Sunday, July 24, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Tale of Serenity Gardner
(Another short story written for a snarky professor, except, minus the ending, I really liked this one.)
Short Story
Why Is my Name Serenity? (Working Title)
On the Wednesday morning of June 7th at the sticky, messy table of a pristine little house in a suburb of Virginia I, Serenity Gardner, learned what most other 11 year olds have already known for a million years: burnt eggs and toast taste disgusting. I didn’t know that before, because my nose has never worked. And because my nose does not work, I do not have a very refined sense of palate. This isn’t always a bad thing, because when you are the littlest girl in a house of 5 big brothers with J’s for names, you usually only get the burnt parts anyway. The problem is I had a surgery two days ago to fix my nose. Now I mind getting the burnt parts, because I realize they taste disgusting.
Unfortunately, there is nothing else left on the table. Except for a sticky jar of boysenberry jam with a paper airplane stuck to the side and a plate with melted, crumbed-up butter. The other paper airplane is soaking up a pile of cranberry juice on the far end of the table. Obviously Joshua and Jordan were having another war. I scrape my black toast with the crummy butter, watching the knife spread a thick layer of perfectly toasted golden crumbs from the butter dish and hoping they will make mine taste better. They don’t.
“Serenity, are you still eating breakfast? We need to go – they boys are late.” Mom is a thin woman with a thin mouth and a thin temper. Sometimes the mouth is smiling, but usually not at me. I usually get the up-side-down smiles that I have to pretend are smiles.
“I tried eating but the food is indigestible.” I was really not complaining, just stating my status.
Unfortunately, Mom didn’t seem to think so. I get another up-side-down smile.
“Perhaps you should try getting downstairs on time once in a while instead of playing in your room. Hurry into the car unless you would like to stay and do dishes.”
My mother called me Serenity because she said she wanted a calm, peaceful girl after all her boys. She didn’t do a very good job naming me, which I think disappoints her. I am not very calm or serene. I do try sometimes. I will try to sit very, very still in the patch of sunlight in front of my window, like Mom and her friends do every Wednesday and Friday morning at seven, legs crossed in color-coordinated sweat suits on colored yoga mats, copying a big black man on a yoga DVD. They all sweat and smile and look serene.
The man on the DVD has a deep, throaty voice that sounds like someone with a cold. He says to think about nothing. The problem is as soon as I try to think of nothing, everything starts wanting to be thought about. Then my nose will start itching. And as soon as I scratch it my back will start itching. The whole sitting still turns into one long itching and I give it up. I am not made to be serene, even though I am very sorry about that.
“Serenity! Hurry please. Your father has the other car and I need to get all your brothers dropped off.” My mother is a politician’s wife, so her voice never rises to a shout. But it will rise in pitch through different warning levels, and when it gets to a certain pitch, that’s like as bad as when my best friend Cassidy’s Mom starts yelling out full names at his house. Jeffery, who is a science nerd and who is very smart, drew a chart once in his notebook for the different levels of Mom’s voice. He said it would help us remember when to beware of Mom. I think her level now is about at a 4.5 on a scale of 6.
“Coming!” I look sadly at my toast and leave the table, my stomach still hungry.
Dropping off my brothers takes a long time. It’s Saturday in the summer time, so every one of them has somewhere else to be, and they’re all stressed out about not being there on time. Or rather, Mom is stressed for them.
We sit in the van in exact age order. Kind of like the Christmas cards Mom sends out every year. A perfect row of perfect boys, framed with Dad’s beaming grin and Mom’s thin smile. Names and ages thread the bottom corner of the card, weaving around a pair of reindeer: James (19), Jeffery (17), Joshua & Jordan (15), Jonathon (13), and Serenity (11). I’m in the corner, kind of not touching everyone else, with awkward teeth and limp hair that wouldn’t hold the curls Mom put in. The photographer thought that I would look more centered in the front, but Mom wanted it in order. Mom likes having things ordered, from her ordered abs to her ordered eyebrows; she spends a lot of time keeping order. My brothers say she is OCD, but I don’t know what that means and I don’t want to look stupid asking. I hope it’s not a disease or catching or, as Jonathon said something is called that goes from a parent to a child, hereditarian.
“James, please. Do not get hair gel on the dashboard.” Mom says in exasperation as her perfect nails dial the radio for a classical station. Jordan had switched all her presets to rap and alternative again.
“Yeah, you might want to do your eyebrows.” Josh advised, “It looks like a few hairs are unmolested.” Josh and Jordan snigger together and throw volleyballs at each other over the seat. Mom kind of sighs and presses her head, like she’s trying to hold it in one place.
James is pretty good at ignoring the twins, better than most people are. He just adjusts the passenger mirror to check the final effect before shoving his stuff back in his pocket. Again. He’s been doing that ever since he got a girlfriend. James is actually in college, but he doesn’t want to move out yet because he says it’s not convenient. Dad says it had better become convenient pretty soon because he doesn’t feel like paying for James and his endless supply of hair gel now that James is past being an adult.
Because we have so many kids, Mom needs a way to order us. Most of us know her speech by heart. “Well there’s James, he’s our international diplomat. He wants to go into politics.” Sometimes I don’t think James has a choice about being the next president, because if he doesn’t want it bad enough, Mom does.
“Then there is our biologist, Jeffery.” I read a newspaper article on Jeffery once about how he invented a cure for some fly disease. The paper neglected to mention that Jeffery caught and used about ten bajillion flies and left all the dead ones in neat stacks under my pillow, in my hamper, or in my toothbrush. Although, Jordan and Josh may have helped more than a little with that. These days Jeffrey mostly ignores me, but he isn’t mean to me, so I guess that’s okay.
“And then there are our sports stars, Josh and Jordan.” J squared, as they like to call themselves, specialize in being mean to me, kicking balls, and kissing girls. And they are good at all three. Jonathon likes books and doing what Josh and Jordan do. Except he’s not good at kicking balls or kissing girls.
“And there is Jonathon, our literary scholar.” I know Jonathon writes all kinds of smart stuff, but he says a lot of dumb stuff, so I don’t know how those work.
“And then there is Serenity, my angel.” That’s sort of a cop-out answer, since I don’t think I’m very angelic, but she doesn’t have any other category for me yet. She keeps trying.
In that Christmas card Mom got this awesome idea that each of us should hold something that showed our talent. James has a globe of the world. Jeffery has a microscope and a set of chemicals. Josh and Jordan wanted to hold swimsuit magazines, but Mom made them use soccer balls instead. Jonathon was easy too, a set of “classic literature” that made him look smart. (He even lied to the eye doctor to get glasses). The problem is, I don’t have a talent.
Mom tries. She says it’s important for us all to be proud of something. The year of the six (that is how Mr. Wallace says I should call them) she put me in dance, but the teacher said I looked like a duck. Year of the eight she started me in gardening and sewing, but my marigold was the only one to die (even though Josh didn’t even water his) and I kept getting blood on the stupid duck pillow.
Year of the nine I started violin, but Dad said his ears couldn’t take it and my fingers kept hurting. Last year we tried gymnastics, but Mom got tired of taking me to the ER (even though the casts were kind of cool), because my bones sort of break easy. Then it was baking classes, but Josh still talks about the cake I tried to cook double fast by turning the oven on 500. I don’t like being laughed at. The top was charcoal and hard, but batter oozed out of Jeffery’s spatula gash in the middle.
This year Mom tried art stuff. I still think my painting looked sort of like a tree, but Jordan insists it’s more like a monkey scratching fleas, and my bust of Dad makes him look pregnant. Therefore, I, Serenity Gardner, am still in search of a talent, and mom just tells people I’m her angel, since she doesn’t have anything else to say.
She finally had me hold a lotus, which she said was the Chinese flower of serenity, old and wise. Even the photographer thought it looked weird, though she didn’t say so. But11-year olds with crooky teeth and flat curls look weird with old, wise flowers. Oh well. Pictures don’t especially look like what people look like anyway. We all look happy to be together in the picture, but Jordan is pinching Josh and Dad threatened to take away Jonathon’s allowance if he didn’t smile.
“Mom? We’re supposed to turn left here. You’re going the wrong way.” Jeffery called out.
“No, I am dropping James off at class first. He will be late if I drop you off first.”
“But if I don’t get to the parking lot by 9 the service committee might leave without me.”
“You didn’t tell me that, I thought you were planting flowers there.” Mom’s frazzled face peeps from her mouth and eye corners before smoothing.
“Naw, we’re going to some jail or something.”
“Well, it looks like you’ll be a few minutes late. Is there anyone you can call?”
“No. I don’t have anyone’s number.”
“I wrote it down on the board at home.”
“Well I don’t exactly carry it around with me.”
“But that’s not fair,” Josh piped in, “Our game starts in 20 minutes. We won’t even get there on time if we’re dropped off third.” Mom’s scale is approaching 5.5.
“You told me your game starts at ten.”
“Well yeah,” Jordan said, “But warm-ups start at 9:15, and if we aren’t there for that we might not be allowed to play.” I leaned into the corner. I was still hungry.
It takes three hours to get everyone to where they are supposed to go. James ends up late to Economics and slams the door with his textbook, scowling, with his hair coming un-gelled (which he glared at me for pointing out).
Jonathon missed his chance to get a front row at the symposium, or something, I didn’t really know what he was talking about. Jeffery was sulking because he didn’t want to be at a service project planting flowers anyway.
After a panic to get Jordan and Josh to the game on time, which made Jonathan late, their soccer game was canceled, which the clipboard lady said they would have known if they had given Mom the pink schedule they brought home last week.
Mom is mad she missed her yoga class. But Jordan says that it doesn’t matter anyway because yoga is just dumb to start with, which was not a very wise thing to say, because that probably pushed her up to a 5.8. When the red minivan finally gets back, everyone is upset, except me, who am just very, very hungry.
I don’t think it’s very fair to me to be driving around all day and not even be going anywhere. I mention this, and it doesn’t go over very well. Mom turns and glares at all of us, and her thin temper gets thinner. “I am going upstairs and I am going to take a nap and if I hear one word or sound that wakes me up, so help me.”
Mom never says what the so help me is, and so far, no one has dared to ask. I think Jeffrey did once, but Dad was standing there and he quickly took Jeffrey out back to explain in a no uncertain man to man what “so help me” meant, and that’s been her last straw thing ever since.
***
“Hey Renny!” Josh’s basketball bounced into my too-pink and perfect bedroom before his long legs. “Want to come to Kroger’s with me?”
“What for?”
“Oh just because. I think Mom needs some detergent.” Which means he doesn’t want to tell me until we leave. Which probably means he is scouting for girls.
“Will you buy me ice cream too?” Mom was so mad that she didn’t make lunch when we got home, and we aren’t allowed in the kitchen outside of meals. My stomach is committing cannibalism.
The basketball bounced. “You aren’t allowed. And who said we’re going to get ice cream?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Okay, fine, but not a word to Mom.”
Usually my older brothers don’t notice I exist, but each one has an exception. Josh and Jordan will take me as girl bait, because I am littler than most 11 year olds and they say that chicks dig the family man. Jordan told me he would pay me not to get any bigger or stronger, because more pathetic looking sisters get more girls over.
I am usually sick. Not always, but pretty often. Which I sort of hate, because the 58 ceiling tiles over my bed are really boring and Mom won’t let me paint them. I don’t even go to regular school. Ms. Dalena, my formerly favorite teacher who would wear red boots to school when it rained, told Mom that since I seemed to be home more than at school, perhaps it would be better for me to not go to school at all. Sometimes I wonder if she just didn’t like me.
That is why grumpy Mr. Wallace, with an uneven gray mustache that’s thicker on one side and whiter on the other, comes in on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to talk a lot and make sure I’ve done my homework. He’s supposed to be my tutor, but I don’t think he knows very much. I asked him once how come people on the equator didn’t get dizzy from it spinning faster than at the poles, and he just glared at me and said it wasn’t a relevant question. He says that a lot.
When I was in the bathroom and therefore invisible, I heard Mom explain to Mr. Wallace that I am delicate. But I am not sure what that means. I looked it up in the Miriam Webster that sits on Dad’s desk in the middle of bunches of his titles and degrees, which I see more than I see Dad, but it wasn’t very helpful because it can’t make up its mind. It says it can mean someone who is fastidious, someone who has fine discrimination, someone who is fragile, or someone who is marked by great precision. I know fragile means easily broken, but I don’t think dictionaries are actually very helpful at understanding things.
I asked Jonathon, since he is mostly a dictionary himself and might know better, but unfortunately Joshua and Jordan were listening, and Jonathon is always meaner when the twins are around, so he told me it either meant I was a spoiled twit or I was as easily separate-able as a hydrogen bond. And I didn’t know what that meant either, so it still wasn’t very helpful.
When we get to Kroger, Josh reminds me again that I am not allowed, which is partly because he cares and mostly so I will be grateful, and buys me an orange ice cream cone with mint sprinkles on it. Which he calls repulsive and which I call delicious. The high school kid with the white coat looks bored and pulls a dirty scoop out of the rocky road to use, which makes the orange look dirty.
Josh and Jordan get malts so they can lean back on the counter, texting each other so they look important, and sip and look hip, pressing their Tommy Hilfigers and white t-shirts into the counter. “Got to be hip to get hip,” they explained to Jonathon once.
A short blonde girl with leggings and a short skirt that hugs skinny hips comes in, laughing with her friend who is wearing sharpied jeans, logo necklaces, and All Star converse. Josh smiles at me affectionately and ruffles my hair.
I glare at him. “That is my head.”
“And that’s my money that just bought you ice cream.” A deal was a deal. I smile sweetly at him, and stuck a spoonful in my mouth. It makes my throat taste creamy.
The reason I never get ice cream is because it’s on the long list of “Serenity No Nos” Mom has pasted to the fridge. And I, Serenity Gardner, usually try to follow it, which is mostly easy because I only ever eat at home or if Mom is ordering food. But it’s a very, very long list. Mom always says I will go into apoplectic shock if I eat anything on it, but so far I have eaten a lot of things on it by accident, and on purpose, and I have not yet had any apoplectics. Jonathon told me this is just an OCD thing and she always has a list for the youngest child.
Josh glances at the girls. He does the flip hair thing and the eye contact thing, and the girls give him the once over thing, smile at me, and then walk to the gum section so they can not-watch the boys over the magazine rack.
Josh and Jordan tried to explain this to Jonathon, but I don’t think he ever got it: “Dude, it’s all about the body language man. It’s got to talk louder than your mouth.”
Body language is not something Jonathon understands very well. He mostly sticks to an awful lot of people and dictionary language. Languages, according to Mr. Wallace, are how two people communicate together. And if it doesn’t make sense, you don’t know the language. I guess we have a lot of language at home. Mom speaks French. James and Dad talk in politic. J squared talk in bodies. Jeffery talks in chemicals. I guess I just speak Serenity, but I don’t think other people speak it very much.
My throat is starting to feel very not creamy. The girls are taking a long time, so Jordan gets out a sharpie and starts doodling on his jeans. The girls start to wander back over. Josh affectionately leans over and whispers in my ear, “You’re a dork, you know that,” and smiles at his favorite little sister.
My neck is starting to get tighter, but I smile adorably at him. I know my job. Jordan sharpies on his jean again. It works.
The blond, skinny hipped one smiles at me. “How old is your little sister? She’s so cute.”
Josh leans back and smiles. “Ha ha, you know, she just wanted some ice cream.” Which wasn’t what she asked, but I don’t think she noticed, because she smiles and giggles like her nose is stuck.
“So, aren’t you famous or something?” Jordan asked the other one. All Stars shifted her feet and flipped her hair.
“Maybe, why?”
“Well, you have so many autographs, mind if I add one?” He gestures at her jeans. She laughs and he leans over to trace his name and number onto her leg, taking a long time.
“So, you got a name, or shall I call you sunshine?” Josh asks the blonde girl.
She gives stuffed giggle. “Bonnie, but you can call me sunshine, if you really want.” She pulls out her sparkly cellphone and starts flipping it open and closed. Josh says something again, something with “Ha ha,” and she giggles again. They sound really dumb.
My nose is itching together and my breath feels funny. My heart is bouncing too, up and down and back and forth. I tug on Jordan’s sleeve, but he is making a curly heart onto the girl’s jeans, and she is giggling, so he ignores me. I try Josh, but he leans backwards and stomps on my foot.
“Yeah, I live around here, somewhere.” Bonnie starts texting someone, but she’s doing it all fakey, like Josh does when he is trying to look busy.
Josh leans back, “So what, do I have to guess what fair kingdom doth send you here?”
Once Jeffery tried to make me swallow a cotton ball, and it got stuck in my throat. Mom was really mad at him, but he said he was trying to prove that girls have bigger mouths than guys do. It left fuzzy pieces in my throat for a long time. It sort of feels like that now. I try to say something but nothing is coming out. And my air is starting to not to past either.
I tug on Jordan again and All Stars looks at me. “Oh my gosh! Dude, your sister is like one big blister. Her skin is all bad. Is she breathing?”
My cone is in my lap, because my fingers stopped bending. Orange and brown are pouring down my hopping knee, which I can’t get to hold still, with mint pieces sticking to my leg.
“Oh crap.” Jordan moans and grabs the ice cream. “Josh, you didn’t get her anything with peanuts did you?”
“No – it was orange.”
“Then why is there brown in her cone? Renny, Renny, are you there? Crap, Jordan, do we have to call Mom? She’s really pissed right now and she’ll kill us.”
Of course I’m here. I haven’t left. But I can’t move anything, and my throat doesn’t have much room for air anymore, and it’s getting hard to see. And I really hope they don’t call Mom.
“Oh my gosh! We are watching her die! Do something!” Bonnie is screaming. Josh starts yelling.
I don’t remember the next few minutes very much. Bonnie screams a few times. And All Stars is poking my mouth open.
“Dude, get your sister to the hospital, she’s gonna die.” Am I? I sort of thought dying would be creamier than this. Aren’t you supposed to see white lights or something? All I hear is fuzzy, like Jonathon’s cotton balls were in my ears now.
***
I open my eyes and sneeze. It smells funny and the light is too bright, which doesn’t make sense. Then I see the machine over my head and sigh. A hospital. Again. Mom is sitting in a black folding chair next to me, rubbing her wrists raw against the rail on the bed. Her right hand cups her chin as she stares out the window, the other chips at the nail polish on her left fingers, flecks of pink falling on the blue sheet. I wonder how much trouble I am in.
When I sneeze, she turns and glares puffy eyes at me, like they look like in the spring time when she spends too long touching grass. Her voice is perfectly smooth and quiet, but all tense and packed of things that say I’m in trouble. “Why Serenity, why? You knew better. I have told you again and again not to eat things on your list. Why didn’t you listen?” Mom’s perfect face, which usually I only see even crease, has completely cracked. Her pupils are big and pointed and her breath is kind of coming in gasps.
I don’t know what to say and my tongue is sticking to my mouth, so I shrug. Her face gets looser, “Do you want some water?”
I nod and she hands me a paper cup of ice cubes. There isn’t much water in it, so I put one in my mouth. Which makes me realize that the inside of my cheeks taste gross, like rotten oranges. Outside the door in the hallway I can see Josh and Jared, seated on either side of a red haired girl in the hospital suit. Jared pushes a pretzel bag at her, and she takes one, laughing. I wonder where Bonnie and All Star went.
The tapping started again on my bed. Mom is staring out the window again. I count three minutes. She doesn’t say anything.
“Mom, I don’t think my name should be Serenity. Can I change it?” That will probably get me in trouble, and I wish I hadn’t said it.
Her fingers stop drumming. “Why?”
“I don’t know, but I’m not very good at it.”
She makes a funny sound, a choked one. I look up, wondering if I made her mad. She’s bent over shaking and making snorting sounds. Is she laughing? Mom doesn’t laugh, so I don’t know what that means.
I tap my toes to count the seconds. I count 48 of them before she looks up again. She’s smiling, a real one that crinkles her eyes. My face is sticky with sweat and I think puke, but she kisses each cheek with her minty breath and touches my hand.
“Serenity, your name is perfect. I don't have to tell you why.” I don’t know what that means, but she’s smiling at me with her whole face. I don’t remember her ever doing that before. I smile back. And just for a second, I feel like serenity.
The Tale of Jasper Bean and his Revenge on Bolivar Shurgnasty
(Pure random - written slightly tongue-in-cheek to a slightly snarky professor based on the conglomeration of ideas from calling home for five minutes.)
Bolivar Shurgnasty smiled cheerfully and threw open the doors of Bolivar Restorante: Eat Fresh! “What a lovely day!” He exclaimed buoyantly as he enthusiastically sucked in the 12-degree air into his quivering lungs and happily juggled knives in the air. “Isn’t it excellent Jasper?”
“Oh yes, indeed,” I said sarcastically with a polite smile, “The best in the world sir!” for a moron anyway. I am from Arizona and do not appreciate New York’s frigid air. It’s absurdly useful. It makes the fat New Yorkers hungry and they come and stuff their faces with pasta and other good stuff. Business is always worse in the summer time when it’s too hot to eat anything. Maybe that’s why Arizona always had such crappy restaurants.
My name is Jasper Bean. This is my story. I am a mistreated, misrepresented, miserable line chef suffering under Bolivar’s regime in one of the most famous Italian restaurants in New York City. I am brilliant, smart, audacious, and at some point going to take New York City by a storm with my own restaurant. Bolivar is one of the most irritating men I have ever met. 45. Bald. Ugly. Single. Deathly allergic to basil. Seemingly daft as a post. And somehow he manages to invent the most delicious recipes I have ever tasted, all without basil. No basil? How are they even Italian? I’m pretty convinced that if I can get a hold of his blasted recipes and add some basil, they will be perfect. Maybe even open a more famous restaurant.
Bolivar deftly caught the five knives in perfect succession and turned to his kitchen with a smile. “We have a lot to do today boys! Let’s have at it. Fire up the ovens. Sweep the must from the air! Let’s fill this kitchen with savory and real Italiano, no? Clarence, start the bread. Bordeaux, the sausage and sauce prep. And Jasper, my fine friend, we need 50 pounds of onions.”
I smiled with carefully poised enthusiasm. “Whatever you say Bolivar! Onions are my favorite!” It’s not like I don’t have anything else important to do anyway. I of course would love to cry my eyes out cutting up your smelly onions. I would love to rot another 20 years at the bottom of the totem poll in this joint. It really, really isn’t fair you know. One of life’s injustices
I am much better at business than Bolivar could ever dream of being. It was my idea to hire a decent designer to re-do the previously crappy decor in the front. Who gets the credit? Bolivar. It’s Bolivar this, Bolivar that. Whatever. Life is full of injustices. It’s like one the kid on the playground with the red hair and ugly green shirt gets picked first for basketball just because he’s taller. It’s not the like freckled kid with glasses could do anything about his height. Not that that has ever happened to me, because it hasn’t. And don’t think that it has.
This whole place is really run down anyway. It’s kind of a fire hazard. The walls are rotten and crumbling and the old, huge brick oven sends sparks everywhere. The health inspectors actually came around last time and I’m pretty sure they would have failed the place, except Bolivar was charming and gave them free éclairs.
“Brigitte!” Jasper bellowed cheerfully, clapping his hands together over an apron that his belly threatened to burst through, “First customers!” Ah, Brigitte. I turned from my miserable chopping corner to wipe my onion-streaming eyes and steal a peek at her as she brushed into the room. I never was sure what to think of her. Some days she was an elegant brunette with a creamy complexion and a whispering smile. Some days she was a gangly blonde with red brushed, sallow cheeks and a sickly grimace to pass for a smile. Some days she was a red head with pinked and plumped lips in an elegant sneer. Brigitte, you see, is an out-of-work actress. She has been out of work for longer than she has been in work, actually. I think her last “gig” as she calls it was as a youth eating a plate of spaghetti and grinning up at the camera for an Olive Garden commercial when she was 12. Maybe that was why she worked for Bolivar now, hoping the Italian would rub off. Just another dreamer not born in New York City but living in New York City who will die in New York City with faded New York City dreams glamour stamped feebly in worry and work creases across the face.
“Why Brigitte! Your new hair is lovely!” Bolivar beamed as she swept in. A shy flush colored her cheeks and she patted her newly blackened hair. Actually, her hair looked kind of like someone had dumped it in a coal bin. Red streaks hemmed the bottom of her smooth bun and dirty blonde peeped from the crown of her head; nothing knew what it should be.
“Two orders of Omellette di Gamberetti, three Crepes Suzette, and one Frittata Vegitariana.” She reeled off. The vegetarian dishes always made me sick.
“Ah excellent, Beatrice, be sure to put out fresh bread on their table while they are waiting,” Bolivar enthused as he cracked eggs into a bowl.
I really don’t like Brigitte. She is one of those annoying people who crawls into your mind and doesn’t leave. I can be doing something perfectly innocent, like watching Bolivar drink his morning coffee from the tree outside his window, or ransacking the pantry for that hidden recipe box, or even just going to sleep—she keeps popping into my mind. I really wish she would not do that, as I don’t think it’s very nice of her. “Nice color Brigitte. It really brings out the color of your eyelashes and makes your nose look nice and prominent.”
Now I am never anything but nice to her. I mean, those were legitimate compliments. But somehow, Brigitte has an unearned scowl she reserves just for me. “Why thank you, Jasper. It’s so nice of you to spread tears of appreciation on my behalf.”
I flush angrily and turn back to my onions, chopping them so vigorously that Bolivar frowns in my direction, “Remember Jasper, treat them gently; every ingredient is a treasure, that is what makes the dish.”
“Oh yes sir, I’m sorry. I will be more careful.” I apply the knife with perfect precision, slicing through each layer. I will find the heart of each one. Brigitte. Dumb, snobby Brigitte. What does she have to feel so special about? She doesn’t really matter anyway.
Once I used to know this freckle-faced loser, not me, who used to obsess over this girl with blonde braids and red hair ribbons in 4th grade. That all ended one day at the playground, when she called him a loser and a creep and told him to stop following her. Which he wasn’t really; I mean, sure, he liked her well enough so he would watch her every now and again and maybe he knew that she always ate Raisin Bran for breakfast, had a picture of Orlando Bloom in her pencil box in her desk, and always drew her Q’s with curly ends, but any boy who likes a girl knows that. It wasn’t creepy at all. And it certainly wasn’t me.
The day takes on its usual hum; overworked, understaffed, but every dish gets out on time, Bolivar personally checking every one before it leaves the counter. They say that’s his legacy, never ever releasing an imperfect dish from his kitchen. Watching his round belly swing back and forth between counter and stovetop, mixing, tasting—I think his real legacy will be dying of hyper-exertion.
“Jasper! We are behind. I know you are still learning here, but could take over the Calamari? Just watch it and tell me when it needs to be turned. I need to mix the vinaigrette.”
“Of course Bolivar, whatever you need!” Still learning my old grape nuts. I am good; I am really, really good. But that doesn’t ever seem to be enough for Bolivar. Not at all. He won’t even give let anyone mix his dressings, not even Bordeaux who has been here for forever. Every recipe is written down though; he says one day he will marry, have a fat little boy, and pass on his secrets. I don’t think that will really happen, since it would involve getting married and good luck in that department. It’s hard to do that when you never even leave the restaurant.
Bolivar doesn’t even have them memorized. He opens his locked box and reads the recipe every time he’s going to make something. I always wonder if he even came by them honestly in the first place, if he can’t even remember them.
I grab onion number 29 and begin peeling. I have no idea how in the world this restaurant goes through so many. Maybe Brigitte takes them home at night for part of her beauty routine. Brigitte again. Jumping into my mind. Why is she so annoying? And why does she have such a simpering smile? And why in the world does she keep trying to snub me? I am unsnubbable. People who can be snubbed are weak. Once I knew this dumb freckled kid who used to get really upset when people laughed at him for not remembering things. They ignored him. So he ignored them. I don’t think it helped anything.
“Jasper, more gently, more gently!”
More gently – that’s what the mother of this dumb freckled kid I used to know would say when he was roughing it too much in the yard or coming inside. I was always glad that kid wasn’t me. I mean, his house was a tomb. It was perfectly quiet with perfect windows and perfect doors and not a scrap of dirt touching anything. Perfect, yes. Whatever.
I came to New York City not to sit here like any other dreamer. I am good. I am the best chef you have ever seen. I’m just stuck here. I don’t know how Bolivar managed to get it so good. Let me tell you about him.
Bolivar leads a charmed life. I know, because I’ve been watching him. He lives in a tiny apartment over the Restorante, but he swears he doesn’t want anything better. You can see right into it from the rooftop of the next place over. He gets up every morning at 4am. He stretches exactly four times, gets out of bed, brushes his teeth, feeds his little dog, and goes down to the kitchen to start the ovens. He drinks one cup of coffee with 3 lumps of sugar and exactly one half a cream. Then he sits and smiles for no particular reason while staring off into space for 15 minutes. Then, he walks into the bathroom and closes the door. He is usually there for ten minutes. Would that we all had such perfect bladders. He comes out and goes back into the kitchen. He opens up his magic box with a key and pulls out all his recipes, picks the ones he will use that day, and pours over them for an hour, making notes and annotations on all of them.
It’s that darned key I can’t figure out. His recipe box isn’t that well hidden. I mean, really, who keeps a sugar box behind tomato sauce on the top shelf of the pantry? Obvious. But that key…. he never has it in the morning, but he always has it when he goes downstairs to his box. I know he doesn’t have it in any of his pockets or around his neck while he’s sleeping. Either it’s in his bathroom or somewhere on the stairway in between. I don’t know which. All I know is he has it.
At 5:15 he gets down his knives and starts juggling them. Why? I really have no idea and since it has nothing to do with his recipes, I really don’t care. At 5:30, we all come in. After that it’s rush rush until about 3pm. Then Bolivar takes his charity walks. He goes to all these nasty houses and gives out the leftover bread from breakfast, piously proclaiming, “A fine day deserves a fine deed.” It’s a pretty good idea; everyone thinks he’s a charmer and he gives good rapport for his business. Plus, we don’t have to throw out the old bread. 5pm sharp we are slaving away again. Brigitte unlocks the door for a line of diners at 5:45 precisely. Rush rush until 10pm when the last dish is washed and we are all sent home.
“Hey Jasper, what do you think?” A beaming Bolivar shoves a spoon at me. I taste. This is the part that gets me every time. I close my eyes and savor; the vinaigrette spills over my tongue, just tangy, just sweet, just perfect. I try to quickly taste the spices, but it doesn’t ever work for me. Some people have this magic catalogue they can use to taste something and say “Why of course, that is the cilantro, the marjoram, the thyme, and the parsley; excellent.” Somehow their taste buds slide the spices apart and taste them separately. Me? I just know what tastes good together. I can’t figure out how to do it. But that’s not my fault either; I was dropped when I was a baby.
“It’s perfect sir!” I enthuse. Bolivar smiles in satisfaction, “I knew it! It will change all our salads for the next week.” I nod vigorously. “Sir, it will be a hit. The sweet and sour level is perfect. A little bit of tarragon, no?” I saw him get that one off the shelf.
“Jasper, you are a wonder! I am so pleased I hired you. You will be a chef extraordinaire.”
Maybe this would be a good in. “If I could be even half the chef of you, I would be so pleased.” A snort came from behind; I turned in time to see Brigitte hide a derisive scowl.
“What?” I asked with carefully constructed innocent curiosity, pretending not to feel the anger palpitating inside my ears.
“Oh nothing, Jasper. I am sure you will succeed at whatever you put your mind to. Bolivar, the couple on table 9 would like to personally meet you if possible. They love your food.”
“Oh of course!” Bolivar bustled out.
Brigitte glared at me as she snatched up 4 plates to carry out; she carried them with such precision in long, graceful arms… “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I know it isn’t good. And you should know that I am watching you.”
“I have no idea, dear Brigitte, what you could be talking about.”
“Yes you do. I’ve seen you sneaking around. You’re a creep. And you aren’t as nice as you act.”
My nice bone bent inside and the words were out before I could strap them down. “Oh yes, well, I suppose the one swarming in acting experience and expertise would be the expert on human character.” I bowed as she flushed, opened her mouth, and stomped away. Once the freckle-faced kid I knew learned that you could make people stop picking on them if you said mean things to them. He was right. I’m not that kid, but he was pretty smart.
Onion 47. I think my eyes are going to fall out. I don’t have any tears left. “Jasper! When you finish the onions, I need more tomatoes chopped and a fresh salami from the back.”
“Right away Bolivar.” He’s in his element now. Shouting out order after order, and we his little minions must obey him.
“Bordeaux!” Bolivar called, “The basil has arrived. Could you put a sprig of it onto plates 1, 14, and 7 before they go out? And please keep it prepped on that side of the kitchen.” Did I mention Bolivar is deathly allergic to basil? Yeah, well, he is. One little sprig and his face will balloon up. More than that, his insides will balloon up. That’s why if something absolutely has to have basil, someone else puts it on. Once he got a cutting board that had had basil on it two days ago that someone hadn’t scrubbed closely enough (okay, okay, or maybe someone rubbed a little on the board; I sort of wondered how bad it would swell up), and he ended up in the hospital.
We closed up the whole restaurant and had a whole day off. That was an awesome day. I mean, it was sad and of course really to bad for Bolivar, but it was nice to have the day off. Brigitte and I went to a play. Okay – so maybe she went and I followed and got in and sat about 8 rows behind her, but it was pretty much the same thing. Except, I wonder if she knew I was there.
“Jasper! I need more special sauce. Upstairs on my table in the kitchenette.” I quickly drop what I am doing and run upstairs. Bolivar often experiments with things in his apartment, so I am accustomed to run up there for ingredients. As I grab the jar I suddenly see it: the key. It’s right there on the back of the counter. Without thinking, I grab the key and stuff it in my pocket.
“Jasper! I need the sauce”
“Coming!” I race my heart back downstairs, thumping louder than my feet. I thrust the sauce into Bolivar’s hand and rush back to my corner. Potatoes there now. I tear into the sack and begin peeling furiously, my mind racing, key burning in my pocket. Now what? If I have the key, I could get the recipes tonight, hop a train tomorrow. Or should I just copy them down and wait? Would that be too suspicious? I somehow hadn’t thought past the getting the key part.
“Jasper! We need more cilantro chopped,” Bolivar yelled. “And we’re running out of dishes!” Brigitte added, “I need more silverware.”
“Jasper! More sauce on skillet nine. And the calamari need to be watched again.” And you wonder why I’m going crazy. I once knew this little freckle-faced kid, not me, who had too many brothers and sisters. He was the middle child, and he was always getting yelled at to be the local slave. Clean the kitchen. Make dinner. Weed the garden. Scrub the floorboard. Wash Dad’s car. Yeah, he was nothing but a slave. I always knew I wouldn’t be like him.
We were in the element; rush hour was at its peak and Bolivar Shurgnasty was, once again, living up to his extravagant name with an extravagant array of dishes. Then it happened. It happened so fast I wasn’t sure how it even started. Clarence pulled open the oven door and pulled out a fresh mozzarella pizza. Then there was some kind of an explosion from the back of the oven and the whole place smelled like smoke. Flames were leaping up the sides of the wall, greedily gobbling the dry wood and grease-encrusted wallpaper.
Then there was yelling. And screaming. Everyone was running outside, except for Bolivar, who was trying to throw water on the walls. “Get the customers out!” He yelled. We tried, as fast as we could, to hustle everyone out. More screaming. Have you ever tried getting 70 people to exit a restaurant in an orderly process? It’s kind of like herding cats. (Which I have also tried before, and which doesn’t work out so well).
Once we were all outside I remembered, the recipes! The whole reason I had put up with Bolivar and his cheerful hell for all those months; I couldn’t let them burn. Suddenly Bolivar yelled, “Where is Brigitte?” Looking around, I realized she was missing too.
“I’ll get her!” I yelled and ran back before anyone could stop me. The kitchen was an inferno, the flames eerily silent as they ate what should have been for people. The searing heat removed any bit of moisture in my eyes the onions hadn’t drained.
“Brigitte!” I yelled, while trying to find my way through the flames to the pantry on the right where that box was. “Where are you?”
“I’m in here!” I heard a muffled voice from the far left side of the room. At the exact same moment the middle of the roof sounded ominously.
“I’m stuck! The shelf fell down and I can’t get my leg out.” I looked at the roof and had one of those epiphany moments that only happens in movies and fake stories where time seems to freeze while I think. If I went for the recipes, I probably couldn’t get Brigitte. If I went for Brigitte, bye bye recipes. I closed my eyes and heard that freckle faced kid again listening to his teacher berate him for supposedly plagiarizing a science project on neuromuscular diseases. (How’s a kid to know that it was too advanced work for a 10-year-old and he should have borrowed from his high school brother instead of his college brother?) “You’ll never do anything great. You’ll never be anything great. You will always choose the easy way out.”
Brigitte screamed. But she hates me. Why should I save her? She might slap in my face. Or, she might cry and hug me, her hero. Her awesome hero who saved her life. The roof creaked. I could hear those recipes begin to crackle. It’s my life dream. What’s an Arizona-based line chef supposed to do? Left or right? I picked a direction, and plunged into the flames.
It’s been a number of months since I’ve said anything, so you’re probably wondering what happened to me. Well, what happened to Jasper Bean is a good question. I think he got left behind somewhere. Currently though, a Gerald Legumbre has opened up an Italian restaurant in Atlanta, Georgia, and he’s doing really, really well. People are so impressed with his recipes, although they often wonder that few of them include basil. I mean, honestly, that Gerald guy has got it made. His restaurant is making a killing.
As for the Restorante folks, I don’t know what happened to them all. I don’t know what happened to them all. Honestly. I haven’t cared enough to pay attention. I never did like any of them. Although, I think someone randomly mentioned the other day that someone named Brigitte Foster famously survived a tragic fire in a restaurant, which gave her a spot on national television. A famous actor in New York City fell in love with her pluck and beauty and married her. He probably deserved it.
And maybe I might have read in the papers that Bolivar died yesterday though, an overdose of basil. Somehow it got into something he was tasting, but they don’t know what, since it was after hours and no one could get in. They assume he just got careless. His famous hidden recipe box, recovered safely from the fire, was opened per his will, but all that was inside were scraps of paper with pictures doodled on them. They say he must have been too proud to write them after all. For who would ever want to harm Bolivar? Who indeed. I certainly don’t know. I haven’t bothered think about it. I wouldn’t even know about it if it hadn’t have been like big news or something, because I certainly wouldn’t have looked for his name. All I can tell you is that sometimes, sometimes, the dragon wins.
Bolivar Shurgnasty smiled cheerfully and threw open the doors of Bolivar Restorante: Eat Fresh! “What a lovely day!” He exclaimed buoyantly as he enthusiastically sucked in the 12-degree air into his quivering lungs and happily juggled knives in the air. “Isn’t it excellent Jasper?”
“Oh yes, indeed,” I said sarcastically with a polite smile, “The best in the world sir!” for a moron anyway. I am from Arizona and do not appreciate New York’s frigid air. It’s absurdly useful. It makes the fat New Yorkers hungry and they come and stuff their faces with pasta and other good stuff. Business is always worse in the summer time when it’s too hot to eat anything. Maybe that’s why Arizona always had such crappy restaurants.
My name is Jasper Bean. This is my story. I am a mistreated, misrepresented, miserable line chef suffering under Bolivar’s regime in one of the most famous Italian restaurants in New York City. I am brilliant, smart, audacious, and at some point going to take New York City by a storm with my own restaurant. Bolivar is one of the most irritating men I have ever met. 45. Bald. Ugly. Single. Deathly allergic to basil. Seemingly daft as a post. And somehow he manages to invent the most delicious recipes I have ever tasted, all without basil. No basil? How are they even Italian? I’m pretty convinced that if I can get a hold of his blasted recipes and add some basil, they will be perfect. Maybe even open a more famous restaurant.
Bolivar deftly caught the five knives in perfect succession and turned to his kitchen with a smile. “We have a lot to do today boys! Let’s have at it. Fire up the ovens. Sweep the must from the air! Let’s fill this kitchen with savory and real Italiano, no? Clarence, start the bread. Bordeaux, the sausage and sauce prep. And Jasper, my fine friend, we need 50 pounds of onions.”
I smiled with carefully poised enthusiasm. “Whatever you say Bolivar! Onions are my favorite!” It’s not like I don’t have anything else important to do anyway. I of course would love to cry my eyes out cutting up your smelly onions. I would love to rot another 20 years at the bottom of the totem poll in this joint. It really, really isn’t fair you know. One of life’s injustices
I am much better at business than Bolivar could ever dream of being. It was my idea to hire a decent designer to re-do the previously crappy decor in the front. Who gets the credit? Bolivar. It’s Bolivar this, Bolivar that. Whatever. Life is full of injustices. It’s like one the kid on the playground with the red hair and ugly green shirt gets picked first for basketball just because he’s taller. It’s not the like freckled kid with glasses could do anything about his height. Not that that has ever happened to me, because it hasn’t. And don’t think that it has.
This whole place is really run down anyway. It’s kind of a fire hazard. The walls are rotten and crumbling and the old, huge brick oven sends sparks everywhere. The health inspectors actually came around last time and I’m pretty sure they would have failed the place, except Bolivar was charming and gave them free éclairs.
“Brigitte!” Jasper bellowed cheerfully, clapping his hands together over an apron that his belly threatened to burst through, “First customers!” Ah, Brigitte. I turned from my miserable chopping corner to wipe my onion-streaming eyes and steal a peek at her as she brushed into the room. I never was sure what to think of her. Some days she was an elegant brunette with a creamy complexion and a whispering smile. Some days she was a gangly blonde with red brushed, sallow cheeks and a sickly grimace to pass for a smile. Some days she was a red head with pinked and plumped lips in an elegant sneer. Brigitte, you see, is an out-of-work actress. She has been out of work for longer than she has been in work, actually. I think her last “gig” as she calls it was as a youth eating a plate of spaghetti and grinning up at the camera for an Olive Garden commercial when she was 12. Maybe that was why she worked for Bolivar now, hoping the Italian would rub off. Just another dreamer not born in New York City but living in New York City who will die in New York City with faded New York City dreams glamour stamped feebly in worry and work creases across the face.
“Why Brigitte! Your new hair is lovely!” Bolivar beamed as she swept in. A shy flush colored her cheeks and she patted her newly blackened hair. Actually, her hair looked kind of like someone had dumped it in a coal bin. Red streaks hemmed the bottom of her smooth bun and dirty blonde peeped from the crown of her head; nothing knew what it should be.
“Two orders of Omellette di Gamberetti, three Crepes Suzette, and one Frittata Vegitariana.” She reeled off. The vegetarian dishes always made me sick.
“Ah excellent, Beatrice, be sure to put out fresh bread on their table while they are waiting,” Bolivar enthused as he cracked eggs into a bowl.
I really don’t like Brigitte. She is one of those annoying people who crawls into your mind and doesn’t leave. I can be doing something perfectly innocent, like watching Bolivar drink his morning coffee from the tree outside his window, or ransacking the pantry for that hidden recipe box, or even just going to sleep—she keeps popping into my mind. I really wish she would not do that, as I don’t think it’s very nice of her. “Nice color Brigitte. It really brings out the color of your eyelashes and makes your nose look nice and prominent.”
Now I am never anything but nice to her. I mean, those were legitimate compliments. But somehow, Brigitte has an unearned scowl she reserves just for me. “Why thank you, Jasper. It’s so nice of you to spread tears of appreciation on my behalf.”
I flush angrily and turn back to my onions, chopping them so vigorously that Bolivar frowns in my direction, “Remember Jasper, treat them gently; every ingredient is a treasure, that is what makes the dish.”
“Oh yes sir, I’m sorry. I will be more careful.” I apply the knife with perfect precision, slicing through each layer. I will find the heart of each one. Brigitte. Dumb, snobby Brigitte. What does she have to feel so special about? She doesn’t really matter anyway.
Once I used to know this freckle-faced loser, not me, who used to obsess over this girl with blonde braids and red hair ribbons in 4th grade. That all ended one day at the playground, when she called him a loser and a creep and told him to stop following her. Which he wasn’t really; I mean, sure, he liked her well enough so he would watch her every now and again and maybe he knew that she always ate Raisin Bran for breakfast, had a picture of Orlando Bloom in her pencil box in her desk, and always drew her Q’s with curly ends, but any boy who likes a girl knows that. It wasn’t creepy at all. And it certainly wasn’t me.
The day takes on its usual hum; overworked, understaffed, but every dish gets out on time, Bolivar personally checking every one before it leaves the counter. They say that’s his legacy, never ever releasing an imperfect dish from his kitchen. Watching his round belly swing back and forth between counter and stovetop, mixing, tasting—I think his real legacy will be dying of hyper-exertion.
“Jasper! We are behind. I know you are still learning here, but could take over the Calamari? Just watch it and tell me when it needs to be turned. I need to mix the vinaigrette.”
“Of course Bolivar, whatever you need!” Still learning my old grape nuts. I am good; I am really, really good. But that doesn’t ever seem to be enough for Bolivar. Not at all. He won’t even give let anyone mix his dressings, not even Bordeaux who has been here for forever. Every recipe is written down though; he says one day he will marry, have a fat little boy, and pass on his secrets. I don’t think that will really happen, since it would involve getting married and good luck in that department. It’s hard to do that when you never even leave the restaurant.
Bolivar doesn’t even have them memorized. He opens his locked box and reads the recipe every time he’s going to make something. I always wonder if he even came by them honestly in the first place, if he can’t even remember them.
I grab onion number 29 and begin peeling. I have no idea how in the world this restaurant goes through so many. Maybe Brigitte takes them home at night for part of her beauty routine. Brigitte again. Jumping into my mind. Why is she so annoying? And why does she have such a simpering smile? And why in the world does she keep trying to snub me? I am unsnubbable. People who can be snubbed are weak. Once I knew this dumb freckled kid who used to get really upset when people laughed at him for not remembering things. They ignored him. So he ignored them. I don’t think it helped anything.
“Jasper, more gently, more gently!”
More gently – that’s what the mother of this dumb freckled kid I used to know would say when he was roughing it too much in the yard or coming inside. I was always glad that kid wasn’t me. I mean, his house was a tomb. It was perfectly quiet with perfect windows and perfect doors and not a scrap of dirt touching anything. Perfect, yes. Whatever.
I came to New York City not to sit here like any other dreamer. I am good. I am the best chef you have ever seen. I’m just stuck here. I don’t know how Bolivar managed to get it so good. Let me tell you about him.
Bolivar leads a charmed life. I know, because I’ve been watching him. He lives in a tiny apartment over the Restorante, but he swears he doesn’t want anything better. You can see right into it from the rooftop of the next place over. He gets up every morning at 4am. He stretches exactly four times, gets out of bed, brushes his teeth, feeds his little dog, and goes down to the kitchen to start the ovens. He drinks one cup of coffee with 3 lumps of sugar and exactly one half a cream. Then he sits and smiles for no particular reason while staring off into space for 15 minutes. Then, he walks into the bathroom and closes the door. He is usually there for ten minutes. Would that we all had such perfect bladders. He comes out and goes back into the kitchen. He opens up his magic box with a key and pulls out all his recipes, picks the ones he will use that day, and pours over them for an hour, making notes and annotations on all of them.
It’s that darned key I can’t figure out. His recipe box isn’t that well hidden. I mean, really, who keeps a sugar box behind tomato sauce on the top shelf of the pantry? Obvious. But that key…. he never has it in the morning, but he always has it when he goes downstairs to his box. I know he doesn’t have it in any of his pockets or around his neck while he’s sleeping. Either it’s in his bathroom or somewhere on the stairway in between. I don’t know which. All I know is he has it.
At 5:15 he gets down his knives and starts juggling them. Why? I really have no idea and since it has nothing to do with his recipes, I really don’t care. At 5:30, we all come in. After that it’s rush rush until about 3pm. Then Bolivar takes his charity walks. He goes to all these nasty houses and gives out the leftover bread from breakfast, piously proclaiming, “A fine day deserves a fine deed.” It’s a pretty good idea; everyone thinks he’s a charmer and he gives good rapport for his business. Plus, we don’t have to throw out the old bread. 5pm sharp we are slaving away again. Brigitte unlocks the door for a line of diners at 5:45 precisely. Rush rush until 10pm when the last dish is washed and we are all sent home.
“Hey Jasper, what do you think?” A beaming Bolivar shoves a spoon at me. I taste. This is the part that gets me every time. I close my eyes and savor; the vinaigrette spills over my tongue, just tangy, just sweet, just perfect. I try to quickly taste the spices, but it doesn’t ever work for me. Some people have this magic catalogue they can use to taste something and say “Why of course, that is the cilantro, the marjoram, the thyme, and the parsley; excellent.” Somehow their taste buds slide the spices apart and taste them separately. Me? I just know what tastes good together. I can’t figure out how to do it. But that’s not my fault either; I was dropped when I was a baby.
“It’s perfect sir!” I enthuse. Bolivar smiles in satisfaction, “I knew it! It will change all our salads for the next week.” I nod vigorously. “Sir, it will be a hit. The sweet and sour level is perfect. A little bit of tarragon, no?” I saw him get that one off the shelf.
“Jasper, you are a wonder! I am so pleased I hired you. You will be a chef extraordinaire.”
Maybe this would be a good in. “If I could be even half the chef of you, I would be so pleased.” A snort came from behind; I turned in time to see Brigitte hide a derisive scowl.
“What?” I asked with carefully constructed innocent curiosity, pretending not to feel the anger palpitating inside my ears.
“Oh nothing, Jasper. I am sure you will succeed at whatever you put your mind to. Bolivar, the couple on table 9 would like to personally meet you if possible. They love your food.”
“Oh of course!” Bolivar bustled out.
Brigitte glared at me as she snatched up 4 plates to carry out; she carried them with such precision in long, graceful arms… “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I know it isn’t good. And you should know that I am watching you.”
“I have no idea, dear Brigitte, what you could be talking about.”
“Yes you do. I’ve seen you sneaking around. You’re a creep. And you aren’t as nice as you act.”
My nice bone bent inside and the words were out before I could strap them down. “Oh yes, well, I suppose the one swarming in acting experience and expertise would be the expert on human character.” I bowed as she flushed, opened her mouth, and stomped away. Once the freckle-faced kid I knew learned that you could make people stop picking on them if you said mean things to them. He was right. I’m not that kid, but he was pretty smart.
Onion 47. I think my eyes are going to fall out. I don’t have any tears left. “Jasper! When you finish the onions, I need more tomatoes chopped and a fresh salami from the back.”
“Right away Bolivar.” He’s in his element now. Shouting out order after order, and we his little minions must obey him.
“Bordeaux!” Bolivar called, “The basil has arrived. Could you put a sprig of it onto plates 1, 14, and 7 before they go out? And please keep it prepped on that side of the kitchen.” Did I mention Bolivar is deathly allergic to basil? Yeah, well, he is. One little sprig and his face will balloon up. More than that, his insides will balloon up. That’s why if something absolutely has to have basil, someone else puts it on. Once he got a cutting board that had had basil on it two days ago that someone hadn’t scrubbed closely enough (okay, okay, or maybe someone rubbed a little on the board; I sort of wondered how bad it would swell up), and he ended up in the hospital.
We closed up the whole restaurant and had a whole day off. That was an awesome day. I mean, it was sad and of course really to bad for Bolivar, but it was nice to have the day off. Brigitte and I went to a play. Okay – so maybe she went and I followed and got in and sat about 8 rows behind her, but it was pretty much the same thing. Except, I wonder if she knew I was there.
“Jasper! I need more special sauce. Upstairs on my table in the kitchenette.” I quickly drop what I am doing and run upstairs. Bolivar often experiments with things in his apartment, so I am accustomed to run up there for ingredients. As I grab the jar I suddenly see it: the key. It’s right there on the back of the counter. Without thinking, I grab the key and stuff it in my pocket.
“Jasper! I need the sauce”
“Coming!” I race my heart back downstairs, thumping louder than my feet. I thrust the sauce into Bolivar’s hand and rush back to my corner. Potatoes there now. I tear into the sack and begin peeling furiously, my mind racing, key burning in my pocket. Now what? If I have the key, I could get the recipes tonight, hop a train tomorrow. Or should I just copy them down and wait? Would that be too suspicious? I somehow hadn’t thought past the getting the key part.
“Jasper! We need more cilantro chopped,” Bolivar yelled. “And we’re running out of dishes!” Brigitte added, “I need more silverware.”
“Jasper! More sauce on skillet nine. And the calamari need to be watched again.” And you wonder why I’m going crazy. I once knew this little freckle-faced kid, not me, who had too many brothers and sisters. He was the middle child, and he was always getting yelled at to be the local slave. Clean the kitchen. Make dinner. Weed the garden. Scrub the floorboard. Wash Dad’s car. Yeah, he was nothing but a slave. I always knew I wouldn’t be like him.
We were in the element; rush hour was at its peak and Bolivar Shurgnasty was, once again, living up to his extravagant name with an extravagant array of dishes. Then it happened. It happened so fast I wasn’t sure how it even started. Clarence pulled open the oven door and pulled out a fresh mozzarella pizza. Then there was some kind of an explosion from the back of the oven and the whole place smelled like smoke. Flames were leaping up the sides of the wall, greedily gobbling the dry wood and grease-encrusted wallpaper.
Then there was yelling. And screaming. Everyone was running outside, except for Bolivar, who was trying to throw water on the walls. “Get the customers out!” He yelled. We tried, as fast as we could, to hustle everyone out. More screaming. Have you ever tried getting 70 people to exit a restaurant in an orderly process? It’s kind of like herding cats. (Which I have also tried before, and which doesn’t work out so well).
Once we were all outside I remembered, the recipes! The whole reason I had put up with Bolivar and his cheerful hell for all those months; I couldn’t let them burn. Suddenly Bolivar yelled, “Where is Brigitte?” Looking around, I realized she was missing too.
“I’ll get her!” I yelled and ran back before anyone could stop me. The kitchen was an inferno, the flames eerily silent as they ate what should have been for people. The searing heat removed any bit of moisture in my eyes the onions hadn’t drained.
“Brigitte!” I yelled, while trying to find my way through the flames to the pantry on the right where that box was. “Where are you?”
“I’m in here!” I heard a muffled voice from the far left side of the room. At the exact same moment the middle of the roof sounded ominously.
“I’m stuck! The shelf fell down and I can’t get my leg out.” I looked at the roof and had one of those epiphany moments that only happens in movies and fake stories where time seems to freeze while I think. If I went for the recipes, I probably couldn’t get Brigitte. If I went for Brigitte, bye bye recipes. I closed my eyes and heard that freckle faced kid again listening to his teacher berate him for supposedly plagiarizing a science project on neuromuscular diseases. (How’s a kid to know that it was too advanced work for a 10-year-old and he should have borrowed from his high school brother instead of his college brother?) “You’ll never do anything great. You’ll never be anything great. You will always choose the easy way out.”
Brigitte screamed. But she hates me. Why should I save her? She might slap in my face. Or, she might cry and hug me, her hero. Her awesome hero who saved her life. The roof creaked. I could hear those recipes begin to crackle. It’s my life dream. What’s an Arizona-based line chef supposed to do? Left or right? I picked a direction, and plunged into the flames.
**************************************************************************
It’s been a number of months since I’ve said anything, so you’re probably wondering what happened to me. Well, what happened to Jasper Bean is a good question. I think he got left behind somewhere. Currently though, a Gerald Legumbre has opened up an Italian restaurant in Atlanta, Georgia, and he’s doing really, really well. People are so impressed with his recipes, although they often wonder that few of them include basil. I mean, honestly, that Gerald guy has got it made. His restaurant is making a killing.
As for the Restorante folks, I don’t know what happened to them all. I don’t know what happened to them all. Honestly. I haven’t cared enough to pay attention. I never did like any of them. Although, I think someone randomly mentioned the other day that someone named Brigitte Foster famously survived a tragic fire in a restaurant, which gave her a spot on national television. A famous actor in New York City fell in love with her pluck and beauty and married her. He probably deserved it.
And maybe I might have read in the papers that Bolivar died yesterday though, an overdose of basil. Somehow it got into something he was tasting, but they don’t know what, since it was after hours and no one could get in. They assume he just got careless. His famous hidden recipe box, recovered safely from the fire, was opened per his will, but all that was inside were scraps of paper with pictures doodled on them. They say he must have been too proud to write them after all. For who would ever want to harm Bolivar? Who indeed. I certainly don’t know. I haven’t bothered think about it. I wouldn’t even know about it if it hadn’t have been like big news or something, because I certainly wouldn’t have looked for his name. All I can tell you is that sometimes, sometimes, the dragon wins.
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