Knock-Off
Short Story
The desultory, limping, flight into the night.
Ejected from bright lights and chemical-polished stainless-steel. The cold swirls but hesitates to take hold, like an all-encompassing mosquito. After careful consideration, it latches onto skin and gorges. That shiver in acknowledgement.
The dishies chat in some foreign language, sharing a cigarette. The chef has learned just enough of it to answer in the affirmative, the negative and to swear as well as them. They farewell him and make their way up the street, to find their shit-box of a car in order to start carving a journey home. It’s fifty-fifty whether or not the parking rangers will have pinged them. The cunts.
The concrete upon which they walk is cracked and filthy. A constellation of splotches that could have started as tossed pieces of gum or toppled ice-creams now so trodden on by rain, sun and soles that they have become miniature black holes. No escape for light, which is why the inebriated scuttle over them to get to the next restaurant, bar or brothel, those warm safe havens, chasing a greater time.
The chef does not need to hurry across them like they do. The black holes won’t drag their exhausted, embattled, scarred husk beyond their event horizons. No light shines from an apron stained with the pot-shots of the pans that went into service preparing food for the two-hundred plus covers that night. A busy Friday — but when were they not busy? The word had lost its meaning, the thin membrane that had previously wrapped itself around the four individual letters and made it a word. The high-pressure creature, wired on four double-espressos and four double-rum and Cokes (with a sprinkling of the other coke), sets their compass for home and walks.
Tired taxi drivers crowd a 7-Eleven, speaking in rapid-fire Arabic and downing dollar coffees like their lives depended on it, which was probably true. They give the chef a once-over and quickly determine he’s no taker, not biter, not worth their time. A couple of hoons in tuned-up Japanese cars rev hard and accelerate hard to the next batch of red lights. They let everyone in a ten kilometre radius know of their displeasure with the fact they’ve had to stop with more guttural revs. When the lights flash green they leave burnt petrol and rubber in their wake. Streetlights change from white to orange overhead as the chef exits the main drag. A lone star twinkles beyond the lights, but then it moves, revealing itself to be a plane circling high above, awaiting the call to land.
The chef relishes the opportunity to stretch his legs. They’ve been waltzing around hot grills and other cooks all night — short steps, quick steps, steps to avoid and steps to fix fuck-ups before they become fuck-ups. This is a different walk. Blood is released from the pockets they’ve been pooling in and find their way pumping through the heart again. Fingers are still now, a cut is sealing beneath a dirty blue bandage. They cough, though a lung doesn’t come up with it. It’s been better since they quit the smokes, but they’d kill for one right now, as the oppressive fresh air crowds.
Right, left, right. They used to drive to work, but this walk now is their wind-down. Shave off another half-hour of staring at the ceiling, reels of thoughts parading through their head, of quantities and orders and staffing and purveyors and what to say to the twat head waiter, who could use some putting down. Dreams of a few days off, maybe in a couple weeks time, and the eight-ball of coke they’d be vacuuming straight up the first available nostril.
They arrive at the hulking apartment block. Keys inserted and twisted, they march up the cheap, carpeted stairs to their door. More jangling and scratching, and they’re inside. The place is not quite dirty, not quite clean. An in-between of old dishes stacked efficiently in the sink, limited crumbs on the floor, an unfolded pile of laundry in a basket on the couch.
The fridge reveals an array of produce, mostly experimental sauces and demi-glaces, and half-hearted attempts at culinary innovation. In the midst of it all though, a few plastic-wrapped knobs of different cheeses —Brie, Gruyere and mozzarella. The butter comes out too, in its permanent container, unwashed for weeks. The tired chef scours the pantry for the last of the sourdough.
The butter succumbs to the heat of the pan — a large, heart-stopping dollop. As it sizzles, the chef grates the cheese, mixes it, and piles it onto the sourdough. The few pieces that escape the closing of the sandwich get scooped straight into their mouth. The smell of the butter and the taste of the cheese keep the tiredness at bay, broadcasting to the body that rest is coming, that it won’t be too much longer.
The sandwich goes in the pan, and more butter is applied to the top slice of bread to prepare it for the flip. The chef finds a heavy metal spatula and firmly presses down on the sandwich, forcing the flavours together. Another minute and they flip it over, revealing a perfect, golden-brown crust. They repeat the spatula press and wait.
The pan pulled off the heat, the grilled cheese sandwich tossed onto a clean plate and sliced in half. They barely register the melted cheese vainly struggling to hold the two halves of the sandwich together.
They take a bite, and everything is alright.
