The Sunday Paper: “Blood Come” by Ryan Adam Murray. Part 1 of 7.
I used to jerk off in the mornings. Now I just wake up and try not to think about Ted.
It’s only for twenty minutes as his shift ends and mine begins, but knowing that I’m going to see him fills me with dread. He’ll tell some stupid joke, and he’ll giggle. Then he’ll chuckle. Then he’ll guffaw uproariously until his whole head turns purple. I can’t look directly at Ted when he laughs. Imagine someone took a semi-erect penis, with beady eyes and a five o’clock shadow, made it wear an apron, and taught it to flip burgers. That’s Ted.
Ted only knows four jokes. None of them are funny, but what he lacks in wit he makes up for in persistence. By this I mean that he tells the same four jokes over and over because he has the memory of a fucking goldfish. Ted is the day-shift supervisor but he tells people that he is the “executive sous chef.” We have a small kitchen. Nobody is ‘executive’ anything. If you want to get technical though, I’m the sous chef.
Ted is the best at everything that can be done. There’s no way to argue with him. He does not comprehend reason. You might suggest that there can be no “best” way to cook French fries. You throw them in the deep fryer and pull them out when they’re done. You can fuck up French fries by taking them out too early or leaving them in too long, but there’s no trick to it. Trying to explain something like that to Ted is impossible. He has fifteen years of experience, he says. No one on the planet can dunk sliced potatoes in hot grease like he can, and that’s that. The idea that “his way” might not be the best way, or the possibility that there may be no “best way,” brakes every rule of his egocentric logic.
I steel my resolve to face Ted — with his twisted laugh that sucks all of his blood into his repulsive face — and be strong. Each time his head turns purple, I will be a man of granite. I’ll see him soon. I know I will.
I nod to Peter the bartender. After drop my gear off in the changing room, donning my whites, gathering my knives, I head into the kitchen with a knot in my stomach. I have to pretend to like him. If I don’t, there’ll be trouble. Ted does everything in his power to spread vicious rumours about anyone who dislikes him. The owners haven’t yet figured out that he’s full of shit. Based on his much lauded ‘experience,’ they think he is to be taken seriously. They also think that the rest of us are jealous of him. They hang on to these ideas because they’ve been paying him like he knows what he’s doing and they’ve come too far to admit that they were wrong.
When I arrive in the kitchen I find that Ted has gone home already.
Goddamn.
It takes a great deal of psychic energy to prepare for the purple-penis, French fry king. Now that he’s not here, I’m almost disappointed. Not really, but almost.
Ruggario the baker and Juan the saucier, who start their shifts around noon and leave after the supper rush, are busy in the back. I don’t talk to them much, because I don’t need to. They both know their jobs. They’re both rock solid.
The first person I talk to is the dishwasher, Bandula. He’s a sociopathic ogre with shoulders as wide as a city bus and hands as big as dinner plates, but he’s not Ted so I’m glad to see him. He doesn’t seem glad to see me, but Bandula is never glad to see anybody who won’t have sex with him for money. He’s mopping the floor when I come in. I slip, and almost throw my back out, just barely catching myself before I fall. I give the dishwasher a meaningful look, reach behind the counter, and produce the “Caution: Wet Floor” sign. I place it in the center of the room.
Bandula pretends not to notice. That sign is the only thing we argue about. I’m terrified that some harebrained server is going to come charging through those doors and break their neck some day. I’ve told the Bandula more than once, if it happens, he’s the one who will have to dispose of the body.
Wooden Rocket Press’ Sunday Paper posts new serialized fiction each Sunday. Return next Sunday morning for the next section of Blood Come. For other stories check out the Sunday Paper archive.
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