campiest waiter. “We get that a lot here,” he says to Stacey-Jane. Billy yells out from the kitchen, “Sure bet you do, Michael.” Michael touches up Cocoa’s makeup while trying to explain the facts of life to Stacey-Jane. Oblivious to the giggles and immune to embarrassment, Stacey-Jane seems to have a magical, impermeable protective coating. “Steve’s the head waiter,” Michael explains. “You can always tell by his dirty knees.” Michael demonstrates, dropping to his knees and sticking out his tongue like a begging dog. Stacey-Jane nods like she’s taking notes for biology class. It is impossible to shock her.
Then Steve appears out of nowhere like he’s got supersonic ears and ESP. “Since no one here seems to be working, I’m docking everyone’s pay for an extra break.” Cocoa just walks away grinning, which pisses me off. She could have stood up for us and instead she’s writing her name down at the hostess stand. She knows better than that. You have to wait for the hostess to take down your name. Besides, she never sits down to eat here. There’s a line forming as she edges past the crowd toward the cold grey Toronto night. I hand her a new takeout coffee and she just leaves, lifting the hem of her gold lamé dress over the threshold.
The lineup at the hostess stand is out the door, and the hostess is running around seating people. Steve has taken it upon himself to stand at the podium and read out the names. “Mike,” he says. No answer. “Mike. Mike Hunt,” he says firmly. “Mr. Hunt,” he tries again, “Mr. Mike Hunt.” Parents with small children look at each other uncomfortably. Thecooks in the kitchen crack up. Steve has no idea why. “MIKE HUNT,” he yells. “MIKE HUNT.” I’m laughing so hard my cheeks hurt and I have to cross my legs to keep from peeing. It’s almost worth the extra side duty. We scrape the crusty bits of dried mustard from the condiment trays and wipe the kid goober off the high chairs and booster seats and polish the utensils before the movie rush. Every once in a while someone giggles for no real reason, just while standing there scraping the relish trays. I’m still giggling when my head hits the pillow.
The police are chasing me. It’s dark, and I’m wearing my orange-and-brown uniform, except it is too short and I’m not wearing underwear and I keep trying to stretch down my skirt but it keeps riding up and feeling shorter. My section stretches out onto the street and up some stairs. I’m holding plates of fried chicken and there’s the man whose coffee I forgot and the table of six who are yelling at me to take their order but I know if I get closer they’ll grab me. I’m trying to take a plate of green beans to the table, but they’re stuck to the counter. Turning into worms under the heat lamps, they start to wriggle. They stand up and start dancing, and they’re yelling at me, “I CO UK I CO UK,” and I can’t figure out what they’re trying to say, and the heat lamps turn to strobe lights and the restaurant is like the dance floor of Katrina’s with mirror balls and drag queens. Cocoa’s looking at me like I’ve done something wrong. I can feel the shame vines creeping into my throat, sprouting leaves out my nostrils. I run down to the commissary and pull open one of the giant walk-infreezers. I know I’ve killed someone but I don’t remember doing it. I open the freezer door and dead chickens are hanging there upside down with their feathers on, and they start to look at me, giving me the evil eye like I’ve killed them, and I know that I have even though I don’t remember doing it, and a man in a uniform fires a lightning bolt from a gun and I fall like I’m going through a trap door that trips the alarm, and I jerk back awake as I land.
We don’t really see that my dad is afraid. He’s just a carrier, and we’re all infected. He can smell rain, he says. I learn to smell it too. Dark clouds on the horizon begin to
Then Steve appears out of nowhere like he’s got supersonic ears and ESP. “Since no one here seems to be working, I’m docking everyone’s pay for an extra break.” Cocoa just walks away grinning, which pisses me off. She could have stood up for us and instead she’s writing her name down at the hostess stand. She knows better than that. You have to wait for the hostess to take down your name. Besides, she never sits down to eat here. There’s a line forming as she edges past the crowd toward the cold grey Toronto night. I hand her a new takeout coffee and she just leaves, lifting the hem of her gold lamé dress over the threshold.
The lineup at the hostess stand is out the door, and the hostess is running around seating people. Steve has taken it upon himself to stand at the podium and read out the names. “Mike,” he says. No answer. “Mike. Mike Hunt,” he says firmly. “Mr. Hunt,” he tries again, “Mr. Mike Hunt.” Parents with small children look at each other uncomfortably. Thecooks in the kitchen crack up. Steve has no idea why. “MIKE HUNT,” he yells. “MIKE HUNT.” I’m laughing so hard my cheeks hurt and I have to cross my legs to keep from peeing. It’s almost worth the extra side duty. We scrape the crusty bits of dried mustard from the condiment trays and wipe the kid goober off the high chairs and booster seats and polish the utensils before the movie rush. Every once in a while someone giggles for no real reason, just while standing there scraping the relish trays. I’m still giggling when my head hits the pillow.
The police are chasing me. It’s dark, and I’m wearing my orange-and-brown uniform, except it is too short and I’m not wearing underwear and I keep trying to stretch down my skirt but it keeps riding up and feeling shorter. My section stretches out onto the street and up some stairs. I’m holding plates of fried chicken and there’s the man whose coffee I forgot and the table of six who are yelling at me to take their order but I know if I get closer they’ll grab me. I’m trying to take a plate of green beans to the table, but they’re stuck to the counter. Turning into worms under the heat lamps, they start to wriggle. They stand up and start dancing, and they’re yelling at me, “I CO UK I CO UK,” and I can’t figure out what they’re trying to say, and the heat lamps turn to strobe lights and the restaurant is like the dance floor of Katrina’s with mirror balls and drag queens. Cocoa’s looking at me like I’ve done something wrong. I can feel the shame vines creeping into my throat, sprouting leaves out my nostrils. I run down to the commissary and pull open one of the giant walk-infreezers. I know I’ve killed someone but I don’t remember doing it. I open the freezer door and dead chickens are hanging there upside down with their feathers on, and they start to look at me, giving me the evil eye like I’ve killed them, and I know that I have even though I don’t remember doing it, and a man in a uniform fires a lightning bolt from a gun and I fall like I’m going through a trap door that trips the alarm, and I jerk back awake as I land.
We don’t really see that my dad is afraid. He’s just a carrier, and we’re all infected. He can smell rain, he says. I learn to smell it too. Dark clouds on the horizon begin to
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