Your Table's Ready

There's a huge hole in the floor behind the bar where the softwood planks have worn through or rotted, Kylie can't tell. She's become adept at sidestepping it unconsciously, a pattern her body has memorized in order to safeguard her from falling clean through and landing in the cellar storage room downstairs. The joys of working for aged hippies in a legendary much loved restaurant on the hip strip of town. Had she known what she was getting into Kylie would have stuck with the fine dining gig on the east side but no, this was such a great spot, such an iconic hangout and the location, well- a five minute walk from home, so it seemed like kismet at the time. Dominic comes screaming out of the kitchen waving an 8" chef's knife, drunk, 4 in the afternoon, the lazy hour of the day between shifts. Thankfully only staff are hanging about. Bob, one of the owners, a dead ringer for James Taylor circa the Carly Simon years, only pushing 60, reigns him back into the kitchen with promises of better fish tomorrow. Kylie jumps out of her skin, not at the chef's meltdown but at the cockroach the size of a mouse climbing up the beadboard behind the Campari. Christ. Even in India she's not seen bugs this big. Par for the course, the thing's probably been here since the dawn of time, who was she to pull rank. The door opens, in walks another bill collector. Hydro, this time. Bob comes ambling out through the swing door and proceeds to spin a song and dance tale worthy of a '40's grifter in some black and white Hollywood caper. Then he pops open the register and hands off a wad of cash. The collector grunts and warns Bob that this is the last time. It's a well orchestrated scene Kylie sees played out every week, with a rotating cast of collectors. By the skin of their teeth these two keep the joint running. The seatings are full but still, they seemed mired in debt. Mind you, she has no idea what happens behind closed doors or upstairs in the many apartments populated by transient artist friends and relations. Surreal. As long as she makes good money she'll stick around, provided Dom stays well medicated and in the kitchen. There's always another bar job out there. The question is, how could it get much worse?