New Orleans

Probably needs a ton of editing, but that is ok I have it here for filler. :)

 “Order up!” The pimply teenager yells from behind the front counter. The ticket reads a three piece dinner, which includes a breast, a thigh, and a leg with instant mashed potatoes and pre-made coleslaw. I throw some chicken in a deep fryer. I heat up the potatoes in a polystyrene foam container in the microwave, and I pull another small polystyrene container with the coleslaw from a petite cooler. This is the process. No thought involved. No creativity. When the potatoes are done I pass them to the front while Brad, the pimply kid, fills a bag with already cooked chicken. Fast and boring, but at least it is a job.

“What time is it? Is it time to go?” It is already dark outside. The drive through window displays a frozen waste land. Car lights slowly pass on the highway, and any minute I’ll be out there too. I hate winter! It gets dark too soon. A sigh escapes and my shoulders sag as I stare out at this bleak landscape. My father wanted me to be a basket ball player, but I picked up cooking from my mother. Though I never had the desire to play, I certainly had the build for basketball. I spent many years in catering school learning to be chef, and now I’m here in Maine cooking for a crappy chicken shack.

“It is 5:48. You still have twelve minutes, Ash,” Brad says. He wipes his greasy hands on his apron then through his blond hair. My face wrinkles and his hands quickly withdraw. The young punks face turns red and he drops his eyes to the floor.

“Go wash your damn hands, fool.” I say. I point at the sink and a few of the patrons look up from there food like cautious animals.

“Sorry! Sorry, f**k man I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I burst out like that. I feel sorry for the kid. It isn’t his fault that I’m in a foul mood. I turn around quickly and wipe the counters down, throw the apron in the laundry basket, and clock out a few minutes early. “What are you doing?” Brad asks washing his hands.

“I’m clocking out, man. What does it look like?”

“But Dolores hasn’t come to relieve you yet.”

“She’ll get here.” I grab my Hornets jacket, and head out the door with Brad’s mouth wide open as he watches me leave. Most of the employees when they leave they take food home with them, but I leave empty handed. My next stop is the grocery store so that I can go home and do some real cooking.

Living in Maine is a hassle, because ice blankets the streets. I was born and raised in Louisiana, and it never snows there. Of course Louisiana has its own hazards, mostly involving rain storms, lightning storms, flooding, and hurricanes, but I would rather brave a hurricane than all this constant snow. Louisiana also appreciated my cooking. Sure Maine is famous for its Lobster, but they aren’t very creative with its preparation. The lines at the grocery store are long, and now the cars trudge along in the deep snow. When I get home the light is on waiting for me. Through the entrance of the heated house I see a picture from home directly across from the door. I see it every night I come home. It is my mother and her children. I’m the youngest and I sit on her lap. She is a hefty woman, but classy, she wears a floral dress and a big smile full of clean white teeth. She is a hefty woman, but definitely not unhealthy. I’m smiling too. I remember spending hours exploring the woods as a child with my siblings before my mother would call us all back for supper. She would then scold us about the dangers of water moccasins and other dangers out in the wild. Those were good times.

“Hey hon, what did you bring us to eat tonight?” My wife Kessalyn comes walking into the hall. I smile at her. She stands before me with her black curly hair, her lips painted red. She wears a white sweater that contrasts her complexion. I met her in New Orleans while going to school at LouisianaTechnicalCollege. She and I hit it off immediately, but she had this strange fixation with Maine. I indulged her and we moved here when we finished school. The best job I could get was at the Chicken Shack. Kessalyn however has a job with the municipal court, using her Criminal Justice degree. Between the two of us we hope to start a small restaurant in this small town in Maine. WinterHarbor, what an appropriate name for this icy hell.

“Well my darling dove, I am going to make a New Orleans special; a seafood gumbo ala vino.” It’s good to be home. I put my arms around her and we walk into our own little Louisiana.

 

Reviews

[C.N. Romano]

Well done, it gives a succinct window into the character's life, or your life if this is autobiographical. I can relate to the ending because I grew up in Key West, FL and moved to snowy Boston.