Eighty-Six

Dave's heart was beating through his shirt, straining the necktie that had, up until five minutes ago, been tucked away snuggly behind his black vest. His shoes felt uneasy and tiny beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead; drops of dew on a brisk morning, each holding a promise for a better day ahead and each destroying worlds when it was called to its god by the harsh star up above. The room began to go somewhat lopsided for him, his knees cried and started the grueling process of buckling. That was when Tanya came from behind him and slapped the back of his head. He hadn't been this nervous since his first date with a girl." Hey, Tonto, pretend you're a man and act like you've got a pair. What's wrong with you, I thought you had gotten over all your weird twitchy habits? These people can smell fear and they will destroy you. I'm serious, they will cut open your belly and make you watch as they slurp up your intestines." The statement didn't exactly have the desired effect, but Tanya was ignorant to the fact and simply stared at him coldly, challenging him to say anything that wasn't, "Not if I eat theirs first."  Dave, in his histrionic sense, simply nodded and acted as if he knew what was going on. Dave had a myriad of question, none of which had been answered, and a multitude of fears, all of which had been more than happy to manifest themselves. Now he stood, shaking in his black slacks, awaiting the hour to pass and thrust him into the arena he'd been avoiding for three years since his start at the restaurant.

The floor wasn't really that intimidating, at least not as a food runner; he simply grabbed the food from the line, took it to the people and went back to his dimly lit hole to yell at the cooks because they weren't churning plates out fast enough. In that aspect, he commanded full attention, seeing as how the restaurant had been understaffed, he had to double as expo. His voice demanded compliance and, bit by bit, he had managed to garnish enough respect to, accidentally, make a waitress cry when he yelled at her for looking at his line wrong.That'd been a while back, and now the restaurant was doing better. They had a steady flow of customers and revenues had been at their highest, allowing them to allocate funds to the much needed hiring of staff. The manager, Lyle, had once asked if he was interested in waiting tables. Dave hadn't been paying much attention- Lyle had a bad habit of asking questions during the dinner rush- and simply cast him off with a distracted nod of the head. Now, as times shifted, Lyle had brought back the then brief and harmless, but now greatly influential, conversation, and approached him with an offer to "...move out onto the floor and make some real money." At the moment, Dave was in need of a better income, so he accepted. Now, standing at the precipice of what he perceived to be his  downfall, he wondered if he had made the right choice.

All the waiters stood around Lyle as he started the pre-shift meeting in which the chef would explain the specials for the night and Lyle would talk about the different wines, how they paired with each dish and what they could do to better their patrons experience so as to have them return. As Dave scanned the room, his eyes fell on each face individually. For the most part, staff hadn't changed much. There was a team of five core servers that had been there since his start. To him, they were the elite; the veterans that had been through the ringer and kept going back for more. He had learned much from them as a food runner, and now it was time for him to jump in the fray with these demigods and test his meddle. Of the five, two could claim to be his greatest influences. Tanya, an average framed 27 year old with kind eyes, had been the first to talk to him. Though the way she carried herself implied an affectionate demeanor, when you spoke to her, she was anything but. While her smile lured you to her, the manner in which she spoke was so sharp and cold, you could almost feel her words sharpening themselves on your chest just before plunging themselves in and creating another ice age deep beneath your skin.
"You with the glasses, what's your name?" Those were the first words she had ever said to him. Back then, Dave was a shy lad of but ten and seven years. He had about as much experience in dealing with brash people as he did with the opposite sex, which didn't amount to much, if anything.

"Dave," he replied weakly, " I just started."

"Obviously, I wouldn't be asking your name otherwise, now would I? And speak up, nobody respects someone that speaks through their teeth."

Since then, Dave had an odd attraction to her, but not in the traditional sense. She was very pretty to be sure, but the allure of her personality was greater. To Dave, who was insipid by nature, this woman represented everything he hoped he could one day be; the embodiment of every phrase he was too afraid to utter, every glare his eyes were to weak to give and a life he hoped to have before death. Rick, on the other hand, was quite the opposite of Tanya. While the air around her crackled and scorched, singeing any will weaker than hers, his was comforting and relaxed; a field of sweet daffodils nestled somewhere in a volcanic valley. His hair was graying and the bags under his eyes hinted at the fact that the Rick Dave knew hadn't always been this way. Rick, at Dave's start, was about a foot taller than him, with puberty being what it is though, Dave had surpassed him and now had to direct his vision downward when speaking to Rick.

"Don't pay any attention to her. She's rough around the edges but deep down, she's all warm and fuzzy." Just as Rick's words had begun to dress the wounds left by Tanya's less than cordial introduction, a thundering response was heard from the server station which was located a few feet away from the kitchen line.

"Call me warm and fuzzy one more time Rick, and I'll stuff you in the oven with so much garlic shoved up your ass, an Italian wouldn't eat you. Same goes for you, Daniel."

Starring at the floor and kicking his shoe at an imaginary piece of paper, Dave corrected her, "My name's Dave, not Daniel." As soon as he had finished his sentence, he knew he had committed some cardinal sin.

"What the fuck ever, your name's gonna be ball-less sausage patty if you don't shut your face." From then on, Dave couldn't see himself outside of those two. They would be his compass and mentors; one brutally pounding lessons into his psyche, leaving him raw and gritty while the other smoothed out any creases and fine tuned the details. When he informed Tanya of his transition from runner/expo to server, the answer was more than somewhat predictable. She crossed her arms and furrowed her brow, the dark brown eyes behind her dirty blond hair providing the perfectly sinister aura to her voice.

"Don't get in my way."

While her reaction came as no surprise to him, Rick's take on the news was unnerving. Moments passed after Dave told Rick, and not a single word did the latter speak. His weight shifted uneasily on the balls of his feet, the color left his face casting a rather ghastly hue over the whole of his worn features. "Well," he began, "that's good news, I suppose. I'm sure you'll be fine. You've enough experience in dealing with the chef, so nothing to worry about there. Just promise me you won't mess up too much. Wouldn't want to see you get cooked." Dave laughed at the last part, he always thought Rick had a great sense of humor.

"Cooked. You're funny Rick."

"Funny...right."

Lyle was wrapping up the meeting by telling everyone to be sure and mention the new merlot on the wine list and how it was specifically chosen to go with the lamb the chef had designated for the special that night. Dave had seen and tried the lamb many times, it was one of the chef's favorite dishes to prepare. Everyone always commented on the peculiar style of the lamb and how they'd never had anything like it. "Though admittedly lamb is gamy," began the chef, "there is a certain peculiarity and variation in the overall flavor, depending on the region where you get your lamb. Our lamb comes from a small farm not too far out from the city. I go out, handpick it and slaughter it on the premises, as you all know." This was a fact Dave knew all too well about. The chef never let anyone into the designated 'kill room', but the sounds that came from it were horrifying. Blood curdling shrieks and the repetitive, tenebrose sound the hammer made every time it fell upon the lamb's skull nearly drove Dave mad. One day, he couldn't take it anymore and he had to inquire about the deplorable sounds that came out from under the cracks of the door.

"Chef, why do the lambs scream like that when you're killing them?"

The chef seemed to have been a bit surprised by the question, but answered nonetheless. "Well, you said it yourself, I'm killing them. How many people, or creatures for that matter, do you know that will quietly allow someone to kill them? Not many. I do my best to muffle the sounds by muzzling their ugly mugs, but I suppose that doesn't do much. Don't think about it too hard. I know I was pretty shaken when I was in your shoes, imagine how I must have felt when my chef finally decided it was time to teach me how to do it myself? Of course, I wouldn't do that to you. Just brush it off. There are certain sacrifices that must be made for great things and cooking is no different." The chef's response was sincere, so Dave did his best to drown out the horrible sounds whenever the time came that lamb would be on the menu again, and it didn't hurt that he always got a taste of that succulent platter afterwards. He was always amazed when he ate it. He'd had lamb at other places, but none of them compared to the lamb his chef made. It was indescribable and sometimes, at random moments since his first taste, he would find himself craving it; it was in those moments, where a fiend like wanton desire filled him, that he felt a sort or primeval blood lust rise within him, and nothing would sate him, save for the lamb. When he came out of such spells, he always felt silly for treating a mere plate of food like the object of his affections, but since no one ever knew of these little episodes, he had nothing to admit to himself or anyone else.

Thirty minutes.
That was how much time Dave had until doors opened. He closed his eyes and envisioned the entire metamorphosis transpiring. The people would come trickling in, providing everyone with a false confidence. Suddenly, in the flick of the wrist, tables would start coming in two's and three's. Pen's would move furiously to take orders or, in the case of the more seasoned servers, neurons would fire rapidly to transmit the customers desired dish to a safe spot that lay in the center of the mind, like a vault in a seedy hotel room. Everything would be smiles in the front and distress in the back, with a hint of uneasiness lying somewhere in the middle; the facade of a heavenly atmosphere on the floor faded into a mild panic by the bar before violently turning to hell in the back of the house, each thresh hold only two to three steps from the other.

Being Dave's first night to serve, Lyle started him off with a light load of three tables, two of those being two tops. His first table was a couple on their first date. The girl was very pretty and she unnerved Dave, making him drop his pen several times before he could manage to take their drink orders. As he made his way to the bar, he was so unfocused, that he nearly ran into Tanya, who happened to be carrying two martinis. "Watch where you're going you little shit. One more close call and I will personally beat your face into your body." How comforting she could be. Once he told Carla, the bartender, what he needed, he stepped to the back for a drink of water and a splash on the face in an effort to shake off the nerves. To him, tonight would set the bar for his future nights, but in the background lay hidden a much more important agenda of which he new nothing. "Dave," called Carla from around the corner, " your drinks are ready. Jesus, you look horrible."

As he approached the table, scotch and water as well as apple martini in hand, he could sense something growing deep within him; the dark rise growing from a kind of planted distortion in reality. His courage had reanimated itself in the form of a sparkling eye and charming, soothing voice. "Here are y'alls drinks folks, do you know what you will be ordering for dinner?" Both the girl and young man glanced at each other before responding together, "The lamb." A cynical smirk revealed itself across Dave's face. "Excellent choice."

As he made his way to the back to place his order, his first special ever, something overtook him. Unable to breath correctly, the sensation was akin to a drowning sensation only, rather than lose all oxygen, he was overrun with it; the strange molecule overwhelming his lungs and filling him with a sense of distorted pleasure. "Chef, I need specials two times," he called out. The chef looked up at him from where he stood on the line. " I don't know if you've heard Dave, but the special is 86." Unsure of why the words dripped from his lips, Dave brought himself into a dark realization that he had no wish of having, " Isn't there something you can do?" The chef's iris' glazed over in a black eternal and the remaining whites were shot full of a crimson reserved for the most foul of creatures. "Send me Carlos."

Dave did as he was told and beckoned Carlos to the kitchen. Carlos, a simple minded busboy that had been hired not three days ago, complied with the request. While he followed behind the poor busboy, Tanya and Rick pulled Dave to the side. Tanya, the ever curious woman, was the first to inquire as to where her busboy was going.

"Just where the hell do you think you're taking my busboy? I need him to clear thirty-three."

Dave met her eyes, and with a ferocity in his voice she had never felt from anyone before-though he merely whispered it-he gave her the truth she sought: "The chef has requested him."
A deep seated fear manifested itself within Tanya and made her words stutter before her lips, the lashes that guarded her eyes quivered and her lip twitched. "I see. I'll come with." Rick, clearly deciphering the conversation, did the same. There was nothing to voice that had not already been said.

When they reached the kitchen, Carlos, ignorant to the proposal at hand, merely said, "Chef?"
The chef inspected him and, before turning his attention back to the tickets that plagued his line said, "To the killroom. I need you to help me with the next lamb." Carlos did as he was told and went into the killroom, followed by Tanya, Rick and Dave. When they entered, Carlos saw no lamb. There was but a table in a hollow room that had a table crowded with chains, odd knifes and a hammer in the center. "Where's the lamb?" asked Carlos. Tanya and Rick looked at each other before looking at Dave.

'Would you like to inform him?", asked Tanya.

"You're it."

"What do you mean, Dave?"

"Shh. Just try and relax. We don't need tough meat."

"Very funny. Look, I have tables that need taking care of, so if you don't mind, I'll be going."

"I'm sorry Carlos, but the only way you're going back onto that floor is on a plate surrounded with a medley of vegetables and butternut sauce."

On that note, the chef entered. His face, hidden by shadows that seemed to appear from every angle possible, conveyed notes of guilt hidden within melodies of constant ignominy; a history and lifetime in forbidden places that had come together to personify the darkest from of art imaginable. "Carlos, the reason you were hired was not because of your reference or even your skills. That said, is there any other reason you can think of as to why you would be offered a job here?" As the chef finished his sentence, Lyle entered the room. Carlos, perplexed by everything that was happening, beckoned Lyle to shed some light on the events that slowly unfolded before him.

"Lyle, what's going on here?"

"You heard him, Carlos. What more do you want me to add? It's best if you don't make too much noise. Wouldn't want to have more specials up than what we need." Carlos, now deeply shaken by the situation at hand, regressed into a child like state, pleading and hoping against fate that his quandaries were merely an over exerted form of paranoia. "You can't be serious. Please, I have a family. A wife and children. Tell me this is a joke. Tell me you're all going to open the door and laugh. Tell me!" The chef was the one to speak for the group.

"I'm sorry, Carlos. This is no joke. In life, certain sacrifices must be made for the sake of greatness, be it the greatness of art or for the people. You will sate both of these."

Carlos hadn't resigned himself though and made a run for the door, the chef, however, being much stronger than him, was quicker and had him pinned on the floor with a gag in his mouth. Tanya and Rick followed suit, holding down his arms and legs while Lyle served as sentry for the door. "Well Dave," began the chef, "will you help in this elegant masterpiece, or simply look on as beauty is created around you?" Dave, now completely engulfed by the sensation of a muse so foul that corruption of the soul felt like anything but, picked up the hammer from the table and approached the helpless, subdued man on the floor; his eyes pleaded and every blink tried its best to get across the message of sincerity and hope for mercy. None of these reached Dave, who's eyes had already been overrun by an ebullient sensation of godlike intensity.









"I'm sorry about the wait, folks, we had a bit of trouble with the preparations."

"Oh, don't worry about it. My girl and I have heard great things about the lamb here. I'm sure it was worth it."

"But of course. It's one of my favorite dishes here. Well, I'll leave you to your dinner. Please, enjoy."