I

            Late that winter, Jux arrived in midafternoon for an evening shift and found the kitchen empty but throbbing with a live recording of Coldplay coming from the stereo speakers above the fryer. “This smells of Juniper,” he muttered.

            Evidence of prep was everywhere: a speed rack filled with cooling trays of crostinis, cubed butternut, crumbled Italian sausage, herb risotto, angel food muffins, diced crispy pancetta, al dente capellini, triangle-cut chocolate cake, gooey-centered lemon tarts; a stainless steel prep counter lined by three plastic-wrapped sixths equipped with strainer-lined funnels in which oil was being infused with, respectively, chiles, basil, and rosemary; a fully-loaded and borderline overstocked (there was one where an elbow of julienned tomato was hanging over the side like the appendage of a bored automotive passenger, risking collision with a nearby ninth of blue cheese crumble) set of ninths chilling on the fresh ice of the cold-side station; a closed but tumescent hot-side line cover; a strikingly clear sight line along the bases of the fixtures (no hint of a scurrying cockroach, no glimmer of burbling rancid oil) and a correspondingly-empty grid of circles where the holes of the traction mats revealed their visions of the flooring; and, somehow above all else, a relatively spotless dishpit with little evidence of anything like a quick recent wash than a china cap slowly dripping as it dangled from a hook above the drying rack.

            Jux looked back up at the speakers, from which emerged the ambient moaning of someone who apparently wanted to sound way, way caring. “It that what it takes to get this much prep done on a Saturday?” he asked. “You? Chris Parnell, husband of Gwyneth?” He shook his head and went out to the bar to clock in.

            At the bar terminal, he punched in his pin and waited for the receipt to print.

           Then Juniper approached from the server station. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s all going into containers now.”

           “Did you do all of that prep back there just today?” Jux asked.

            Juniper blinked at him. “Yes,” she finally said. “Is it too much?”

            Jux’s eyes widened. “No, it’s not too much,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll use it all. I’m just, you know, kind of… how did you have the time to do all that? Did you come in early?”

            Juniper shook her head. “No, I came in at eleven,” she said, “as scheduled. I think I just really enjoy the time by myself in the kitchen. No distractions. I can kind of get in the zone.”

            Jux was nodding. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. “Were you listening to Chris Parnell all morning?”

            “Who?” Juniper asked.

            “Chris Parnell,” Jux said. “Husband of Gwyneth? Coldplay?”

            Juniper smooshed up her face. “That’s Chris Martin.”

            “Oh,” Jux said, looking around strangely. “Then who’s Chris Parnell? Hold on. Is he the guy from Soundgarden?”

            “I don’t know,” Juniper said. “You brought him up.”

            Jux was about to continue pressing her about Chris Parnell when shouting erupted from the banquet annex. It was Danny.

            “Fuck you, man!” Danny cried. “I’m not stealing shit. Go accusing me of that. You know who was stealing shit? Almo. Motherfucker was taking whole meals home for his kids. And you didn’t accuse him of anything.”

            “That’s not true,” Tati responded loudly. “I accused Almo of a variety of infractions over the many years he worked here.”

            “Show me some fucking proof then that I’m snatching shit,” Danny challenged. “Go ahead.”

            “I don’t have to furnish any proof for you,” Tati said. “You’re fired. Please leave.”

            “Fuck this,” Danny said. He stormed across the dining area toward the bar station and Jux and Juniper gave him room to clock out.

            “What the hell is going on?” Jux asked.

            Danny was punching the touchscreen so hard that every jab of the finger fanned out an agitated circle of electric colors. “That fucking biatch—yeah, I said it, beeyatch—is trying to tell me I’m fired for stealing. I don’t steal shit. Fuck that. He can’t fire me, you know why? Because I fucking quit. I fucking quit!” He was still thrusting a finger at the screen, screwing up his pin each time.

            Jux and Juniper watched in horror as the crooning from the kitchen crescendoed.

            Finally, Danny got his pin entered correctly. He turned to them with a maniacal smile. “See you bitches next Friday.” He stomped past them into the kitchen.

            They followed.

            “What’s—” Jux began.

            “Paycheck, shitbrains,” Danny snapped. He then stopped, clutched his forehead for a moment, and then stared at the floor. Then he took a deep breath and turned to face them. “Sorry,” he said. “I just want to say that these few months we’ve been together back here have been real. I respect that. I got mad love for you both.” He double-pumped his chest with a fist over the heart and then held the fist out.

            Jux met it with his own, producing a fist-bump.

            Then Danny repositioned his fist so that it was aimed at Juniper, but she just shook her head and looked at the prep table, so Danny turned the fist into a finger-point and winked at her. “It’s all good,” he said. “You know, I got a girl and everything, but if you ever want to get together—”

            “I don’t want to,” Juniper said.

            “Aight,” Danny said, holding up a palm of peace. “I’m just saying. Seriously. Both of you. Peace.” Then he left through the back, collecting his bag on the way out to the lot.

            The song was ending, and the recorded live audience was cheering wildly in appreciation of all the loud mouth sounds.

            “Well that fucking sucks,” Jux muttered.

            “Yeah,” Juniper said. “He’s a pretty sweet guy when it comes down to it. He was here almost eighteen months, too.”

            “No,” Jux said, “I mean now we’re down two hands for service tonight. And what was that at the end with the ‘both of you’ thing? Was he just confused, or was he saying he wanted to hook up with me, too?”

            Juniper laughed. “He pretty much threatened to sodomize Max a bunch of times,” she said, “but I don’t think he really meant to do it.”

            “It wouldn’t be for pleasure,” Jux said with a quick shake of the head. “It would be like a power domination prison-type thing. Not that Danny was ever in prison. He never got caught. According to him. But he doesn’t want to hook up with Max. Or me.”

            Juniper was staring at him as Coldplay started up another wailing masterunit.

            “What?” Jux asked.

            “Did you just mansplain to me that Danny doesn’t want to have sex with you?” she asked.

            “Did I what?” Jux asked.

            “Mansplain,” Juniper said.

            “Mansplain?” Jux asked. “What the fuck is mansplain?”

            “When a man explains something, usually to a woman, in a way that is condescending and oversimplified,” she said, “and when he really actually doesn’t know much about what he’s talking about.”

            Jux was horrified. He looked over at the bar corner exit. “That’s a thing?”

            “It’s a thing and a word,” Juniper said. “I read about it on the internet.”

            “Huh,” Jux said, contemplating. “I mean, neologisms are perfectly valid and natural. Sometimes, yes, they are contrived—”

            Juniper cleared her throat.

            “Well,” Jux continued, “all I was saying was that it’s too bad he quit, or got fired, because that’s what Brian said first, but, anyway, it sucks because he’s not going to be here tonight when, you know, we go through all this amazing prep you, eh, prepared.”

            Juniper was nodding thoughtfully. “I’ll see if Junior wants me to stick around for the evening shift, at least until around seven thirty,” she said. “Would that help?”

            Jux shrugged. “Maybe.”

            Juniper frowned at him. “Why don’t you respect me?”

            Jux rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “This is like four times the prep I’ve ever been able to conjure up on a Saturday morning shift.”

            “Conjure,” Juniper echoed. “So, since I’m a woman who did a better job than you it’s because I’m using witchcraft?”

            Jux inhaled deeply. “No,” he said. “Look, I’ll try not to mansplain here, but I do have a master’s degree in literature and I teach classes that address the idea of cognitive metaphors, so I understand how certain common instances of metaphorical usage can inadvertently or even explicitly reveal how we, you know, more deeply think of concepts—”

            “Ugh,” Juniper said.

            “Hey,” Jux protested. “I can’t be mansplaining to you now, because I’m just trying to explain, like regular explain, why I agree with your concern over my use of that verb to describe what you did here. And, also, now that I’m think of it, I didn’t say you conjured anything. I said I was never able to conjure up this much, which at the very most implies that we are both dabbling in the dark arts. But, anyway, trust me, it’s not, you know, like I think you’re incapable, because you obviously, obviously are. I mean, look at all this prep.” He motioned lamely about the kitchen.

            Juniper’s arms were crossed. “Then why don’t you respect me?”

            Again, Jux inhaled.

            “See, right there,” Juniper said.

            Jux scratched his forehead.

            “If you don’t tell me,” Juniper threatened, “I’m going to file a sexual harassment complaint with Brian.”

            Jux snorted.

            “What?” Juniper asked. “You don’t think it’d stick, treating a coworking like an inferior because of her sex?”

            “No,” Jux said, shaking his head and smiling, “I just don’t think there’s any way in hell that Brian would take any sexual harassment complaint seriously. I mean, come on, the guy parks in the handicapped spot out front every time he’s here.”

            Now it was Juniper’s turn to inhale deeply. “That’s true,” she admitted. “And he did ignore it last year when I told him about Frank ogling my ass every time I worked the pizza station when he was on the cold side. That and cornering me at the server’s station to ask like some creep about where I got my pants. But why don’t you just tell me anyway?”

            Jux swallowed. “Look, I don’t want you to get offended.”

            One of Juniper’s eyes widened considerably.

            “It’s this,” Jux said, thumbing up at the stereo, out of which some deeply-emotional caterwauling was pumping like sewage out of a drain rupture. “I mean, Coldplay? Every time? Fucking Coldplay?”

            Juniper locked eyes with him. “It’s better than edgy techno.”

            “It’s ambient techno,” Jux corrected.

            “It’s techno,” Juniper insisted, “and it’s edgy.”

            Jux held up his hands. “We don’t have to like the same music,” he said, compromising. “People like all kinds of different things. Some like grapes, while others prefer an apple. Right? Spartacus or whatever? Where’s Abuse? He’d know what I was talking about. Anyway, the music. Some people like ambient techno, some people like pop rock, and, hey, some redneck halfwits even like country.”

            Juniper sneered at him and walked around the island to the cold-side cooler. “You know what?” she asked. “I’m going to insist on staying through the dinner rush just to fuck with you.”

            Jux was rubbing his eyes. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “You like country, don’t you?”

            Juniper pulled open the cooler and began sorting through red-lidded transparent plastic containers.

            “Seriously,” Jux added, glancing at the stereo. Chris what’s-his-name was getting into some long section of singing, so Jux was compelled to ask, “Can we at least turn this down a bit now that the rest of the crew is arriving? I feel like I’m about to slip into an existential void, but in a cheesy way.”

            “You’ve got a new sous chef tonight,” Juniper said with her head deep into the cooler.

            “What?” Jux asked, standing straight.

            Juniper pulled out of the cooler with a tub of ceviche. “A new sous chef,” she said. “He’s not technically a sous chef, but that’s how he’s referring to himself. Tall James.”

            “Ooohhh,” Jux said, looking up at the AC vent in the ceiling. “Right. I heard about him. He’s coming in tonight?”

            Juniper popped open the container of ceviche and then walked over to get a ladle hanging from the dishpit rack. “He’s out back right now, I think,” she said. Back at the cold line, she ladled some ceviche into a ramekin.

            “Right now?” Jux asked quietly.

            “I think so,” Juniper said. She gulped the ceviche like a shot of vodka and slammed the ramekin down onto the cutting board in punctuation. “Maybe it’s him you should be talking to,” she said, not even chewing.

II

            Outside, Jux found the new lead line cook sitting on an empty propane tank near the space heaters. The young haggard man with a face replete with acne scars was smoking a cigarette and staring at the slop-stained concrete. His arms and legs were long and looked thin under the spacious chef couture he had on.

            “Hey,” Jux said in greeting as he stuck his own cigarette to his lips.

            “Hey,” mumbled the new lead line cook.

            “So you’re Tall James?” Jux offered.

            The man shrugged.

            Swiftly distant vehicles swooshed down Main as for some time kitchen echolalia emerged from the propped back door. There was the screech of the halting light rail.

            Jux was already halfway through his cigarette and tapping at his phone when the man looked up at him.

            “Can I ask you a question?” the new lead line cook asked. The cigarette he was holding was burnt right down to the filter between his gnarled fingers.

            “Sure,” Jux asked, skeptical of his own answer.

            “You ever see a turd, a big fat log,” the man said, indicating an approximate length with his palms apart, “and think about just picking it right up and taking a bite?”

            Jux stared at him and, seeing the earnestness of the question, decided to end his smoke break early. “No,” he said, flicking his butt across the patio toward the can. It hit the wall and landed to die near the gate. “Is this a Caddyshack reference?” he asked in passing.

            The man looked at him, eyes bloodshot, cheek craters stark with shadow from the daylight. “Do I look like someone who can afford a Cadillac?”

            Jux nodded and went back into the kitchen, where it was still Coldplay on the stereo and Juniper rearranging containers on the line.

            Juniper had turned the music back up, but it didn’t last long because not ten seconds later Chef Junior arrived bearing an icy crate. He deposited it onto the prep table and promptly shut off the music so that he could focus on picking through the semi-frozen softshell crabs, occasionally holding up one of the little post-molting crustaceans and activating one of its leg joints.

            “Krusty Krabs on the menu tonight,” the chef announced.

            “Flour dust and a hot pan?” Juniper asked.

            “You know it,” said Junior, eyes wide at them. “And absolutely no chili powder until we get ripping with the flippies, and that per order.”

            Juniper popped open the AP flour bin on the prep table’s lower shelf and scooped out a couple of cups. “Don’t you think it’s unfair to catch them when they don’t even have a protective shell?”

            Jux leaned over the crate and peered down into it with a scrunched nose.

            “These animals are total assholes,” Junior said as he jiggled a crab so that its tiny claws flailed like grass in the swelling winds of a storm, “that deserve to be eaten.”

            “Jesus,” Jux said. He sighed. “So,” he whispered, “uh, where’d you get this guy?”

            Junior shook his head and smiled. “We all know these come from the ocean.”

            “Not the crab,” Jux said. “This James guy.”

            “Tall James,” Junior corrected. “He is very adamant that he be addressed as ‘Tall James.”’

            “He doesn’t look that tall,” Jux noted. “I mean, yeah, he was sitting down, but… anyway, where’d you get him?”

            “Craigslist,” Junior said. “Why?”

            Jux’s eyes widened. “You bought him on Craigslist?” he whispered intensely.

            Junior snorted. “What?” he asked. “Did you just ask me if I was using Craigslist to traffic humans to work in this kitchen?”

            Juniper laughed.

            Jux looked over at Juniper at the line. “Hmm,” he said. “Well, I guess that does seem kind of outrageous as a conclusion.”

            “I suppose I could, though,” Junior said, scratching his chin, “theoretically. But, no, this was just an ad post. Why? What’s the issue?”

            Jux shrugged. “He’s just fucking weird, man,” he said. “He literally asked me if I’ve ever considered eating shit, and that was, like, the first substantial thing he ever said to me.”

            “Abuse tells you to eat shit all the time,” Juniper noted.

            Jux waved her off. “That’s just Abuse,” he said. “He’s one of my best friends.”

            Juniper held up her hands. “It’s probably a discourse community thing.”

            Jux shrugged and looked at the floor, which was surprisingly still clean, although the section of the island under the cold side’s dripping sink shimmered in the darkness.

            “I’m just glad somebody responded to the ad,” Junior inserted. “I don’t know if it’s swine flu or what, but we didn’t get a response for two weeks. And it’s not the medium. I used Craigslist all the time at my last gig and it was like a rainstorm of interest.”

            “Swine flu, yeah, but we all know that’s not it,” Jux said. “It must be this place. It’s like, fucking cursed.”

            Juniper was sprinkling salt and pepper over a large shiny mixing bowl at the cold side. “You sound like Kieran.”

            “I’m sorry?” Brian Tati asked, red-faced and wavering as he loomed near the exit to the bar.

            “Shit!” Jux exclaimed, jumping back and nearly destabilizing by way of impact the various stacks of plates and bowls and ramekins stacked on top of the island. “Where’d you come from?”

            Tati frowned. “The front,” he said. “What were you saying about this place?”

            “I don’t know,” Jux said with shrug and a quick look at Junior, who was elbows-deep into the crate of crustaceans. He looked back at the owner. “What are you talking about?”

            “You said ‘it must be this place,’” said Tati, pressing fingers against the edge of the dishpit for a moment before removing them and wincing at the sight of the wetness they’d absorbed. He looked back at Jux. “Seemed like a negative tone, as if you were referring to this restaurant. And you also said it was cursed.” Tati’s eyes were widely corrective.

            Jux tilted his head. “When,” he asked, “would I ever say anything negative about this restaurant?”

            Tati stared over his glasses at him, head slightly inclined.

            “Jux only ever says positive things,” Juniper told the owner.

            “I was just quoting the Talking Heads,” Jux insisted.

            “Which ones?” Tati asked worriedly. “Local? They must be local TV.”

            “No,” Jux said. “Come on, you know. ‘Home… is where I want to be…’” He jiggled a little bit.

            Tati shook his head as if agitating a fly off his forehead.

            “The song’s calle—”

            “Jux,” Tati said, “I know you’re not excited to be here, since you apparently expected to be an English professor in this economic climate, but you really have to change your attitude or the stress will get out of control.”

            “What are you talking about?” Jux cried, looking around. “I’m perfectly calm.”

            Tati adjusted his glasses so that they were seated on his forehead. “We’ll see,” he said with a nod that dislodged the glasses so that they fell back down to land at a stop on his nose. Then he left the kitchen.

            “What the fuck was that?” Jux cried.

            “Brian Tati,” Juniper said as she slipped a ninth into the rack, “the one who signs our paychecks.”

            Junior picked up another softshell crab and maneuvered its legs to make it look like it was a DJ scratching with one hand and cupping its ear with another.

            “This is ridiculous,” Jux observed.

III

            Tall James was tall. He had to duck a little bit whenever he passed through a doorway into or out of the kitchen. The strain on his back must have been unbearable considering how often he bent almost all the way over to get cups of cooking wine to chug.

IV

            One weekday evening, perhaps eight days after Tall James had joined the back of the house, he spent almost the entire dinner push doing nothing but standing next to the ice machine, pressing his back against the doorframe leading to the storage room.

            “James,” Junior called from sauté, “I need these tenderloins fired. Like right now.”

            “Ugh,” Tall James groaned.

            Junior momentarily lowered his head. “Tall James,” he corrected. “Sorry. Tall James.”

            “My fucking back is killing me,” Tall James whined, eyes closed, butt-grinding the threshold like a pole dancer.

            “Yeah,” Abuse said from the cold side, where he was swiftly julienning tomatoes to refill his ninth, “the problem is my wrist is killing me, but you don’t see me trying to fuck the doorframe with it.”

            “Hey, that’s not cool, man,” Tall James complained. “I have a genetic lumbar deformity.”

            Abuse looked up from the salad he was sculpting. “Are you sure it isn’t triggered by leaning over to fill your cup with cooking wine?”

            “Shit, man,” Tall James said. “I don’t drink that shit. That shit’s gross. Who’s going to try and get drunk off that shit?”

            Abuse looked over at Junior. “He said ‘shit’ too many times,” he observed. “He’s drunk on cooking wine.”

            Tall James sloshed out a hand and shook two fingers across the kitchen at Abuse. “Not cool, man,” he insisted. He was really intent on saying something, so he gripped the ice machine’s lid handle with his other hand and propped his looming frame against it. “Those are unfound allegations. You got something to say to me about un—” He paused to unlean from the ice machine, which involved the untangling of his fingers from under the metal handle bolted into the corrugated plastic lid.

            “We’re going to have to do this later, James,” Junior announced, punctuating with a slap of two hunks of beef into an immediate pan sizzle. “Forget about the sears and the fires. Just get over here and prep the plates.”

            Tall James looked toward the hot side, but since he didn’t see Junior’s face, he quickly pivoted and leaned to his left. In the process, his upper body suddenly jerked to the right and then, for a moment, it looked like he was about to fall but he managed to regain his balance, shaky as it appeared to be.

            “What we got ready to plate,” Junior said as he turned to scan the tickets hanging from the clip strip, “is four [Filet but in the lingo he uses a la DST], one [duck thing, again DST], and the three lasagnes.”

            Tall James was staring at the floor.

            “So we’re talking,” Junior continued as he shuffled circular firing trays around between the oven racks, “probably a big handful of arugula for beds and sides, beurre blanc and, you know, the plate drizzle—”

            “Fucking ice on the floor, man,” Tall James spurted. He shook his head.

            “What?” Junior asked, turning and ducking a bit to be far enough under his side of the island’s window to see up toward Tall James’s face.

            “There’s ice all over the floor,” Tall James complained.

            Junior looked across the steam table, where the soups and sauces were warming, at Abuse.

            “There’s no ice on the floor,” Abuse said, not looking up from the pate he was manipulating off a large spoon onto a wide rectangular plate.

            “Bullshit,” Tall James barked. “That’s cause I just kicked it under the table.” Then he walked off into the back room.

V

            The next afternoon, Tall James didn’t even show up for his shift, so Danny suggested they go pick him up.

            “I’ll bang right on his fucking front door,” Danny boasted. “Tell that motherfucker to get his drunk ass to work.”

            “You,” Junior said, “quit over a week ago. I honestly still don’t know what you’re even doing back here.”

            Danny held his hands out to his sides. “I’m here for my paycheck.”

            “It’s not Friday,” Junior cried.

            “Whatever why I’m here,” Danny muttered.

            Junior looked over at Abuse. “Is this crazy town or what?”

            Abuse tonged a wad of capellini into a pan of sizzling diced shallots and tomatoes and walked around the island to where the large boxes of cooking wine were stacked. The white was empty.

            “Well, isn’t that just dandy?” Abuse asked, shaking his head. “For some reason, we went through six liters of white wine in just one week. Hmmm. This is a real mystery.” He walked back over to the ranges and removed the pan from the burner and pressed one of the call buttons on the board.

            Seconds later, Teatree popped his head around the corner from the bar. “Yes, sir!” he answered piercingly, eyes wide through his glasses and smile long. He was very sweaty.

            “Christ in cutoffs,” Abuse said, faux-staggering back. “What are you on?”

            Teatree nodded.

            “Thought so,” Abuse said. “Anyway, we’re eighty-six on the pasta.”

            “Got it loud and clear, Captain!” Teatree hollered, taking his time to turn and leave. “I’ll make sure to tell everyone that we’re eighty-six on the pasta! I’ll tell them all!”

            Junior uncupped a shoulder from an ear once Teatree had left. “Can you call Max or Crystal next time?”

            “More than noted,” Abuse said. He was focused on distributing crispy fennel over a trio of moundy salads.

            Junior nodded and backslapped a service towel twice over his shoulder.

            Danny was staring at them.

            “What are you looking at me like that for, bro?” Junior asked.

Danny snarled with disbelief and then quickly shook his head with a dismissive smile. He eyed Junior. “So we going to bust this fucker’s front door in or what?”

            “We,” Junior said, “are not doing anything.”

            “Aw, come on, bro!” Danny whined. “I didn’t drive all the way down here for nothing. Lemme come with you and pop this motherfucker in his grill.”

            “Nobody’s popping anyone’s grill,” Abuse insisted.

            “Danny, why are you so pumped about kicking his ass?” Junior asked. “You never even met this guy.”

            Danny stared wildly at them. “Bitch took my job,” he finally said.

            “No, he didn’t,” said Junior. “We hired him as a lead line cook. You weren’t a lead line cook.”

            Danny glanced at Abuse for a moment and then looked back at Junior. “Oh,” he said. He shook his head. “You know what? I’ma head out front and see if Juniper’s out there.” He promptly left the kitchen.

            “She’s not working tonight,” Abuse called after him, “and leave Crystal alone!” After a second, he shook his head and muttered, “Clown shoes.”

            “Okay,” Junior said, “so how do we play this?”

            Abuse looked up at the cold side clip strip. Just a ceviche after these three, so he said, “I’m good here for a bit.”

            Junior waggled up a finger. “Eureka!” he boomed gaily and ominously, as if practiced and perfected at unsanctioned Southern California beach parties. He swooped around the hot side line, passing the ice machine and prep table, towards the bar exit. “I know what to do,” he added, not even turning back to deliver it.

            Abuse lifted a few finished salads onto the steel of the window and then snatched down the tickets one by one from the strip like promising job opportunities and then promptly folded them all together and spiked them down with the other completed jobs. Then he shrugged and left the kitchen, but toward the dock.

            The resulting lack of humans in the kitchen was serene and, yet, vital, to the extent that the kitchen began to exude its own personality bordering on sentience. The grid of burners on the ranges, in the absence of anything to heat, began to regulate their temperatures by temporarily clicking off. The hot side cooler door, which had been left slightly ajar, sucked closed. Across the kitchen, a dirty ramekin that was sitting on the edge of the dishpit in a puddle of tepid soapwater slowly skated across the stainless steel surface of the counter just enough to dive with a plunk into the sudsy sinkwater. A little german cockroach skittered around the base of the cold side cooler, and, just as it happened to skirt the edge of a corner flap of the rubber mat that was pinned to an upward fold by the cooler’s wheel, the flap loosened from its tuck and smacked crunchingly down onto the pest. A blast from the air conditioning vent in the ceiling swirled around the side of the island and sealed a gap in the plastic wrap on a sixth in the rack. Then, from the same murky depths into which the ramekin had plunged at the dishpit, slowly breached the black handle of a chef’s knife that would now be safely and easily removeable from the sink, where it should never have been submerged in the first place.

            Then there was the stomping of footfalls from the bar, followed by the emergence of big old Packie with his sapling pompadour waggling over his broad forehead.

            “I never liked that guy,” Packie boomed as he entered.

            Perhaps it was air pressure caused by his sudden entrance, but the cooler door popped back open and the knife slowly ducked back down into the sinkwater.

            Junior then entered from the bar hall just as the little roach got itself out from under the crushing weight of the rubber mat and scurried with a wobble into the darkness under the island.

            “We don’t hire for personality back here,” Junior explained. “He had great references.”

            Packie was examining the empty box of cooking wine. “What an idiot,” he said with a glance at the closed circuit camera mounted to the wall by the clock over the dish station. “It’s a clear shot right here. I’m going to check the footage.” Then he stormed back out of the kitchen and Junior followed.

            Under the island, the roach seized up and the force of its legs tipped it over onto its back and it twitched until it went into death sleep. The cooler door shut again with a smooch. Who knows about the knife. That is a mystery too deep to narrate.

VI

            About fifteen minutes later, Junior and Packie were back in the kitchen, scratching their heads after reviewing the security camera recordings in the office near the server station.

            “You got to give it to him,” Packie said. “At least he wasn’t stupid enough to drink it out in the open.”

            “Yeah, but how many cups of wine did he need to make the reduction?” Junior pondered.

            Packie looked at him. “Isn’t there a recipe?”

            “Yes,” Junior said. “Of course I know how many cups you need, but I’m just wondering why he needs so many. And why is he doing the reduction on a hot plate in the back room? And the prep table was cluttered. Total clutter. An, I’d say, unnatural amount of clutter. I know for sure that he concocted this whole thing just to cover up the siphoning.”

            “You can’t prove it, though,” Packie said. He snapped a finger and pointed at the chef. “You could write him up for negligent waste of ingredients, though. If he tries to pull this two more times, or does anything else you can write him up for, then you can just fire him right there. Three strikes. Fair is fair.”

            “Honestly,” Junior said, “whether he’s getting fired or not, we need him back here tonight.”

            Packie clasped his palms together. “I’m your backup, then.”

            “Appears like it,” Junior said. “Hey, you know, we need to get back into the office.”

            Packie raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

            “Because I don’t know his address,” Junior said.

            Packie frowned. “That’s probably illegal.”

            Junior sighed. “I won’t tell if you don’t?”

            After a moment, Packie thumbed toward the bar and they left the kitchen.

            As soon as they were gone, something appeared to agitate the surface of the dishpit slopwater from below, but it calmed down as soon as Abuse entered and turned on the stereo to set into some prep at the hot side.

            Then Junior and Packie returned, both tying folded bandanas around their foreheads. Junior’s action was swift, but Packie was taking extra precautions to keep from besmirching the full-scope douchey pomp he’d managed to regrow over the course of a four-day Napa tour. Eventually, Packie got the bandana secured.

            Abuse studied them. “You look like assholes,” he surmised.

            “Hey,” Packie said to Junior, “you sure we don’t need a backup?”

            “You’re the backup?” Junior said, or, kind of asked.

            “We probably need one more,” Packie said.

            Abuse ticked tongs against the inside rim of a pan of simmering shallots. “No fucking way.”

            “Not you,” Packie said with a snort.

            “This won’t be my first time dragging a porpoise up the beach,” Junior said. He slapped his ample belly, adding, “As the man says.”

            “Which man?” asked Abuse.

            “Arturo,” Packie suggested.

            “Arturo said that?” Abuse asked. “Doesn’t even make sense. If you’re bringing someone back, wouldn’t it be dragging them back down the beach, to the water?”

            Packie was frowning. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked. “I’m saying he could come with us.” He looked expectantly toward the back room so quickly that his poofed dongle of hair quivered over the bandana. “He’s here, right?”

            “No,” Abuse said over the shocked shallots. “Please don’t tell me you’re actually going to go to the very domicile of this drunken goon, this ‘Tall James.’”

            Junior bounced his eyebrows. “Sure you don’t want to join us?” he asked. “Filibertos on me on the way back.”

            Abuse stared at him. “No amount,” he began, “no magnificent tub of carne asada fries could ever possibly convince me to join you on a mission to harass one of our staff members, no matter what a turd of Conroy he may prove to be.”

            Packie and Junior just stared at him.

            “What about Teatree?” Junior suddenly asked Packie.

            “Terrible idea,” Packie said. “He’ll just start crying.”

            Junior was nodding. “Too many pills,” he said. “Too… unpredictable.”

            “I recommend Arturo,” Packie said.

            “Listen, sir,” Abuse called from the cold side cooler. “Arturo isn’t here.”

            “Whatever,” Packie said. “Here, not here. We call him in.”

            “To break into an apartment?” Junior cried. “Not happening. It’s bad enough that I’m Samoan. If the police see my brown ass along with your Mr. English Rowing Team whitebread ass—”

            “My family’s Slovenian,” Packie protested.

            “Whatever,” Junior said. “You think they’ll care to ask about your heritage? What I’m saying is that, in this situation, it’s bad enough that there’s one brown person involved. Bring Arturo into it, even if he was born in Ajo, we’re going to end up with a swarm of SWAT SUVs and probably fucking la migra, in addition to—”

            The ranges were suddenly engulfed in flames that, while they were not particularly strong, were nonetheless disconcerting.

            “What the fuck is this?” cried Abuse after slamming shut the cooler and rushing over with a box of salt to assess the range fire. “Is that bacon grease? Why is there bacon grease on the burners?”

            While he doused the fiery eruptions and their surrounding suspect patches of greasy sheen with the equivalent of several dry heaping measures of coarse kosher salt, Junior and Packie shrugged and left through the back.

            “Fuck you, bitches!” yelled Abuse as he roused the licking flames to rest with flicks of his oily salty tongs. “You will see! You will see the mangled yield of your misguided and sinful machinations! They will be brought down upon you, and you, you all, you will, ah, oh, ah, oh, fuck this salt… Time for a baking soda dump.”

VII

Packie was first up the flight of concrete steps, vaulting them two at a time before skidding to a stop by the front door of apartment 203. Junior was close behind, stepping jauntily like a circus clown whose shoes had lit up while passing through the ring of fire.

The front door hosted a cross-section of deep scratches and its green paint was otherwise chipped in uneven patches. A mount remained where a knocker had previously been placed for the convenience of whichever pizza deliveryperson happened to have been summoned.

“This place is a shithole,” Packie said with a smirk.

“Not here to shame the destitute,” Junior said, “just drag his sad ass to work, drunk or not.”

“Can I punch him if he acts up?” Packie asked. “I can punch him.”

“I did not authorize you to punch him,” Junior said. “Don’t punch him. We just have to get him in the truck and on his way to the kitchen. We can make him some coffee when we get there. Or pick him up a case of Rockstars or something.”

Packie glared disappointedly at him.

“All right,” Junior said, steeling himself with a deep breath. He reached forward and slapped an open palm several times hard against the door.

Packie’s eyes were wide and unmoving under his blossoming pompadour for several seconds as they waited in a silence unbroken but for the whispering of a breeze through the green branches of the palo verdes lining the parking lot downstairs.

“Hmmm…” Junior whispered.

“Maybe he’s not in there,” Packie whispered back.

Junior shook his head. “He doesn’t have a life,” he said. “He’s either in there or he’s at the liquor store, in which case we’ll just need to wait here for a few minutes until he staggers back.”

“You really need him in the kitchen this bad?” Packie asked.

“Probably not,” Junior admitted. “At this point, it’s more about principle. I want to torture him.”

“I don’t know,” Packie said. “Why don’t you schedule him shifts with that what’s-her-name, who always just talks about her family barbecues and doesn’t do any work?”

Junior shook his head. “That would probably qualify as unfair working conditions or unfair scheduling or something,” he said. “Forcing him to work when he’s drunk, on the other hand, is perfect. Believe me—perfect.”

There was then the telltale clicking from the other side of the door that indicated that someone was fumbling with the locks.

“Is that a gremlin I hear?” Junior whispered.

The clicking sound stopped and then the deadbolts disengaged and the door creaked open as far as the chain would allow, revealing a shaft of Tall James’s acne-scarred face.

“Hello!” Junior called up at him, shoving a chunky elbow into the gap.

“Oh, fuck,” Tall James slurred, trying to shut the door but finding it impossible because of the chef’s girthy upper arm.

“Hey, come on, man,” Junior huffed as he wedged the bulk of his upper arm through the gap like a fullback going for a first and goal, “I’m just trying to do my job here.”

“I’m not working tonight,” Tall James whined with his back against the door.

“You were scheduled,” Junior informed him as a curve of bicep was embossed by the security chain.

“Get it open,” Packie told the chef. “I can’t punch him until you get the door open.”

“You’re gonna punch me?” asked Tall James. “I have a disability!”

Junior’s arm was far enough through the gap that he was able to get a solid grip on Tall James’s t-shirt at the sleeve. “Listen,” the chef said, “we’re not here to punch you. Let us in. I’ll take my arm back out so you can undo the chain.”

“I dunno,” muttered Tall James.

“No promises about the punching, either,” Packie threatened.

Junior, whose arm was still fully inserted into the gap, glanced at Packie. “That’s not helpful.”

Packie looked over at the parking lot.

Peering between the door and the frame, Junior asked, “Hey, James? Tall James? How about you just trust me on this one? Open the door so we can talk like normal human beings. If this buffoon takes a swing at you, I’ll get him fired or I’ll quit myself.”

It was quiet for a moment. Beyond the strain of the hinges, the only thing to be heard was some kind of hissing coming from inside.

“Pr—” Tall James began. He processed some gas. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Junior said, glaring at Packie.

Packie nodded with obvious reluctance.

Junior then extricated his arm all the way out from the gap and he and Packie watched as the apartment door was promptly shut.

Several seconds passed.

“Told you,” Packie said.

“You didn’t tell me any—”

Then the door of the apartment across the hallway, inexplicably numbered 214, opened up a bit so that a tall old man in a sweater with an embroidered cat on the front could peer out at them from a littery haze.

“You need something?” Packie asked.

The man scrunched his nose. “You the police?”

“We’re not police,” Junior said. “We’re his boss. I’m, that is, I am his boss.”

The old man shrugged. Something in the darkness near his feet slithered about and he jerked his leg back to send it away. “I won’t tell anyone if you kill him.”

Junior stared at him. “We’re not killing anyone,” he said. He looked at Packie, who’s stare at the other door was certainly interpretable as homicidal. “Are we?”

“Huh?” Packie asked, looking at the chef.

The old man shut his door.

“I hate stuff like this,” Junior opined with a glance up at the spiderwebs clustered around the cracked light fixture on the ceiling of the hallway. “This is why I sometimes reconsider my line of work.”

“Hey,” Packie said, eyes darting about. “You hear that?”

Sure enough, the door to Tall James’s apartment opened and, there, filling up all the space, was Tall James. He was barefoot under his hairy shins below a voluminous pair of black athletic shorts that was secured around his waist by a drawstring that apparently had enough slack leftover after circling his waist that it dangled out in front like a line looking for bites from stupid, stupid fish. Tall James did have a shirt, too, but it was so stained and faded that it was impossible to tell what band or product the logo on the front was intended to promote. His eyes were glistening, and his forehead was a mess of sweaty blond fronds of uncleanly hair.

“I’m not on schedule tonight,” Tall James told them.

“Listen,” Junior said. “I didn’t bring a copy with me because I don’t have to, but you are definitely on the schedule.”

Tall James clutched a hand to a cheek. “Really?” he asked. “I was, urp, pretty sure I had F-friday off.”

“This isn’t Fuhfriday,” Junior said. “Why don’t you go get your necessaries and then come on down for dinner service? I’ll drive.”

Tall James stumble-shuffled a step or two back and they all, together, surveyed the room. There was a desk chair front and center with ambiguous folds of clothing strewn over the headrest. About six feet to the left, the desk with which the chair was likely paired was housed against the wall, which was as replete with empty nailholes and chips as his face was of traces of old acne. The desk itself was populated among a chaos of empty liquor bottles and jugs of wine by a partially-obscured computer monitor, the bulk of which indicating that it had probably been in use since the late nineties. A screen saver played on the screen’s pixels: pipes endless laid and unlaid. Near a pile of clothes on the floor that looked vaguely like a passed-out roommate was a short stack of dissimilar pizza boxes that appeared to have been assembled by a disgruntled line cook at a diner. Across the room, under a frayed Reservoir Dogs poster, was an enormous flatscreen propped up directly on the grisly carpet and nestled by an abundant maze of cables that provided power and access to a variety of media and gaming mechanisms that were scattered about, also just sitting there on the carpet. The rumpled couch upon which a couple of controllers from different consoles sat was missing one of three cushions. An unopened foil condom packet peeked out from underneath the couch like an optimistic surprise. The kitchenette was dark and swelling with ripeness—actually, the entire place was ripe despite the two ceiling fans spinning away above them.

Tall James burped. He looked back over at Junior and Packie. “You guys want a cocktail?”

“Are you sure you didn’t drink it all already?” Packie asked.

“Aw, there’s a, uh, a handle of, uh,” Tall James said as he glanced foggily about.

“What?” Packie pressed. “A handle of what?”

“Huh?” Tall James asked.

Junior held up his hands. “All right, Lurch,” he said. “We need to be on point here. You want a Rockstar? I’ll swing by a gas station on the way back and get you two. My treat. But you, my lanky young apprentice, are coming to work your shift tonight.”

Tall James whined something incoherent.

“We know you’ve been drinking the cooking wine,” Packie said.

Junior rolled his eyes. “Why’d you have to tell him that?”

“What?” Packie cried. “It’s true.”

“But I was going to deal with that after the shift,” Junior said. “Come on, get your priorities in order. Jeez.”

Packie frowned up at another poster on the wall, which was a multicolored neon tapestry with mushrooms as its central theme.

“You’re funny,” Tall James uttered warmly before deadfalling onto the 66.7% prepared couch and sending the game controllers flying in opposite directions. He immediately flipped over and wiggled his long body as if digging in for a slumber.

“I will pour water right onto your face,” Junior threatened. “You’re up tonight, so get up.”

Tall James shot a hand up into the air and stared at it while he moved it around in the fan-agitated swirls of sickness that were moving about the room.

Junior was beginning to explore the kitchenette, but he wasn’t in too far. “Do you have any cups at all? Even a dirty one? Eh, is that a summer sausage by the sink there, or…?”

“Junior,” Packie whispered from nearby. He was already hazarding a foray into the kitchenette himself. “Hey, psst.”

“I can hear you,” sang Tall James from the couch.

“What?” Junior asked.

Packie held up a grimy highball glass. “Look.”

Junior looked. “Yeah, so?”

“This is from Tati’s,” Packie whispered at even lower volume. “He’s stealing glasses, too.”

Junior stared at the glass. “He could have got that at Walmart,” he said. “Or stolen it from a bar down the street.”

“Oh, come on,” Packie said, pantomiming the act of drinking.

“Focus,” Junior said, whispering. “We get him back, priority one. He works the shift, priority two. After that, it’s free range.”

Packie severed his distasteful glance after a moment by directing it toward the couch, over the back of which one of Tall James’s hairy calves was now dangling. “Right,” he said. He walked toward the couch.

“What are you doing?” whispered Junior as he caught up.

Packie grabbed Tall James by the ankles.

“Don’t touch me,” Tall James wheezed. “Faggot.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Packie said, working hard to keep his grip on the ankles secure.

“Fuck off,” Tall James muttered, jerking his legs back and almost rolling over the edge of the couch in the process.

“No,” Junior chided. “This isn’t a slave labor scenario. This isn’t Cracker Barrel. We have to convince him.”

Tall James craned his neck to look at the chef. “Convince me of what?” he asked, eyes slitted.

“To work your shift,” Junior said. “Come on, you know calling out like this isn’t going to fly in the long run. Plus, you’re losing out on a fifth of your week’s pay. Probably more.”

“One fifth,” Tall James said, sitting up a bit, “is two tenths.”

Junior held a palm out at him and looked at Packie. “See?” he said. “If he can still do math, he’s safe to work the line. Couple of Rockstars and maybe we’ll even let him use a knife.”

Packie shook his head disgustedly.

Then Tall James flapped a hand in the air as if a bird was trying to peck out his eyeballs. The intensity of the movement caused his body to shift enough on the cushions that he fell off the side and thumped onto the carpet and slammed an elbow against the coffee table. Various cans and bottles clicked together and an ashtray slipped off the opposite side, dumping its contents onto a floor that was already so filthy that it didn’t technically make it dirtier.

“What an ass,” Packie said with a snort.

Tall James planted a palm down onto the coffee table and forced himself up into a precipitous sway. He leveled a gaze at Packie. “Nobuggy says that to me,” he managed.

Junior and Packie shared a look.

“What?” Packie asked. “Ass?”

“You called me a faggot,” Tall James said, pawing at the cushions and the back of the couch like a feral cat. “Nobody calls me that.”

“Me?” Packie cried. “You’re the one who called me that!”

Tall James was now clambering over the couch, ostensibly in pursuit of Packie’s throat, but the lumbering drunk was so uncoordinated that his handholds kept slipping and he eventually fell with great force face-first into the couch.

“What is his problem?” asked Packie.

Junior was staring down at Tall James and shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know for sure,” he said, “but I think he’s drunk. That, and psychotic, maybe.”

Packie inhaled deeply, watching as Tall James writhed against the cushions in a futile attempt to get back up.

“Which doesn’t mean he’s unfit to work his scheduled shift,” Junior said loudly at Tall James. “Like I said, coffee, Rockstar, whatever stimulant you need, you just say the word and I will produce it for you and then you sear the duck breasts until ten. Maybe eleven, if we get a late-night push.”

About a minute passed, during which Tall James got himself back onto his feet by way of the carpet and an empty vodka bottle and what appeared to be a replica of a wizard’s staff that he’d pulled out from under the couch.

“Let me just hold that for you,” Junior said, cautiously collecting the weapon. It was a replica only in that it was supposed to look like an actual wizard’s staff, but it was still capable of braining someone.

Tall James shuffled around the couch, using the armrest for support, until he was closer to them. “What, urp,” he began, “I don’t understand…” He trailed off and stared at the floor for a moment before lunging at Packie.

The two tussled for at least two full minutes, grappling like underfed sumo wrestlers, slamming each other into furniture, landing punches to face or midsection whenever possible, at one point knocking a light fixture off the wall near the bathroom, and, all the while, Junior stood back, watching with gleeful curiosity as he brandished the staff before him in defense. Eventually, Tall James began to twitch and, not ten seconds later, he seized up and collapsed, first with a crunch on his knees and then with a crush of his face against the kitchen floor.

Packie was panting. “What the hell,” he said. “I didn’t even get a good shot to the face.”

Junior was approaching, leaning in to look at Tall James’s body. “Hey, big guy,” he said, nudging the man with a service clog. “Hey, you sober yet?”

There was no response.

Junior scratched his head. “I think we’re out a line cook tonight.”

Packie frowned down at the body. “Wake up, dumbass,” he called.

Junior held up a hand, the one that wasn’t still gripping the staff. “I think,” he said, “we just need to leave. Right now.”

Packie leaned to him and whispered, “You think he’s dead?”

Junior inhaled. “That,” he said, “is for other people in this universe to determine.”

As they left the studio apartment, Packie noticed at Junior was still carrying the wizard’s staff.

“Are you stealing that?” Packie whispered.

Junior hurried across the lot toward his truck, glancing about paranoically. “This doesn’t exist,” he said.

Packie gave him a skeptical look but got in the truck all the same. As Junior revved it up and pulled out of the lot, Packie added, “Hey, at least you don’t have to fire him, right?” Then he laughed a hateful and intense laugh, a derisive one, like he was humiliating a batch of frosh.

VIII

            On the way back to the restaurant, they passed a Filiberto’s. Packie watched slack-jawed as the bright yellow sign coasted swiftly by. Then he looked at Junior at the wheel.

            “What about bean burritos?” Packie asked.

            “I told you,” Junior said, knuckles tight on the wheel, “that thing doesn’t exist.”

            Packie frowned. “You mean that weird old cane?” he asked. “I’m not talking about—”

            Junior looked away from the road to glare at Packie. “The what?”

            Packie swallowed, nodding. “Filiberto’s,” he said. “I thought we were getting burritos on the way back.”

            “No burritos,” Junior said, focusing again on piloting the vehicle. “I’m not hungry. If you’re hungry, you can wait until after the dinner service for your staff meal. And no filet, so don’t even ask.” He reached out and pressed the call button on his cellphone mounted to the dash.

            “What are you doing?” Packie asked.

            “Calling Juniper,” Junior said. “We might have to listen to fucking Coldplay all night, but she’s solid enough on the line.”

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