Waving Not Drowning

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...

She's sticking to herself like white on rice, that's how uncomfortably close this weather is. In a thin white dress shirt no less, soaked through from armpit to armpit so that the circles meet up across her chest. A boob circle of see-through cotton. It's so oppressively hot no one looks twice, for better or worse. Tara has forsaken any sense of modesty. Humping heavy plates in and out of a hotbox kitchen, nimbly skirting frantic chefs and melting busboys, elbow deep in dishpans, bodies slick with sweat, hair plastered to foreheads or bandanas dripping with moisture. A Dali painting come to life.  Order up! Bells clang, ceramic tableware clicks and clacks off the stainless countertops, three different languages weave in and out of the cacophony of sound, a constant hum of tension, like a bow being drawn across the highest fret of a violin, the hairs threatening to split and fray, coming undone like silk from the ear of a corn. It's amazing people can eat in this heat. T...