by Claire Adams
I just kind of stand there for a minute.
On the other side of the door is the most talented chef I’ve ever come across since my father died, and I really don’t know if I can deal with him screaming at me. Things have been tense enough in my life.
Oh well, here I go.
The room is hot, busy. People are talking over each other, somehow keeping everything straight in the process.
It reminds me of my dad’s kitchen.
“Will you fucking look at this? It’s supposed to be braised, not reduced to soggy shit!”
“Dane?”
“What?” he shouts.
He turns around, and once he sees me standing in his kitchen, the murderous expression falls from his face.
“Leila,” he says. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I don’t have a good answer for him.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I respond.
“I, uh…”
“Chef?” the man standing to the left of him says.
“What the fuck do you want, Cannon? I’m talking to someone here.”
The man goes back to his work without another word.
“So, you’re a chef.”
“Yeah,” he says, “about that—”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me that? Wait, is this the job you’re getting—”
“Hey guys, I’m taking a break,” Dane interrupts.
“Chef, we’re in the middle of dinner service.”
“Shut the fuck up, Cannon,” he says, and walks over to me. “Yeah, we should probably have this conversation outside.”
A minute later, we’re standing out back and he’s lighting up a cigarette.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I tell him.
“I wasn’t trying to hide the fact that I’m a chef from you, it’s just—”
“Just what?” I ask. “Oh, let me guess: you’ve got it in your head that if you were a professional musician, I would be that much more inclined to sleep with you?”
“No,” he says. “It’s not that at all. It’s just that, well, people kind of treat a person differently if they know he’s a chef.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
This whole situation is surreal and only growing stranger.
“It’s really not important,” he says. “But yeah, this is the job that I’m going to be losing.”
“After hearing the way you talk to your people, I can see why.”
“Oh, that’s just Cannon. He’s only ever useful if you’re flat out abusive to him. That doesn’t matter, though. Listen, I’m sorry that I—”
“I came back to compliment you on the confit de canard,” I tell him. “Did you make that?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been kind of dreading making that dish ever since you interrogated me about it.”
“I didn’t interrogate—”
“You kind of did, Leila, but that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” I ask. “Why are we even out here?”
“Other than the fact that you were about to announce to the grunts that I’m getting fired?” he asks.
“Oh, right.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t know why I lied to you—well, the truth is that I didn’t want you asking me to make you French cuisine every day. I get enough of that at work, I assure you. When I come home—”
“Dane?”
“I don’t know why I kept lying.”
“Yeah, it was pretty stupid,” I tell him. “It’s not really a big deal, though.”
He takes a drag and looks off in the distance.
“My dad was a chef, did I tell you that?”
“Yeah,” he says, “when you were interrogating me.”
“I wasn’t—” I take a breath. “You’re talented,” I tell him. “I’m actually pretty impressed right now.”
“Thanks,” he says, blowing out another drag. “I don’t smoke, by the way,” he adds. “I just figured that maybe I wouldn’t have to hold my breath when I kiss… I can’t even say it.”
“Say what?” I ask.
“Wrigley,” he says with a shudder.
“Oh yeah, your bottoms-up chick.”
And I’ve just blown my cover. Maybe he’ll let it slide.
“You do remember what happened last night,” he says.
Maybe not.
“Bits and pieces,” I cover.
For a while, nothing else happens.
He doesn’t know what to say, but then again, neither do I.
“So,” he says, flicking his cigarette into the back alley, “I should probably get back in there.”
“Yeah,” I respond, “I should probably make sure Mike and the waiter haven’t gone to blows.”
“Mike?” he asks.
“He’s a friend,” I tell him. “I never mentioned him?”
“No,” he says distantly.
There’s some more awkward silence; as if we didn’t have enough of that in our recent relationship.
“Well, I should—”
“Yeah, me too.”
He opens the door and holds it for me.
“Thanks,” I say. “By the way…”
“Yeah?”
“Seriously, the food tonight was excellent.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I do my best.”
“Yeah, well…”
I don’t finish the sentence. I just walk away.
When I find Mike, he’s standing at the door, making faces every time our waiter turns his direction. For such a good friend and genuine guy, Mike is kind of an idiot sometimes.
“Ready to go?” he asks as I approach.
“Yep,” I answer.
I debate whether to tell him about Dane, but decide against it. That sick, tingling sensation I had permeating my body last night is back, and this time, I can’t just blame it on the alcohol.
Chapter Ten
That Sinking Feeling
Dane
So, it’s been a couple of weeks since Leila found out what I really do. Our conversation behind the restaurant was innocuous enough, but it was the last real conversation that we’ve had.
Now, I’ll come into the room, we’ll say “Hey,” to each other, and that’s about it.
She’s avoiding me, although I can’t imagine why.
In the grand scheme of things, my not telling her about my real job is an annoyance, and I can see how it would be somewhat disrespectful, but it’s really not that big a deal. It’s not like we’re close friends or anything.
Then again, I’m starting to get the feeling that it’s something else entirely that’s bothering her.
The good news is that I haven’t been fired yet. The bad news is that Jim’s been avoiding me, too.
Oh well.
Right now, I’m sitting in the parking lot of Yankee Stadium, receiving a nice, relaxing blowjob from Wrigley. I made a joke to her that we were at the wrong field, but she didn’t get it.
At this point, I don’t know if I could really go back to normal sex.
It’s something I fought at first, right up until we got up to the roof of her building. Now, I’m just as much an exhibitionist as she is. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I still don’t like actually getting caught.
It happens more than you’d think.
I come, and within five flat seconds, Wrigley is asking, “What time’s the game?”
“I think it already started,” I answer. “Then again, the cheering crowd might have just been a psychosomatic thing.”
“What do you mean?”
She’s a demon in the sack, but she has a real problem with nuance. Given our present location, I was tempted to ask her for a handjob, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have gotten that, either.
“Never mind,” I tell her.
I might feel like I was using her if she didn’t make it so abundantly clear on such a frequent basis that the moment feelings are exchanged, she’s changing her phone number and moving to a diffe
rent apartment.
“Take me to dinner,” she tells me.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I heard about this French place called l’Iris—”
“Don’t eat there,” I interrupt. “It’s fucking filthy.”
“How would you know?” she asks, poking me in the ribs.
“I’m the chef there,” I tell her. “Seriously, you have no idea what they do in the kitchen when I’m not around.”
Hey, at least I’m over my fear of telling women what I do.
“I didn’t know you’re a chef,” she says.
“Yeah, actually I—”
“Where would you like to eat, then?” she interrupts.
Apparently, women aren’t nearly as crazy when it comes to the whole chef thing as I thought.
“I really don’t care,” I tell her.
“You really don’t have tickets to the game?” she asks. “You’re such a cheap fuck.”
“Do you mean that figuratively or literally?” I ask.
It’s strange, but I think I’m actually becoming a one-woman man. It’s even stranger that the one woman I’ve decided to keep coming back to is so vehemently opposed to us forming a relationship with any kind of attachment other than pure lust.
Dinner, it seems, doesn’t count as nonsexual.
“Both,” she answers casually.
“We can go to the game if you want,” I tell her.
I bought the tickets on a whim last night. I really wouldn’t mind something a bit more serious, but I wanted to get the sex part out of the way before we got into the stadium. Otherwise, there’s no doubt in my mind that she would spend the whole game trying to figure out a way for us to do it in the stands and not get arrested.
Come to think of it, I don’t know that she would have a problem getting arrested while having sex. Knowing her, it’d probably just be that much more of a turn-on.
“No,” she says, “that’s okay. I’m a Mets fan anyway.”
The horror.
“I think they’re playing the Mets, actually.”
“Dane, I should be honest with you.”
It’s that exact phrase, said that exact way, that gives honesty such a bad rap.
“I hate baseball. I said I was a Mets fan because I had no idea the two were playing and I really just wanted to get out of it. I’m actually kind of relieved you just wanted to stop here for a quick one. We really don’t have to go to the game.”
“Ah,” I say.
I turn the car on and put it in reverse. As we pull out of the stadium, I’m just wishing I hadn’t spent the money on the tickets.
“So,” Wrigley says, “have you talked to your roommate?”
“About what?” I ask.
“You know,” she says. “Things are getting kind of stale, you know, with your unwillingness to be my bitch.”
I can’t believe this is how she really talks.
“I’m not following,” I tell her.
“Have you had the conversation? Is she down for a three-way, or am I just flicking the bean to the complete wrong thing here?”
“I really don’t think it’s a good idea,” I tell her. “Despite its ramifications to your bean-flicking, I don’t think that Leila would—”
“Leila?” she asks. “Your roommate’s name is Leila?”
It’s about here that I realize Wrigley and I really don’t talk much about anything that doesn’t have an orgasm at the end of it.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Why?”
“That night on the roof,” she says. “Are you a complete idiot?”
“What are you talking about? What about the night on the roof?”
The question’s no more out of my mouth than its answer is in my brain.
“You called out her name when you came,” she says. “You’ve got a thing for your roommate.”
“I really don’t—”
“It’s cool,” she says. “I told you I don’t want any of that relationship torture, but it’s kind of bullshit that you’re just going to keep her to yourself like that. I bet she’d be my bitch. She’s the quiet type. Actually, I bet she’d end up wanting to make me her bitch. I saw the way she looked at me when I popped out of the room flashing my honeypot.”
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound when you say shit like that?”
If my tone weren’t so hostile, I might be able to pass the question off as a joke.
“What the fuck is your problem?” she fires back. “I’m just talking a little bit of slap and tickle. I’m not saying I want to steal her from you. I’ve never been with a woman. I’m curious.”
“You know, I find it really hard to believe there’s anything you haven’t done in that arena.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks. “You’re just jealous. You’re a jealous little boy who doesn’t want to share his plaything.”
“She’s not a plaything,” I snap. “You know what? Why don’t I just take you home? Tonight’s turning to shit in a real hurry.”
“You’re telling me,” she says. “Why don’t you call me when your fucking balls drop?”
“Oh, fuck off,” I tell her. “Every time I don’t want to go along with your psycho bullshit, you talk like it’s because I’m not a real man. News flash: it’s because you’re out of your goddamned mind.”
“News flash? What is this, the 70s?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Just drop me off here,” she says. “By the way, it’s bullshit that I can’t smoke in here.”
“It’s a rental car!” I shout.
“Why would you rent a car anyway? It’s such a waste of money in the city.”
Ah, the age-old male dilemma: do I blow the whole thing up by telling her I was trying to take her out on something that resembled an actual date, or do I lie and figure out a way to make up with her so we can keep having sex?
“I wanted tonight to be special,” I tell her.
What the hell am I doing? I decided on the lie.
“Special? Giving you a knob bob in the parking lot of a baseball stadium is your idea of a special night?”
“I wanted to take you to the game,” I tell her. “I was trying to take you out on a date.”
“Pull the fucking car over,” she says.
This isn’t the easiest task where we are in the Bronx this time of night.
“I told you I didn’t want any of that,” she says. “You crossed the line, Dane. Let me out!”
“What? You’re going to catch a cab back to Manhattan right now?” I ask, finally managing to double-park.
“Don’t call me,” she says. “Don’t come by. Stay out of my life, you fucking freak.”
With that, she throws her door open and gets out of the car.
She’s hailing a cab by lifting her shirt. It works well enough, but the woman is fucking insane.
When she gets in the cab, she doesn’t get in the back, but the front seat. At least I know she’s getting home safe as I pull back into my lane and drive off. I just wished I’d spared myself the glance in the mirror, seeing her head dipping below the dashboard.
A few weeks ago, I would have told you that Wrigley was the perfect woman for me: no worries about monogamy, a little crazy, insatiable. Now, though. I don’t know.
There’s got to be something more to it than that.
I can’t believe that I’ve actually grown bored of a woman with a sex drive higher than mine.
I know I’m paying by the mile, but I drive around the city for a while. Most of the time, it’s stoplight after stoplight, waiting for that shade of green that means I can drive free for the next couple hundred feet before I have to stop again.
Every once in a while, though, I hit a few green lights in a row, and I start to let things go. I start to forget all the nonsense.
It never lasts.
I couldn’t tell you what brought me here now, but as I’m pulling into the parking lot of l’Iris for the very
first time in a car driven under my own power, I know where I’m going. For the first time in a long time, I know where I’m going.
I’m through the back door and standing outside Jim’s office before anyone sees me.
That’s going to work to my benefit.
I knock.
“Come in.”
I open the door.
“Dane,” Jim says. “You’re not on tonight, are you? I thought Cannon was running the kitchen.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he’s running it through a wood chipper,” I tell him, “but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Okay,” he says and leans back in his chair. “Why are you here then?”
“Jim, I get that you’ve got to cut some spending, but you’ve kept me on this long. I know you don’t want to let me go.”
“Yeah, I told you that—”
“Just let me finish,” I say.
This is probably the most respectful I’ve ever been to my boss.
“Okay.”
“Jim, I don’t mean to sound like a clingy girlfriend or something, but I need to know where this is going. If you’re going to fire me, fire me now. I’m not just going to sit around and wait for it to happen. If you’re not going to fire me, well, I have a few ideas.”
He puts his hands together, interlocking his fingers.
“I’m listening,” he says.
“First,” I tell him, “we dump Cannon. I’m sorry Jim, but he’s just nowhere near good enough. Even when I am there pissing down his neck, he’s only ever half on, and you know that’s not anywhere near cutting it.”
“Dane, I don’t think firing Cannon is going to—”
“Next,” I interrupt, “we promote Wilks to executive chef and demote me—with pay decrease—to sous chef. He’s going to need me for guidance over the first couple of weeks, but he’s really one of the most talented guys I’ve ever worked with in this business. When he came in here, he didn’t know the difference between crème brûlée and a ramekin full of baked spunk, but within a week, he was up to speed. He doesn’t know everything we do just yet, but I know he can learn, and he’s got some fresh ideas that I think will really bring the customers in and get them talking.”
“I get that you’re trying to save your own job, but putting one of your underlings up as executive chef isn’t going to get me to let him go instead of—”
“You won’t want to let him go,” I tell Jim. “You hire him on as executive chef and cut the pay of the position by 20 percent. It’s still going to be about double what he’s making, so I really don’t see him complaining.”
