Bubbles surfaced on the grease-stained plates; a yellow sponge whisked across them, carrying food remnants to their watery grave. The plates then rinsed under tap water before being placed in a rack. He glanced at the heap of plates that formed a small mountain and the three other piles behind it. He sighed.
“Overtime it is.”
It was the only job he could get while his case of domestic violence rested in the court. Even though Lara refused to press any charges, the evidence was too glaring.
‘Where did it all go wrong?’
His son lay hooked up to machines in a hospital, fighting for his life; a son he never paid any attention to. Blinded by his own pain, he refused to consider the effects of his actions. Now it all came crashing, a broken wife, comatose son, and a dead-end job doing dishes at a Chinese restaurant. A girl walked into the kitchen, the Probably early twenties, her face obscured by the pile of dishes she carried; some of her black hair was sprawled around the plates.
He gently dropped the plates, and they clinked softly against the concrete. He watched her glance at the dishes, and her face flushed with sympathy. He smiled and gave her a ‘don’t worry about me look.’ She nodded and left. It was going to be a long day. The image came back to him, the bandages and casts, he was mummified beyond recognition, The decompressor slowly filling his lungs with air.
The doctor’s report was even grimmer—spinal damage, broken bones, punctured lungs, head trauma, internal bleeding, and organ trauma. Chances of survival were slim, the doctor told them. Lara broke down the moment she laid eyes on their son. He couldn’t console her because it was all his damn fault. His son had called him about a month ago soliciting that he needed money for an upcoming project, but he hung up straight and never gave it another thought.
A loud shatter suddenly echoed and snapped him out of self-loathing. A plate had fallen - again. He sighed and quickly but carefully picked up the pieces and hid them under the rubbish in the trash can.
‘I NEED this job! I can’t let Mr. Wen find out I broke another one.’
He picked up the trash can and followed the back to throw out its content into the disposal behind the building, erasing all evidence of the grave atrocity, according to Mr. Wen at least.
“Another atrocity, eh?” A voice sounded from behind.
“Yeah,” He replied with a sigh. A burly man in chef uniform appeared from behind. Zhang Yahzu. The master chef’s apprentice/work slave. He worked unreasonable hours; he knew Zhang barely got up to two hours of sleep daily. While his chore was optional, Zhang had no choice. When he asked Zhang, all he got was ‘Yakuza shit don’t bother,’ and that killed his curiosity instantly.
“Why do you put up with it even when you know you could just quit?” Zhang asked.
“Money,” He replied slowly after pondering.
“Ah, I see,” Zhang said thoughtfully. “Well, I best return inside before my short absence becomes the catalyst for human extinction,” Zhang said, flashing a smile.
Zhang moved quickly into the door, his toque Blanche disappearing out of view. He hoisted the can above the disposal and cringed slightly as the sound of ceramic erupted as they passed into the chute. He walked back in and beheld the mountain that he had to move. His MBA meant nothing here. Where the food was being prepared was a door ahead. And here, where the plates were washed was just a small section before the auxiliary exit meant for staff only.
Tomorrow would be his shift for deliveries. He preferred it than to stay cooped up here having to deal with these plates. He picked up the sponge and dove right back in. Quitting alcohol was the most challenging; he would stay up nights with withdrawal symptoms. The therapist had suggested finding something that would distract him from it. Working here sure did take up his time. A pair of slender hands with another sponge slipped into the sink. He turned: it was the girl from before.
“Don’t say a word, just deal with it.”
“I don’t-”
“I said not to say anything, I’ve chosen to do it, and that’s it”
He smiled helplessly as he turned towards the heap behind him and chopped off a small portion, and lobbed it gently into the sink; it was then split between four hands.
“Don’t you have tables to attend to?” He asked, rinsing a plate and dropping it in the rack on the left smoothly.
“Lunch break.”
“You guys get lunch breaks here?” He asked incredulously
“No, Zhen Bi covers for me, and I cover for her too,” she answered in her Chinese infused English.
“Oh.”
“So why do you work here? I’ve just been too busy to ask; you seem like you could get a job in a better place.”
“Issues,” He said quickly.
“What kind?” She asked. It was supposed to be nosey. But somehow, it wasn’t.
“My Son’s sick, and I need the money, and right now, this is the best job I can find” It was more or less the same.
“I see.”
Silence ensued. About an hour later, half of the first pile was finished.
“And your wife?” She asked, trying to dispel the awkwardness.
“She hasn’t been taking it so well lately. What about you? Why do you work here?” He asked, moving away from the topic.
“It’s nothing important” She avoided his gaze.
“Now that’s not fair; I told you mine,” he said, trying to meet her gaze.
“Fine... want to be a dancer. Auditions are coming up, registrations cost money, so I’m here, and so is Zhen Bi.”
“Zhen Bi?” He didn’t recall anyone by that name.
“You must not have seen her, eh, short; all-black” Her hands sprung into lively animation as she tried to describe Zhen Bi.
“Hmm…” He had nothing to say. “Good luck with that,” he eventually managed to say.
She nodded and focused on the dishes. Someone walked into the kitchen: black hair, black dress, black eyes; it was like she just attended a funeral. Everything was black and in stark contrast to her milky porcelain features. Zhen Bi. She came over, spoke something in Chinese, and left.
She put on the faucet and rinsed her hands swiftly. “Lunch break’s over.” She turned back to me. “My name is Li Na.”
“Mark,” He replied as her figure disappeared.
The room soon became lonely.
All of this was his fault. Would it even matter what he did now? Would it be enough? All his effort to become a better person, A better father…
His vision became misty as lather mixed with plates.
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