Chris walked through the back door of the restaurant into the kitchen.  He clocked in, grabbed an apron and a stack of towels and dropped them off at his station.  He poked his head into the chef’s office and waved.

“Chris, c’mere a sec.” Paul said.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Are you getting here just now?”

Chris looked at the clock on the wall.  “Yeah.”

“Did you see Tom out there?”

“No, I haven’t seen him.”

Paul rubbed his hands over his face and stood up.  His apron had remnants of what looked like deep prep on it.  He crossed his arms across his chest.  “I’ll need you to close tonight, then.”

“Was he supposed to close?”

“The fucker called me this afternoon and gave me a bunch of bad noise, sounding like he was in the middle of a goddamn nervous breakdown.  ‘Yeah, I don’t know if I’ll be there tonight, Paul; I’ve got some things to work out.’”  Paul said, mocking Tom’s surfer-boy drawl.  “Fuck that.  I’d prefer it if the dude had no-called-no-showed but instead he’s got to do this passive-aggressive shit.”

“What an asshole.”

“You know, we’re in the season where we’re about to get hit hard.  Summer is around the corner and you’ve been here long enough to know how this place gets.  With Tom gone, we’re now down three dudes.  I don’t want you guys working eighty hour weeks but I feel it’s gonna come down to that if I don’t get some more bodies in this joint.  Do you know anyone who can cook and needs a job?” Paul asked.

“Oh, hell yeah.  My roommate, dude.”

“Is he good?”

“He used to cook with me at the Drafthouse.  He’s fuckin’ badass.”

“What’s his name.”

“Randy.” Chris said.  “Yeah, he needs a job.  He’s been out of work for two months and he’s getting really discouraged.  This will be a great help to him.”  Paul covered his nose with his hand.  “What’s the matter?”

“I felt like I was gonna sneeze.  Whatever.”  He shook it off, put his hand down and backed up a little; he leaned on his bookshelf.  “Now, I’ve got to trust you on this.  I’ve known you a long fuckin’ time.  I know you’re not gonna bring some dipshit in here and ruin my line.  I don’t have time to interview this guy; you’ve got to bring him in tomorrow when you get here.  I’ll leave it up to you to train him and get him up to speed by the end of the week so you’ll be on broiler tomorrow and train him on fry; if he’s done this shit before he shouldn’t have a problem picking it up.  I’ll start him at twelve if he can start tomorrow.  We’ll deal with paperwork and all that shit later.”

“Alright.”

“Good.  Tonight’s special is fried pork chops with corn and mash with bacon gravy.  You’re on expo.” Paul said.  He went back in his office and shut the door.  Chris clocked in and started stocking the station.  As he was bringing in back-up dressings for the night, two waitresses started eating out of the station.  They stood there, in his way, dipping carrots into ranch dressing and nibbling on candied walnuts.

“So I woke up this afternoon and I swear to God, all I dreamt of last night was I was in this busted-ass motel room and Tommy Lee from like, 1988 was on the bed and Nikki Sixx from like right now was on the floor with me and we were just going at it like we didn’t give a fuck.” Amber said.

“Ugh, what is he, like... fifty or something?” Heather asked, looking grossed out.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch; he’s fuckin’ hot.  Anyway, I was kind of me but I wasn’t me and I looked kind of like a hooker but I was Asian and I was in a red dress with little white polka dots and then I was in a green dress with little black polka dots and we’d fuck and he’d look all shy, like he was about to stick the tip in but couldn’t because he didn’t have a condom so he’d get one and then he’d fuck me really hard... I think that happened like, five or thirteen times.  Then I woke up.”

“I bet he stinks like cigarettes and ass.”

“I’d fuckin’ do him in a New York minute.”

“Will you two get the fuck out of here?” Chris said, bumping them out of the way.

“What’s your problem, douchebag?” Amber asked.

“This ain’t your goddamn motherfuckin’ personal buffet.  Go roll some silverware or something.”  The girls left.  “God, I hate that shit.  I hate that bitch, Amber.” Chris said across the middle.

“Fuck that bitch, man.” Carlos answered.

“I shouldn’t have fucked her.  I should have fucked her sister.”

“Who’s her sister?”

“That hostess, Tracy.”

“That one blonde bitch?  Looks like she came out of a Girls Gone Wild video?”

“Yeah.” Chris said, flipping out dirty containers.

“I didn’t know they were sisters.”  Carlos said.  “You should do it.”

“No, man.  Bitches talk.  I’ve been there before.  Did Paul tell you how much the special was tonight?”

“Twelve ninety-five.” Carlos said.  “That shit sounds fuckin’ good.  Fried pork chops?  Oh, hell yes.  Bacon fuckin’ gravy?  I’m takin’ that shit home tonight.”

“Right on.  Hey, I got my homeboy a job here.  He starts tomorrow.”

“Cool.  We need some more brothers in here.”

“You work tomorrow?” Chris asked.

“I think I’m on the wheel.” Carlos said.

“Paul wants me on the wheel so I can work with him on fry so you gotta trade with me tomorrow.” Chris said.

“What are you on tomorrow?”

“Expo.”

“Okay.” Carlos said.

During a lull in the rush, Chris took a cigarette break and called Randy to tell him the good news.

“Dude, I got you a job over here at HoneyKayes.” He said.

“Are you serious?”

“The chef just lost another dude and needs some bodies quick.  I told him about you and he said all you have to do is show up tomorrow.  I’ll train you; you don’t have to worry about a thing.” Chris said.

“Wow, that’s crazy.  Thanks, dude.”

“No problem.”

“Hey, I was gonna head to the store for some beer.  Do you need anything?”

“Naw.  I have to close tonight so I’ll be home late as fuck.”

“Alright, later.”

Chris and Randy were in Chris’ car on the way to work the next day; Chris took the opportunity to fill Randy in on what was going on, who not to fuck with, the waitresses to avoid and which ones were sluts, what beer was free after the shift and bennies.

“You’ll see all these bitches today; Amber has long blonde hair, nice legs... kind of a butterface, though.  There’s Heather, she’s okay, kind of another dumb blonde; Carrie’s a little older, she’s cool, probably the only one who knows what the fuck she’s doing over there.  There’s a bunch of dudes in the kitchen, not many chicks.  All the dudes are cool, friendly, good guys.  Miguel is also a little older; he’s a tough old Mexican.  He’s a fuckin’ hard-ass but if you work with him, he knows what he’s doing, too.  Paul’s the chef, he’s kick-ass.  Tonight I’ll be on the grill and you’ll work the fryer – it’s a lot like when we were at the Drafthouse.  Same kind of food, same kind of atmosphere.”

“Right on.”  Randy rolled down his window to get some fresh air.

“Yeah, we’ll go through all that shit when we get there.  It’s probably not going to be too busy tonight; mostly the shit you get on fry is a lot of wings, strips, and fried apps, nothing you aren’t used to.  So Paul’s gonna give you some paperwork, all your tax forms and shit, get set up on the station, blah blah blah.  I think probation is about 90 days and after that you get health and dental insurance.” Chris said.

“That’s cool.  I totally need to go to the dentist.” Randy said.  Chris lit a cigarette and changed the radio station.  “It’s been, like, two years since I went.”

“Yeah, I can’t remember the last time I was...”  Chris slowed the car when he came to the 38th Street exit.  “Goddamn.  It’s fuckin’ three-thirty.  How the fuck is there traffic already?  Jesus.”  He leaned on the horn.  “You motherfuckers!”  Randy turned his face out toward the window.  “I hate this fuckin’ town sometimes.”

“I’ve got to thank you again for this.  I was about to fuckin’ lose my mind.” Randy said.

“Don’t worry about it.  You’re the one doing us a favor, bro.”  Chris got his phone out and dialed Paul.  “Yo, Paul.  Hey.  It’s Chris.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ve got Randy here with me and we’re on the way but there’s a goddamn motherfuckin’ wreck up ahead so we might be a little late.”

“Alright.  I’ll see you when you get here.”  They hung up.

At a quarter after four, Chris and Randy walked through the kitchen entrance, clocked in and went into Paul’s office.  He was on the phone.  He held up his index finger and left a message:  “Yeah, Bill, this is Paul over at HoneyKayes.  Right now it’s four-fuckin’-fifteen on Wednesday and we never got our produce order for the day.  I got a call from Amanda saying we’d get it at two but the fuckin’ truck never showed up.  I don’t know what’s goin’ on but I need my fuckin’ order before five.”

“Hey, Paul.  This is Randy.”

“Good to meet you.  I’m sure Chris has caught you up with what’s going on?”  Randy nodded.  “Good.  I’ll be here if you need me.  Oh, Chris; I heard from Tom, finally, fuckin’ cocksucker.”

“What’d you say?”

“I fired his ass.  I don’t have time for that Mickey Mouse bullshit, fuck that dude.”

“Right on.”  Chris turned to Randy.  “Let’s get set up.”  They went to the hot line and took out two aprons from the broken oven separating the grill from the fryer.  He pointed out everything he named.  “On your counter, you’ve got fries and tortilla chips.”  He started opening lowboys to show Randy what was in them.  “Here you’ve got your frozen shit:  onion rings, jap poppers, fried pickles, potato skins, chicken parts and wings.  We usually bag our wings in tens but you’ll always get some asshole motherfucker who wants only drums so we bag some, keep a backup loose behind it.  You’ve got your sauces there,” he pointed to three speed pourers labeled mild, hot and BBQ, “when we get started, I’ll run you through plating and all that shit.”  Randy turned his head and took a big breath and held it as long as he could and tried not to look like he was holding his breath.  Chris opened the next door.  “In here, you’ve got cod for fish and chips and the spinach dip.  Over here, your dinner sauces, pasta, rice and pulled pork for sandwiches.  Up on the top of the station is mixed cheese, Parmesan, herb butter and onions.  Every day you’re responsible for coming up with the daily veg.  It doesn’t matter what it is as long as it’s different every day.  We’ve got a ton of shit in the walk-in; you can use whatever you want.  Let’s go there and I’ll show you where everything is.”  Chris took Randy to the back of the kitchen.  “That’s Carlos, he’s my boy.  That’s Felix and Marisol, dish and night prep.”  They went into the walk-in.  

“Wow; for a kitchen this size this walk-in is fuckin’ huge.” Randy said.

“No shit.  Way bigger than the fuckin’ Drafthouse, huh.”

“Like twice as big.”

“Alright.  You can see that everything on the shelves is labeled.  Day prep and pantry is the middle rack, sauces and dressings in the buckets on the bottom.”  Chris pointed to each area as he spoke.  “Everything’s fuckin’ portioned by night prep so you don’t have to worry about any of that shit.  This is the meat and fish rack and where shit thaws out, produce, cheese, dairy, burgers, fruit.  The freezer is the same way, everything’s labeled so you can find it easy.”  They left the walk-in and went back to the line.  There was a leftover ticket for a basket of wings.  “Carlos, did you do these wings, bro?”

Carlos looked up. “Yeah, bro.  They’re long gone.”

“So all you do is make sure all your shit is full up for the night and you’re good.  So stock this shit and when you’re done we’ll do something else.”  The ticket printer started buzzing.  Chris stood over it and watched what was coming up:

CHICKEN WINGS
MEDIUM
BEEF PHILLY
FRIES
RANCH


He dropped the wings and put a hoagie bun on the flattop to get hot.  He dropped the shredded sirloin on the flat top and put a handful of diced red and green bell peppers next to it.  He seasoned them with house spice and chopped the meat with two spatulas.  

“You got it over there, Chris?” Carlos asked.

“Yeah, thanks, bro.”

Chris dropped an order of fries and plated the bun.  He put a ladle of beef stock on top of the sirloin and chopped it with the peppers again.  The wings started to sizzle and pop the last of their moisture.  He left them in the oil a minute longer to let them crisp.  Chris scooped the sirloin and peppers together on the bun, put two slices of provolone on top and let it melt in the salamander.  He tossed the wings in a blend of mild and hot sauce, put them in a basket and slid them in the window.  He checked the fries; day shift had gotten them out too early and they had thawed, causing them to become a giant fry clump; he cursed the lazy shits on day crew.  He smacked them into the fry holder and used tongs to separate them before seasoning them.  When the Philly was ready, he added the fries and put the plate in the window.  He tossed the ticket onto the plate, soaking up fry oil.  Carlos added garnishes to both orders and waited for them to be picked up.  Chris checked his station to see what he needed to restock for the rush.  He started making mental notes:  sliders, cream gravy, burgers, chicken breasts, provolone...

Amber poked her head across the middle.  “Hey, Chris; I need cheddar on this fuckin’ Philly.”

“I’m sorry?”

She sighed hard and looked irritated.  “I need cheddar on this Philly, not mozz.”
He brought up an empty deep six pan and stuck it toward her face.  “Give me a dollar, Amber.”

“What?  Fuck you.”

“I’ve told you time and again that when you fuck up a ticket, you give up a dollar.” He said, banging the pan on the window.

“I forgot to ring it in; I’m not giving you a fucking dollar.  It’s not my fault.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know it needed fuckin’ Cheddar?  I’m not a goddamn mind reader, Amber.” Chris said.  “Ring it in, gimme a fuckin’ ticket and I’ll fix your stupid shit.”

She grudgingly left a dollar in the window next to the plate and rang in the upcharge.  Chris pocketed the buck, peeled off the mozzarella best he could, laid down three pieces of Cheddar on top of the Philly and set it up in the sally again.  The printer printed the upcharge.

“Can I get two more sides of Ranch, Carlos?” she asked.

“Sure, babe.”

“Hey Carlos – how do you get a sorority girl to suck your dick?” Chris asked.  Carlos shrugged and grinned.  “Dip it in Ranch.”  They laughed.

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Amber said.

“Don’t give that bitch nothin’, G.” Chris said.  Randy came back with a bunch of stuff to stock in his lowboys.

“Fuck you, Minty Fresh.” Amber said.  Chris threw a handful of leftover fries at her tits.  One went inside her shirt.  She was laughing too hard to be indignant.  

“Bet I couldn’t do that again if I tried.” He said.

“You already had your run at it, asshole.” Amber said, digging out the fry.  She threw it back at Chris.  He caught it and ate it.  He took the Philly out and plated it again.  

“Next time, it’s a five, girl.  Quit fuckin’ up.”  Amber flipped him off and took her plate to the floor.

“Who was that?”

“Amber.”

“God, she’s a used-up skank, isn’t she?”

“Aw, she’s not that bad but sometimes she is.  Girl can party, though.”

“Why’d she call you Minty Fresh?”

Chris blew off the question.  “I dunno.”

Randy knew exactly why; he’d heard it before when they worked at the Drafthouse.  Chris had breath that would start World War III.  People would try to avoid talking to him or when they did, they’d try to talk to him sideways so they wouldn’t be in full force of it.  He also had a tendency to get in your face when he was making a point, possibly using his breath as an exclamation point.  It was definitely something to not be on the receiving end of if you had just eaten.  It was something they didn’t talk about; it was the age-old question of how do you tell a friend that he’s past gum?  A particularly long ticket printed out.

APP PLATTER
HOT
EXTRA RANCH

CHICKEN FINGERS
HOT
FRIES
RANCH

APP PLATTER
PLAIN
EXTRA CHEESE ON SKINS
EXTRA SOUR CREAM

BEEF PHILLY
FRIES
RANCH
NO MUSHROOMS
NO PEPPERS
NO ONIONS
EXTRA MOZZ

CHX CAESAR WRAP
EXTRA DRESSING
FRIES
RANCH

Chris peeled the ticket off the printer.  “Oh, what the fuck.  Michael!” he bellowed.  He separated the white from yellow ticket and handed the copy to Carlos.  Carlos looked at it and laughed.

“That ain’t cool, man.” He said.

“Go find Mike, wouldja?”  A half-second later, Michael came into the kitchen.  “Speak of the motherfuckin’ devil.  Mike, what the hell?” Chris asked, ticket in hand.

“What?”

“This same fuckin’ ticket every Wednesday.”

“What?”

“The fuckin’ app platter.  This shit isn’t even on the menu anymore.  What the hell?  Who the fuck keeps coming in here ordering this shit?”

“It’s a table full of fat girls.”  Michael said.  They all started laughing.

“Randy, I need you to drop...”  Chris studied the ticket.  Three fries all day, sixteen wings, eight potato skins, eight O-rings, eight jap poppers and twelve pickles for those app platters, and five fingers per order, six if they seem kinda scrawny.  Oh, for future reference, the left fryer is medium hot, the middle is cool-hot and the right one is hot-hot.  We do fries mostly in the left one, all the fish in the middle and on-the-fly shit in the right one.”

“Right on.”

HK CHICKEN
SWISS
AVOCADO
FRIES

HK BURGER
SALAD
1000
NO CROUTONS

POTATO SKINS
AS APP

CHICKEN WINGS
PLAIN
AS APP


HK HOUSE SALAD
LARGE
RANCH
ADD SHRIMP

CAESAR SALAD
LARGE
DRESSING ON SIDE
ADD SHRIMP

RIBEYE
MEDIUM
SALAD
RANCH
BAKER
LOADED



“Uh, uh... where’s Heather?  Someone get Heather for me!” Chris bellowed.  A few moments later, she appeared at the door.

“What?”

“What time is it?”

She checked her watch.  “Four fifty-three.”

“What time do we start serving dinner?”

Heather rolled her eyes.  “I don’t have time for your shit, Chris.”

“No ribeyes for another seven minutes.”

“But it’s seven fuckin’ minutes.” She protested.

“I don’t care.  You wanna stand there and bitch me out about it until five, go for it.” He said, grinning, long tongs in his hand.

“Dumbass.”  She stomped off.

“See, Randy?  They do that shit all the time, fuckin’ bitches.  There are certain times when certain menus are on the floor.  Breakfast from seven to eleven, lunch from eleven to five and dinner from five to midnight.  Don’t let them fuckin’ order shit they’re not supposed to.  Paul’s rule.”

Randy nodded and put the potato skins under the salamander to melt.  He dressed the wings and put them in the window.  “Oh shit, those were supposed to be plain.” He said.

“No problem, you’ve got time to do them again.”  Chris took the basket of wings out of the window and put them on his cutting board.  “I’m fuckin’ starving, dude.  You want one?”

“Sure.”  They stood there, watched their food cook and ate wings.  “I like this sauce.” Randy said.

“Eh, it’s just Frank’s.”

“You remember that Five-Alarm shit we had at the Drafthouse?”

“Oh fuck.  I remember making it one night in the middle of the rush because Scooby hadn’t made any; he’s all, ‘it’s gonna be dead tonight, who the fuck cares’ and that motherfucker had like, five orders of those Five-Alarm wings in a row.  So I ran to the back and prepped all that shit, all those habaneros, all those jalapenos and onions and in the middle of it, I had to take a piss.  So when I gave him the sauce, I went to the bathroom and I hadn’t washed my hands.” Chris said.

“Oh shit!  Are you serious?” Carlos asked through the window, laughing.

Chris bit into another drumstick.  “No one’s talking to you mother... AW!  Oh, fuck!”  His hand went up and cupped his mouth.  He spit the contents into his hand.

“What’s the matter?”

Chris looked into his hand.  He was holding chewed up chicken wing, a lot of blood and one of his teeth.  “Oh, fuck this.”  He put his tooth onto a plate and ran to the sink.  He rinsed his mouth out.  “Randy, can you run and get Paul?  He’s probably in his office.”

Randy went to the office and saw Paul looking at invoices.  “Uh, Chris just lost a tooth.”

Paul looked at his new fry cook quizzingly.  “He lost a tooth?  Really?”

“Yeah, he’s bleeding all over the place.”  Paul and Randy went back to the line and saw Chris hovered over the hand sink, still rinsing his mouth, bloody paper towels all over the sink and floor.  Carlos had come to the hot side and was taking care of the orders.

“Jesus H. Christ, what the hell, Chris?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“You’re fine?  What happened?”

Chris wiped his face off and spit into the sink.  More blood.  He rinsed again, wiped and bit on a new piece of wadded up paper towel.  “I had a bite of a chicken wing and my tooth fell out.”

“Which one?”

Chris showed his hominy to Paul.  “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not fuckin’ cooking tonight, not like this.”

“There’s no one to cover me.”

“Carlos is right there, I can cover pantry.”

“I’m fine, Paul.”

“No, you’re not.  What did I fuckin’ tell you about this.  For almost two years I’ve been after you to get this shit taken care of.”  Paul took a piece of two-ply from the ticket printer and wrote down an address.  “I know a dentist you can see.  She’s a friend of mine and owes me a favor for some catering I did for her husband’s office.  Go there and get your shit straightened out.” Paul said.  

“Ungh.  I’m fine.  I don’t need a fuckin’ dentist.”

“You either go right now or I’m suspending you until further notice.”

Chris scowled.  “Jesus, fuck.  Alright.  I’ll go.”

“I’m gonna call her right now.  Get going.”

Chris drove to the east side of town and found the dentist’s office in a strip mall.  Terry Brady, DDS.  He parked and looked in the rear-view mirror at his teeth.  They had been beyond help for so long, going to the dentist now was just something he was doing to please Paul and keep his job.  There wasn’t much pain, just a hole and some oozing.  He got out of the car and went inside.

“Are you Chris Bethman?” the receptionist asked.

“Yeah.  I’m here because I lost a tooth about a half hour ago.  My boss called for me.”

“Right this way.”  She led him to a room he hadn’t seen in a very long time.  Dental chair, x-ray arm, spit cup, instrument tray.  All used by agents of the Devil.  He sat in the chair and she put a pink bib on him attached with a little clip chain.  “Dr. Brady will be here in just a second.”

Chris sat in the chair and felt his palms become clammy.  His heart started pounding and he got sparkles in his head, something he felt when he was about to throw up.  He did the best he could to will it away, breathed deeply and thought of nothing.

The dentist came in the room and stood over him.  She looked benevolent but that didn’t stop him from feeling sicker.  “Hi, Chris.  How are you doing?”

“I’m gonna be sick.”  He hopped from the chair and let go into the trash can three times.  Dr. Brady offered him a plastic cup of water.  He wiped his mouth and drank.  “Thank you.”

“Do you always get sick when you go to the dentist?”

"No."

"Are you nervous?" she asked.

“No.  I don’t know where that came from.” He said, sitting back in the chair.

“Can I take a look at what’s going on?  Paul said you broke a tooth on a chicken wing?”

Chris opened his mouth.  Dr. Brady put her mask on.  His breath could have been used as a torture device.  She looked around.  There was obvious decay, gingivitis, his teeth were yellow and the line above his gums was green and gray and the backs of his bottom teeth were completely caked with yellow and orange plaque.  “When was the last time you saw a dentist, Chris?”

“Probably when I was 17, so that would be about eleven years.”

“Eleven years?  Any reason why?”

“Can you just fix my tooth so I can get back to work?” he asked, agitated.

“I’m afraid there’s no fixing your tooth.  The best I can do is pack some antibiotics in there, give you a script and send you on your way.”

“That’s it?  Why can’t you do anything about this?”

“Chris, I’m going to be honest here; you’ll be lucky if more of your teeth don’t fall out over the next few years.  There is significant decay and disease from not brushing or flossing.  Something like this is serious.  I don’t know if you want help or not to save your teeth but if you do want help, you’ve got to level with me.”

At that moment, Chris didn’t care.  He hadn’t cared in years.  He sat there a minute, contemplating his dating life with dentures at 30.  “I’ll put it this way.  If the Nazis had a dentist, my mom trained him.”  They shared some silence.  She had heard that before; people’s fear of dentists stemming from parents who were dentists.  “When I turned 18, I figured I was in control of my life and body and I was gonna do what I was gonna do.  Brushing my teeth was not on the list.  Now I’m paying for it with teeth falling out when I have a snack at work.”  He shook his head, feeling very down, his issues with his mother being hashed out with, of all people, another female dentist.  The tears started surfacing.  “I don’t know what I have to do to fix this, if it would make it better or worse.”

“Can you come back another time?  I’d be happy to see you and work through this with you so we can save your teeth.”

He took another deep breath.  “I do have insurance for the first time ever...” he said.  

“Well, let’s pack this and then take a look at the schedule.” Dr. Brady said.  Chris nodded, feeling oddly at ease.  Much like his binge-drinking in high school, this was something else he had to hide from his mother.