With wrinkled fingers
that smell of onions and soap,
he eats the cake by the mouthful
down in the kitchen’s sub-basement.
Salsa plays on the
dry-batter splattered radio,
hardly anyone understands each other—
either speaking Ecuadorian
Mexican
or Pakistani—
all laughing,
drinking
smoking weed and cigarettes,
chopping vegetables
for tonight’s soup.
The realm of a dishwasher is a
dark, wet place—
vegetable peelings on a
greasy, smelly floor;
you are always wet and hot,
drinking warm beers—
resting them on top of
the automatic dishwasher,
looking at all the discarded food on
washable plates,
dreaming of something with
butter and basil,
taking another swallow from
the warm beer then running a tray back upstairs
to check on the cooks—
securing tonight’s butter soaked dinner.
Forty-five minutes later, while
testing the gumbo,
the sub-basement scatters as
somebody yells: “Immigration!”
--the head-chief comes down the steps laughing,
going into the storage area for
a quick fix before the
next rush begins upstairs.
|
Half drunk
hot and wet,
smelling of
soapy onions and celery,
he picks at the seafood linguini that’s
resting on the shelf, next to
the flour and cornmeal…
thinking about the bar
after work,
thinking about the waitresses
upstairs—
imagining fucking them in their
clean apartments without
a sinkful of dirty dishes, their
perfume and shampooed hair…
knowing full well
they’d never shag a dishwasher—
The bartender gets it all, with his
clean, dry cloths and
witty sense of humor;
he’s got real money in his pockets…
getting tips for being quick with a match or for
making the right dinner suggestion,
slipping the cooks a drink
for adding extra shrimps.
Collecting the garbage bags from
the mouse infested waste area
filled with empty oil boxes,
greasy black trash bags and
cardboard waste,
he opens up the cellar’s trap door after
walking up the slippery
metal steps
and goes to the corner to
find a homeless man willing to drag
twenty bags of garbage
up the steps and onto the street
for three dollars—
After that’s done,
dry clothes and pruned hands
will find themselves at a bar
drinking whiskey with a
beer chaser,
thinking about the waitress of his dreams—
the woman who doesn’t realize
that she’s the only person who
understands him so well. |
