I

            Chef Junior stabbed a ticket on the spike and glanced over at Abuse, who was scratching his head and staring tiredly into the cooler at the cold side. “Let me get this straight,” the chef began. “Three times in a row you made a tuna niçoise instead of a wedge delight, you camped so hard on A39 that they walked out, you try to serve soup on a plate, and you expect me to believe you’re fine?”

            “He’s acting all fucked up,” Danny said from the dishpit.

            Abuse shrugged uncaringly, searching fruitlessly for god knows what in the cooler.

            “This isn’t just not you’re A game,” Junior noted. “I haven’t been here that long, sure, but, seriously, you’re a legitimate machine on the regular. What’s happening tonight?”

            Abuse inhaled sharply through his nose and blinked several times as the cool air from the fridge wafted across his face.

            “Hey, Abuse?” Junior called. “Hello?”

            Abuse looked over at him. “Huh?”

            “Are you okay?” Junior asked.

            Abuse swallowed thickly. “What are you talking about?”

            Junior rubbed his face with a palm.

            Then Packie loaded himself into the kitchen like a high-capacity magazine. “These mine?” he asked, cocking his head at the plates in the hot side window.

            “I buzzed you, didn’t I?” Junior asked.

            Packie shrugged. “I left my buzzer on the bar counter.”

            “Well, get it off the counter and clip it to your ass,” Junior suggested. “We have a good hour or two of service left tonight and I don’t want some bullshit front of the house nonsense making things more difficult back here than they already are.”

            Packie eyed him. “What’s wrong back here?”

            Junior looked back over at Abuse, who was still staring absently into the cooler. He was leaning forward so much that his sweaty forehead was less than an inch away from a bucket of ceviche. “Brosef,” the chef asked, “what are you even looking for in there?”

            Abuse turned slowly toward the chef, his eyes slightly rolled back and glazed over. “What?” he asked with obvious irritation.

            Packie watched in horror. “Oh, god,” he muttered, stepping backwards and bumping into the opened lid of the paper towel dispenser.

            Junior smirked at him. “What’s with you now?”

            “Swine flu,” Packie said, scrambling backwards and to his right along the wall. “Abuse has the swine flu.” He got to the corner and slipped backwards, crashing into the linen bin, which upended and covered his legs with filthy kitchen rags and used service napkins.

            Junior was laughing.

            “It’s not a joke,” Packie said as he frantically peeled linens from his server outfit. “I saw a whole piece about it on CNN.”

            “You just looked like you were going for a first and goal,” Junior mocked. He thrust his hands up into the air like a referee confirming a touchdown.

            “Stupid,” Danny observed as he sprayed down some plates.

            Junior chuckled. “CNN.”

            “Wolf. Fucking. Blitzer,” Abuse articulated groggily, as if the name were an incantation involved in some esoteric rite.

            “He’s got to go home,” Packie continued as he managed back up to his feet. “He can’t be spreading it all over the place around here.”

            “If you get your goofy ass out the kitchen,” Danny told him, “you won’t have to worry about it, will you?”

            Packie pointed a finger at him.

            “Don’t point that dick finger at me, dick hair,” Danny warned.

            Packie waggled the finger and left.

            “Fucking hate that bitch,” Danny said.

            Abuse was staring at the ground.

            “So, what is it?” Junior asked him. “You have swine flu?”

            Abuse shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”

            Junior scratched his head. “Hey, uh, I don’t really know if I want to say this,” he began, “but if you think you might have swine flu, I kind of agree with Packie that you probably should go home. Take a few days off, at least until you aren’t contagious anymore.”

            Abuse scowled at him.

            The streaming water at the dishpit ceased. “Did you just say you agree with Packie?” Danny asked. “Cause that shit is weird.”

            “It’s for his own wellbeing,” Junior sang. He looked at Abuse. “Have you been around anyone who was sick?”

            Abuse smacked his lips together. “I ride the bus to work,” he said. “I’m surrounded by sick people all the time.”

            Junior nodded.

            Then Abuse inhaled deeply and let it all out in a long sigh. “And,” he added, “Luna has a bad case of swine flu right now.”

            Junior mashed a palm into his lips. “Looks like you’re coming down with it.”

            “Hold up,” Danny said. “Are you saying you got fucking swine flu and you came to work to give to me?”

            Abuse tiredly shook his head. “I came to work to make sure I get my hours.”

            “Yeah, but you’re spreading that shit around,” Danny said. “That’s not cool, bro.”

            Abuse stared skeptically at him. “Are you trying to tell me that you would stay home if you thought you had swine flu?”

            Danny looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “Ah,” he said, nodding. “Touché.”

            “It’s pronounced ‘touchy,’” Abuse corrected. “Idiot.”

            “All right,” Junior announced. “I’m sorry to tell you this, and in part because it means we’re down back here for the rest of service, but you need to clock out and go home.”

            Abuse groaned.

            “You got tomorrow off already, right?” Junior asked, squinting over at the schedule mounted on the corkboard. “So just hang tight and come back in a couple of days when this is better. I’ll see if we can get someone to switch with you later in the week so that you get some hours back.”

            Abuse tossed up a hand. “Fine,” he said. “It’s not like I particularly enjoy being here, anyway.”

            “Is Jux teaching a class tonight?” Junior asked as he pulled out his cellphone.

            Abuse shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

            The phone was already dialed and placed at the chef’s ear. “I’m about to interrupt his ten-hour New Vegas marathon.”

II

            About half an hour later, Jux arrived at the restaurant by way of the dock, where he was immediately met by Abuse.

            “I thought you called out,” Jux said.

            Abuse shook his head. “Sent home.”

            “Why are you still here, then?” Jux asked. “I could be finishing up my Yes Man playthrough.”

            Abuse just stared at him. “What does that mean?”

            “Fallout: New Vegas,” Jux admitted.

Abuse sighed. “Fucking light rail disrupted the bus schedule,” he said. “Now the ten only runs every 50 minutes, and it took me so long to figure out how to get my pack backedpacked, uh, I missed the last one.”

            “Oh, shit,” Jux said. “How about a smoke, then?”

            Abuse cringed. “Not happening,” he said. “I tried one a couple hours ago and I almost spewed in the corner.”

            “Jesus,” Jux said, leaning back. “You really do have swine flu, don’t you?”

            Abuse rolled his eyes.

            “I thought it was just media blowing shit out of proportion,” Jux said. “I mean, it’s like the only thing NPR’s been talking about. I can’t imagine what cable’s like.”

            “It’s real,” Abuse confirmed.

            “But I literally don’t know anybody who’s got it,” Jux said. “I mean, up until now.”

            “You don’t ride the bus,” Abuse said. “Every poor bastard on the bus has swine flu, I’m pretty sure.”

            “Goddamn,” Jux said. He eyed Abuse. “So, should I even be around you right now?”

            “Probably not a good idea,” Abuse said.

            Jux held out a fist.

            “You know I don’t do that,” Abuse said.

            Jux inclined his head. “I just thought it was appropriate.”

            “You don’t want to shake my hand,” Abuse posited. “You smug bastard.”

            Jux winked at him and went inside.

            Alone at the dark dock, illness blossoming, probably half an hour still before it was even time to head to the bus stop, and not even able to force himself to smoke a fucking cigarette, Abuse shivered.

III

            Danny, Duke, and even Almo managed to pick up a collective additional forty-eight hours over the next week taking over the shifts that Abuse had to miss as his body processed the virus until he was allowed back to work. When he returned early one afternoon to start up a dinner shift, nobody would speak to him from a distance of less than about fifteen feet.

            “You do understand that it’s going to be impossible for us to run the kitchen for service tonight if you aren’t, you know, at your stations,” Abuse called to Junior and Danny, who were peeking out from the back room.

            “Baby steps,” Junior said.

            Abuse shook his head and slammed some ninths into the cold side rack. “I’m not contagious anymore,” he continued. “Why do you think I had to wait a whole week? I felt fine four days ago, but apparently there’s a standard contagious period.”

            “Think of it as a little vacation,” Junior suggested. “I’m sure you had plenty to do to occupy your time.”

            “Definitely not sucking down g and t’s at Gloomy’s,” Abuse said bitterly, “since I’m looking at a significant cut on this paycheck.”

            “I tried my best,” Junior said, “but Brian insisted that you stay home the full week because he thought it would be some kind of liability.”

            “And, hey, look, bro,” Danny said apologetically, “I know it’s fucked up, but I just can’t give up my shifts this weekend. Same with Almo.”

            “Actually,” Junior clarified, “Almo can’t give his extra shifts to Abuse because their schedules overlap. You just don’t want to give up the extra money.”

            Danny cringed guiltily. “Sorry, bro,” he added with a shrug.

            Abuse was scribbling on a container label. When he looked at what he’d written, he saw that it read “FUCKLORD” in all caps. He chuckled.

            “Thanks, bro,” Danny said, still cowering in the back room with Junior.

            “Fucklord,” Abuse said. He slid the ninth of julienned roma tomatoes into the rack with a clang.

            “What’d you say?” Danny asked with a frown.

            Abuse looked across the kitchen. “I wrote ‘fucklord’ on the container,” he said, “instead of ‘tomatoes.’ And it’s funny.”

            Danny looked strangely at Junior.

            The chef held up his hands. “I don’t know,” he said. “Swine flu or not, sounds like the old Abuse is back in town.”

            “I never left town,” Abuse assured them. “You know, just having swine flu doesn’t change you. Especially when you literally can’t do anything but take the fucking bus every day again.”

            Junior scratched his chin. “Wait,” he said. “I don’t think that’s very persuasive.”

            Abuse bounced his head a bit. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

            “That you’re probably coming down with it again already,” Junior said. “Having to ride that cesspool every day.”

            Abuse grunted. “Don’t remind me,” he said. “Since they reorganized the bus routes, the one that’s closest to my place is on a line that starts somewhere up on the west side, and I’m pretty sure there’s a patch of halfway houses along the way before it gets to me. Usually a bunch of dudes making the trip downtown to panhandle at the stadium or something.”

            “Oh, man,” Junior said. “You’re slumming it hard.”

            “It’s a shitshow,” Abuse said, “but I’m used to it.” He cleared his throat.

            Junior and Danny stared frightfully at him.

            Abuse held up a finger as he crossed the kitchen toward the bar exit and hocked a loogey into the server’s dump can. “Nothing to be afraid of,” he announced. “Just a little leftover from my last cancer stick.”

            The kitchen was silent as he crossed back to the line.

            “You are assholes,” Abuse suddenly said, “and you’re fucking screwed.”

            “Shit,” Danny said, holding his face in the crook of his elbow. “I knew it.”

            “Assholes because you don’t understand,” Abuse continued. “I’m exposed to this shit because I can’t drive to work in a car all by myself because I don’t have a car.”

            Junior eyed him skeptically. “Don’t you have like two thousand DVDs?”

            “Yeah, bro,” Danny said. “The other day you were telling me about how you had hundreds of Marvel Legends figures, too.”

            Abuse pierced his gaze through the island toward them at the door to the back room. “What of it?”

            “That shit’s expensive,” Danny said with a shrug.

            “I know it’s expensive,” Abuse said.

            Junior held out a hand. “Look,” he said, “we could do the math if you want. DVDs are like ten bucks each, usuall—”

            “Some are much less than that,” Abuse noted.

            “Fine,” Junior conceded. “But you have to admit that some are much, much more, too.”

            Abuse inhaled. “Like the box set of Japanese slasher flicks I just bought for a hundred and thirty dollars,” he said with a nod. “Point taken.”

            “So we can say that it averages out somewhere,” Junior suggested. “Would you agree that the average price of a DVD would be around ten bucks?”

            Abuse considered the proposition. “I would probably nudge that upwards,” he said. “I’m only occasionally scavenging the five-dollar DVD bins at Walmart.”

            Junior nodded. “That’s good,” he said, “but now I have to get out my calculator…”

            “Look,” Abuse said. “You both know that it’s not because I can’t buy a car that I don’t drive. It’s that I don’t want to. Drive. Me? Drive? Seriously? Does that seem like a good idea to either of you?”

            Junior was punching a fingertip at the surface of his smartphone. “Aha,” he announced. “Thirty thousand dollars. Thirty thousand dollars on DVDs.”

            “That’s over many years,” Abuse said dismissively.

            “Hey,” Danny said with a nudge. “What about the toys? They’re like fifteen bucks each.”

            Abuse, alone at the line, clutched his forehead.

            “How many was it?” Junior asked. “Hey, Abuse, how many toys did you buy?”

            “Fuck off,” Abuse said.

            “At least a hundred,” Danny whispered.

            “Not surprising,” Junior said as he tapped at his phone.

            “I am not interested in entertaining this nonsense,” Abuse called to them, “but I’ll have you know that I possess far, far more than a hundred high-quality toys, if that’s what you insist on calling them.”

            Danny held out his hands. “But they’re toys.”

            Abuse shook his head. “Cultural artifacts,” he corrected, “with more social and personal value than I can estimate.”

            “How about three thousand dollars?” Junior suggested. “That would be if you just had two hundred toys that cost fifteen bucks each. I just love this pocket computer.”

            “Damn, bro,” Danny said. “You could buy a fresh-ass ride for thirty-three thousand bucks.”

            “You,” Abuse said as he gripped the cutting board, “are not listening to me. I care not about owning a car. Not even a little bit. Not enough to make it easy to go to the store. Not enough to help take family members to the doctor. Not even enough to spare me from exposure to the fucking hot zone. I won’t drive. Get it?”

            Junior and Danny were silent.

            Abuse took another container from the cooler and glanced at its sodden label before scraping it off with the tip of an unbitten fingernail and tossing the crumpled, soggy mound of deteriorating adhesive-backed paper into the trash.

IV

            The next day was a Friday and, though it was not a “first” Friday, the restaurant was nonetheless geared up in expectation of a busy night even before the kitchen crew had arrived. By some hateful whim of the gods, the owner also happened to have a lunch meeting with some contractor buddies on his schedule, so when the lunch crew began taking too much time to push out unexpected dinner menu orders, he stormed early-afternoon-drunkenly into the kitchen to find out why.

             The kitchen was already busy because the regular Friday lunch push of yippie professionals hadn’t quite yet dissipated. At the hot side, Almo was constructing hot sandwiches of pulled pork with pickled onions or poached chicken with brie while overseeing the searing of long, thin fingers of farmed Atlantic salmon in pans on the ranges. Concepción was on the cold side, building several salads at once with the efficiency and reflexes of an experienced regional labor organizer. Renzo, ears cupped by large headphones from which a thin snake of cord descended to a pocket of his still oversized despite his bulk service pants, was dancing subtly and humming along as he scrubbed pans at the dishpit. At the unmanned prep table towered a collection of plastic-wrapped steel containers in a shoddy, precarious construction that vaguely resembled an unfinished pyramid. Brian Tati, the owner of this restaurant, eyes slightly bloodshot and spectacles clapped against his sweaty forehead, watched them for a couple of minutes after entering the kitchen before stepping toward the island at the hot side and rapping a knuckle on the window counter.

            Almo didn’t look up from the sandwich he was working on. “What’s up, boss?”

            “Indeed,” Tati said.

            Almo gently pressed a toasted bun top onto the sandwich and carefully lifted up and placed the plate into the window so that the side salad didn’t lose its vertical sculpt in the process. “What you need?” Almo asked, looking over at the fish. “We got a lot of tickets to get through here.”

            Tati cleared his throat. “We’re waiting on several meals in the annex,” he said. “A couple of herbed ducks, a steak frites. I think a… I don’t know. Didn’t you get our tickets?”

            “Yeah,” Almo said as he tonged a thin filet of salmon from the pan, “but, hey, that stuff’s not on the lunch menu, so…”

            Tati stared at him. “This is a special lunch.”

            Almo’s eyes widened a bit as he transferred one, two, and then three of the slim cuts of salmon onto the piles of ornately-decorated greens that Concepción had prepared. “You got to tell us about it ahead of time if you want it off the menu,” he said. “We’re not set up for dinner service.”

            “But you have the ingredients,” Tati said.

            Almo looked at him. “They’re not in the mise en place,” he said, “because none of that’s on the lunch menu. I started to dig it out, but…” He ticked his head over at the prep table and then shook his head and attended to another sandwich as two more tickets printed.

            “What’s the problem?” Tati asked.

            Almo jiggled some tongs into a red bucket of sanitizer water housed on a low shelf by the hot side cooler. “The labels are all wrong,” he said. After flinging residual sanitizer solution from the tongs, he plunged them into a bucket of pulled pork to piece out enough shredded meat to start construction on two more sandwiches.

            Tati, frowning and wiping his forehead with the back of his palm, turned to the rickety tower of containers on the prep station. “This doesn’t look safe,” he observed.

            “I still got to go through them,” Almo said as he sprinkled paper-thin slices of pickled red onion over the lumps of pulled pork on the sandwiches in progress. “I think it’s risotto on the top there, so…”

            Tati looked closely at the container. The construction wasn’t a pyramid; it looked more like a mountain range. The container that was elevated more than any other was a stainless sixth, wrapped securely with several passes of plastic food service wrap. He didn’t dare touch it, but he peered down through the layers of plastic into the container to see what appeared to be fat hockey pucks of wet sand. “This one?” he asked, looking back at Almo. “You say this is the risotto?”

            Almo scraped his attention away from something he was searing to squint through the island. “Yeah,” he said, turning back to the ranges, “the risotto for the duck.”

            Tati breathed heavily for a moment and then rubbed his forehead, dislodging his glasses enough so that they slipped down into place on his nose.

            “This isn’t my fault, man,” Almo said as he tossed a palmful of finely-diced shallots into a puddle of EVOO shimmering on the surface of a hot pan. “You can’t go pinning this on me. We didn’t expect no dinner orders, and all that labeling you’re going to have to take it up with Abuse. He’s supposed to be here real soon, so—”

            Tati was looking through his glasses at the label on the container. “What is ‘RISOCHODE?’”

            “I’m telling you,” Almo said over the sounds of crackling sears. “I didn’t have the chance to look through all of it yet.”

            Tati glanced at Concepción, who was committed to filling her tickets swiftly and without distraction. Then the owner looked over at Renzo, who didn’t appear to register what was going on since he was not only listening to his music but also deeply invested in scouring nuggets of blackened cheese out of tiny ramekins. Eventually, Tati looked back at the container.

            “You said this is risotto?” Tati asked.

            “That top one,” Almo said as he spackled aioli onto a bun.

            Tati was breathing heavily. “Why does this say ‘RISOCHODE’ then?”

            Almo took a split second to look at the owner. “I don’t know about that,” he said. Looking back down at the rack of ingredients, he added, “I didn’t label it.”

            Tati held up his hands. “I don’t care how you do it,” he said, “but get the annex orders prioritized. I don’t invite business partners here only to make them wait around. We’re already through a second bottle of Rigaletti, and I happen to know that they’re all alcoholics. This is going to start cutting into my profits.”

            Almo took his hand from a pan handle to do a misdirected salute. “Aye, aye, sir.”

            Tati swallowed thickly and wavered in his stance for a second before steadying himself with a surprisingly forceful palm on the edge of the prep table. The stacked containers jiggled a bit. “This is dangerous,” he muttered before practically staggering out of the kitchen.

            A few moments passed without words as they hammered out a few more tickets and a number of clean instruments were set to dry on the rack. That’s when Abuse arrived.

            “Greetings, all,” Abuse called as he stepped in from the back room, buttoning his black chef’s jacket with the embroidered logo of his wife’s place of employment on the right breast covered by a pin depicting the back-breakingly top-heavy comic book heroine Lady Death.

            “All hail Abuse!” Almo called, raising his tongs.

            Abuse shook his head. “No, none of that,” he said with a nod. “Not today. But thank you, of course. Renzo, good afternoon. Hello, Concy.”

            “Hi,” Concepción said with a subtle smile from her work at the cold side.

            “What?” Abuse asked as he reached up to the stereo to plug in his phone.

            Almo was wagging a finger at him. “You really did it this time,” he said. “Oh, yes. You really just had to do it.”

            Abuse frowned. “What did I do?”

            Almo turned back to the ranges, shaking his head and grinning. “You know what you did.”

            “I really don’t, though,” Abuse insisted. He glanced at Concepción, but she was just smiling and looking down while she emptied the remnants of a container of roasted fennel onto the top of a fresh, full ninth and then slipped it down into the open slot on the rack.

            “Well, you’re just in time,” Almo said. “Brian’s got some special guests in the banquet room and they’re ordering off the dinner menu.”

            Abuse shook his head. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “What’s the status?”

            “Status?” Almo asked. “The status is you need to decipher those labels.”

            “What labels?” Abuse asked. He looked at the stacked containers. “What is this?”

            “I didn’t have time to go through all that stuff, yet,” Almo explained. “I was just looking for some of the dinner prep and your joke labels made it impossible.”

            “Joke labels?” Abuse asked. He began reading them. “‘Risochode?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “How am I supposed to know?” Almo cried. “You wrote it.”

            “I didn’t write this,” Abuse said. He examined the label again. “Did I write this?”

            “Looks like your handwriting to me,” Almo said. “Like a comic book.”

            “It does indeed,” Abuse said suspiciously. “‘Asschode poke?’ Seriously? Who’s fucking with me here?”

            “Yeah,” Almo said. “I didn’t get that one at all. There’s a lot of ‘chode,’ but—”

            “Obviously it’s a play on ‘ancho pork,’” Abuse noted.

            “Ohhh,” Almo said.

            “Let me just see this,” Abuse said, picking up a slim steel ninth. “‘Tickle Pecker.’ Oh, my. I like that.”

            “Heh heh,” Almo chuckled. “But what is it?” He shrugged.

            “It’s not like there’s a lid on it,” Abuse said. “It’s obviously pickled carrots.”

            “Hey, man,” Almo defended, “I was pretty busy with orders for actual customers when I was digging around for that shit.”

            “All right, all right,” Abuse said. “So when do these dinner orders need to be filled?”

            Almo’s eyes widened. “Oh, uh,” he said, “that’s the thing. They’re already waiting for them.”

            Abuse blinked twice. “How long have they been waiting?”

            Almo turned to look at the tickets in the clip for a moment before glancing at the clock on the wall above the dishpit. “About thirty minutes.”

            “Jesus fuck,” Abuse spat, scurrying to the rinsing station to wash his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me it was so far gone?” He scrubbed his fingers for about twenty seconds, bobbing his head anxiously, and then pulled a yard of paper towel from the opened dispenser to dry his hands before heading back to the prep table. “What are we looking at all day?”

            “Two ducks, a steak, and two decon cesars,” Almo read out.

            “All right,” Abuse said, scratching his head. “Well, looks like we’ll need this chode. And this one…” He worked through the unstable structure of containers, occasionally tossing one or another with a clang and a slide near the inoperative fryer. “And this one. Fucking amateurs.” He shook his head and collected the selected containers into a little pyramid of his own over his arms and went around to the hot side.

            “Hey,” Almo said. “Come on, man.”

            “Not you,” Abuse smirked as he arranged the containers and began unwrapping. “I’m talking about this example of unfunny shame.”

            Almo looked at the container. “What’s ‘cuck cock?’”

            “In this context,” Abuse said as he settled a couple of pans on the ranges, “I think it means duck breast, which is what’s in there.”

            “Huh,” Almo said. “That’s funny, because—”

            “I don’t want to know your thoughts about cuck cock, Almo,” Abuse said as he squirted EVOO blend into the pans.

            “Guys,” Tati announced as he ambled into the kitchen, “this is… this is taking forever.”

            “On it,” Almo called from the schedule board, where he was standing, doing literally nothing but standing.

            Then Tati sneezed. He didn’t even try to cover his mouth: not with his palm and not with his arm.

            “You feeling okay?” Renzo asked from the dishpit, one of his headphones clapped to a temple.

            “I’m fine,” Tati said irritably. “Thank you.” His face was red and he was sweating profusely, beads dripping down over his eyes.

            “If you got swine flu,” Renzo suggested, “you should probably drink some herbal tea and relax for a few days.”

            Tati swallowed and looked at him. “I,” he said, “don’t have swine flu. It’s just the sensational media. Nobody has swine flu.”

            “You made me miss a week of work because I had it,” Abuse noted.

            Tati clenched his eyes shut, very tightly. Perhaps too tightly, it turned out, because he kept blinking and spazzing for some time afterwards. “Protocol,” was all the owner had to say before stumbling out to the front.

            The kitchen crew was silent for a moment.

            “He has it,” Renzo said before cupping the headphone again to his ear and resuming the loading of the dishwasher.

            “That fucking hypocrite,” Abuse said as he oversaw the sizzling of two pucks of risochode in a pan.

V

            Later in the afternoon, once the evening crew had arrived en masse and the lines were all switched out, Max shuffled into the kitchen to inform them that there was an ambulance and a fire truck spinning lights in the parking lot.

            “Oh, no,” Almo said. “We didn’t poison no one.”

            Max cocked an eyebrow at him.

            Abuse held a forefinger up at Max and then took a kalamata olive from a container on the cold side rack and flicked it at Almo, who dodged it almost effortlessly. Abuse then turned back to Max. “What Almo meant to say,” he said, “was… why are the authorities here?”

            Max started grinning.

            “That I don’t like,” Abuse said.

            “Yeah,” Danny continued with obvious suspicion. “The only time I ever see you like this is when someone you don’t like fucks up real bad. That or you saw some pretty girl who actually talked to you.”

            “It’s not that,” Max said.

            “He’s not even mad about that jibe,” Abuse noted.

            Danny nodded. “So what is it, fro-boy?” he asked. “You graduate and unlock your trust fund?”

            Max inhaled deeply. “Don’t ruin this.”

            “This,” echoed Abuse, “is a waste of our goddamned time. Probably just some geezer was sitting down for too long and got dizzy when he got up.” He resumed whisking the cream reducing in the pan before him.

            “Tati fell,” Max blurted.

            Everyone looked at him: Almo by the schedule, Concepción from the back room, Renzo by the ice machine, Abuse at the hot side, Danny at the cold, Jux at the dishpit.

            “He… fell,” Abuse said.

            Max nodded. “I didn’t see it,” he said, “but I heard it. Oh, man, I heard it. Like ten broken glasses. Apparently he knocked over the beverage supply table in the banquet room.”

            “Dayum,” Danny said.

            Max’s grin widened. “I know, right?”

            Abuse tossed a gloved handful of sliced, seeded habaneros into the bubbling cream. “Was he drunk?”

            “Probably,” Max said. “He gets drunk here all the time.” He shook his head, chuckling.

            “Why are you so bemused by this?” Abuse asked.

            Max held out his hands. “Tati’s an asshole,” he said. “This shit is hilarious.”

            “Come on,” Jux called from the dishpit.

            “Is he all right?” Danny asked.

            “He has swine flu,” Renzo interjected.

            Danny looked at Renzo. “What?”

            “We don’t know,” Concepción said. She drew from the straw poking out of a Styrofoam cup.

            “Exactly,” Abuse said. “We don’t know. All we know, if you think about it, is that Max here is a chode gobbler.”

            Max frowned. “What’s that?”

            Renzo did a little dance, now grinning himself.

            “I got two words for you,” Jux said. “Urban dictionary. That’s what I used.”

            “Huh,” Max said.

            “I’ll save you the time, Max,” Abuse said, “because I care about you. A ‘chode’ is a…” He paused and looked around the kitchen. “Is, uh, who’s still here?”

            Danny clapped him on the shoulder. “How considerate of you!”

            “Yes,” Concepción said from the back room. “I know. More wide than long.”

            “What?” Max asked.

            “A phallus,” Jux said. He held his hand before his crotch, fingers wide and palm up like he was pouring out a bottle of wine.

            “What the fuck?” Max muttered.

            “A ‘chode,’” Abuse resumed, “is a penis that has more width than length. Usually it is very short.”

            Max touched his forehead. “So I’m a chode muncher?”

            “Actually, I said ‘gobbler,’” Abuse corrected.

            “Gobble, gobble,” Danny added, pumping his elbows out like turkey wings.

            “Seriously,” Max asked, “what the fucking fuck?”

            “Are you wondering why we’re all on your case all the sudden?” Abuse asked. He pulled the cream reduction from the burner and let the slightly orange goo dribble through the loose wires of a mesh strainer into a ninth.

            “You guys are always on my case,” Max noted.

            Abuse shook his head and walked across the kitchen to deposit the pan into the right sink. “No, that’s not what this is,” he said. “Yes, Brian is a selfish asshole and a hypocrite and an overall piece of shit a lot of the time. But he is a human being. And, don’t quote me on this, but sometimes he’s actually not all that bad. If you ignore all the other shit.”

            “Bro,” Danny said, “he made you miss a week of work because you got swine flu, and not he’s got swine flu and he didn’t even leave his special lunch.”

            Abuse looked briefly over at the dishwasher unit. “That’s why I just said he was a selfish asshole and a hypocrite.”

            “Then why are you defending him?” Danny asked.

            Abuse inhaled. “I’m not,” he said, “defending Tati.” He turned to Max, who had the look of a high school student with failing grades, a video game addiction, and delusions of being one of the smartest people alive. “I’m just trying to help Max a bit here. See, Max, I don’t like him. I don’t like a lot of people. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy watching them injure themselves, or humiliate themselves, whatever the case may be, usually.”

            “Usually?” Max asked.

            Abuse shrugged. “Yeah, sometimes it happens.”

            “So that’s what’s happening with me in this situation,” Max said.

            There was a wet burst from the back room.

            “You okay?” Renzo asked.

            Concepción was doubled over, clutching her stomach and laughing through a coughing fit.

            “Oh shit,” Danny said.

            “Fine, fine,” Concepción said, wiping her face with the back of a hand. “Tea came out of my nose.”

            Abuse was clutching his forehead again.

            “She gets it,” Max announced. He pumped a fist in the air like the local sportsball franchise had just scored a home three.

            “Stop,” Abuse cautioned. It was directed generally.

            “You’re a hypocrite!” Max continued, his volume loud enough to derail whatever other conversations had been tracking along. “Did you all hear that? Abuse is a hypocrite!”

            Abuse waved his hands about. “This is meaningless,” he said. “The young man is confused.”

            “You said I was a chode gobbler for enjoying the fact that Tati fell into the beverage table,” he hollered, “but then you yourself admitted to sometimes enjoying it when people you don’t like get hurt. Ha! You’re a chode gobbler, too!” He briefly pantomimed pumping a penis into his mouth before cutting it short after a revelatory moment of self-assessment.

            Abuse was silent, massaging his eyeballs through the lids with a thumb and forefinger.

            The crew was also quiet, exchanging and deflecting glances as the hum of the appliances and the subtle whisper of AC bloomed out of the ceiling grates and caressed the sides of the plates and ramekins stacked atop the island.

            Then Crystal entered. At first it was the usual quick pace to relay news, but, as soon as she’d stepped into the kitchen, she recognized the strange tension—and surprising quiet—and slowed her pace considerably. After a questioning look around, she asked, “What’s going on back here? Does someone have swine flu?”

            Renzo nodded. “Tati does.”

            “Unconfirmed,” Abuse followed.

            “Probably does,” Concepción added.

            Abuse held up his hands.

            Crystal shrugged. “Well, they’ll figure that out real quick,” she said, “because he just got into the ambulance.”

            Danny’s eyes were wide. “He took an ambulance?”

            “That’s going to cost him,” Almo said with a shake of his head. “If you need a hospital, go to the hospital. But ambulance? He’s on the same insurance he offers us. It’s probably going to cost him a thousand bucks.”

            “Which he’ll use as a reason to fuck us, somehow,” Jux posited.

            “He’s on the same insurance as us?” Max asked.

            Abuse wavered his skull. “Jury’s still out.”

            “I saw it,” Almo said. “Couple years ago, I saw a printout of everyone who was on the policy and he was on there.”

            “He’s probably got some Cadillac plan for himself and just put his name on the list to make it seem like he was on the same plan he offers his employees,” Jux hypothesized.

            “But he just went off in an ambulance,” Max said.

            “Yeah, I mean,” Jux stammered, “it’s an expression for—”

            “Stop,” Abuse commanded, again generally. “I don’t give the muffin of Christ about Brian’s health coverage. I need to know if he came to the restaurant knowing that he had swine flu. Is there proof of this?”

            “We don’t have any proof,” Renzo admitted.

            “Then we will have to discover it,” Abuse announced.

            Everyone was quiet, exchanging subtle looks that seemed to reflect something between confusion and skepticism.

            “What is it?” Abuse asked.

            “I just, uh,” Renzo said, “don’t see the point.”

            “Yeah, like, what are you going to do even if you do prove it?” Almo asked. “That motherfucker doesn’t take kindly to being sued.”

            “I’m not going to sue him,” Abuse said quickly. “You think I have a lawyer?”

            “Don’t do it,” Concepción suggested.

            Abuse was smiling.

            “Oh God,” Jux said.

            Abuse winked at him and did a slow pelvic thrust with clenched fists.

            “Are you having a seizure?” asked Max.

            “I know what this is,” Jux said, staring at Abuse. “You’re going have your dad find someone to sue him for you.”

            “We’ll see,” Abuse said, still grinning.

VI

            Although literally everyone at the restaurant expected the owner to return the next day, even if he was dribbling goops of green infected mucous, he didn’t show. There was some chatter about this, but expectations were shattered when, the day after, he arrived around noon, and he didn’t really look any sicker than normal. His face was characteristically gleaming with a hint of pink and his eyes were glassy and enlarged by his reading glasses, but these were the result of regular wine consumption. What was interesting, however, was the inconspicuous, almost sheepish way with which he made his first foray into the kitchen, simply walking in a few steps, nodding deferentially to the chef and then Renzo and Jux, and then smiling faintly and walking back out to the bar.

            “That greasy motherfucker,” Jux muttered as he squeezed a light spiral of a creamy yellow vinaigrette over a mound of spring mix.

            “I’d still stay away from him,” Renzo advised.

            Chef Junior laughed. “That’s already what Jux does.”

            “Damn right,” Jux said.

            “It’s no joke,” Renzo insisted. “My uncle got swine flu three days ago and he’s still in the hospital.”

            “Oh, shit,” Jux said. “Is he okay?”

            Renzo shrugged. “Hard to say,” he said. “He goes to the hospital every couple of months. Just this time it’s swine flu.”

            “All right, well,” Junior began, “speaking of swine flu, where’s Abuse? He was supposed to be here at noon.”

            Jux leaned away from the cold station and coughed into his armpit.

            “You okay over there?” Junior asked.

            Jux nodded. “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll call Abuse.” He stripped off his service gloves and deposited them in the can on his way to the back room to get his phone. From the back room, the sound of another cough emerged.

            Junior and Renzo exchanged looks of concern.

            “You think he’s sick now?” Junior whispered.

            Renzo raised his eyebrows and then just shrugged and turned back to the sink to go to town on another crusty frying pan.

            Moments later, Jux reemerged from the back room. “Bus was late,” he announced. “He said he’s at—” interrupted by a wet cough “—32^nd and Indian Slave now, so it’s going to be at least thirty minutes.” He shivered and went to the rinsing station to wash his hands.

            Junior and Renzo watched carefully as Jux swiped at the tongue of towel sticking out from the roll in the opened dispenser. The first grab was not nearly enough to dry his hands, so he swiped again, tearing no more than he had before. The third swipe yielded similar results.

            “Fuck this thing,” Jux muttered. “It sucks whether you bypass the sensor or not.”

            “Are you okay?” Junior asked.

            Jux looked at him, then glanced at Renzo for a moment before looking back at the chef. “Yeah, why?”

            “You’re coughing and acting weird,” Junior explained.

            Jux shook his head. “I’m just clearing some stuff out,” he said. “I was up pretty late last night. Did almost an entire Caesar’s Legion playthrough.”

            “You’re coughing because you played too much New Vegas last night?” Junior pressed.

            Jux diverted his eyes bashfully. “Well,” he said, “I was also chain-smoking.”

            “Ah,” Junior said.

            “And I had ten PBRs,” Jux added.

            Junior beamed a reprimanding grin. “Only ten?”

            “And—”

            “There’s more?” cried Junior.

            “And,” Jux resumed, “I only got three hours of sleep.”

            Junior squinted up at the dusty ceiling tiles. “So,” he calculated, “basically you were still somewhat drunk when you came to work at six this morning.”

            Jux coughed again, into his armpit. “Probably, I guess?”

            Teatree entered from the bar with a big empty bucket. “You guys see Brian?” he asked as he passed the island and flipped up the door to the ice machine.

            “Yeah,” Jux said. “Unfortunately.”

            Teatree shook his head and picked up the ice scoop from its plastic holster on the side of the machine. “He says he feels fine,” he said, “but I think he’s bullshitting.”

            “Don’t be around him too much,” Renzo advised.

            Teatree was scooping big mounds of ice into the bucket. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” he said. “I already have a whole set of contingency plans to minimize the amount of time I have to be around him when he insists on loitering near the bar. If he’s on the computer, I pretend like I’m reorganizing the cheese case. If he’s on the opposite side by the wine wall, I pretend to reorganize the vodkas. That kind of thing. It’s pretty fun—”

            “You’re spilling ice all over the floor,” Junior interrupted.

            Indeed, Teatree’s bucket was overfilled and he still had half a scoop to deliver. Cold, glistening chips were scattered across the fake tile.

            “I’ll sweep it,” Teatree blurted. He dumped the remaining ice back into the machine, slapped the lid down, and jabbed the scoop into the holster.

            “Yeah, you will,” Junior confirmed.

            Once Teatree was gone, Jux shook his head and stared at the ice machine.

            Junior watched for a moment. Then, he asked, “Wondering why you can’t just kill everyone in Goodsprings and then go about lying about it for the rest of the game?”

            Jux frowned. “What?”

            “Goodsprings,” Junior insisted. “I mean, it’s possible that one of the Powder Gangers or some random merchant might be lingering on the fringes observing, but I don’t think that’s actually in the game.”

            “What the fuck are you talking about?” Jux asked.

            “Goodsprings,” Junior repeated.

            “New Vegas?” Jux asked. He shook his head somewhat violently, like he thought there was a strange beetle on him. “No,” he continued defensively, “I’m not thinking about New Vegas. I’m thinking about Teatree. Did his face look kind of sweaty to you?”

            Junior glanced over at the exit to the bar. “No more than usual,” he said. “I understand that there are a lot of pills involved in his, uh, daily schedule.”

            “Huh,” Jux said, now also looking over at the vacant bar corner exit, out of which Crystal suddenly emerged.

            “Brian’s still got swine flu,” she announced as she passed the island and then disappeared into the back room.

            “Told you,” Renzo said as he reorganized some of the soiled dishes on the counter.

            Junior was busy with a sear, so he bounced his eyebrows at Jux and Jux followed Crystal into the storage area.

“Really?” Jux asked. “How do you know?”

            Crystal was collecting a plastic-wrapped stack of small square plates from a shelf. “Did you see him?”

            “Yeah,” Jux said, “but he’s always pink.”

            Crystal, stack in hand, turned to Jux. “He just backed into someone who was taking a bite of poached egg,” she said, walking past him into the kitchen.

            Jux followed.

            “It happened,” Crystal said, pausing briefly on the walkway side of the island as Junior and Renzo both turned to listen, “because he was moving out of the way so that other guests would have enough room to pass him between the tables while he was delivering a glass of ice water.”

            “But that doesn’t make sense,” Jux said. “I thought he never touched the food. Except, like, when it’s so busy that he has no choice but to humiliate himself by helping.”

            “You see, that’s exactly it,” Crystal said. “I’ve seen him out there, drunk and not, more times than I can tell you, and the only other time I’ve seen him servile and disoriented like this was when he fell into the beverage table.”

            Renzo suddenly sneezed ferociously into his arm.

            “Uh oh,” Junior said.

            Renzo, looking down, waved negatively at the chef before politely nodding his way across the kitchen and out through the storage room to the dock.

            “I’m going to leave,” Crystal said. And then she did.

            Junior looked over at Jux, but Jux was again staring at the ice machine. The HVAC was in a dormant phase, so the humming of the machine was not only clearly audible but prominent in the audio ecosystem, in competition only with the sizzle of caramelizing onions and the subtle sucking sound made by a seared filet when Junior plucked it from a pan.

            “Do you feel dizzy?” Jux suddenly asked. There was this little circular drain on the floor near one of the island’s hot-side support poles, and he was staring at it.

            “Keep it together,” Junior said. He reached over to the cold side and pinched out a wad of arugula and nestled it onto the plate next to the seared beef tenderloin. “This is just industry vertigo.”

            “I know, but—”

            “No, I know,” Junior said, pointing the tongs at the flaps of his chef’s jacket across his broad chest. “I know what’s going on here. You’re starting to think we’re all getting the H to the N. But I don’t think we are.”

            Jux swallowed and motioned with a tilt of the head toward the storage room. “Renzo just left,” he said. “I think he’s still stifling sneezes out there.”

            Junior shook his head and turned back to the pans on the ranges. “You just watch,” he said as he agitated some purpling slices of red onion. “In less than a minute, he’s going to walk back in here and say it was just a whiff of smoke that didn’t get sucked up the hood.”

            Jux focused on his breathing and then turned slowly to look at the clock high on the wall over the dish counter. It was 12:43 and the seconds hand was down in the twenties. He immediately looked away, and the force with which he swiveled himself was apparently enough to cause him to slam into the side of the prep table, sending a shimmering thump up the wall paneling that clattered the knife rack and dislodged a cassette tape case from the storage shelf. Jux had steadied himself with a hand on the table, and the tape happened to fall right onto it. One of the corners of the case imprinted an inverted pyramid onto the meat at the base of his thumb before it toppled and fell to a stop on the stainless steel. Jux blinked a few times.

            “What was that?” called Junior with a brief glance away from a batch of in-process beurre blanc.

            “Nothing,” Jux said. He breathed deeply and steadied himself and snatched up the case. “What the fuck are cassette tapes doing around here?”

            “Not being listened to,” Junior said, ho-hum, hi-ho, frozen sliver of frozen butter in the pan.

            Jux nodded and then began an examination of the case. It was Ween’s Chocolate and Cheese, so it was striking not only because it had impacted with his hand but also because of the copious underboob on the album’s front. There was a cassette inside. He looked up at the stereo on the shelf above the fryer. It had a deck. “Maybe I should play it?”

            “What?” asked Junior over the ambient sizzling.

            “Don’t you think I should—”

            But then came Renzo. “Sorry guys,” he sniffed, “but I think I need to call out.”

            Junior looked over at him. “But you’re already here,” he said. “Are you sick?”

            Renzo shook his head. “Naw,” he said. “Just some of that pepper smoke got over to me.”

            “Ha!” Junior exclaimed, pointing his tongs through the island window at Jux. “I predicted it!”

            “But I really got to take off,” Renzo continued, serious as stone. His headphones weren’t even on his head at all. They were resting on his shoulders. “I have to take a sick day.”

            “You just said you weren’t sick,” Junior cried. “And you’ve only got an hour left on your shift.”

            Renzo eyed the bar corner exit and shook his head. “This is too dangerous, man.”

            Junior was breathing slowly and deeply, staring at him. “You know what else is dangerous?”

            “What?” Renzo asked.

            Junior swung around and resumed stirring the caramelizing onions. “Not attending to these little bad boys right here,” he said with a quick shake of his head. “Take off if you want. I can’t keep you here.”

            Renzo was staring at the chef’s back. “Come on, man,” he said. “You got to understand my granpa lives with us. I can’t be bringing sick shit home.”

            Still attending to the little bad boys, Junior said, “I told you you could leave. Looks like you’ve been keeping ahead all morning.”

            Renzo sighed. He waved over at the dishpit. “That was nothing today,” he said. He tugged at the neck of his headphones to adjust them to a more comfortable positioning. “There were a bunch of plates around eleven, but everything else was easy.” He stared back at the chef’s back.

            “Killing it, bro!” Junior exclaimed.

            Renzo went back out through the storage room.

            After a moment staring feverishly about, Jux found that his fingers were toying with something smooth and nostalgically plastic. The case of a cassette tape. He looked down at it again. The underboob was just too distracting. Yes, this was Chocolate and Cheese. He’d just been momentarily distracted by that underboobery and, no, this wasn’t an actual fever coming on. This was just the normal fully-sober-but-not-sure-what-is-that-about-to-spin thing. But what was that thing? Was it? No—It was Chocolate and Cheese. He looked at his hand again, curious eyes agape at the little pyramidal indentation that still remained from the assault by the corner of the case. Is that an upside-down pyramid? Or am I upside-down? He shivered.

            Jux leaned forward and pawed the stereo on the shelf above the fryer. It did have a tape deck, didn’t it? Of course it did. This was no old-school boombox, considering that it was probably purchased at Walmart circa 2003, but it had a cassette deck. Jux fumbled the case open, took out the cassette, and leaned up and hit the open switch. The orifice was slow to open, likely by way of some springs. Or was it stored kinetic energy? Or… wasn’t that the same thing? He swallowed thickly and slid the tape down into the mechanism, but there was some pushback so he jiggled the cartridge a bit and then it still wouldn’t take so he removed it and looked at it. A translucent plastic cassette with its reeled magnetic tape nice and tight in there. The tracks.

            Jux shivered and reached back up and put the tape into the mechanism and, this time, it slid right in, deeper, more secure. He fingerpressed closed the mechanism’s cover and punched the button with the triangle pointing right.

“Am I gonna see God, Mommy?” called the acid voice of a sickly child from the speakers, accompanied with hypnotic percussive bells and a thick, deep beat. It was “Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)” erupting loudly in mid-play. Classic Ween.

            Jux reached up to crank it down, but, in the process, he brushed the side of the half pan that was upturned to cover the vat of old oil in the countertop fryer. The impact was not enough to cause anything but a subtle scraping sound and a slight hesitation from Jux, but that hesitation was enough for him to take the time and readjust while the song continued blasting into the kitchen.

            “It really hurts, Mommy,” came the distorted, ethereal voice in sine with the music. “Am I gonna die?”

            Chef Junior, back still turned, was shaking his head and staring down at his saute.

            Jux hurried to dial down the volume.

            “No!” Junior hollered with a face up at the hood. “Smile on, mighty Jesus. Spinal meningitis got me down.” He was singing along when the sound of shuffling emerged from the back room and then Abuse appeared in the kitchen.

            “Smile on, mighty Jesus!” hollered Junior. “Spinal meningitis got me down!”

            “What is this sick shit?” Abuse asked, frowning at the chef.

            “Ween,” Jux said. “I know—”

            “You brought Ween into this kitchen?” Abuse snarled.

            “I didn’t bring anything,” Jux said. “I mean, I have that Ween you already know about on my mp3 player, but that’s not what’s happening here. This is a fucking cassette tape that fell through the shelf right there. I think it’s a bootleg. I mean, it has the underboob and everything, but it looks kind of… bootleg.”

            Abuse looked over at the wire slats of the shelf. “So this is one of Natalija’s.” He squinted at the rack of greasy binders. “So there’s still more around here.”

            “More Ween?” Jux asked.

            Abuse eyed him. “More Natalija,” he said after a quick glance at the ice machine. Or was it the fryer. Was he looking at the fryer?

            Jux didn’t know, and Chef Junior was now pumping a pair of tongs into the air in rhythm with the song as he monitored the onions and now shallots and capers in pans of their own on the range, so a few seconds passed as Abuse examined the shelf up there with all the old recipe books. When the song faded out, Abuse quickly punched the stop button and ejected and removed the cassette.

            Jux’s eyes widened. He looked worriedly over at the chef.

            “Freedom of the body,” Junior was singing softly along with the sizzling pans. “Freedom of the mind.”

            “See,” whispered Abuse, “he doesn’t even need it playing.” He studied the lettering printed on the clear plastic cartridge.

            Jux shivered and swallowed. “See what I mean?” he asked. “Bootleg.”

            “This doesn’t look like one of her bootleg tapes,” Abuse said. “They were all either white tapes with the print on the plastic or clear tapes like this with labels on them. Those were definitely bootleg. I don’t know about this—”

            “Phrawkchoo!” blasted a wet slug from Teatree’s nose into a service napkin as he sweatily entered from the bar. He shook his head and passed between them and the island on his way out to the back.

            Abuse pointed a finger after him. “Is that what’s happening around here today?”

            Jux sniffled. He shrugged. “Renzo just walked out after sneezing,” he managed, “but he swears he’s not sick.”

            “He didn’t actually leave, did he?” Junior asked.

            “I just saw him at the dock,” Abuse said.

            “Renzo!” Junior called. “Renzo!”

            After a pause, Renzo’s big frame filled the doorway. “What?”

            “We’ll be fine back here if you need to take off,” Junior said.

            Renzo shook his head.

            “Listen,” Junior said. “I understand. We’ll be fine. I mean it. Maybe you can pick up some extra hours next week.”

            Renzo sighed.

            Jux suddenly walked off toward the dishpit and sneezed ferociously into his arm.

            “Oh glorious fuckery,” Abuse said, shaking his head. He looked at Renzo. “You really should get out of here if you don’t want to catch it.”

            “Come on, man,” Renzo said. “You know Brian’s going to get mad if I leave.”

            “I’ll explain it,” Junior said.

            Renzo was shaking his head. “Naw, man,” he said. “He’s going to think I have that shit, and then he’s not going to let me come back to work for a week. I can’t miss all that.”

            “I don’t know if this is going to be any better tomorrow, or next Tuesday,” Junior said.

            Renzo swore under his breath and scratched his neck.

            “Fuck this,” Abuse said. He walked around the island and pressed one of the call buttons on the panel above the steam table where the soups and sauces were warming.

            “What are you doing?” Junior asked.

            “Creating a solution,” Abuse said.

            “Oh, come on, man,” Renzo whined.

            “Trust me,” Abuse said.

            “Last time you told me that,” Renzo recalled, “you played some dumb ass music.”

            “Was it Sisters of Mercy?” asked Jux, slowly, steadying himself on the dish station’s counter.

            Abuse shot him a disappointed look. “You don’t know what’s good.”

            “Naw,” Renzo said. “It was some weird trucker band. Something about hauling oats.”

            Jux nodded. “Ah,” he said. “Yes. That’s guy’s name, actually. Hallin Oats.”

            Abuse was shaking his head. “You really are oblivious to reality sometimes.”

            “What?” Jux asked. “Am I wrong? Isn’t the, you know, main guy or whatever in that band named ‘Hallin Oats?’”

            “It’s ‘Hall and Oates,’” Abuse articulated. He punched the call button again. “And it is neither ‘dumb ass’ nor trucker music.”

            “Depends on the trucker, though,” Junior added. “Right? Eh?”

            Teatree staggered in from the back. “What do you want?” he asked tiredly. He swallowed and touched his fingertips against the surface of the prep table as if to ensure that it was, in fact, a physical object.

            “Where’s Tati?” Abuse asked.

            Renzo clasped a palm over his face.

            “Puking in the bathroom for all I know,” Teatree said.

            “Get him,” Abuse commanded.

            Renzo held out his hands. “I don’t want to be around him.”

            “I’ll make sure he stays at the other end of the kitchen,” Abuse promised. He looked at Teatree. “If you don’t fetch Tati, I will push this call button every five to ten minutes for the rest of the night.”

            Teatree scanned the kitchen and then sauntered out to the bar.

            “What are you planning?” Junior asked.

            Abuse looked at the stereo. “I’m not completely sure, yet,” he said, “but it definitely will not involve Ween.”

            “Not even a little bit?” pouted Junior.

            “Not even a little bit,” Abuse confirmed.

            Junior sprinkled some chopped parsley over a plate of duck risotto and slid it into the window.

            “We got a table out there?” Abuse asked.

            “This is Crystal’s staff meal,” Junior explained.

            Then Tati entered, swaying and blinking strangely. He touched his clammy hands several times down onto the surface of the prep table as he crossed the kitchen toward the hot side island and then cupped the sides of the plate. He sniffled, again blinking.

            “What are you doing?” Junior asked.

            Tati looked at him blankly. “Where’s this going?”

            “See, this I really don’t like,” Abuse said. “Since when are you interested in delivering plates?”

            Tati frowned weakly, staring down at the risotto with his hands still on the sides of the square plate.

            “Are you feeling well?” Junior asked.

            “Fine,” Tati mumbled. “I’m fine. Just…” He slowly removed his hands from the plate but kept staring straight down at the puck of fried risotto and the seared duck breast perched atop it.

            “Cause you look like you’re about to pass out,” Junior added.

            Tati swallowed.

            “Coming into the restaurant when you have swine flu isn’t cool, Brian,” Abuse reprimanded.

            “I’m… it’s not,” Tati sputtered.

            “All you’re doing is getting your staff and your customers sick,” Abuse said. “You don’t even usually come in more than two or three times a week. Why are you subjecting us to this?”

            Tati breathed in deeply and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said distantly.

            Jux suddenly walked toward the bar exit from the dishpit, but before even making it out of the kitchen he leaned over and vomited copiously into the linen basket.

            “Beautiful,” Abuse muttered.

            Tati squinted for a moment and then turned to walk out to the back but stopped and quickly swung around to face the front of the kitchen, but the momentum of his movement was enough to imbalance him. His hands grappled at the prep counter as he began to collapse, and, in the process, he clipped the edge of the dormant countertop fryer, which upended and launched its contents into the air. A shimmering pale shower of weeks-old frying oil rained down upon him. Fortunately, he’d left his reading glasses at the bar. Unfortunately, the grease was enough to make steadying himself impossible either by planted hand or steady foot, and he slipped backwards and slammed his back into the island and then dropped onto his ass. Crystal’s plate of duck risotto slid out a few inches and was saved from its precarious balance with a quick nudge from Junior’s tongs.

            Renzo was the first to Tati’s side, carefully sliding to a kneel. “You okay?”

            Tati didn’t say anything, so Renzo whirled a forefinger in the air.

            Junior pulled out his cellphone. “Two ambulances in three days.” He shook his head and dialed 911.

            “Canola oil is really rapeseed oil,” Tati muttered. “Did you know that? I knew that.”

            Jux vomited again into the linen basket.

            “Please tell me this isn’t going to become a swine flu-fueled discussion about the naming of canola oil,” Abuse said.

            “I think he’s probably okay,” Renzo announced.

            Junior plugged an ear with a finger as he interacted with the operator. “Yes, Tati’s Wine and Spirits,” he said, providing the cross-streets. “He appears to be okay, but he’s talking about cooking oil, which is kind of weird.”

            Abuse walked around the island and took a look at the owner.

            Tati was breathing heavily and staring at his grease-slathered hands. “Is this food safe?” he asked. “Is it old? It smells old.”

            Abuse sighed and looked at Renzo. “I think you’re clear to go.”

            Renzo backed away from the owner. “Aight, then.”

            “You really risked yourself there,” Abuse noted.

            Renzo shrugged. “Can’t have him left unattended after some shit like that.”

            Abuse inclined his forehead. “Well, take off, then.”

            Jux staggered over, wiping his mouth. He looked down at Brian Tati, who was mumbling something about rapeseed oil. Then he looked at Abuse. “You still going to sue him?”

            Abuse shook his head. “No,” he said. “My work here is done.”

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