Ash

Ash quietly apologized his morning away, then his afternoon, but if asked what for, he couldn't tell you.

He hardly even knew who he had offended.

It was hard to match the voices to the faces; the restaurant was a revolving door for anyone who popped a positive on a drug test or a background check. Or both.

Aside from those paying their penance, Ash didn't know anyone's name, but somehow, everyone knew his. It was as if the restaurant introduced him to everyone but always forgot to introduce everyone to him.

A yell. 

What do they want now?

It was five carts, about 30 bins of dirty dishes, into the evening shift. He could tolerate them berating him to his face during the day, but it was the faceless yells and demands after dusk that got to him.

Something about forks. 

It was always about the damn forks. 

“I’m sorry! I’ll run some out in a few minutes!” Ash called out to no one in particular. The restaurant didn’t have enough silverware, but asking the owner for more would be an admission of his incompetence, and incompetence was something he could not afford this week. Or the next. Or ever.

Not even a minute passed before another one yelled at him, “ASH! WE NEED THOSE GODDAMN FORKS!”

The sound of their ire rattled the fillings in his teeth, startling him into dropping the stack of plates into the 32-gallon garbage can. 

Ash cursed himself for being so clumsy; he lost precious seconds for every piece of silverware nestled between the greasy dishes.

He responded to no one, “I’m sorry, I’ll run some forks out soon—” 

A shout, something about his worthlessness.

He bit his lips and said sorry once more, his voice the voice of a child lost in the sea of strangers in a market during the holidays, small and hopeless.

Thankfully, the mound of soggy shredded napkins, overcooked pasta, and mostly intact steaks that topped the trash made for a decent cushion for the plates.  He kept the can close because every shattered plate meant one less meal for him the following week.

His body couldn't afford to miss a meal; he was still a growing boy after all.

With a single breath, he retrieved the utensils and tossed them into a small bucket on the stainless steel table.

After a glance at the small round, numbered clock on the wall, he gripped the table and mumbled to himself, “Just two hours and forty-four more minutes.”  

Tired, he closed his eyes and rinsed the slimy grey bin with the wall-mounted sprayer, then tossed it back onto the cart before grabbing the next one. 

Why was he still here?

At first, it was because they promised to train him to become a cook after a few months. Those few months melted into a year, and now several years had passed, and here he was, still standing on GO.

Another voice yelled at him for more forks. This time he recognized the voice as Sebastian’s. 

“I’m really, really sorry, Sebas. I’ll run some out to you as soon as I can.” Ash turned his head to apologize to him earnestly, but he spoke to no one, once again.

He hastily reached into the next bin—

“OUCH!!”

Immediately, he yanked back his hand.

He winced, then his eyes watered at the sight of bright red streaming from the palm of his right hand. It flowed down his soaked arm and onto his tattered apron and shirt. 

He turned to grab some paper towels—

CLANG!

All heads in the kitchen snapped to the sharp sounds of steel hitting the cracked tiles, the string of expletives coming from the sous-chef, and the rolling clacks of clams scattering across the kitchen floor.

The sous-chef jabbed his finger into Ash’s chest and yelled, "WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING!"

"I'm s-sorry," Ash cried, his voice cracking at the sous as he kneeled to pick up the clams and the pan, smearing blood on the shells. Nobody yelled "BEHIND!" like they were supposed to, but he should have checked before turning around. 

The head chef hollered, "86 THE CLAMS! Bloody hell—I ain’t got time for your bullshit, dish bitch.” The seething man returned his attention to the line, where a garland of grey faded order tickets hung. 

The non-stop screeching of the ticket printer and a chorus of “HEARD!” echoed throughout the hectic kitchen, drowning out Ash’s useless apologies and the sous’ furious screams.  

Ash blinked to hold his sticky tears back as he wrapped a paper towel around his hand. The towel turned red. The cut was too deep. He desperately crammed his paper-toweled hand into a yellow rubber kitchen glove. 

Lightheaded to the point of collapse, like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air with this many people in the room, he grasped the cart's handle with his left hand.

Why? Why my right hand?

A red steak knife and several forks lay inside a tipped-over glass at the bottom of the bin, lathered in blood and various thick sauces and food. The nauseating swirls of the mixture, marbled with his cresting anxiety, removed the last of his resolve to hold onto his tears. 

Quietly, he murmured. He whimpered. And now, he cried.