The Grey Place

It’s the deepest kind of quiet, the so-silent-you-can-hear-your-blood-rushing kind of quiet. I hate that silence; I crave that silence. I’m not ready to leave yet, but my heart is pounding and my blood is pumping faster the longer I sit here.

           It’s dark. So, blessedly dark. I’m not ready. But I need to move.

           The cold, frigid air carrying the freezer burned scent of a meat medley soothes my fiery, sweat-ridden skin. It’s time to go, but I love this place: my icy oasis.

           Violent, fluorescent light bursts in, and a blurry shadow mouths something at me as I blink away the tears that form as I stare into the sudden, door-shaped supernova. Oh. She’s not mouthing something at me, she’s saying something. I should take off the earmuffs.

           “Christ! There you are! Tables six and eight are ready for plating…”

The clatter of stainless steel and cast-iron slams gracelessly against my abused ear drums together with the beeping of timers, the anxious warble of pressure cookers, and a cacophony of loud, angry voices.

“Mannie is ready to walk with the garnish, but he can’t until you give the go ahead. Filet is done resting, right?”

Rest sounds nice right now. It’s only 7:44pm, and I’ve got at least another hour and sixteen minutes until the rush is going to calm down. My dad always said Friday nights were the worst time to go out to eat because everyone books Friday nights. I never knew I could hate the end of a work week so much.

“Anyways, they should be done at this point. Hey, Mark-, Mark…”

Some part of me registers that she’s talking to me, and I know I should be moving, but I just feel that worming dread of failure squirming deeper and deeper. I’m not even close to done with dinner service and I’ve already screwed up the whole order tonight. What if there’s a critic at table nine? Shit, I know Jeanie is coming by this weekend, but what if this weekend means Friday night, not Saturday or Sunday. Does Friday night count as the weekend? It’s still Friday. That’s still a weekday, right?

Suddenly she’s right in front of my face, her thin lips so close I can see her pores. Something’s different as her voice cuts through the fog clinging to my pre-frontal cortex, “Mark, it’s me, I’m here. It’s Renee. Talk to me. Where are you?”

I blink rapidly, her watery outline clarifying as the tears clear from my eyes.

I give her my best half-smile, “Sorry, anxiety spiral again. I know I need to be on tonight.”

“Hey, look at me.” I don’t.

“Look at me.” I… do.

“You’re okay, we’re okay, service is going great. You’ve been putting out perfect proteins all night, you’re on your game, you’re not letting me down, you’re not letting Mannie or Leah or Ali or Sam down. You’re not letting Ian down. We’re good, you’re good, Dyer Street Kitchen is on fire tonight, Mark!” She pauses, matching my smirk.

“Wait, no, there’s no fire, just to be clear.”

“HA!” I laugh a little too forcefully, “Yeah, sorry, I’m here, I’m good. Or, well, I’m not, but I will be. Just needed a moment.”

“You are way too dramatic with this, I get needing to cool off, but leaving the lights off, locking yourself in, earmuffs on, it’s kinda creepy, Mark.”

“I do what I have to and the cold, the dark, the quiet… it helps, Renee.”

“Yeah, I get that, but it’s still creepy as–” Renee cuts the expletive off. “You’re procrastinating again. If you leave the filets in the oven any longer, they’re going to start drying out.”

“You’re right, sorry, I’m ready, let’s go.”

“Good. And quit saying you’re sorry.” I nod and follow her out of the silvery sensory deprivation chamber I love into the kitchen that’s become my home.

“Behind!” comes from the short, freckled ginger, Leah, as she rushes past with a tray full of freshly breaded and battered chicken breasts. I quickly scoot forward, giving her space, and turn to the rack of ovens where the filets were resting. Grabbing my apron from the peg next to the freezer, I throw on a fresh pair of gloves.

Filets are still warm and have just enough give to make it clear they haven’t made it to medium yet. Perfect.

I carry the tray over past Ali, our entremetier, who’s currently slicing open the baked potatoes to accompany my filets to table eight.

“Corner!” shouts Leah, already on her way back to prep more chicken.

We dance past each other to the arrhythmic beat pervading the stainless-steel bedlam and I make it to the pass.

“Mannie, garnish, walk!” I call out as I settle my tray in front of Sam, already waiting at the pass with baked potatoes plated for table six. The heavy-set man responds almost instantly, pulling the au jus off the heat and bringing it over together with a small plate of rosemary, toasted pine nuts, and micro greens. Mannie, thankfully, ignores my hunched posture and pauses just briefly enough to nod at Sam before heading back over to stir the four other sauces he’s maintaining.

The whip-thin, Danish man towers over me with his startlingly blue eyes that crease at the corners as he gives me the familiar, pitying look I hate so much. So, I look down at the fascinatingly common grey tile of the floor.

“Renee found you in the freezer again?”

I don’t respond, knowing that we both know the answer.

“Mark, I know this time of year is particularly hard for you, but Ian wouldn’t want you–”

I snap my head up and lock gazes with him, “Fuck you! How the fuck would you know what Ian would want? Huh? You weren’t even here, Sam! Take the meat and shut. the. fuck. up.”

Immediately that disgusting feeling worms its way back into my gut. Great, another screw up tonight. Renee bails me out of my freezer spiral, Mannie’s trying not to upset me, I bite Sam’s head off for trying to comfort me, what’s next?

Sam sighs and takes the extra filet off the tray, cutting into it, “Steak looks great Mark, keep it up, you’re on fire tonight.”

I don’t respond as I spin on my heels and stalk off back to my station, head down once again. Happy Birthday, Ian. Hope today’s better for you up there than it is for me down here.