round-faced person with a charmingly earnest demeanor that Jonah vaguely associated with teen idols of the 1970s. There was a way that Steve would widen his eyes and say “Wow!” that seemed to Jonah particularly notable. He tried it out when he got home from work, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. “Wow,” he said, and put on an imitation of the sleepy, knowing smile that Steve used. “Cool,” Jonah said, in the odd way that Steve did, so that it sounded like: “Coo-el.” He and Steve would look very much alike, he thought, if it weren’t for the scars. They both had a similar type of straight, blondish-brown hair, a similar round-cheeked boyishness in the face. They were even about the same height—a little under six feet—though Steve’s body was better constructed, all smooth lines, like a swimmer. Jonah’s own body was more angular, odder—pale-skinned, reddish at the hands and foot soles; broad shoulders and chest and ropy muscled arms, which led to a round, slightly plump belly, and then to narrow legs and long-toed, nobby feet. He was like three different bodies grafted onto one person, he thought, though he also was aware that posture made a difference. He tended to hunch and to let his belly stick out, and if he straightened up and sucked in his gut he looked better. He tried his version of Steve’s smile again, looking at himself in the mirror from first one angle, then another, covering up the scar on his face with his hand.
Not bad,
he thought.
Really. Not bad.
——
Steve was more present in the kitchen than most of the waitstaff. Mostly, the waiters and waitresses would rush in and out—they would thrust pieces of paper at the cooks, scribbles of food requests, cry “Order!,” and then hurry away. And Jonah was even more peripheral than the other cooks—mostly, he was in a corner at a cutting board, chopping mushrooms or celery or carrots, the tips of his fingers at the very edge of the rapid movement of the knife in his other hand.
But Steve had noticed Jonah. Steve was always coming in to chat up the heavyset black woman, Ramona, and the older Mexican man, Alphonso, the two main cooks. Steve would tell them about his pregnant wife, keeping them abreast of the developments, saying “Wow,” and “Cool!” to them, and then he brought in photos of the baby’s birth, which he passed around in the late afternoon, when the lunch crowd had cleared out and the work had lulled. He was grinning, very pleased with himself, and he gave people cigars as a kind of joke. Even the women.
Jonah watched him with cautious interest. He admired Steve’s ease with people, the genial, natural way he would flirt with Ramona, or tell a joke (in Spanish!) to Alphonso, both of them laughing deeply, their eyes narrowed slyly. But it was disconcerting, too, because Steve kept catching Jonah’s eye, noticing Jonah’s staring before Jonah could drop his gaze. On the day he brought in photos of the newborn, he’d looked directly at Jonah all of a sudden.
“Hey, man,” Steve said. “Do you want to see?”
Jonah shrugged awkwardly. “Sure,” he said, and Steve came around the divider and passed a few pictures into Jonah’s latex-gloved hands. In one photo, a bloody infant, with a body like a skinned squirrel, opened its wide mouth and scrunched its eyes; in another, the infant, now swaddled in a blue blanket, was pressed against the bare breast of an exhausted girl in a hospital gown.
“That’s Henry,” Steve said. “That’s my son!”
“Huh,” Jonah said, uncertainly. “Nice.”
Steve grinned and extended his hand. “I’m Steve,” he said. “I see you looking sometimes, but we never connect.”
Jonah started to insert his slick, latex-covered hand into Steve’s palm, and then realized how rude and odd it was. “Oh, sorry,” Jonah said, and he took off his glove, wiping his damp palm on his shirt.
“I’m Jonah,” Jonah said. He felt very self-conscious.
I see you looking at
Not bad,
he thought.
Really. Not bad.
——
Steve was more present in the kitchen than most of the waitstaff. Mostly, the waiters and waitresses would rush in and out—they would thrust pieces of paper at the cooks, scribbles of food requests, cry “Order!,” and then hurry away. And Jonah was even more peripheral than the other cooks—mostly, he was in a corner at a cutting board, chopping mushrooms or celery or carrots, the tips of his fingers at the very edge of the rapid movement of the knife in his other hand.
But Steve had noticed Jonah. Steve was always coming in to chat up the heavyset black woman, Ramona, and the older Mexican man, Alphonso, the two main cooks. Steve would tell them about his pregnant wife, keeping them abreast of the developments, saying “Wow,” and “Cool!” to them, and then he brought in photos of the baby’s birth, which he passed around in the late afternoon, when the lunch crowd had cleared out and the work had lulled. He was grinning, very pleased with himself, and he gave people cigars as a kind of joke. Even the women.
Jonah watched him with cautious interest. He admired Steve’s ease with people, the genial, natural way he would flirt with Ramona, or tell a joke (in Spanish!) to Alphonso, both of them laughing deeply, their eyes narrowed slyly. But it was disconcerting, too, because Steve kept catching Jonah’s eye, noticing Jonah’s staring before Jonah could drop his gaze. On the day he brought in photos of the newborn, he’d looked directly at Jonah all of a sudden.
“Hey, man,” Steve said. “Do you want to see?”
Jonah shrugged awkwardly. “Sure,” he said, and Steve came around the divider and passed a few pictures into Jonah’s latex-gloved hands. In one photo, a bloody infant, with a body like a skinned squirrel, opened its wide mouth and scrunched its eyes; in another, the infant, now swaddled in a blue blanket, was pressed against the bare breast of an exhausted girl in a hospital gown.
“That’s Henry,” Steve said. “That’s my son!”
“Huh,” Jonah said, uncertainly. “Nice.”
Steve grinned and extended his hand. “I’m Steve,” he said. “I see you looking sometimes, but we never connect.”
Jonah started to insert his slick, latex-covered hand into Steve’s palm, and then realized how rude and odd it was. “Oh, sorry,” Jonah said, and he took off his glove, wiping his damp palm on his shirt.
“I’m Jonah,” Jonah said. He felt very self-conscious.
I see you looking at
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