Today was chalk and cheese. The first stop was an art gallery cafe, clean lines and carefully placed forms. Baroque chamber music wafted through the interior, gliding over framed prints and around androgynous statuettes. The owners were softly spoken and gently amiable, in hushed tones they told me of their plans for the gallery, while a pretty young artist from Iran flittered about, humming to herself as she hung nouveau-impressionist musings on the political landscape of her homeland. The owners seemed genuine, and I imagined myself working there; serving coffee to perky-breasted art graduates, debating the merits of pre-war cubism with lanky fops, helping young Iranian artists hang their paintings….
The second part of my journey landed me in hot water, literally. Polishing knives and forks while trendy handbag-house pushed its way through my eardrums, internally I debated whether to just drop everything and make a run for it. I looked at Anthony. I figured I could outrun him, and had started to plan my escape route when he let out a caustic expletive.
“Fuck! Fuck that waters hot, mate. Shit.”
Steam rose from a small bucket of water, jammed with hot utensils.
“At least it lets you know you’re alive.” He delivered this line in his trademark monotone, staccato bursts like bullets from a Tommy gun. I nodded slowly in agreement, absorbing the statement.
“That’s important.”
“It sure is.”
I finished polishing, moved on to meet and greet, customers came and went in a steady trickle. It was a diverse bunch; athletic young gays, sturdy lesbians, middle-aged women reading the Herald or the Guardian over a latte, a couple of grizzled truckers. After about half an hour Anthony came surging towards me with a grimace. He slammed down a container filled with cutlery, fished out a sharp steak-knife, and held it up in front of my face.
"I don't pay you to fuck around. You see this?"
There was a smudged fingerprint on the blade. I nodded.
"All I ask is for you to come here and do your fucking job. This is my livelihood, you understand? How would you feel if you came to have a meal and someone handed you this? It's not on, mate. Do 'em all again."
There was more to it than that. Anthony had a menacing aura that hung about him like smog. Even when he smiled it was like a playful grin from the barrel of a gun. He glared at me. I was silent. He turned and left. I got another container of steaming hot water, dipped my hands in, and I knew I was alive.
