North of Happy

by Adi Alsaid

  Gingerly, I reach out to the faucet, turn one of the knobs. The water shoots out, removing a few loose flecks of food from the pan on top of the pile. It’s a high-pressure burst, immediately hot, and there’s something satisfying in its potency. A buzzer rings out, and a few seconds later I hear the back door open and Elias greet someone.

  I’m not sure why, but the thought of fleeing saunters away and instead I find myself reaching for the scrubber.

  CHAPTER 8

  STAFF MEAL BURGERS

  3 pounds ground beef, molded into 8-ounce patties

  American cheese

  METHOD:

  The day is long.

  Sometimes I can hear the laughter of people making jokes, the sound of knives coming down and orders being called out. During service there’s a din of activity beyond the partition that feels like a dream. I’m not sure why I don’t just leave, explain to Chef that this is all some misunderstanding. It has something to do with that din, though.

  Steam from the sprayed water makes me sweat, grime gets under my fingernails. My arms are tired from lifting the pots, many of them so hot I can’t even touch them at first, which makes the work pile up, which leads to people yelling at me to keep up. Anytime I have a moment to myself, I look around and I think: Where am I?

  Roberto gives me instructions in a voice that’s quiet and gruff but kind enough. He works in a blaze, often singing along to the music on the little radio he keeps in a dry corner of the room. His motions are a blur, and several times I get caught staring, trying to mimic his movements.

  It doesn’t take too long for Felix to make another appearance. He’s in the suds at the bottom of the stainless-steel sink, he’s in the steam, he’s in the swirls of grease that refuse to mix with the hot water as they sluice down the drain.

  “Look at you! Washing dishes and shit.” His little sudsy face raises its eyebrows, smirks the way it always does. “If Mom and Dad could see you now.”

  “They’d go nuts,” I say, forcing a chuckle. “They’d say I was taking after you too much. Slumming it.”

  “Is that how it feels?”

  Before I can answer, Matt slams two more saucepans and three mixing bowls behind me and then goes to pick up more pots from the clean-and-dry rack. “Pick it up, dickweed. We’ve got sixty more covers for lunch and your clean stack is low.”

  I get a couple of fifteen-minute breaks throughout the day, which I use to go to the bathroom and get off my feet. I decide to go out back and call Mom to check in. I want to share this crazy new development with her, though I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say. I’m standing near the patio, that insane view of ocean, trees, sky. Things are so serene here, everything still as a painting.

  Mom picks up on the second ring. She gets going right away. “Carlos, honey, I know you’re having fun doing whatever you’re doing, but I wanted to get your flight info. There are some dinners coming up that I want to make sure you’re back for.”

  I try to find the right words or just push out the obvious ones.

  “Carlos? Are you there?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” Memo shows up, two heaping trash bags at his side. “Mom, I need more time here.”

  A long pause. I wonder if she’s considering putting Dad on the phone to try to change my mind. I wonder if she regrets letting me go, if she’s getting déjà vu, memories of Felix’s escape. She sighs. “Okay. How long?”

  How many nights like yesterday will I need before I feel okay to leave? How many nights like yesterday will I be granted? “I’m not sure,” I say.

  “Your dad’s not going to be happy.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  She sighs again, says something in Spanish away from the mouthpiece, either to Dad or Rosalba, I can’t tell. “How are you?”

  I hear three loud pops. My heart spikes, and I know that when I turn around I’ll see Felix on the ground. But it’s just Memo knocking on the door to get back in. “I’m fine. I’m just...not ready yet,” I say. I glance quickly at the screen to see what time it is. I have to get back to the sink. It’s strange how quickly I see it as my obligation. “Mom, I have to go,” I say, though I can’t bring myself to tell her why.

  * * *

  They never end, these pots and pans and dishes. The end of lunch service just means my heavy work is beginning, and the exhaustion is the most physically trying thing I’ve ever experienced. Felix talks me through it, the most helpful he’s been since he died. Stories from his travels, little words of encouragement. I also find that if I let my mind wander to Emma, it makes the repetitive motions a little easier to bear. I revisit that glance she gave me, the way she looked splashing through the lake, how she laid her hand on mine.

  At some point in the late afternoon, that guy Elias pokes his head in and says, “Staff meal.”

  The words are sweet relief, and I untie the apron Roberto gave me, hanging it up on the hook by the entrance. Sure, I ate here last night. But there were so many things on the menu I didn’t order. The open-faced duck confit sandwich with red wine aioli, the almond-crusted salmon with zucchini puree, tempura vegetables, chipotle oil. I wonder how this works, if we get to choose whatever we want. Or maybe it’s some new creation, some experimental dish that Chef tries out on the staff before adding it to the menu. To think that I might try one of her dishes before anyone else is all the reward I need for today’s scrubbing, for the hot water that has splashed all over me throughout the day.

  What I find instead is a sheet tray of charred burger patties, most of them covered in toxic-yellow American cheese. There’s another sheet tray with toasted buns and matchstick fries. Morris and Boris are leaning against the coffee station, taking huge bites in sync. I try to hide my disappointment, follow Elias’s lead and grab a plate. I’m shocked that some people are eating it just like that, munching down as quickly as possible without bothering with condiments. I’m starving too, but it’s crazy to me that Chef Elise’s food is at their fingertips and everyone’s just letting it sit there.

  There’s a whole line of deli containers right in front of us, and I can’t even tell what’s in them, but the mere thought is making my mouth water. Whispering so that no one can laugh and/or yell at me, I ask Elias if it’s cool to use some of the mise to spruce up the burger. He shrugs. “Do your thing.” It mellows the disappointment a little: pickled red jalapeños, cilantro aioli, Thai slaw.

  I eat hungrily, quietly, feeling the day throughout my body. I look around the kitchen, wondering at what point they’ll start thinking it’s weird I showed up out of nowhere. But no one’s looking at me. A few of the guys are trash-talking each other’s favorite American football teams. They gossip about why the old dishwasher Richie didn’t show. Just beyond the pass, by the window that leads to the dining room, a few of the servers hang around, shooting the shit, mostly keeping to themselves.

  A dozen conversations all happening without me. Felix is at my side eating a burger like mine, just without the jalapeños. I look over at him as he chews nonchalantly, hungrily, licking his fingers every few bites to catch the juices that drip out. I’m almost happy he’s here, that I’m not in this situation completely alone. Except now I’m trying not to act crazy in front of a whole new group of people.

  Once I’ve inhaled my burger, I look for Emma again, but she’s on her break. Then dinner approaches and I’m banished back to the sink.

  When the dishes finally stop coming my way, I’m practically falling asleep on my feet. I have no idea what time it is. Aside from bedtime. Everyone in the kitchen looks the way I feel. Except instead of wanting to head off to bed, all the cooks are talking about where they’re gonna get drinks. They’re comparing how their nights went, laughing, tossing towels at each other as they soap down their stations. They untie their aprons, unbutton their coats, roll up their personal knives into leather carrie
rs.

  “No refires today, motherfuckers,” Vee says in her southern accent, raising a meaty fist in the air. “Who’s coming to The Crown to celebrate how awesome I am?”

  Memo laughs, says he’s in. “That bartender has been giving me the look for weeks now.”

  “Alright, panty-dropper,” Boris says.

  “Don’t shit talk Memo,” Chef says, appearing from her office. “This little dude is deceptively charming. Has to be, to make up for that face of his.”

  Everyone laughs, but I barely have the energy to listen. Then Chef is at my side, pulling me back toward my station, away from everyone. I’m terrified that she’s going to make me wash more dishes. Instead, she just barks at me: “Listen, if you can’t keep up, don’t bother coming in.”

  The words nearly break me. Which is a little weird because I’m not even supposed to be here. This place doesn’t mean a thing to me. I want to grab the dish towel that’s hanging on a nearby hook and toss it in her face, tell her to fuck off, just go back home. This is the hardest I’ve worked in my life, and if this is the thanks I get, maybe it’s better to make it my last day on the island.

  Then one of the stains on the towels, perfectly resembling Felix’s mouth, tells me: “Stay. This was just the beginning.”

  I want to ask him why I should even try. But I don’t say anything, and it’s not entirely because of the whole not-talking-to-myself-in-front-of-other-people thing. I meet her steadfast gaze, nod. I swallow what I really want to say. “I will do better, Chef.”

  She gives me a long look, and I wonder if she’s just going to tell me not to bother, that I clearly don’t belong here. Instead, she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. She hands it to me.

  Provecho–Back of house application.

  “Fill that out, give it to Sue tomorrow morning. She’s the kitchen manager.” Another cold stare. I think I literally feel my skin crawling, trying to hide from her. Shit, and I thought Dad had intense looks. “You better not make me regret that,” she says, pointing at the application. Then she turns and leaves.

  I look down at the page. It’s just paper, a few blank lines for me to fill out.

  But it feels like so much more than that.

  CHAPTER 9

  ESCAMOLE QUESADILLAS

  1 package flour tortillas

  250 grams Oaxaca cheese

  50 grams escamoles

  1 teaspoon butter

  2 cloves garlic

  Serve with salsa

  METHOD:

  I’ve never been more excited for the prospect of sleep. I leave Provecho via the service entrance, ready to collapse.

  Gathered outside, though, is everyone I’d thought had already taken off for the night, Emma included. She’s the first to meet my eyes, and she offers a smile that seems to justify all the thoughts I’ve spent on her throughout the day. I approach the circle, squeeze myself in between her and Elias.

  Matt’s nearby, smoking as always. Memo’s got a tiny black backpack on, his eyes bloodshot but smiling a big goofy grin. Morris and Boris are both looking down at their phones, speaking out loud their intentions to invite so-and-so from other restaurants around town.

  “I’ll see you fuckers at The Crown,” Vee calls out, breaking the circle.

  “Hey,” I try to stage-whisper to Emma.

  She widens her eyes, smiling. “Hey, yourself. I hear you’ve got yourself a job.”

  “I owe you a thanks.”

  “Not a big deal,” she says, as if it isn’t. “You seemed happy here last night.”

  I’m about to laugh and say that maybe that wasn’t because of a desire to work in restaurants when Elias turns to me, hand outstretched. “What was your name, man?”

  I shake his hand, not wanting to turn away from Emma but happy that someone’s talking to me. Hardly anyone said a word to me all day, and I was starting to worry that I’m not just imagining myself disappearing, that it’s really happening. “Carlos,” I say.

  “Where you from?”

  I tell him, and he raises his eyebrows. “No shit. My family’s from there.” He switches over into Spanish. “How’d you end up here?”

  Unconsciously, I look around for Felix. I don’t see him anywhere, though. In Mexico, his appearances felt like ambushes. Here, they feel a little different. “Kind of a long story. My brother, more or less.”

  He nods a couple of times. The crowd around us starts to disperse, more people heading out to the bar. Elias follows them with his eyes and then looks back at me and Emma. “You guys coming?”

  A minute or two ago I would have said that there was no chance in hell that I’d be up for anything except sleep, many uninterrupted hours of it. Now I hesitate and glance sideways at Emma. When she looks back at me I try to pretend I’m not so damn transparent.

  “I don’t know how the hell you guys have the energy to keep going,” I say, stalling, not wanting to say yes or no until I know I won’t be missing out on Emma’s company. I really don’t want to go to a bar right now, but for a re-creation of last night I would give up all my sleep hours for the week.

  “It’s ’cause we’re not lame pieces of shit,” Matt says, exhaling a malignant cloud of smoke.

  Boris cracks up at this. “Yeah, come on, new guy. What, you’re too good for us?”

  I want to come up with some biting retort but instead look blankly at Matt’s cigarette smoke swirling in the night air. I look at Emma, glasses perched on her head, checking a message she just got on her phone.

  It feels like a whole day goes by before Matt scoffs. “If he’s struggling this hard already, dude’s not gonna be able to keep up anyway. He’ll be gone by the end of the week.”

  “I’m in,” Emma says, almost at the same time, putting her phone away. The group is already starting to break away, led by Matt and Boris. I know I should go home, but as soon as I see Emma turn along with them, like she’s ready to leave without a good-bye, I can’t help but give in.

  I trail behind the group because my feet are so tired. The whole time Felix is hassling me to go to bed. It’s not a long walk, though, and there’s something exciting about all of this.

  The Crown is a small pub with a few pool tables in the back, booths lining the wall. The cooks from Provecho are already boisterous and spread out, but otherwise the place is pretty empty. Isaiah is at the electronic jukebox in the corner, and everyone else from Provecho stands at the bar. It smells like stale smoke and spilled beer, exactly what I’d imagined a small-town bar might smell like.

  I always had this idea that American bars are insanely strict with who they serve. But I know Emma is eighteen, and Matt—who is at most a couple years older than us—goes straight to the bar without blinking an eye.

  “Hey, man,” Elias says to me, “let me buy you a drink. As a welcome-to-the-team kind of thing.”

  “Sure,” I say, thrilled, though any sort of booze right now will probably make me fall asleep on the floor. I’m here anyway. I might as well. I don’t know how long this little adventure will last, and I’m happy not to be talking to Felix right now.

  I follow Elias’s lead and get a beer and a shot, and when we clink glasses it feels like I’ve finally stepped out from the partition between the sink and the rest of the kitchen. “Salud,” Elias says.

  “Salud,” I return.

  “You ever been here before?”

  I shake my head.

  “No place like it,” he says. “Saved my life.”

  The Australian bartender pours herself a drink too, greeting everyone but me by name. Elias leaves me to go play pool before I can ask him about what he said, so I decide to join Emma because it feels like I’m supposed to.

  She’s raising a shot glass to the group. “May misfortune follow you the res
t of your lives,” she says, pausing when she notices me. “And may it never catch up.” She tilts her glass in my direction and warmth bubbles in my stomach as if I’m the one who took the shot. Setting the glass down on the bar, she comes over to me, gives me an unexpected hug.

  “Are you staying?” she asks. I nod, unable to hide a smile at the fact that she wants me here at the bar. Only after she steps away do I wonder if that’s what she was asking.

  Emma is a firefly. She glimmers, leads me to a table, bathes me in her light, flickers off and appears in another part of the bar, talking to someone else. I stare out, looking for her to reappear, sticking to myself since no one else seems interested. For maybe the first time, I want Felix’s company, just because I feel like a tool sitting here all alone.

  Then Emma’s right back in front of me, eyes bright with joy. “Tell me everything you know about quesadillas,” she says. “Are they a real thing, or just an American invention, a twist on grilled cheese sandwiches?”

  “They’re real,” I say, shoulders hunched toward the table, like we’re co-conspirators. “Sometimes they’re a smaller version of what you see here, just the tortilla and cheese, and sometimes they’re made with fried corn dough and stuffed with all sorts of things. Sometimes there’s not even cheese in them.”

  Her eyes flit toward the bar, and I rack my brains for a way to interest her enough to stick around.

  “Strangely enough,” I say, “you’re more likely to find ants on quesadillas than guac and sour cream like you do here.”

  Success. She raises an eyebrow. “Shut up, I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true,” I say. “They’re called escamoles. Usually they’re fried in butter and garlic and eaten with omelets or tacos. Technically ant larvae, but yeah.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Are they good?”

  “They’re okay.”

  “I want you to make them for me one day,” she says. Standing up, she announces she’s not drunk enough, and then she flickers off, disappears somewhere in the bar, leaving me alone to fight off sleep.