, so—did you tell Amparo? I’ve been, uh, a little silly.”
“You mean how you told everyone you had a burn but really you sliced your hand half off and it was bleeding the whole shift yesterday?” Amparo said.
Tommy was pretty sure she was just messing with him, so he laughed again. “Yeah, just, stupid ego stuff. Men, amirite? That night, you know, when we went to Squire’s, I went home, and my drunk ass—”
“What time was that?” Amparo said. “You left after me.”
“Oh, I don’t remember. Uh, too late, I guess. You know, nothing good happens at 4 a.m. Well. This wasn’t, uh, no—this wasn’t 4 a.m. I was asleep by 4 a.m. For sure.”
Diego walked up to them, hair gelled and thick. “Coffee’s ready,” he said. “What’s up with y’all?”
“Oh, man, Diego, what’s up vato?” Tommy said. “If you’re bringing coffees, could I have one black?”
“We talking about how Tommy’s hand looked like it went through a lawn mower?” Diego asked, ignoring the man whose hand had gone through the lawn mower, ignoring the man who was telling a story.
“There’s not really that much to it,” Tommy said. “Just a drunken slipup. Paring knife, my hands wet from rinsing lemons and oranges and citrus juice, you know.”
“With a paring knife?” Mara asked.
So she was there, too. Tommy was pretty sure she hadn’t been listening the whole time, though. He figured she had just walked up, seen the crowd gathered at the door. She had a coffee, so. Probably got here after Diego. Probably. Anyway, these were his friends. This was kind of a funny story. Tommy laughed again.
“Motherfucking paring knife,” he said, shaking his head like he’d seen it all. “I guess, uh, what it is, is, you know.” Tommy had practiced this part. “I’m so proud of my knife skills, uh, you know, stupid chef thing, right? Ego. I didn’t want to admit it. That, you know, I had cut myself. Lying about a burn seems so much cooler than I tried to drunk cut a slippery lemon.”
The world seemed to contract on Tommy. His head felt full of blood. Pounding blood near his temples. The whiskey came back to his throat. Why can’t Diego get me some coffee. Somewhere, he smelled Reggie starting hashbrowns on the grill. Tommy felt like he was wearing the walls, that everyone was rudely too close to him, their faces too intent, their hearts traitorous and disbelieving and suspicious.
No. These were his friends.
Tommy exhaled.
“Did you go get stitches at least?” Diego asked.
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Night after that shift you saw me, I went to urgent care. Yesterday was my day off, so I just laid around the house letting it heal. Ordered Popeyes. Feeling good today, feeling ready to get back to it. Right, chef? Let’s cook some food, right?”
“Hey, I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Martín said. “It is almost open. Let’s get our shit together, everyone.”
Everyone began to dissipate like dandelion seeds blowing in the wind, to find somewhere else to be blooming and wondrous. His friends left the office in a cloud of glad you’re feeling better well-wishes and Tommy sat a minute, exhaling some more.
When it was just him and Martín alone in the office again, Martín tapped his knee. “Look, guero,” he said. “Don’t come into this restaurant and lie to people, okay? I get it, you were embarrassed, you’re proud. We all gotta work together here, and we gotta trust each other. Put your pride on the shelf a minute, guero. Trust that everyone here has done some stupid shit, too. A cut up hand is a potential health hazard, you know that, right? I appreciate your toughness, but you know what? I’ve read Kitchen Confidential, too. And guero, the world’s changed. It’s nice that you showed up to work, but we want you healthy. We want to keep our customers healthy. Okay? Everything’s fine, just be honest. Don’t be a bullshitter, okay?”
“Okay,” Tommy said. “Thanks, Chef.”
Martín patted his shoulder. Almost like a father. “Let’s go cook some food.”
Tommy stood up. Exhaled. These were his friends. He took mental inventory of what he had left to do before open. Juan Carlos was on onions and potatoes, Reggie was on soup and salad. First, Tommy knew, he should have some coffee.
No one suspected him of anything other than being a drunk idiot. He’d been a drunk idiot before. It was his right as a pirate chef. They’d all been drunk idiots before, he was sure. Well, Mara didn’t drink. He hoped that didn’t mean she had some drunk idiot moments as, like, a teenager or something. Well, maybe she just never drank. Anyway. These were his friends.
He heard voices around a corner.
“—I don’t know, just seems like everyone’s getting cutting up, right?” it sounded like Diego’s voice. His laughing.
“Stop, don’t even joke like that.” Mara’s voice.
Diego made gurgling noises, like he’d been stabbed.
“Seriously!” Mara said. “First Gerry, then Tommy.”
“Maybe there’s a curse on the restaurant,” Diego said. “A demon hanging over us with a knife. A demon knife.”
“Stop,” Mara held the word out in a long whine. They were definitely flirting.
“Corner!” Tommy called, grabbing a tub off the counter just to have something to walk with.
“Oh hey Tommy,” Mara said.
“What’s up,” Diego said.
“Glad your hand’s feeling better, really,” Mara said.
Tommy smiled at them both. “Me too,” he said, without even thinking about it. He was too light on his feet. He had moves in the kitchen. If he was behind you with a knife, no one was getting cut. Tommy had never cut himself or anyone in his life. Except the other night. The other night, with the citrus. Slippery citrus.
He tossed the tub on the prep table as casual as a frisbee, saw that it was potatoes, realized he’d stolen prep from Juan Carlos, and returned it before the other cook could notice.
Breakfast was a controlled flurry of flipping sausage patties, scattering hashbrowns, just-right flapjacks, and a steady flow of coffee fueling everything. Tommy was totally adjusted to working around his wound.
“Hey Martín!” he called. “I’m slicing and dicing, Chef, I’m turning and burning, I’m in the motherfucking zone, Chef!”
“Glad to hear it, guero!” Martín called back.
These were his friends. Tommy felt so connected to everyone. He smelled foaming butter and felt like he had diner grease in his blood. He felt like his spatula was not a separate tool but a living extension of his own arm. There had been no reason to worry about Mara suspecting anything. She might think he’s a weirdo, but Mara didn’t think he was a murderer. Just because she had asked a few weird questions before. And talking to Diego like that? Tommy figured it was probably some younger generation thing. He had to remember he was 30, and they were both like 23 or whatever. Gossiping about the weirdo older coworker is a time-honored method of flirting. Tommy figured he could play the weirdo role. He knew he was more passionate about food than most people.
If being passionate about food made him a weirdo, then fine.
He could be a weirdo.
These were his friends.