6
Pickle: The process of preserving food in brine, a salt or vinegar solution.
2015
Gale closed the laptop on his application, his stomach already doing flips.
Damn Kyle for his get-rich-quick schemes.
Cut!, the culinary competition that was the aspiration of every young chef—and some pretty old ones—was so out of his league.
He’d seen the show, seen the frenzy of it.
He couldn’t do it.
His head would explode.
Ten grand sure was a lot of money if he won, but not enough to embarrass himself on television, in front of some of the greatest chefs in the world.
Because he’d be first to bomb on the appetizer course.
At least before the dessert course.
You could totally win, man.
“I won’t even get on.”
Who says?
“You know how many thousands of chefs fill out applications? Never happen, Sean.
Never happen.”
Then what’s the harm in sending it? You already filled it out.
“How about I get picked? I’d have a heart attack and die, trying to come up with something delicious with oddball ingredients and only half an hour to make it in.”
You would not. Chicken.
“Stop.”
Bok-bok, man.
“Bite me.”
Taking the brace off his wrist always felt so good.
For the first minute or so before the effort of using it kicked in.
Working without it his first service back had been brutal, but his two weeks were up, and he had to pretend he could because, as promised, Marco put him back on the weekend shift.
That his pollo portobello had been a tremendous hit with Marco’s clientele didn’t hurt, of course, though Frances was miffed.
She insisted on that hit of lemon Gale gladly included; she was right, the dish needed some acid.
It was about the food, not his ego.
It just would have been nice if she hadn’t been so obnoxious about it.
Marco leaving it on the special’s menu through the weekend might have contributed to that, though.
On Thursday, with a “Good to have you back”
from Frances, he was on the line.
In his place.
Gale had to admit, he preferred his old shift, if not the lower tips.
Working with Santos on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Sunday had lifted more than the workload.
Marco’s wasn’t as booming on off nights.
Or maybe it was working with the more relaxed, self-taught chef versus the rigid, Sorbonne-trained one.
Santos was a genius with food, even if it was sort of hit or miss when he went off on a tangent.
Where Frances had technique, Santos had creativity.
Where she had schooling, he had instinct.
What Gale strove for in himself was equal parts of both chefs; to that end, working under both of them had been invaluable.
“I’m heading out!”
he called to no one in particular.
Kyle, Jimmy, and Nando were probably gone already anyway.
Gale put his brace back on, ignoring the closed laptop, the application page to be a contestant on Cut! still up, if sleeping.
Waiting for him to hit send.
Which he was no way in hell doing.
Smoothing the Velcro down, Gale pushed out of his chair.
Out the door.
Out to work his first Friday shift in two weeks.
Maybe it was harder being a female chef, but Frances was also a straight-up narcissist.
That was the only word for her.
She had to have her hand in every pot, pan, and serving dish.
Not even the saucier was trusted to make the sauces.
He took the heat, though.
Like everyone did.
Technically, Marco was the executive chef, but he expedited more than cooked, unless there were old friends, rivals, or VIPs in house.
He created menus, approved by Frances.
Ordered supplies, approved by Frances.
Hired and fired and put on probation those chosen by Frances.
Considering she pretty much handpicked everyone in her kitchen, it made no sense that she trusted no one to do their jobs without her hovering.
Maybe it was worth the lower pay for Gale to permanently take back his old shifts.
Kyle, as always, wearing only boxers, was clicking around on the shared laptop when Gale practically collapsed onto the chair beside him.
“Do you even own clothes?”
“Clothes are for outside,”
Kyle told him.
“You heading to bed?”
“I’m beat, man. Yeah.”
“Wrist okay?”
Gale held up his hand.
“Fucking hurts, but whatever.
It’ll get better.”
“Yeah. Oh, hey.”
Kyle stopped him.
“Your application hadn’t sent.
I did it for you, though.
You’re brave, dude! Maybe I’ll send one in too.”
“Appli . . .”
Gale’s stomach churned.
“For Cut!?”
“Yeah.”
Salivary glands kicked into overdrive.
“Fuck me.”
“You’re not my type.”
Gale had already turned the computer.
He minimized the online game Kyle was obsessed with, opened the tab still showing—
Your application has been submitted.
Sinking back into the wobbly kitchen chair, Gale had to force the sick down.
“I don’t get it.
What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t send it on purpose, you idiot.”
“But you filled the whole thing out.”
Kyle’s voice rose an octave.
“How was I supposed to know?”
“Maybe ask me?”
Gale groaned, head in hands.
“I’m totally fucked.”
“Dude.”
Kyle slapped his shoulder, gave it a shake so Gale’s head fell out of his hands.
“If you get called, you don’t have to do it.
It’s not like they’ll put you in chef-jail or something.”
His stomach roiled.
Actually roiled.
Gale not only felt it, but heard it clearly.
He’s right, man.
You’ll probably never get called.
You said it yourself.
“Sorry, Gale.
Seriously.
I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“I’m going to bed.”
He pushed out of the chair, away from the table.
“Don’t be like that.”
“I’m not being like anything.”
“How about I take you to Regina’s for lunch tomorrow,”
Kyle called, winking when Gale turned.
“My treat.”
Come on.
That was funny.
Gale did not laugh.
He shouldn’t be angry.
Not at Kyle.
“Regina asked about you,”
Kyle coaxed.
“Come on.”
Dude.
You could have clicked out of the application.
You didn’t.
For a reason. Give the guy a break. Look at that face.
That face, as guileless as it had been when they were kids, only hairier.
“Fine. Sure.”
“Good.
And really, I’m sorry.”
“It’s .
.
.
whatever. Don’t worry about it.”
Gale scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand.
“G’night.”
In his bedroom, Gale undid his brace.
What was done was done.
Why stress over something that wasn’t going to happen, anyway?
He repeated that in his head, until the sweaty stink wafting up from his brace wiped it out.
“Gross.”
Yeah.
Gross.
You need to wash that thing.
Could he wash it? Just in the sink? Considering the condition it was in, it certainly couldn’t hurt.
Or maybe it was better to toss it, let his wrist get stronger, even if it hurt.
The more he relied on the brace, the weaker he’d get.
No truer words, man.
No truer words.
“Do you ever fucking stop?”
When you don’t need me, I’ll stop.
“I don’t need you.”
Sure thing.
“Stop being noble.”
Would you rather I was an asshole?
“I’d rather you not haunt me.”
Man, I’m not haunting you.
You’re the one haunting me.
Gale kicked off his shoes, shucked off his clothes, got in the shower.
He sang a song in his head to distract himself from the voice in there, and his sent application
Toweling off, he heard Jimmy and Nando in the kitchen with Kyle.
Talking, hushed but excitedly.
Probably about how Kyle sent his application.
He couldn’t help smiling, just a little, for the briefest moment getting excited at the prospect.
Only the briefest.
He walked naked across the hall, got into bed.
Staring up at the ceiling, he tried like hell to ignore Sean’s haggard afterimage hanging out like a ghost up there.
Gale’s exhaustion didn’t equate to sleepy.
His brain went everywhere at once.
Star brain, Sean used to call it.
Thoughts shooting out of his head like the arms of those stars they used to draw—start with an A—in grade school.
It was like that, when he had time on his hands.
Always had been, but worse, since Sean.
Working long hours exhausted Gale, but it succeeded where nothing else did.
Almost nothing.
Idle hands are the devil’s playground, man.
“Workshop.”
Same difference.
Breathing deeply in, slowly out, Gale tried every meditation technique he had learned in rehab.
He picked off each thought—work;
Cut!; Regina’s; Lucy, he hadn’t told her he was home—putting them gently to sleep with a promise or a thought.
He messaged his mother.
Leaving him, at last, with Sean.
Nearly two years.
The anniversary was coming up.
That afternoon.
That horrible afternoon.
Images.
Behind his eyelids, even though he still stared at the ceiling.
The echo there convulsed.
Don’t, man.
Lips frothed.
Eyes rolling.
Seriously, Gale.
Let it go.
He’d been unable to move.
Unable to help.
Just drifting.
Sweet oblivion.
Gale. Come on.
Tears, hot and silent, rolled down the sides of his face.
His text chime gabba-gabbaed robotically.
Sleep well, sweetheart.
I love you.
No echo now.
Just the glow of the lit-up reply from his mother.
Gale wanted to call her.
To hear her voice. To tell her he was sorry. For all of it. But she’d only worry. He plugged his charger in, and texted back—
Love you too
Gale set the phone on the mattress beside him, watching the glow fade.