Easy Money

The times were tough and all the jobs were gone. The economy in the gutter. So I put out applications everywhere, in a vain hope I would catch something, but no one called back. I didn't care what I did as long as it paid. My rent was coming up and this time if I was late, the landlady threatened I would be put out, no exceptions, she was running a business, she had to pay her bills as well. I kept a mental image of an old crazed homeless man screaming loud as I passed on the hunt, as an inspiration that if I did not find something soon that would be me.

On the first train at 5 am I sat with the bubble guts, watching my reflection, wondering where all these people on board were going. They all had jobs and were not feeling the pains of unemployment. How did they manage that? I got off downtown and walked a short distance to the WorkFlow temp agency and joined a large lineup that snaked down the street. All the people in line had looked hungry, were dirty, and cold. The two guys in front of me were passing cheap 7% tall cans back and forth, feeling confident and joyful as the alcohol coursed their veins, I knew they would feel like shit as the day lived on.

When the line worked up to the front doors, I saw one of the WorkFlow clerks running out a bum. With great force, the poor bastard hit the pavement. The WorkFlow clerk straightened up and fixed his tie, sizing up the rest of us, as we all looked away afraid to meet his eye.

I got up to the front desk and had my Identification in hand. That same clerk who ran the bum out looked me up and down. I was clean cut and wore a smile.

"Ever work a kitchen?" he said.

"No, but I learn fast," I said.

The place stunk of stale body odor and depression, I had to pinch myself so I would not gag. The clerk was not fazed.

"I got a couple hours of work, for some kitchen duty," he said. "But I can't send anyone here or they'll be kicked out for the odor. It's a few blocks down the street, give them this paper to sign at the end of the shift or else you won't get paid."

He handed me a paper and waved me away with his hand. The address was on top: 77# 15 ST Nw. I fought my way through the stale crowd and looked upon a large map of the city hanging on the wall. I had a short walk. I got out of there and hit the streets, cold cool air breezing my face, smog in my lungs, and shot nerves that had me wanting to give up and go home and crawl underneath my blankets until I was thrown out.

I found the restaurant, a Chinese cuisine place, that wasn't open yet. I knocked on the front door and from the darkness emerged a little man. He opened up and looked at me with confusion.

"What?" He said.

"I'm from WorkFlow," I said.

"You're late."

"Sorry."

He was a little man in his 50s and he was all business. No bullshit with that guy.

"I need you to go in back and wash up, go now," he said.

I made my way through the darkness towards some light shining from the back, which I presumed to be the kitchen, as the little man locked the door behind me.

In the kitchen there was a man wearing a turban standing by a crate of fish, he wore the same nervous expression as I. Some of the fish were still moving, flapping about, gasping for air. The back door was open and in the alley, some men in aprons smoked cigarettes and sipped coffee not speaking, as the morning traffic produced white noise and chaos.

We were joined by the little man.

"The two of you are going to be cleaning these fish, prepping them for the day, you got a problem with that?" He said.

"No," I answered."

The man with the turban didn't respond.

"Stay here with the fish, don't let them escape, I'll be back to show you how it's done," said the little man, as he opened up a pack of smokes, popped one in his mouth, and headed for the alley.

I approached the man in the turban.

"Hey, you from WorkFlow?" I said.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm Arjun."

"I'm Milo."

We shook hands and I felt a little better knowing I wasn't in this completely alone. At least I had Arjun, trying to make it just like me.

"You ever do this before?" I asked.

"I lived in Singapore for two years, I worked in a kitchen there, I had to kill fish every day."

I forced a laugh.

"Are we going to have to kill these?" I said.

"Yes. But most are already dead."

Then we were silent. I approached the sink and turned the faucet on and ran my hands under the warm water, put some soap on and sudsed up, then in came the little man. He went to the crate grabbed a fish, put it on the counter, and began to murder the poor thing. My mouth dropped as I watched on. He picked up a mallet and began hitting it on the head very fast and hard until it stopped moving. Then he picked up a large curved blade, "Hey! turn that fucking water off, I got to pay for that." I turned the faucet off. He began to scrape off the scales very fast and with great skill. "Be careful with these knives," he said. "They'll take your finger off with great ease." He turned the fish over and stuck the blade in at the tale, and sliced it up across the stomach towards the head, then he grabbed the jaw and ripped it in two. All the insides came splashing on the steel countertop. He threw the fish to the side. "Go now, start, or you don't get paid. After this, I need you to do the dishes, and then some more prep."

Arjun went up to the crate grabbed a fish and put it on the counter, grabbed a mallet, closed his eyes, opened them, and began.

I looked into the crate, some were still moving, I tried to find one that looked dead. I hesitantly put my hand towards one fat bastard, took a deep breath, and plucked it up. It was cold and it wasn't moving, I made a wise choice I thought. I have seen people on cooking shows getting paid fortunes to do this and they did it with style. That's it! All I have to do is pretend I'm some big jack off rockstar cook and the cameras are rolling and there is some groupie sitting off to the side watching me in my element. After all, Christ fed first 5,000, then 4,000, with loaves of bread and FISH, the people ate, nourished themselves another day. People have been fishing and doing this forever. It's nothing new. I eat fish. What makes me exempt from cleaning a few fish, getting paid, so I can make the rent, and figure out my next move. Fish feel no pain, I think is what that one Nirvana song sang. I looked at Arjun and he was fast at work, a pile of carved up finished ones piled up beside him. "HEY! HURRY UP!" Shouted the little man from behind me.

I grabbed a mallet and began bashing away at the head. I felt shivers go up my spine as I did this. A picture of Hemingway on his fishing boat pointing a machine gun at the camera with a drink off to the side flashed in my mind.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"Shouted the little man from behind me. "IT'S DEAD!"

I grabbed one of the blades from off a rack. The even weight felt great in my hand. I raised it up, then brought it down on the side of the fish. I scraped and carved fast, and with a skill, I never thought I possessed. The fish scales were all over my hands, and my shirt, and my face. I caught eye to eye with the thing, as it lay there, it's head bashed in by me. I put the blade pointing at the stomach near the tale. I felt my chest sink in and wondered were my first love Mary was on this morning. Probably off on some family vacation like she always was, Hawaii, Japan, Italy, enjoying leisure, without a worry in the world. Worrying is bad for the immune system I thought. Then I stuck the blade in. As I did this the fish began to squirm and leap up and down on the countertop. I jumped back in horror. The blade was inside and banged up and down off the steel countertop as the fish flapped about. Arjun looked up from his work at me, probably wondering what was wrong.

"I can't do this," I said.

The little owner came over and finished off the fish. He wiped his hands on his apron and pointed to the door. Arjun looked away and continued. I walked out the back door, into the alley, and back onto the street. Fish scales all over me, and the stink with it.

I took my time and made it to the station, looking down at my shoes, kicking forward as I walked. I got on board and sat near the window, with the sun shining through the smog. The train cart was empty, everyone was at work, or in some office filling out an application, maybe on vacation, on some boat out there, pointing a machine gun at a camera posing, writing short stories about fishing adventures.

I got off and made it to my room a block away, unlocked the door, went inside to my bed and threw myself on top. The spiderweb infested ceiling mocked me.

Outside my window was silent, with only a breeze every now and then lifting my curtain. I thought of Arjun, I thought of the little man, I thought about the fish, I thought about Mary, I thought about Jobs, I thought about money, I thought about losing my home, I thought about sex, I thought about death, I thought about an escape, I thought and thought and thought, until finally, I fell into a deep sleep . . .

Nothing really matters when you're in a deep sleep.