by Katia Rose
Same cavalier smile. With Dylan, you could always count on a smile.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he jokes in that deep, rich voice of his, one massive hand covering mine. The live wires inside me spark again at the contact as heat blooms in my chest. His forearm is still tan from the summer even though October is days away, the freckle-dusted skin a contrast to my smoother, darker arm that looks so tiny next to his. He really is built like a rugby player.
“Wish I’d known you work here before I applied,” I tease him before I can start to wonder if that’s an appropriate thing to do in an interview.
“Why? So you could work even harder on your application?” he teases right back.
“So I would have known not to apply in the first place.”
“Well she’s certainly got the sass factor necessary for surviving at this place.”
Dylan and I both turn to Monroe like we forgot she was here. Part of me really did forget she was here.
“No need to worry about sassiness with this one. If I remember correctly, she always gives as good as she gets,” Dylan assures her.
“I will check that box off.” Monroe pretends to draw a checkmark on the paper in front of her, which I realize is my resume. She tucks a strand of her brown bob behind her ear, and I let myself take a closer look at her now that I’m not reeling at the sight of Dylan. She looks young to own a bar; she can’t be any older than thirty.
Just a few years older than Dylan must be.
I do the math in my head. Twenty-eight. He’s twenty-eight now.
Too old to give you a second thought, Renee. Three years didn’t change that.
“I’m just going to start this off by saying your resume looks fantastic, Renee. Seriously, it’s just so pretty.” I force a laugh as Monroe holds up the deluxe quality, colour-printed page. “You seem to have just the kind of experience we’re looking for, and your cover letter was very impressive. I have a few questions for you myself, but I’ll let our manager take the wheel first. Dylan, did you want to ask Renee anything?”
A memory forces itself into my thoughts like a projector screen coming to life, the scene playing out so clearly it might as well be a movie in my head. It was the first time I ever went to one of the spoken word workshops at the library. A few of my friends thought it sounded cool, but not cool enough to go with me. I sat on an orange plastic chair surrounded by chatting teenagers I’d never met before and wondered why I even came in the first place.
Then Dylan walked in. He had another group leader with him, but right from the start, he stole the show. He made us get rid of the chairs and sit on the floor. He was all energy, shades of emotion constantly shifting, turning like the tide and pulling us along with him, past the doubts and hesitation that held us back until we found ourselves straight in the deep end.
One of the kids asked if there were any rules for our poems, any subjects we weren’t allowed to talk about.
“I have only one rule as far as that goes.” Dylan held up a finger, all his energy coalescing into that single point, every word marked with intention. “No small talk. I don’t want to hear the things that are easy to say. I don’t want to hear the words the world shoves in your mouth and forces you to swallow, the ones that are supposed to be polite and normal. I don’t want to hear the same script we’ve all been learning since the goddamn day we were born. I want your words.
“I want the words you’re scared to say. I want the words that feel like they’re setting you on fire when you speak them, the words that steal your sleep and keep you up until morning. It doesn’t have to be sad or dark or enlightening. Hell, one of my favourite spoken word pieces is about a guy professing love to his laptop. I don’t care what you write about, but it has to be real. It has to be true. It has be completely, totally you. I don’t want to hear any small talk. I want your words.”
That’s what he’d ask when he heard our poems, when he walked around that meeting room at the library I ended up spending so many hours in, prodding us through creative exercises and brainstorming sessions. He’d suspect someone could go deeper, push farther, break down a few more barriers to pull up the raw honesty underneath, and he’d just ask, “Are those your words?” He’d find someone feeling sucked dry of inspiration, floundering for just a hint of where to begin, and he’d sit them down and ask, “Where are your words? Let’s find them.”
It’s insane, but I half expect him to ask me that same question now.
Where are your words, Renee?
I wish I had an answer for him. I really wish I did.
Of course that’s not what he asks, but it might as well be. It’s the reason they’re gone.
“Your resume says you’re currently completing your degree over in the UK. Are you planning on going back?”
Monroe nods like the question was on her mind too. I know it’s a totally normal thing for an employer to ask; I was expecting to have to talk about it. I have the answer all planned out in my head.
Small talk.
It’s the easy version of the story, the polite one, the one people can listen to without cringing or looking away.
“I’m taking a year off school to save up and get some work experience.” My answer comes out just a little too peppy. “So you don’t have to worry about losing me anytime soon.”
“Good to know,” Monroe replies. “And you’re looking for part time?”
“Yes, if possible.”
“I know you originally applied for a serving position, but when we talked on the phone you said you’d consider bartending. We’re desperately in need of someone else behind the bar, so I just want to know if you’d still be comfortable with that.”
I’d prefer serving since I’ve done it before, but it seems like this is all they’re offering, so I nod. “Of course.”
Monroe writes something down on my resume. “Great. Dylan, did you have any other questions?”
“I’ll, uh, just look at this again for a second, so go ahead and fire away, boss lady.” Dylan slides the paper towards him, but I can feel his eyes on me as Monroe starts to grill me about my work history and expectations for the job.
Most of them are standard interview questions, so I get through it all fairly smoothly, confident I’m saying the right things when she hums in agreement each time I pause, her grin still in place as she jots down a few notes.
“I think that’s it from me. Don’t worry too much about your lack of pint pouring experience. DeeDee will have you trained up in no time.”
“You’re not going to throw her in the ring with DeeDee, are you?” Dylan pretends to be aghast as I look between the two of them.
“Baptism by fire,” Monroe shoots back. “If she can survive a training session with DeeDee, she can survive anything at this bar.”
“Is that the girl with the pink hair?” I ask, doing my best to keep up.
“The one and only,” Dylan chimes.
“She seemed sweet. She offered me a tequila shot to calm my nerves.” I start shaking my head as soon as the admission leaves my mouth, scared I’ve incriminated myself or my future co-worker. “I didn’t take it, of course. I think she was joking.”
The two of them burst out laughing, Monroe looking as exasperated as she does amused. “Oh, she wasn’t joking. I will need to have yet another stern chat with her before I head out tonight. Speaking of heading out, you need to get on the floor. We still don’t have enough cooks for you to miss rush hour.” She points a finger at Dylan and then focuses on me again. “If we haven’t totally scared you off, I’d love to give you a final answer about the job tomorrow. I don’t think it will come as a surprise to say we’ve pretty much made up our minds.”
I reach for her hand again and return her friendly squeeze, relieved to see she seems to have made up her mind in my favour. I’m sure my bank account is the thirstiest thing in this bar, and more than that, this is the only job I’ve interviewed for that actually strikes me as fun. The second pink hair girl popped up with t
he tequila, I knew this was more than a place where the employees punch in, punch out, and go home.
Maybe that’s what I need: a little more fun.
“Yo, Mister Manager!” The farmhand hipster who led me to the office appears in the doorway, waving at Dylan. “We need two orders of those little fajita things, and we all know what happened the last time I tried to make them myself.”
Dylan slaps the top of the desk and stands up. “Two orders of little fajita things coming right up.”
I follow after him, exiting out into the little hallway that runs between the kitchen and the front of house.
“Hey, uh, Renee.” Dylan pauses, doorframe-width shoulders blocking most of the hallway as he turns and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes on me. “It’s really good to see you again.”
Dylan doesn’t do pleasantries. There’s no half-sincere ‘Hey, how are you? I’m fine, thanks,’ when he’s around. If he tells you it’s good to see you, he means it with all of his heart.
It’s one of the first things I ever admired about him, and it’s what makes me stop and consider my answer before I reply.
Seeing Dylan again is many, many things. It’s disorienting enough to make my steps feel like I’m sleepwalking. It’s surprising enough to have my heart booming, leaping into my throat and choking my breaths. Standing here in front of him has the echo of that aching, desperate longing threatening to break loose from the box I tucked it into so long ago.
It’s another moment of chaos I can’t control.
Yet as I watch him watch me in the shadows of the hall, the racket of the kitchen behind him clashing with the clinking glasses and thumping music of the bar behind me, I realize there’s still nothing I’d rather be staring at than the sight of that trademark shrug of his and those sexy little tufts in his hair he can never get smooth.
“It’s good to see you too, Dylan.”
His grin turns into a mega watt smile. I let myself soak up the light for a second before turning to leave.
“Hey, Renee!” I’m about to step into the bar when I hear him call my name. “I think a sock just fell out of your bag.”
Two
Dylan
ENJAMBMENT: The continuation of a sentence from one line of a poem to the next
“My friends, you have tuned into the all request Friday show on Toulouse FM. I am your host, DJ Danger, and—”
A scoffing sound interrupts me where I’m holding a spatula in front of my mouth like a microphone, shuffling around the kitchen to get appliances prepped while the rest of the staff works through their shift opening tasks alongside me.
“Do you have a problem, Zachy Zach?” I demand, making a show of covering the spatula like I don’t want my imagined audience to hear what I’m saying.
If Zach could scowl at the nickname, he would, but his wholesome farm boy face always looks like he just ate a big slice of fresh-baked apple pie and can’t bother being mad at the world. The closest he can get is a few creases between his eyebrows.
“DJ Danger?” He’s smirking now. Even his smirk looks wholesome.
“I’m working on the fly here, man,” I defend myself before uncovering my microphone substitute. “Excuse the interruption, valued listeners. I have just been joined by my fellow show host for the night. Allow me to present to you: the Fresh Faced Fool. Say hello to the audience!”
I offer Zach the spatula. He grips the handle with one hand while pointing at his face with the other.
“Fresh faced? Come on, man. I. Have. A. Beard.”
Everyone in the kitchen laughs at that. We cut him a big enough break not to say it to his face, but everyone who works at this bar calls Zach ‘The Adorable One’ behind his back. I suspect he grew his blond scruff of a beard in an attempt to give himself some kind of edge, but the only result was that he now looks like a slightly older and even more benevolent farmhand. His fondness for flannel doesn’t help.
He’s also one of my best friends here at Taverne Toulouse, and the wholesome bastard works so hard I know the place would fall apart without him. I only tease with the greatest love in my heart.
Also it’s funny as fuck to piss him off.
“You heard the man,” I continue, snatching the spatula back. “He. Has. A. Beard. And don’t any of you forget it. The Fresh Faced Fool will be conveying delicious meals to our customers and taking orders for more all night. If you’re tuning in for the first time, cherished listeners, allow me to explain: Toulouse FM is the only radio station in Montreal—nay, the world—that also operates a fully functional bar and kitchen. Stop by Taverne Toulouse on Avenue Mont-Royal tonight for good tunes, cold drinks, and even better company because in exactly one hour from now we. Are. Open!”
I pound my fists on the counter, and the other staff members indulge me enough to let out a few whoops. Taverne Toulouse had its soft reopening just over a week ago, and the kitchen is buzzing with the excitement of the recently reemployed. The bar was closed for three months of renovations after a change of ownership, and while all the staff were guaranteed jobs if they wanted to come back, it was only the OG employees—or ‘lifers’ as people less cool than me like to call us—who actually took the owner up on her offer. I got some pay to tide me over until we opened for business again since I’m kitchen manager now, but it feels good to be back on the clock.
Although technically I’m on salary now. I have benefits. I have responsibilities other than manning the grill and making the servers laugh when the customers get extra bitchy. Still, maintaining morale is at the top of my priorities, so I continue using my radio announcer voice as I check the stock in the freezer.
“We will also be joined by Montreal’s famous Pink Haired Princess tonight, whose regal dance moves will have you bowing down as she pours your drinks and pops your bottles.”
DeeDee flicks her trademark pink hair over her shoulder as she leaves the walk-in fridge with a carton of lemons in hand, hip bumping the door closed before jumping into a five second dance routine that has Zach’s jaw on the floor well before it’s over.
Then again, all DeeDee really has to do is breathe and Zach keels over. The dude has it bad.
“Bonsoir, mes belles,” she croons into the spatula when I hold it out, her Québécois accent thick. “Who is ready to party?”
I do my best impression of an air horn as she twirls her way out of the kitchen and into the front of house, where she’ll be handling the bar tonight.
We’re still running on skeleton staff until we get all the new hiring done, which will hopefully be complete in time for the grand reopening. The public is already going nuts for this place, and I know if I had anyone but the best of the best on with me tonight, we’d be screwed. Thankfully, these people really are the best, and despite our tendency to tease the shit out of each other and pull stupid pranks every chance we get, we are a well oiled machine of service industry efficiency. We make sure we have a good time doing it, but we always get the job done.
We’re a mismatched family, but we’re a family nonetheless.
“All right, listeners, let’s get this show rolling. We’re gonna start off with an oldie but a goodie, a true Taverne Toulouse classic to get you in the mood.”
I reach for the volume knob on the kitchen’s sound system, the song already cued up on the ancient iPod I use to play my music here. Our shift opening anthem starts pumping out. DeeDee pokes her head around the corner to give a characteristically loud and profane exclamation of approval in French while everyone’s heads start bobbing.
Zach and I hum the mhmm’s together as the opening to ‘No Diggity’ fills the kitchen.
“Let’s have a good fucking night!” I call out.
Then we get down to business.
Me and the other two cooks on for the night chop, scrub, and scrape the kitchen into shape, shooting the shit with each other as we go. This is the part of the job that always gets me hyped. We might be peeling potatoes and loading up deep fryers, but with the right music and the
right state of mind, you can feel like football gods getting ready to run out onto the field to the roar of an adoring crowd or rock stars warming up to headline an arena.
The other part, the manager part—the spreadsheets, the calculations, the contracts, the staring at the total sales for the month knowing if you screw your job up the people you care about won’t be able to pay their rent—is turning out to be more of an acquired taste.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket. I’d say being allowed to have your phone on the job is a manager perk, but if someone’s trying to get a hold of me during a shift, it’s rarely about anything good. I open up the new text in Monroe and I’s conversation.
I’m heading over to the bar to pick up some things. What did Renee say about the job?
Well, shit. There it is. Today’s fuck up.
For Renee to have said something about the job, I would have needed to actually call her and offer her the job—like Monroe asked me to do approximately four hours ago.
We interviewed her yesterday. I haven’t been able to get the sight of Renee Nyobé walking through that office door out of my head since.
She stole my breath.
She reached out and snatched the air from my lungs, and just the thought of her threatens to do it again every time my mind wanders back to that moment, so there’s no excuse or explanation for me forgetting to call her.
There’s no excuse or explanation for any of the mistakes I’ve been making as a manager. Most of them have been minor, small scheduling errors or messages I forget to return, but there’s always something. I look at the faces around me when I’m here, at the people I’ve watched go from dishwashers to line cooks or bussers to bartenders, the ones who’ve hauled through the shitty shifts with me and laughed through the good ones, and the weight of the responsibility is like a sack of bricks dropped square on my shoulders.
I’m walking around hunched under those pounds and pounds of people depending on me, just waiting for the second when I let them all fall.
