Barney Cuff is Confused

The Bizarre and Lonely Life of Barney Cuff

Barney knew he felt different. He knew he didn’t always fit in.
Barney felt himself awkward, and not always able to express himself clearly in some social situations. He often stumbled and dithered when answering simple, direct questions.
“ Erm...”, “ Uh...”, and “ aah...” peppered his speech and his replies. He could never just land on the correct word or phrase. His brain was in a fog, which then went into overdrive, like a high speed intercity train whooshing through a suburban railway station. Andy began, slowly at first, and then pretty much all the time, to ,well, just not say anything. Anything, except one word answers. These consisted of “ Yes”, “ No”, and “ I don’t know”.

There was a reason Barney's communication problems caused him so much awkward angst, misery and disappointment and made sure Barney was intensely lonely.
Barney’s brain was an English Language Reference Dictionary.

His previous, or, ok, one of his many previous, bosses and managers in a litany of different jobs ( 8 jobs in 3 years at the last count), was Piotr. Piotr was the head chef / chef de partie/ sous chef in a reasonably busy up and coming restaurant. He asked Barney who had been there working industriously, as he always did, in the pot wash and vegetables prep corner of the bustling kitchen, to go out front to the manager/ owner/ mãitre de to ask him how many covers they had for the evening service. Piotr apologised to Barney English not being his first language, saying “ please excuse my poor English Grammar”. Barney looked at him , trying to decipher this statement, racking his brains as to why his boss would apologise to him, Barney, because he had a Grandmother , either sick or in poverty, or perhaps both. Barney was also sure Piotr was not third generation Polish, as he clearly came from Polish heritage- with strong family ties. Barney seemed to remember not very long after he had started work at the restaurant Piotr shouting and cursing in Polish because the manager wouldn’t give him time off to go to visit relatives in Katowice, the Queen of Silesia for Christmas. Piotr waited until after closing time on Christmas Day and ‘ liberated ‘ a bottle of Peach Vodka, saluting the now empty restaurant, raising his tumbler and crying out something loud and guttural- Barney could never figure out if it was a toast to missing kin or a blood oath threat against the owner)/manager and all who followed him. He kept silent in his dry goods store ' hideaway' , trying to judge the right moment to make his exit into the looming dusk of a drab wet Christmas day.
Or! – maybe he meant his English ‘Grandmother!’, ,a venerable old lady, ex- school headmistress who gave English lessons- for a consideration- to streams of young East European men searching for a better life in Great Britain! At any rate, he was both bemused and confused about why Piotr should mention her at all, much less apologise! “ Erm... covers? You want to know how many covers in the restaurant?” “Yes yes, please Barney. Go ask the ' boss', (this last word spoken dripping in mock respect and satire) how many tables and covers we have booked for tonight”.
“ Er...oh... um...ok boss. I’ll go and ask him” Barney had to summon a good deal of bravado and mock confidence to utter that phrase. Barney was used to putting a ' brave ' face on his dealings with other people, mostly with his ( many and varied past and present) work colleagues, but also in general social situations. He always felt a momentary lift , a little surge of confidence , which fizzled out one second after it was born, which could project an air of confidence and competence, even as his internal brain structure was scrambling frantically for some meaning to his task or request. He draped his thick cotton teacloth over the handle on the range oven, where the residual heat would dry out the moisture, slid his rubber apron neck strap over his head and with a deft 180* twist, untied the straps and hung the apron on its hook by the dry store. Taking a swig from one of the many 250 ml bottles of water scattered around the kitchen, Barney slid his way on the quarry tiles past the galley and around the pass , turning to nudge open the swing door into the restaurant ( he remembered his first attempt to pass from the kitchen into the restaurant, when , after watching the waiter and waitresses , sliding the outer side of his shoulder blade against the door , only to find it creaking against its hinge and stubbornly refusing to open- Barney quickly worked out that one door opened out into the restaurant, while the other door swung the other way into the servery and the kitchen). Racking his brain as to how best to approach the perpetually harassed and irate owner/ manager, Barney thought ' well Chef wants to know how many tables and covers. I’ll just count them.’ The manager, in his habitual world of chaos ,was on the telephone to a supplier, threatening to cancel the order and take his business elsewhere, whilst simultaneously writing appointments in the big diary and beckoning the young waiter, Ivan, over from setting up the servery station, for who knows not what reason. Barney reckoned his intervention , beginning with the words” Chef wants to know...” would earn him a withering look and a stream of words which he knew he would struggle to process or understand. So he decided simply to count the tables and how many had the white linen tablecloths on them. There were 24 tables, each with four chairs , except the two pushed together in the recess ,with two carveri chairs at either end and three chairs in each side. Barney counted 18 tablecloths on the tables double-checking his count, and positively sprinted back to the safety of the kitchen , and his little world of the pot wash.
“ So what the boss say Barney?” Barney summoned up his cheerful demeanour and declared” There are 18 covers tonight Boss! “ The Chef, looked at Barney quizzically, “ you’re sure he said Eighteen, not Eighty?” Barney thought he would stand His ground, not wanting to admit he hadn’t actually spoken to the garrulous owner. “ No, it’s definitely 18, Boss”. The chef's shoulders slumped downwards ,as if gravity was being applied in extra measure to his head and neck, muttering “ Gòwno! Ah, well, we can have a rest, thus will be an easy day” Barney didn’t know what that word was, but he was convinced it wasn’t a pleasurable suggestion.