Read Online 14 Degrees Below Zero by Quinton Skinner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Quinton Skinner
Ads: Link
the methamphetamine in the back of her mouth as, six years after the fact, she prepared for her shift at the Cogito.
She tried to remember what the building had been in earlier incarnations, during her childhood and teenage years. Nothing came to mind. Time passed. Lewis was always going on about the mutability of things and, though she had never really doubted him, she was now seeing for herself. The Cogito had existed less than a year, and would undoubtedly vanish in a few more. Restaurants had their own reality: you leased a place with kitchen facilities, you cooked food, customers showed up and told their friends about a new cutting-edge eatery they had discovered. Maybe a reporter from the newspaper came and did a story. Then, after a while, the restaurant’s familiar presence, its reliable solidity, became a perfect excuse for never visiting it. That was when you went out of business. If you weren’t totally ruined, you could take a chance and open another one.
Jay went in through the back, hung up her jacket, and said
Buenos días
to Jorge, who washed dishes and chopped food for eight hours a day. He was half of an enthusiastically acrimonious duo with Fowler, the cook, who was short and slight and had perpetually bloodshot eyes. Though Jorge was taller, and stouter, the two men were like a pair of dogs who had established a pecking order in inverse order to their respective sizes. The Cogito’s other cook was a middle-aged woman called Giselle, who was pleasant and much easier to deal with than Fowler. It was by virtue of this agreeable personality that she generally got the dinner shifts, though in fact Fowler was the better cook.
Jay paused in the kitchen and took in the smells of garlic and saffron, the sizzle of oil in the pan and the warm, close air.
And then in came Phil, her boss. He was about thirty and so good-looking as to be an improbable heterosexual—though these credentials were firmly established by his constant advances toward Jay, usually couched in nice-guy camaraderie but unmistakable nonetheless. Putting on her apron, she sensed Phil’s eyes on her. His attractiveness was no problem—Michael Carmelov had obligingly cured her forever of mistaking good looks for appealing inner qualities—but Phil’s look added to a feeling she was coming to hate. She wanted to become invisible, she wanted to be left alone. It was like the look Stephen gave her, and Ramona. These hungry eyes stripped her down. Most of all she resented the one-sidedness of all these looks—when did she get
her
visual feast?
“Morning, Jay,” Phil said. “You’re a little late.”
“I had to drop Ramona off,” Jay told him, fixing her hair in the mirror. “Plus I fell into a space-time vortex and had a bitch of a time climbing out.”
“Those are nasty,” Phil admitted. He gave a brunch order to Fowler—verbally, of course, because Phil took pride in never writing anything down. He had asked Jay to do the same, in the name of some amorphous sense of elegance, but it proved impossible. She’d inevitably forget the order, then be forced to return to the table to take it again. Sometimes when she came back, the customers couldn’t remember what they had ordered, and the whole process had to begin again.
“This fish isn’t good,” Fowler said, pointing with a wooden spoon at a ceramic dish of fillets on the counter.
“Dress it up,” Phil said. “Put lemon slices over it.”
“Where are we getting this shit?” Fowler’s mustache folded with distaste.
“I don’t even know,” Phil replied. “Talk to Bjorn or Jenny about it if you have a problem.”
“Just cook it,” Jorge muttered.
“Hey, go
fuck yourself,
Jorge,” Phil said over the divider that bisected the kitchen.
“You are bitching too much,” Jorge said.
Fowler put his nose close to the fillets. “Smell it,” he said to no one in particular. “Someone’s going to get sick. If no one else is,
I’m
going to, just from being around
She tried to remember what the building had been in earlier incarnations, during her childhood and teenage years. Nothing came to mind. Time passed. Lewis was always going on about the mutability of things and, though she had never really doubted him, she was now seeing for herself. The Cogito had existed less than a year, and would undoubtedly vanish in a few more. Restaurants had their own reality: you leased a place with kitchen facilities, you cooked food, customers showed up and told their friends about a new cutting-edge eatery they had discovered. Maybe a reporter from the newspaper came and did a story. Then, after a while, the restaurant’s familiar presence, its reliable solidity, became a perfect excuse for never visiting it. That was when you went out of business. If you weren’t totally ruined, you could take a chance and open another one.
Jay went in through the back, hung up her jacket, and said
Buenos días
to Jorge, who washed dishes and chopped food for eight hours a day. He was half of an enthusiastically acrimonious duo with Fowler, the cook, who was short and slight and had perpetually bloodshot eyes. Though Jorge was taller, and stouter, the two men were like a pair of dogs who had established a pecking order in inverse order to their respective sizes. The Cogito’s other cook was a middle-aged woman called Giselle, who was pleasant and much easier to deal with than Fowler. It was by virtue of this agreeable personality that she generally got the dinner shifts, though in fact Fowler was the better cook.
Jay paused in the kitchen and took in the smells of garlic and saffron, the sizzle of oil in the pan and the warm, close air.
And then in came Phil, her boss. He was about thirty and so good-looking as to be an improbable heterosexual—though these credentials were firmly established by his constant advances toward Jay, usually couched in nice-guy camaraderie but unmistakable nonetheless. Putting on her apron, she sensed Phil’s eyes on her. His attractiveness was no problem—Michael Carmelov had obligingly cured her forever of mistaking good looks for appealing inner qualities—but Phil’s look added to a feeling she was coming to hate. She wanted to become invisible, she wanted to be left alone. It was like the look Stephen gave her, and Ramona. These hungry eyes stripped her down. Most of all she resented the one-sidedness of all these looks—when did she get
her
visual feast?
“Morning, Jay,” Phil said. “You’re a little late.”
“I had to drop Ramona off,” Jay told him, fixing her hair in the mirror. “Plus I fell into a space-time vortex and had a bitch of a time climbing out.”
“Those are nasty,” Phil admitted. He gave a brunch order to Fowler—verbally, of course, because Phil took pride in never writing anything down. He had asked Jay to do the same, in the name of some amorphous sense of elegance, but it proved impossible. She’d inevitably forget the order, then be forced to return to the table to take it again. Sometimes when she came back, the customers couldn’t remember what they had ordered, and the whole process had to begin again.
“This fish isn’t good,” Fowler said, pointing with a wooden spoon at a ceramic dish of fillets on the counter.
“Dress it up,” Phil said. “Put lemon slices over it.”
“Where are we getting this shit?” Fowler’s mustache folded with distaste.
“I don’t even know,” Phil replied. “Talk to Bjorn or Jenny about it if you have a problem.”
“Just cook it,” Jorge muttered.
“Hey, go
fuck yourself,
Jorge,” Phil said over the divider that bisected the kitchen.
“You are bitching too much,” Jorge said.
Fowler put his nose close to the fillets. “Smell it,” he said to no one in particular. “Someone’s going to get sick. If no one else is,
I’m
going to, just from being around
Similar Books
