Harry Flammable

by Frank O'Keeffe

  I studied what he did as carefully as I could and tried to follow, but my potatoes never did turn out as good looking as his. When the first box was finished, he patted me on the back. “You’re getting better. Hang in there. Gotta go now.”

  By the time I’d finished the second box of potatoes my shoulders were aching and I hadn’t even finished half my shift, according to the clock on the kitchen wall.

  Kin appeared at my station with a cart in tow. “New job. Sous chef says we need lots of melon peeled. Big party coming in tonight.”

  I gasped when I saw the cart was loaded with five cases of honeydew melons.

  “Don’t you just serve the melons in slices with the skin on?” I asked.

  “Not at The Ritz. Melon balls, fruit plates, no skin. Not so bad as turning potatoes. You’ll like it better.”

  By the time my shift was over and it was time to go home, I never wanted to see another honeydew melon again. I’d got them all peeled, but they were slippery and, in the process, I managed to drop a couple on the floor. As I scrambled to rescue them, I expected to hear a bellow from Chef Antonio but he was busy elsewhere, yelling at someone else.

  When I got home, Mom greeted me with a cheery smile and the news that Aunt Phyllis wouldn’t be arriving until the next day, because of some mix up with her ticket. “She said she’ll take the airport bus into the city and make her way from downtown later. She said she had to make an important call on someone at a downtown hotel.”

  “She should stay there,” Dad said. He was already eating supper.

  “Now, George. I’m sure she won’t stay here all that long. Sit down and have your supper, Harry, and tell us about your first day in your new job.”

  “Yeah,” Dad said. “Maybe he can do the cooking from now on and Aunt Phyllis’s stay will be even shorter.”

  Mom ladled out a large plate of her delicious stew and set it in front of me. “Ignore your father, Harry. When you finish your stew, I’ve got a special treat for dessert. I know you’ll like it. They were on special at Fletcher’s Food so I bought two.”

  I groaned as Mom placed a honeydew melon on the table.

  “You’ve given the poor boy quite a turn there, mother.” Dad laughed. “Me too, for that matter. I thought you’d served Harry’s head on a plate for a minute.”

  “What’s the matter, Harry?” Mom looked worried.

  “It’s okay Mom. Just don’t ask me to peel it.”

  7

  I WAS ALMOST LATE getting to The Ritz the next day because the bus got stuck in a traffic jam. When I got to the locker room and tried on the pants of my uniform, something was definitely wrong. They were huge. They would make a perfect fit for Chef Antonio. Maybe they were his. What if he came in and found me trying on his pants? In a panic, I whipped them off and checked the number — BK46. What was my uniform number? I desperately tried to remember it, but my mind had gone blank. Maybe it was 64.

  I rummaged through the uniforms, looking for pants that seemed to be my size. I found a pair and checked the number on the tag inside — K16. Couldn’t be mine. But I couldn’t find anything else even close to my size and, if I went into the kitchen wearing my jeans, Chef Antonio would let me have it. I was making another frantic search when I was startled by someone asking, “Did you lose your pants, Harry?” I whirled around and came face to face with Celia.

  “What, what are you doing here?” I stammered.

  “I had a couple of those rare spares. I work here part-time.” She smiled. “I’m with outside catering.”

  “Did you quit the movie job or what?” I asked.

  “No. I’ve had this part-time job at The Ritz for over six weeks. I work a couple of shifts a week or sometimes a bit more if they call me and I’m available. So what’s your uniform number? Sometimes housekeeping gets the pants and shirts mixed up.”

  “I thought it was 46 but maybe it was 64. I’m not sure.” I felt like a real dope and I knew I was blushing.

  “Well, the shirt fits fine. What’s the number on it?”

  “Um …”

  “Take it off and check if you can’t remember. Then you might find the pants to match.”

  I felt like a dummy as I unbuttoned the shirt and took it off. “It’s X16,” I said, reading the tag.

  Celia pointed to the tag and shook her head. “No, it’s 91K. You read the tag upside down and that X is just a smudged K. K stands for kitchen, OC for outside catering, and BK for the banquet kitchen, upstairs. There is no X. Yours should be a K. Here’s a pair of pants with the same number, K91. Housekeeping isn’t always consistent about whether they put the letter before or after the number. They look like they might fit you. Gotta go.” Celia grabbed a uniform off a hook and disappeared into a nearby washroom to change.

  I whipped on the pants and shirt and hurried into the kitchen, not wanting to have to face Celia. I was so embarrassed.

  I didn’t see her again, and I spent most of my shift chopping a ton of celery. Chef Antonio came by and hollered at me, “Brunoise! Brunoise!” I wasn’t sure what he meant. Was he yelling in French or was it just his accent? I tried to chop more quietly, but couldn’t understand how my little bit of chopping noise could disturb anything. The rest of the kitchen noises were much louder. I was relieved when Kin came over and explained that Chef Antonio needed some celery diced very fine. Brunoise meant dicing the celery into two-millimeter squares. Kin showed me. The stuff I’d already chopped was to be used for soup stock. A short while later, Chef Antonio came by, and without a word, scooped the finely diced celery into a bowl and left.

  With a half hour left on my shift, Kin asked me to help him set up a display at the entrance to the dining room. I was glad of the change. Celery chopping is not very exciting. Before we went into the dining room we had to put on chef hats, as we would be in public view.

  Kin explained that every couple of weeks the display was changed to reflect some theme about food. The next two weeks would feature different kinds of squash.

  The display table was just a short distance from the hotel check-in area off the lobby and, as I handed Kin different shaped and coloured squash, which he arranged artistically, I became aware of raised voices coming from the check-in counter.

  “I’ll have you know, young man, that I am very well known to Robert Rudsnicker and I know he would want to see me. Now, if you would just telephone his suite and let him know I am here.”

  “I’m sorry, madam,” a male voice behind the desk explained patiently, “but we have a strict policy here that our guests cannot be disturbed unless we have been informed that a visitor is expected. I cannot even confirm that Mr. Rudsnicker is staying at this hotel and I can find no record of your name, madam, on the expected visitor list for any of our guests. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. It’s a matter of security. Perhaps if you were to leave a written note?”

  “Nonsense. Of course he’s staying here. I’m an old friend, not some school girl looking for an autograph. A note indeed!” The woman’s voice boomed out, full of indignation, and I thought I recognized it.

  I handed Kin the last of the squash and glanced towards the check-in desk. I gasped as my worst fears were confirmed. It was Aunt Phyllis.

  Even though she had used a blue rinse in her hair to make it look less yellow, she was still easily recognizable. There was no mistaking her. She always dressed dramatically, as if for a role in some play. A black cloak hung over her shoulders and was swept back to reveal a gold, almost metallic-looking dress, open along one side almost to her thigh. She wasn’t very tall or very large, and she had a reasonably good figure for her age, but it was the way she stood and carried herself that made her stand out. She has a habit of throwing her head back, like she is about to give a rendition of some great Shakespearian soliloquy, or burst into full voice with some operatic aria. She gives the impression that she is in charge and will stand no nonsense. Now, her head was thrown back and she was glaring at the desk clerk, like she expected him to wilt
before her.

  “Okay, Harry, that’s good enough for now,” Kin said. “You can take off.”

  I mumbled my thanks and hurried back to the locker room to get out of my uniform. I hoped I wouldn’t bump into Aunt Phyllis before I got home.

  What I didn’t know was that Aunt Phyllis was so put out with the desk clerk that she’d stomped off out of The Ritz, declining the offer of the doorman to whistle up a taxi for her. When I reached the bus stop, there she stood, at the back of a small line, fuming. A small suitcase sat on a tiny cart with wheels and she clutched another larger one in her hand.

  The bus arrived just as I got to the line and the passengers started boarding. When Aunt Phyllis reached the door of the bus she just stood there, as if she expected the bus driver to step down and assist her with her bags. I don’t think she rode on buses much.

  What could I do? I suppose I could have turned and ran and caught another bus, but the bus driver was hollering, “Lady. Are you getting on or not?”

  “Come on, Aunt Phyllis. It’s me, Harry. Let me give you a hand with your bags.” I made a grab for the suitcase in her hand but she snatched it away.

  “How dare you? Unhand me! Harry indeed! I’d know my nephew anywhere. And he certainly isn’t bald.”

  “Sorry, lady,” the bus driver called. “Got a schedule to keep.” The door slammed shut and the bus roared off.

  “How dare he!” Aunt Phyllis snapped indignantly. “And you. You’ve made me miss my bus.”

  It took me another ten minutes to convince Aunt Phyllis it really was me and, when another bus arrived, she allowed me to help her with her bags and we got on. We got a glare from the driver at the sight of the suitcases and I heard him mutter, “This is a city bus, not a Greyhound.”

  We got him even more frustrated when Aunt Phyllis thrust a twenty dollar bill at him and said, “Two please,” and I had to search for the exact change to pay for both of us, which resulted in us holding up the passengers behind us.

  The bus was almost full but we found a seat near the back. I stowed Aunt Phyllis’s bags under our seat as the other passengers boarded and then there was standing room only.

  Aunt Phyllis was indignant over her treatment at The Ritz, and was still going on about it. She hadn’t even given me a chance to explain why I happened to be there. I think she assumed I’d been sent to meet her. With the bus being so crowded, I was glad Aunt Phyllis didn’t pursue her questions about my bald head. She always talked like she was performing on the stage for an audience and, as the bus headed out of downtown, I knew every passenger on the bus was listening to Aunt Phyllis. Not one other person on the bus was talking.

  “And furthermore,” Aunt Phyllis went on, “Robert Rudsnicker and I go way back. It was because of me he got his first break in films. He had this dreadful stammer, you see. Hopeless, if you expect a career on the stage or in films. I cured him of it and he got his first break. Of course, he never was a great actor. His forte is directing. That’s where he really shines. He’s directing a film right here, you know. I’m sure he’ll want to use me in some dramatic role once he knows I’m here. Oh my goodness! Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t get to see him this afternoon. I’m not properly dressed.”

  I could feel every eye on the bus swivel to stare at Aunt Phyllis and I slumped lower in my seat.

  “Aunt Phyllis,” I hissed, “everyone is listening.”

  Everyone, I was sure, heard me. Everyone except Aunt Phyllis.

  “Yes. How dreadful. I was in such a rush to get to the airport this morning. I’m so glad Robert didn’t see me. I’ve forgotten to put on my bra.”

  I squirmed as chuckles rippled inside the bus. I glanced across the crowded aisle and pretended to be interested in an ad pasted above the window. Maybe I could pretend I didn’t really know this crazy lady beside me. The ad was just as embarrassing. It was for ladies’ underwear. I glanced down the aisle towards the front of the bus. I was mortified to see Celia standing among the passengers in the aisle. She was grinning from ear to ear, like everyone else.

  8

  I WAS EATING BREAKFAST the next morning when Dad came into the kitchen, complaining that he hadn’t been able to shower because Aunt Phyllis was still in the downstairs bathroom and had been there for nearly an hour.

  “Why didn’t you use the shower in the main bathroom?” Mom asked.

  “Because I always use the one downstairs. The shower in the other one just trickles.”

  “Then it’s time we got it fixed. You can’t blame Aunt Phyllis.”

  “I could have showered if she wasn’t taking so long putting on her makeup,” Dad grumbled. “I have an early shift at Luxottica today.”

  Dad had worked on the assembly line at Luxottica Lighting since before I was born. He’d been disappointed when he’d found out I wasn’t interested in applying for the work experience job there.

  “How long can it take to slap on a bit of lipstick and powder, anyway? Not that it will do her any good,” Dad continued.

  “Now George. There’s no need to be unkind,” Mom said.

  “I’m sure she’s just hogging that bathroom deliberately. She knows I like to use the shower in that one.”

  “Good morning, George.” Aunt Phyllis bustled in, followed by a waft of perfume. She was dressed in tight stretch black slacks and a gold, black-spotted blouse that looked, to me, like a leopard skin. “Sorry I missed you last night, George. I hear you were working late and I was very tired, so I went to bed early. I need my beauty sleep, you know.”

  “You can say that again,” Dad mumbled, just loud enough for me to hear. He was staring at Aunt Phyllis’s blue hair and, although Mom gave him a warning look, he couldn’t resist commenting, “Did you get a starring role in a blue movie, or a job singing the blues?”

  Aunt Phyllis gave him a frosty look as she stirred the coffee Mom placed in front of her. “Actually, George, it was a small French opera, set in the time of Louis the Sixteenth. He was the king of France, you know, George. Not one of those wrestlers you watch on that horrible TV program of yours.”

  I left for school at that point, with Mom trying to keep the peace.

  I didn’t see much of Celia in school anymore, except in Ms. Cranshaw’s math class. Our work experience schedules had changed our timetables quite a bit for this semester. Celia was at Pocket Money Pictures most mornings and I left in the early afternoon for The Ritz.

  When I got there that afternoon, Kin told me that he had a new job for me, and introduced me to Mario and Helga. They worked in room service and today they were short one person. Because of the film people staying in the hotel, they were very busy.

  “All work experience,” Kin grinned. “Better than chopping celery. Mario and Helga will show you what to do, okay?”

  “I have to go and get some more chicken breasts. You show him, Helga.” Mario, a short, dark-haired guy, scurried off, looking harried.

  Helga nodded. She was an older lady with large brown eyes and a friendly smile. “Okay, Harry,” she said. “When we get a phone call from one of the rooms, we answer the phone here. We write out the order on the bill. Then, we punch in the order here on this machine, and it shows up in a machine in the kitchen. While we wait for the food to be prepared, we set up the tray and one of these carts. The hot food goes underneath the cart in a hot box, so it stays warm.” The phone rang and Helga answered it. I heard her repeat, “A club sandwich with fries and no gravy, and a spinach salad. Room 1104. Very good, sir.”

  She turned to me. “Okay. While I punch this order in, set up a tray on a cart — um, it needs flowers, water, a bun, and cutlery.” The phone rang again. “Room service.” Helga again repeated the order as she wrote it down. “A steak sandwich. Medium rare. A green salad. What kind of dressing? French. And a baked potato. Very good, sir. About fifteen minutes.” She hung up. “Another tray, Harry. Don’t forget the butter.” She waved towards the tray I’d started preparing as she began punching in the orders on the machine. />
  I wasn’t sure where to find everything and it took me a bit of time. The cutlery was wrapped in napkins on a counter, and I found the butter and buns okay. Did you get a bun with a steak sandwich? I guessed not. The flowers. Where were they? Helga had disappeared. The phone rang. I hesitated. Should I answer it? After the third ring I thought I’d better.

  “Uh. Room service,” I said nervously. What if I messed up the order?

  It was a woman’s voice. “Yes. I’d like to order a bottle of Chablis, French, of course, and a small cheese, brie, I think, would be best.”

  I frantically scribbled the order down and repeated it back like Helga had, although I’d no idea if I’d spelled Chablis and brie right. “Oh, the room number?” I’d almost forgotten to ask.

  “Room 2014. Mr. Rudsnicker’s suite.”

  I mumbled my thanks as the woman hung up.

  Mr. Rudsnicker’s suite, she’d said. The film director. Maybe this was my big chance, if I got to do the delivery. I’d get to meet him and maybe have a chance to talk to him.

  Helga came back then, carrying some food, and rearranged the stuff I’d started to put on the trays. I told her about the order.

  “Mario is taking a long time. You’ll have to deliver it. I have to deliver these two orders. Go into the bar and get the wine, and ask for the cheese in the cold side section in the kitchen. I’ll have the cart ready when you get back. The wine goes in the ice bucket. I’ll put it on the cart. I’ll make up the bill. Make sure the guest signs it, and bring it back.”

  I hurried off, leaving Helga arranging things, but it took me a few minutes to find the bar, get the wine from a busy bartender, and then find the cold food section of the kitchen. Luckily, I bumped into Kin and he showed me where to get the cheese. When I got back to room service, Helga was gone but the tray and cart were ready with wine glasses, ice bucket, and flowers. The bill slip was all made out. I had a moment of panic when I saw the corkscrew. I’d never opened a bottle of wine before. I would probably be expected to open and pour it.