The time clock hangs beside the door, an ancient, mechanical device that the owner claims never lies. I punch my card, and the machine stamps three fifty-two in faded ink.
“Ash, get your ass in here,” Carlos calls from the grill without turning around, spatula moving over sizzling patties. “Rodriguez called out again.”
Without a word, I take my position at prep. The station sits in the corner, away from the main line, but is essential to the restaurant’s smooth function. A laminated sheet taped to the wall lists tonight’s specials and required preparations. I scan it once, memorizing quantities and priorities.
I move to the sink first, scrubbing under hot water until my skin flushes pink.
“Need the chicken broken down,” the head cook calls over his shoulder. “Then start on the soup base.”
I retrieve the chicken from the walk-in, the cold air a momentary relief before the door swings shutbehind me. The metal countertop reflects harsh fluorescent light as I arrange my workspace with the cutting board centered, knives positioned for efficient access, and the waste bin pulled close to minimize movement.
The rhythm of the kitchen pulses around me, but my corner remains my own, a small territory under my control for the next several hours.
The chicken yields to my knife, bones separating from flesh with minimal resistance. Without consulting my brain, years of experience tell my hands where to cut, how much pressure to apply, and how to maximize yield while minimizing time.
In under ten minutes, I break down four whole chickens into their parts, all prepped and sorted into separate containers. Nothing wasted, nothing rushed.
“You ever talk?” A new prep cook pauses beside my station, watching my hands with open curiosity.
His name tag reads “Anthony.” This is only his third day on the job, and he’s still learning boundaries.
“When necessary.” I keep working, dicing onions into uniform pieces that will disappear into the soup base.
He lingers, hoping for a conversation. When Idon’t provide any, he shrugs and returns to his own station.
I’ve seen his kind before, always too friendly, searching for connections and stories to swap during down moments. They don’t last long in places like this, where efficiency trumps camaraderie, and everyone is replaceable.
The soup base comes together in stages of onions sweated until translucent, carrots and celery added in turn, stock poured over all. The scent rises in layers, building complexity with each ingredient.
Four hours pass in this manner, prep tasks completed and new ones assigned, each finished with the same mechanical efficiency.
My hands stay busy while my mind runs parallel calculations of hours worked multiplied by hourly rate, minus taxes, divided into budget categories. The mental math never stops.
“Halloway,” the kitchen manager calls across the line. “Take your break. Now.”
I glance at the clock. Seven fifty-seven. My break should have started seventeen minutes ago, but the potatoes needed cutting, and nobody else does them right.
“Five minutes,” I say, finishing the current batch.
“Now,” he repeats, firmer this time. “Labor laws.Take your thirty.” I wipe my hands on a towel and step back from the counter.
The manager nods once, then turns away. The push doesn’t come from concern for my well-being. It’s concern for regulations and timecards, which I understand and prefer.
The break area is a joke of a name. It’s a narrow hallway with two plastic chairs and a wobbly table pushed against the wall. The employee bathroom opens off one end and a supply closet off the other. Cigarette residue clings to the space, despite the prohibition on smoking inside. Old notices curl on a bulletin board, their messages faded into irrelevance.
I wash my hands in the bathroom sink, scrubbing under my nails. The water runs hot enough to turn my skin red, the cheap soap stripping oils and leaving my hands raw.
The mirror above the sink reflects a face with sunken cheeks, dark circles, and hair pulled back tight enough to eliminate the need for constant adjustment. Sometimes, I don’t recognize the thin man who stares back.
When I emerge from the bathroom, a plate of the chicken special waits on the break table with double vegetables and a heaping scoop of rice, the same thingI eat every shift. I wave to Rosa, one of the line cooks, and she lifts her chin in acknowledgment.
I leave my apron on the back of a chair and take the plate, carrying it out front and away from the cigarette stench that ruins my appetite.
The dining room buzzes with the regular Tuesday night crowd of truckers stopping between routes, night-shift workers fueling up before clocking in, and insomniacs seeking coffee and human proximity.
I claim the booth farthest from the door, with my back to the wall and a full view of the entrance.
The food steams as I divide the chicken and veggies in half, then hunch over it, shoveling it in between sips of water meant to fill the empty spaces in my stomach.
