I feel it in the far right bottom corner of my stomach.
It’s something akin to an intestinal worm, but it’s made
entirely out of bad emotions that are struggling to break through my esophageal
sphincter and come pouring out of my mouth in some ugly shape or form. But I squeeze them down and hold them in
because they wouldn’t make any difference.
I want to shout at the man, I do, but things people say don’t ever seem
to wound him in the least. They roll off
and come round to whack you in the back of the head like a cricket bat when you
least expect it.
“Ahh, young man,” he’s saying, because I’m not sure he
actually knows my name. He’s all smiles
and a whiff of body odor and garlic issues from some crevice that was not
appropriately doused with cologne this morning.
“Ahh, young man, if you could just make sure you disinfect
this whole area after you’ve finished cleaning up and then begin the fruit prep
for tomorrow, that’d be grand.”
He puts on these Britishisms like “young man,” and “that’d
be grand,” even though he’s never even been to England or even left the
country. My guess is that he likes the
sound of himself being quaint, respectable, and dapper. He likes the air it lends to his restaurant
and the effect he thinks that will have on the ladies, particularly the foreign
ones. He ushers them to their seats
making tasteful comments about their overwhelming beauty and looking into their
eyes for just one moment before saying “Bon Appetit!” (which, of course, is
French and not British, but he hasn’t realized that) and rushing back to his
ruling counter. From that maître d’ spot he will look suddenly and intensely busy. Scrutinizing bills, punching thing on the
computer, and scribbling notes to himself.
He’s even figured out that treating your inferior staff with respect
goes over well with foreign guests, so he will whisper to us confidentially or
smile and pat us on the back saying “good work boy!” When the restaurant is empty, however, he
becomes a different man, shouting at our inadequacies and ranting over our
tiniest of mistakes.
“The Sahib,” as we call him behind his back, is putting on a
show for a moderately attractive woman right now, an inspector who’s stopped by
to check on health and sanitation. But
she’s from around here and so she’s not so easily fooled, although she’d never
say it.
The truth is I always disinfect this area and don’t need to
be bossed around. The truth is that I
will begin not only the fruit prep for the morning, but also the meat prep for
the following day, washing of dishes, setting of tables, and whatever else he
finds for me to do. I will work past
midnight or later, no matter that I need to arrive by 5:45 am to begin cooking
breakfast. The old guests often rise
early (this seems to be a plague of old age; you finally get to stop working,
but by then you don’t know how to sleep in) and want a bite to eat before they
go meandering along the shoreline, picking up shells or pointlessly hurtling
down the beach on rented cycles. But
there is no room to complain because he is always there too, working late and
arriving early with a seemingly boundless supply of energy. “You just need to economize, prioritize, and
work more efficiently,” he says, the one day he finds me sleeping in one of the
larders and I try to explain just how exhausted I am every day. “Look at me.
I work just as hard as you, and I’m not exhausted, because I have motivation for excellence. You should be able to complete your work in a
lot less time, you know. You just need
to find that inner drive to be more than you are now, to succeed, and you could
do so much better, young man.”
My head nodded in understanding and a feigned awe at his
great wisdom. Aalam, my brain wearily protested.
My name is Aalam.
But the other truth is, I don’t have connections or
education, so I probably will never succeed and I need to hang on to this drab
job and this sickening boss for all I’m worth.
Plus, I have another reason for needing a steady income. There’s my sister to take care of. And so, beneath the simple words he just
spoke to me is a message I must understand and obey even though it’s never been
and never will be said: Don’t answer
truthfully about your working hours or how I treat you, or you’ll be out of
here faster than a prostitute at the break of dawn.
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