8
All day: A phrase used to indicate the total number of orders needed; that is, if there are three orders of salmon on one ticket, and four on another, then there are seven orders of salmon all day.
2015
Gale’s wrist still gave a little twinge now and then; he only noticed in passing.
Too busy.
Way too busy.
Marco’s, four shifts a week. Regina’s Kitchen, sometimes every day, but mostly his three days off, lunch and dinner service.
He’d fallen in beside her that first Sunday, and time just . . . flew.
Gale got to know the regulars, like the Burger Queen—Gladys, Gale learned.
Otherwise, the faces changed a lot.
Moved on.
Got a job.
Pulled themselves out of the hole they’d been in.
Those were mostly families, down on their luck but striving for better.
Many of the addicted—whatever it was they were addicted to—came and went and died.
There were far too many elderly people frequenting the soup kitchen, too proud to do so on a regular basis.
The guys Kyle worked with would come odd days, but hardly a week went by without seeing them at their regular table.
Kyle had come a few times, but once he got his third job, he didn’t have the time, nor the need.
Troy was still MIA; Gale was Regina’s only regular help.
And while she slipped cash to random people who offered to help serve now and again, Gale refused after that first, flustered time, politely but adamantly.
“I’m learning a lot from you,”
he said.
“Call it an even trade.”
It was the last time she offered.
Regina taught him things he never learned in culinary school, like how to warm a basil leaf in your mouth to gauge how it was going to flavor the dish.
“No two basil plants are created equal,”
she told him.
“Even the closest varieties are only related, not the same.
The soil it grew in.
How long ago it was picked, where it was stored, what time of year. Everything changes the potency. The flavor.”
How had he ever thought otherwise?
Tonight was paid-job night, and Gale was in the zone.
He had to admit, he and Frances were really working well together lately.
Maybe working with Regina was teaching him more than cooking technique.
At least he now knew he wasn’t—consciously or not—one of those men who couldn’t handle taking orders from a woman.
“Gale! I need to speak with you after shift,”
Marco called from the pass.
“Stick around.”
“Sure thing, Chef.”
“What?”
Frances shouted back.
“He was talking to me, Chef.”
Marco winked.
“Yes, Chef!”
Gale went back to the steaks he was firing, making sure they made it to the right doneness.
One medium rare.
One rare.
One medium well.
Frances claimed she never had, and never would, cook a piece of beef beyond medium.
Period.
No matter what the diner asked for.
“It’s an insult to the animal that gave its life,”
she told him, but she didn’t scold him for doing so.
At least, not when Marco could hear.
In a kitchen as small as theirs, the line cooks changed tasks by the specials.
Gale was good at judging meat temp, so he got the grill, but what he liked best were the nights he got to be the saucier, who also helped Marco plate on the pass.
Everyone knew any dish was all about the sauce that brought it all together.
Fast-paced as it was, service didn’t fly in the same way it did in Regina’s Kitchen.
Hot.
Loud.
Sometimes dangerous.
Somehow, despite a whole—if abbreviated—brigade, it exhausted him way more.
Though it was only eleven when Gale finally packed up his knives, the same ones he’d had since culinary school, it felt like two in the morning.
“Don’t forget Chef wants to see you,”
Frances murmured as he passed.
Then, “You’ve been doing exceptionally well since you came back.”
“Thanks, Fran .
. . Chef.”
“You taking a course or something?”
“I did graduate from culinary school, you know.”
Frances grimaced.
“Of course I know.
I wouldn’t have hired you otherwise.
You just seem more competent lately. Anyway . . .”
She put her hand on his shoulder, squeezed it once.
“Be safe going home.
And congratulations.”
“For?”
But Frances had already pushed through the swinging door, back into the kitchen.
Knife kit over his shoulder, Gale met Marco out at the bar where he typically sat, chatting with whichever bartender was on duty.
Marco’s couldn’t seem to keep its bartenders more than a few months.
Gale had a feeling it had something to do with the boss lingering too late at their station after service, but he wasn’t saying a word.
“You wanted to see me, Chef?”
Marco pulled a cigarette from the packet always in his pocket.
He offered one to Gale.
“No thanks.”
The bartender sidled off, nodding almost imperceptibly Gale’s way.
Lighting up, blowing a thick stream of smoke, Marco pointed the lit end at Gale.
“I’ll get right to the point.
You have any interest in being a sous here?”
Gale’s kit slid off his shoulder.
“Are you kidding?”
“I don’t kid about that shit.”
Another long stream of smoke.
“Santos is going home.
Back to Costa Rica or some shit.
He suggested you. Frances and I agreed. Monday and Thursday, lunch service. Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday dinner. You interested?”
“Hell, yes!”
“You don’t need to think about it?”
Gale would have laughed had he not feared it would get him in trouble.
“No, Chef.”
Marco chuckled, flicked ash from his cigarette.
“You want to know the salary?”
A salary, man.
A fucking salary!
“Yes, Chef,”
Gale said, adding, “please,”
for good measure.
“You are one lucky asshole.”
Kyle sat, balanced on the back legs of the kitchen chair, as always in his boxers.
“A fucking salary.”
“No tipping out, though.”
“Like you need it, with that kind of cash.
Be happy.
No more waiting to get tipped out, or getting your percentage cut.
Or working a third job. Look at me.”
“Do I have to?”
“Very funny.”
It was. A little.
“Seriously, dude, congrats.
I’m jealous as hell, but happy for you.”
“Thanks, Kyle.”
Letting the chair bang onto all four legs, Kyle groaned to his feet.
“I’m too young to ache this much.”
“You’re working hard.
Too hard.”
“Gotta do what I gotta do.”
Kyle clapped his shoulder.
“You working at Regina’s tomorrow?”
Gale nodded.
“It’ll be my last Sunday dinner service with her.
I’ll be at Marco’s from now on.”
“You think she’ll be pissed?”
“Nah.
It’ll mean some rearranging, but it’ll work out.
I think she likes me.”
Another clap on his shoulder, a smile—kind of sad—and Kyle left him at the kitchen table.
Gale considered just going to bed, but he hadn’t checked his email in a few days, and the spam was probably taking over.
Opening the laptop, waiting for it to wake up, he yawned big and contented.
You’re on your way, man. Awesome.
“It’s a step,”
Gale murmured.
Big one, though.
The screen blinked.
And again.
The laptop was really old, overloaded with all the stupid games Kyle played.
Maybe he’d get himself a new one. All his own.
Once he had a few paychecks put away.
Which reminded him, he really needed to call his parents.
But no; Gale wanted to see his dad’s face in person.
He texted his mother.
I have news.
Want to meet up for breakfast?
The dots of an instant answer.
Despite the hour.
Gale tried not to let it bother him.
Then again, he’d expected her to answer, hadn’t he?
Sounds great buddy. Time?
What time? He didn’t have to be at Regina’s until lunch service.
She’d never gotten anyone to help with Sunday mornings.
The kitchen only served oatmeal and scrambled eggs.
He could go in, surprise her, take his parents with him.
They’d be proud to learn he was volunteering his time to a worthy, and educational, pursuit.
Can you pick me up at eight?
. . .
. . .
. . .
So early on a sunday
A question? Or a statement.
Gale let it go.
It’ll be worth it. Promise
. . .
Okay see you at eight. Love you!
Love u 2
Setting aside his cell, Gale noted the time.
If he got to bed now, he’d get a solid seven hours before he had to be up.
Even though the computer had finally chugged awake, he lowered the screen.
Email could wait.
Showered, kit over his shoulder, hair still wet, Gale waited on the curb.
There was no mistaking his dad’s Baja, but his mom’s car looked like every other silver-gray sedan on the road.
Still, the streets were quiet, so when the nondescript car glided down his, he knew it was hers.
Lucy.
Not his dad.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
“Shut up, Sean.”
Gale opened the passenger door and slid inside.
“Couldn’t get Dad up?”
His mom tapped her cheek.
Gale kissed it obediently.
The musky scent of her perfume soothed.
Like it did the bumps and bruises, the nightmares and thunderstorms of childhood. The hours she spent holding him while the drugs did their damage, making sure he kept breathing, didn’t choke on his own vomit. Through withdrawals that lasted way longer than any thunderstorm or nightmare . . .
Rabbit hole, man. Don’t.
“I wasn’t aware you wanted him to join us.”
Lucy pulled away from the curb.
“You didn’t specify.”
“Oh, sorry.
Is he upset or anything?”
“Nah.
I just told him you invited me out on a mother/son date.”
“We could go get him,”
Gale said.
Lucy smiled.
“How about we keep it just me and you.
I miss this kind of thing.
You’re always so busy.”
Ain’t it the truth.
“So .
.
.
what’s the big news?”
“When we get there, okay?”
Gale directed his mother to Regina’s Kitchen, ignoring the concerned tuts and tsks coming from her direction.
“Wow.”
She parked right out front.
“One of these things is not like the other, huh?”
“That’s what I thought, first time I saw it.”
“A line going out the door?”
Lucy got out of the car.
“Must be great.”
“It is, but . . .”
“But?”
Just tell her, man.
She’s your mom.
“It’s a soup kitchen.
Now before you go nuts, I volunteer here on my off days.”
“Oh.
Son, that’s .
.
. it’s really nice. I’m proud of you. But we can’t actually eat here.”
“Sure we can.
I do all the time.”
“If you needed money—”
“Can you just come inside?”
Gale took her hand.
“I promise, it’s not what you’re imagining.
I want you to meet someone.”
Gale waved to some of the regulars, bowed to the Burger Queen—“Your Highness”—but didn’t stop to introduce them.
His mother could only take so much at once.
It wasn’t that she was a snob, far from it.
She knew what poverty looked like better than most, even if she’d not experienced it since marrying Danny Carmichael. Leading her around to the back entrance, he took some comfort from the now-pleasantly-surprised tuts and tsks coming from her direction.
“What are you doing here?”
was the only greeting he got from Regina.
Lucy’s eyebrows rose.
“A lot of reasons,”
he said.
“First, this is my mom, Lucy Carmichael.
Mom, this is Regina.”
Regina wiped her hand on her apron, held it out to Gale’s mother.
“Lucy Carmichael, huh? How’s Ricky?”
Lucy took it.
“Wrong show.
But, yeah, I been getting that joke since I married Irish.
Lucia, actually. I was born a Columbo.”
“Paesana?”
“Born and partially raised.
We moved to the States when I was a little kid.”
“Well, Lucia, I got a breakfast service to get out, so whatever the reasons your boy has for this visit, it’s got to wait.
You here to help, Gale?”
“We both are,”
Lucy answered.
“Good.
Pick as much as you want, but get food out to the dining room.
Gale, open the doors.”