Saturday, December 12, 2009

Dishwater

Lukewarm salty kiss of dishwater on cheek. Unpleasant. Another half-finished plate drops into the awaiting basin with a healthy clang. Face back to the floor. I have had two beers; A slight hesitance in my focus as I turn to face the bright, bustling scene of custom. Into the fray again without breaking my stride. Such a fearsome contrast: the mottled off-yellow and oil-flecked plastic of a kitchen against the bright light and polished wood of a restaurant floor.

I walk elevated, with purpose. Green and white dishcloth on my belt loop like gang colours. Grenades of drunken laughter burst occasionally in the middle distance. Children run through the knee-height corridors of the post-modern dining custom - they own this miniature cityscape. Eyes up at all times; That's how they get you.

Each cluster of the magnanimous middle class is tended like a ripening fruit. Progress monitored as the tabletops swell with bloodied wine glasses, discarded serviettes and speckled cutlery until the moment is right and the spoils volunteer themselves into our eager hands. Plink of coin in tip jar. My most honest "thanks a lot" pulled from my throat as if by muscle memory. A smile that has never once looked different.

Fake rapport. Same old lines. Gently inquiring presence on the edge of your peripheral vision at all times. No breaking sightlines. No making assumptions. Warmth from the kitchen, cold from the street. Perfect temperature rightmost seat on kitchen side of middle table, apparently. Fifteen syllable coffee orders. Post-ironic retro weak skinny decaf soy chai latte coming right up.

Back inside the muted stainless steel hug of the kitchen. Yelling "behind!" to avoid any further burns. Inside jokes. The ugly truth about where it all comes from. Illusion shattered. Dishwater that would make you hallucinate. Plume of steam as tap water meets hot steel. Driven on by the churning hum of the extractor fan. We take direction from paper dockets. Unspoken instruction; Mostly gesticulation and facial expressions. Rhythm; Chemistry. Urgent questions and vague answers; Impromptu menu alterations.

Feet hurt. Flecks of steel wool embedded inside knuckle joints. Mystery cuts you don't notice till the next day. Did I bleed on anybody's meal? Occasional leftover morsel delivered hastily from the burner on a boat of stale bread-ends. Flavours encountered like two good lines of prose amidst a reality TV marathon. Brief moments of fully formed transcendental joy peppered like tiny bullet holes in a ten-hour block of exhaustive disinterest. Miles helps too.

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