I drove home with the radio off, replaying the evening in my head. Brooke’s words kept circling back:Part of you is somewhere else.
She wasn’t wrong.
But I had no idea where that somewhere else was and even less of an idea how to find it.
Chapter 9
Jacks
The ice machine was making that noise again. It wasn’t the normal hum of a functioning appliance doing its job. This was a grinding death rattle that suggested imminent mechanical failure and a very expensive repair bill in Mark’s future.
“Come on,” I muttered, jamming the bucket under the dispenser. “Work with me here.”
The machine groaned as ice trickled out in a pathetic stream, maybe a quarter of what I needed.
“Is broken again?” Rod’s voice floated over from the grill where he was plating a burger with the precision of a surgeon performing open-heart surgery. “I tell Mark three times, buy new machine. He says, ‘Rod, is fine, just needs adjustment.’ Adjustment.” He snorted. “Machine needs funeral, not adjustment.”
Rod had been the Barbacks head chef since opening day. Brazilian by birth and classically trained, hepossessed opinions about American kitchen equipment that he shared freely and often. His English was excellent, though heavily accented, and when he got worked up, his syntax had a tendency to rearrange itself in creative, often unintentionally dyslexic ways.
“Maybe if we’re nice to it, it’ll cooperate,” I said, giving the machine a hopeful stroke. “Come on, baby. Ice for me. You know you want to.”
“You cannot sex a machine, Jacks. Is not whore boy. Is metal and sadness.”
“Metal and sadness. How poetic,” I deadpanned, earning a lopsided grin as he placed the bun on top of his work of art.
“I am poet of kitchen. Also philosopher. Also, man who must make food with equipment from nineteen hundred, perhaps before.” He slid the plate onto the pass and dinged the bell. “Order up. Table six. Extra pickle, no onion, which is crime against burger, but customer is always right, even when customer is wrong.”
I abandoned the ice machine to run the plate out to the floor, banging through the double doors before weaving through our modest Friday night crowd. The bar wasn’t packed, but we were steady. It was the kind of night where we stayed busy without wanting to die.
When I returned to the kitchen, Rod was already working on the next ticket, his hands moving with the unconscious grace that came from decades of practice.
“So,” he said without looking up, “you hear about Benji’s new disaster?”
“Which one? He has so many.”
“The man from internet. The one who collects the toes.”
“Toenails. And yeah, I heard. Multiple jars, apparently.”
Rod shuddered. “This is why I stay married thirty years. Dating now is horror movie. Better to keep wife you have than find new one with jars of body parts.”
“That’s beautiful, Rod. You should write greeting cards.”
“I write cookbook. Publisher say is too angry. I say food should make you feel things.” He flipped something in a pan with a casual flick of his wrist. “You have girlfriend, Jacks? Boyfriend? Someone to keep you from the toe collectors?”
“Nope. Flying solo.”
“Is waste. You are good-looking boy, have job, still have all your toes attached to feet where they belong. You should find someone.”
“I’ll add it to my to-do list, right after fixing the icemachine.”
“Ice machine cannot be fixed. Only mourned.”
I laughed and returned to my battle with the dispenser. After another minute of coaxing, it coughed up enough ice to fill the bucket.
“Got it,” I announced.
“Is miracle. Alert the Pope,” Rod said without looking up from one of his deep-fried concoctions.
