Shem Creek Read Free Page B

assistant chef when he’s here. She is capable of almost anything, thank God. Shoot, just last week she stopped a knife fight in the kitchen between a busboy and a dishwasher. Seems one guy made a slanderous remark about the dubious nature of the other’s birth, which was followed by a reference to the other fellow’s lewd preference for his mother. Well, after that, the conversation switched to Spanish and could have escalated to a lifethreatening situation but Louise stepped in and threatened to call the police. It’s a good thing our customers don’t know what goes on in the kitchen. It’s bad enough what goes on in the dining room!
    Rock bottom? It’s almost embarrassing to tell you how I got there, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I figure that if I can save some other poor son of a gun from the hell I went through then it’s worth it to put my pride aside. No, I’ve come to some very new conclusions and it all began with becoming separated from Loretta and going broke. I was forty-two, a smart fellow (or so I thought) with a platinum resume and suddenly I didn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of, like my grandfather used to say. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
    Look, you’ll have to excuse me for just a few minutes. This interview shouldn’t take very long. And, when I get back I’ll tell you why simplifying life is such a beautiful thing. Yep, think like an Italian and keep it simple. Just hold that thought.

ONE
    FISH OUT OF WATER

    I walked across the floor from the kitchen door to the bar where my appointment was waiting. She hopped down from the bar stool and took a very deep breath. Nervous enthusiasm was a good sign.
    “Hey! I’m Brad Jackson. Thanks for coming.”
    “Hi! I’m Linda Breland.”
    I took the resume she offered me, we shook hands and all my knuckles cracked.
    “That’s a healthy grip you’ve got there.”
    “Oh, God, sorry. Comes from throwing bundles of newspapers. Not very feminine. You okay?”
    “Yeah, I’m fine. Really.”
    She was applying for the job of manager and how feminine she was didn’t matter one whit.
    Louise had her hands full with the mushrooming kitchen staff—a little restaurant humor—and business was going gangbusters. Robert, Louise and I agreed it was time to hire someone with a good disposition and a head for details.
    At first glance, Linda Breland seemed like a nice woman, the kind you could depend on. I would have said she was somewhere in her mid-thirties. If her grip was any indication, she was a healthy specimen. Her brown hair was highlighted with some streaks of blonde, perhaps even done for the interview, but her hair color made no difference to me. She was dressed conservatively, not in expensive clothes, but stylish enough to say that she cared about her appearance. That was what really mattered. Looking professional was important. Having the strength of a stevedore wouldn’t hurt either. You never knew what you might wind up having to do—stack cases of wine, crates of vegetables, racks of glasses—anything could happen at any moment.
    “Why don’t we sit over there by the windows?” I said. “Would you like something to drink? Tea?”
    “Actually, if you have Diet Coke, that would be luv-ley.” She lifted her jacket and pumped it lightly for airflow. “Augh! It’s so hot today. I’m parched like tha Sa-HA-rah!”
    “No problem. You sit and I’ll be right back.”
    There was a Civil War going on in her accent. In one breath she was Scarlett, and in the next moment she was a flawless Edith Bunker. It was amusing. Weird, but amusing.
    The dining room was almost empty as it was after lunch and before dinner. We had an abbreviated menu that we served all day long, but today was Tuesday and Tuesdays were sort of slow for some reason I had yet to figure out.
    As the glass filled, I glanced at her resume and saw she had worked in New Jersey for a number of years. No surprise there—not