“So, like.” She ate one standing there. Dipped it in the tartar mayo and took it gently between her teeth.
“They’re hot,” he warned.
She chewed it gingerly. “They’re delicious.”
“Thank you,” he said. He described the process of making a smelt fritter, knowing the magic implied. The magic of how the fritter was conceived (art). The magic of how it was tossed together back there, out of sight, in just a few minutes (craft). The magic of its taste now (alchemy). What was that spice? A bit of powdered ginger, in fact, one of his few trade secrets.
Benny ate another one, standing there, looking at him and listening to all that he said. And later, as she and all of her friends clumped to the door, she appraised first that he was watching before she turned and smiled again. She waved a wiggling-finger wave and mouthed very distinctly:
I’ll be seeing you
.
He waved back—she was gone. The Monkey’s Paw was now empty, and there was sixty-eight dollars in the till. He had held it off all morning, but now he stood behind the counter and felt a wave of fatigue break over him. He struggled to banish an image of a night-lit lagoon from his mind, and forced himself to remember Benny’s glance and wave instead. Better that, he thought. Better to be incrementally cheered. Cheered despite hemming debt, despite a hovering blackness, a sense of things going steadily out of balance. Cheered by the simple fact that a raver angel named Benny liked him, liked his smelt fritters. He made it, she got it. Was there a better chemistry?
Jules came thundering in just then. Her timing perfect. He could dig down and find his strength, but hers spilled to the surface, always.
“Hey, babe,” she shouted, and slapped him hard on the butt as she passed. And with hardly a word, they were swept up in the momentum that would build towards lunch, through the afternoon and on to dinner. The kitchen came alive with the slam of the oven, the scrape of the fridge door and the clatter of pots and knives. Astor Piazzolla materialized in the air as Jules popped in a stack of her eclectic CDs, and a spike of energy entered the collective bloodstream.
When they were prepped and Zeena was in, before the first lunch tables were seated, Jules poured a glass of soda water and leaned against the cutting block. She sipped and watched him adjust seasonings for a moment.
“You look a little tired,” she said.
He nodded.
“How’s Dad?” she said, reading him perfectly. No surprise.
He didn’t say anything.
“Ah, come here, honey,” she said. And she put down her glass and hugged him. Hard (she was strong). Squeezed his bones together, made him feel weak but safe. Safe in a place that smelled like caramel, like lightly scented soap. Like the solid breakfast he never had.
Benny took an active interest. Jeremy had the quality, she decided. After all these years of going to design school, working survival jobs, she felt she was in a position to recognize that this guy—not bad-looking with his impossibly messy hair and despite the cowboy boots—this guy had the quality of actualized self. Needs, freedoms, known desires, a creative centre. Benny was often impatient with her peers for lacking all these things, for being not yet formed. Everybody grew up late these days, lived at home for years too long, became adults at thirty. Benny had been supporting herself since sixteen and prided herself on only dating adults. Herfriends may have noticed that she suggested The Monkey’s Paw more often now. (Or they may not have, it didn’t concern her.) But she never mentioned his name, just said something like: “I’m at The Paw around three. You coming?” Everybody always came. They were sheep. They filled up that front window and ate smelt fritters, and she only cared that she managed to talk with him each time for a few minutes. He had noticed, she knew that. The chef had definitely noticed.
One time she got him at the front counter and
“They’re hot,” he warned.
She chewed it gingerly. “They’re delicious.”
“Thank you,” he said. He described the process of making a smelt fritter, knowing the magic implied. The magic of how the fritter was conceived (art). The magic of how it was tossed together back there, out of sight, in just a few minutes (craft). The magic of its taste now (alchemy). What was that spice? A bit of powdered ginger, in fact, one of his few trade secrets.
Benny ate another one, standing there, looking at him and listening to all that he said. And later, as she and all of her friends clumped to the door, she appraised first that he was watching before she turned and smiled again. She waved a wiggling-finger wave and mouthed very distinctly:
I’ll be seeing you
.
He waved back—she was gone. The Monkey’s Paw was now empty, and there was sixty-eight dollars in the till. He had held it off all morning, but now he stood behind the counter and felt a wave of fatigue break over him. He struggled to banish an image of a night-lit lagoon from his mind, and forced himself to remember Benny’s glance and wave instead. Better that, he thought. Better to be incrementally cheered. Cheered despite hemming debt, despite a hovering blackness, a sense of things going steadily out of balance. Cheered by the simple fact that a raver angel named Benny liked him, liked his smelt fritters. He made it, she got it. Was there a better chemistry?
Jules came thundering in just then. Her timing perfect. He could dig down and find his strength, but hers spilled to the surface, always.
“Hey, babe,” she shouted, and slapped him hard on the butt as she passed. And with hardly a word, they were swept up in the momentum that would build towards lunch, through the afternoon and on to dinner. The kitchen came alive with the slam of the oven, the scrape of the fridge door and the clatter of pots and knives. Astor Piazzolla materialized in the air as Jules popped in a stack of her eclectic CDs, and a spike of energy entered the collective bloodstream.
When they were prepped and Zeena was in, before the first lunch tables were seated, Jules poured a glass of soda water and leaned against the cutting block. She sipped and watched him adjust seasonings for a moment.
“You look a little tired,” she said.
He nodded.
“How’s Dad?” she said, reading him perfectly. No surprise.
He didn’t say anything.
“Ah, come here, honey,” she said. And she put down her glass and hugged him. Hard (she was strong). Squeezed his bones together, made him feel weak but safe. Safe in a place that smelled like caramel, like lightly scented soap. Like the solid breakfast he never had.
Benny took an active interest. Jeremy had the quality, she decided. After all these years of going to design school, working survival jobs, she felt she was in a position to recognize that this guy—not bad-looking with his impossibly messy hair and despite the cowboy boots—this guy had the quality of actualized self. Needs, freedoms, known desires, a creative centre. Benny was often impatient with her peers for lacking all these things, for being not yet formed. Everybody grew up late these days, lived at home for years too long, became adults at thirty. Benny had been supporting herself since sixteen and prided herself on only dating adults. Herfriends may have noticed that she suggested The Monkey’s Paw more often now. (Or they may not have, it didn’t concern her.) But she never mentioned his name, just said something like: “I’m at The Paw around three. You coming?” Everybody always came. They were sheep. They filled up that front window and ate smelt fritters, and she only cared that she managed to talk with him each time for a few minutes. He had noticed, she knew that. The chef had definitely noticed.
One time she got him at the front counter and
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