The After Nothing

Chapter 1.

[The After Nothing]

[by Kurt]

[1.]  Epiphany - A usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something.

4:45 p.m.  5 checks on the board.  45 minutes since last cigarette.

Jake didn't show up for work today.  Again.  At least so far.  If tardiness and absenteesm were a disorder classified in the DSM, I'm sure he'd be the case study that students world-wide would pore over for hours on end.  Like the Jeffrey Dahmer of being an unreliable prick.  I feel the urge to verbalize my frustration and then I realize why bother?  It's nothing new and mentioning it ultimately has no impact.  Utterly pointless.  I guess no smoke break for what eternity would feel like if it were capable of being expressed within a finite amount of time.  

4:53 p.m.  13 checks on the board, 5 thrown.  53 minutes since last cigarette.

"Holding on a well-done bacon cheese-burger."  Thanks Joe.  Unfortunately, I have yet to harness the oft sought ability of instantaneous transformation of frozen, quarter pound disks of 'angus' beef into over-cooked, flavorless hockey pucks.  "Heard.  What kind of cheese?" I ask.

"Swiss."  

"Heard."  I instinctively reply.  The line cook's form of tourettes.  It's now a reflex, a physical response that often comes before my mind has registered the implications.  His command, and let's be honest, that's essentially what it is, is not an acknowledged decree, rather, something I have to retrieve while I am in reverie.  The stasis caused by my outer body experience isn't crippling, hell, it isn't even momentarily disruptive.  Still, I find myself searching my most recent memories for whatever the hell it was he said.  All of this happens impercetibly.  What a useful skill.  The ability to completely detach myself and yet remain painstakingly connected to my blissful existence.  And yet he still feels the need open his mouth.  

"How long on that burger?"  Really, Joe?  That ticket came in 4 minutes ago.

"Swinging hot."  I have to say that because I have a seared peice of what this restaraunt considers meat on a spatula that spends the majority of its time on a 450 degree flat-top grill.  Though it's not so much that I care whether he gets burned; no, it's to avoid the almost certain run-in with one of the careless cooks who is incapable of manuevering in a kitchen without continuous reminders of where everyone is, what they're currently doing, whether or not they're behind you, and, of course, whether or not they've heard you.  I must have dozed off during the part of the interview where they asked me to confirm that from an early age my peripheral vision ceased to function and that I had no aspirations on fixing it.  Sense of your surroundings would likely be considered a crippling disorder that, in the right settings, might warrant spunge baths and a pharmacy of pills.  

5:09 p.m.  24 checks on the board, 13 thrown.  1hr 9 minutes since last cigarette.

"Amber!"  Joe insists on yelling the waitresses name when the order is complete, a point of contention for me.  They're never around, they are never in earshot, and if they were, they all seem to have survived the same war, returned from overseas, and based on their oh so delight demeanor, I assume they are in a continuous state of suffering from the affliction of blown ear-drums.  Add to this a unique twist on PTSD where the cooks are the 'Charlie' and we're either ignored with guerilla-esque precision or assaulted like a combatant soldier currently relieving his bladder on the American flag.  The flak from their verbal grenades splash with a shockwave; even if you aren't the nearest soldier to the blast, the effects it has on your fellow cooks - from flared tempers to mistakes that result in an entire order being remade - is an unavoidable shrapnel.  Maybe I have just grown weary of Joe's voice.  Or maybe I'm still dazed from the last ambush from the waitress brigade.

5:25 p.m.  37 checks on the board, 21 thrown.  1hr 25 minutes since last cigarette.

S**t.  How many orders of grilled chicken were there?  Now I'm forced to vocalize the fact that I am human, capable of even the briefest moments of forgetfullness amidst the forty-odd items I am responsible for simultaneously cooking, all with different start and end times.  "How many chicken fillet's all-day?"

It feels like ten minutes have passed; each moment crawling at a pace that even snails would scoff at.  I look over, making sure dear Joe hasn't collapsed in battle, relieved to see him scanning the checks.  "6."

"Heard."  This back and forth continues.  And continues.  And continues.  At this point one would have to spend a fortune at an arcade to still be playing.  Because like those games, this one is rigged, designed for the player to fail and the manufacturer to make money off of our fruitless persistence.  And just like achieving high score, the feat is ultimately meaningless.  A pittance of a paycheck transferred to your account every two weeks.  Just enough money to pay the bills and buy almost enough nutritiously void food to sustain life.  

8:12 p.m.  3 checks on the board, 138 thrown.  4hrs 12 minutes since last cigarette.

And then, you see the window for a potential, momentary repreive!  You're no longer even depressed that the potential of seeing your board clear of checks parallels what the most devout, those who spent their life dedicated to their faith and its docrtine, experience when met with their maker.  Or for a more commonly accepted analogy, when a virgin boy sees his first set of in-the-flesh, intentionally exposed breasts.  And this moment is almost as exciting.  But then that image of your mother flashes in your head, you don't know where it came from, you know damn well you weren't thinking about it, don't want to think about it, and are even slightly ashamed you did.  In this instance she manifests herself as a phrase.  The 'jinx'.  What should be an insignificant series of words.  "Hey, I think we're finally about to be clear!"  

8:46 p.m.  16 checks on the board, 163 thrown.  4hrs 46 minutes since last cigarette.

More of the same.  Repetition does as repetition does.

9:06 p.m.  1 check on the board, 198 thrown.  5hrs 6 minutes since last cigarette.

Finally, a cigarette.  The highlight of my indentured shift.  What these people are doing must certainly be illegal.  Right?  Whatever, embrace the sweet release of toxin while exhaling hours of fryer grease and kitchen refuse.

9:54 p.m.  3 checks on the board, 247 thrown.  23 minutes since last cigarette.

Filter the fryer oil.  Recycle the fryer oil.  Scrub with an industrial strength 'grill brick' the flat top.  Avoid burns.  Restock every.  Single.  Item.  For the hundreth time this evening.  Sweep.  Mop.  Take out the trash.  Rinse, lather, repeat.  Scrub, clean, cook, and of course evade the crosshairs of the waitresses.  Another day at work.  And only 2 hours left!

11:38 p.m.  8 checks on the board, 288 thrown.  45 minutes since last cigarette.

I know I sound like a bitter, petulant child.  A series of self-defeating thoughts with no productive purpose.  Feel sorry for me, cry for me!  Or hell, even pity me for being so engrossed in my inner-turmoil, only capable of viewing the world negatively.   But I will tell you now, to view my inner-monologue as one of despair would be a grave misconception.  I'll cleanse such misdirection the way Casper did: rise from the grave!  Stride once more amongst the living.  Because, until today, the monotony, the madness of repetition that inspired the mind that composed those insidious thoughts, has transcended from penniless artist to the Beethoven of his future.  Finally, I have seen the soul-crushing destruction and devestation that was bound to leave my mind a mental wasteland; a barren landscape of rotted soil and blight.  That was my destiny.  And had I maintained the course, well, then I submit, your reservations and judgement of me would be justified.   But today.   Today I stand before my maker.  Today I see my first pair of supple, perfect breasts.  Today I finally resolve to change.  My resolution has come, and no more will I be victim to the cycle of this particular brand of corporate slavery that has, until now, bound me to a meaningless existence.  Time to reform.  Time to unshackle myself from those who would bind me, squeeze me so tight even Florida has outlawed such a practice against its oranges.  Yes, today I refuse to be used as their tool to make a buck off of my blood, sweat and tears, with only a penny offered in return.

"Hey!  Hey--where are you--(inaudible)."

"Did he just walk out?"

Today I had my epiphany.

Author's Note

Help anyway you see fit.

Reviews

[Julijana]

Well.. I'm not going to be of much help to you unfortunately, but I would like to say that I truly enjoyed reading your writing. It was very smooth and obviously well thought out. You wrote about boredom and monotony however your writing is everything but. I liked the form very much (the definition at the beginning, and the clock, orders?, and time since the last cigarette), it's original and it goes well with what you were trying to achieve here. I laughed, I enjoyed the protagonist's wit and I felt empathy towards him. I liked the dry humor very much and the sentences which were complicated but new and interesting. Two things that made me stop were the "and continues" part which was a tiny bit odd (probably since the usual thing to write is: and on), and the inaudible where you could've just gone with "...". All in all, I think that the whole piece is very relatable and realistic.