Théodora Armstrong - Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility

“Charlie,” she says, yanking her papers back and covering them with her arm. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“What the fuck, Susan? I’m going to be a father.”

“Oh God, Charlie,” Susan says, rubbing her forehead and looking around the restaurant to see if anyone’s heard him. “I’m getting a migraine.”

“A migraine?” Charlie says, raising his voice. “Right, because this is about you right now.”

“Listen,” she says, gesturing to the mostly empty dining room, “You know what they are like.” When she says they she means millionaires. People assumed that wealthy clientele made for booming business, but in fact there was a reason they were rich: the servers pried each and every loonie from their tightly clenched fists. “We’re a few bad months away from sticking someone on the street corner in a salmon suit with a sign advertising half-priced lunch entrees.”

“I know how much you make. I’ve seen your paystubs.”

“Food costs, Charlie?” A little vein is beginning to bulge in Susan’s forehead. “Duck? Seven days of duck? If it weren’t for my Wine and Jazz Wednesdays we wouldn’t even be covering costs.”

“Right, or maybe it was those flowers you planted.” Last week she was out front in her suit jacket and miniskirt, bent over the wine barrel planters with a trowel. The week prior she strung twinkly lights around the entrance that blinked at seizure-inducing speeds. “No, Susan, it’s the goddamn food. People come to a restaurant to eat.”

“Maybe if you started paying for all the booze you drink here.” Her voice has turned nasty. “You’re drunk right now, for Christ’s sake.”

“Why did you let me walk around all afternoon like an asshole?” he says, ignoring her comment. His fists are clenched under the table and even with concentration he can’t seem to loosen them. He’s suddenly aware of the nothingness they’re strangling in their grip. Open or closed, they’re still empty.

“This isn’t French fine dining, Charlie. It’s not Le Carré.” His fists release, lay limp in his lap. It takes him a second to regain control of his limbs. He’s never mentioned his father’s restaurant to Susan.

“Well, this went well,” she says, shuffling her papers together and standing up. “Six months and we’ll take another look.”

He stands quickly with a grunt. He doesn’t appreciate her getting up first, leaving him alone at the table staring up at her; she should have given him some kind of warning so they could stand together. He watches her walk across the dining room, straightening wine glasses as she goes along. James and Rich are trying desperately not to look at him. Six months will drag like a ship anchor weighed down by five hundred pairs of crab cakes eaten by the same five old biddies on rotation.

“Incompetent,” Charlie mutters back in the kitchen, pushing Rich out of the way. “I’ll do this one,” he says, ripping the chit and rubbing salt and pepper into a bright red hunk of meat. He pushes his cup at Rose as she walks by, “I need another.” The anger begins to sizzle all over his skin, his vision blurring. He throws the steak on the grill and sees his father standing by the prep counter, twirling in a maddened rage, throwing handfuls of limp spaghettini at the wall. No, this is not Le Carré — that message was clearly delivered by a birthday card peacock this morning. Rose pushes a drink at him. None of them understands how lucky they are to have him sweating in this restaurant. Their pockets would be fat with moths instead of bills if it weren’t for him. He brushes the steak with generous layers of butter and watches the juices drawn out of the flesh spit as they drop into the fire. “Are you watching, Rich?” Charlie turns the steak once and admires its grill marks. “You don’t turn it and turn it,” he says to James, motioning to the meat. “Don’t say you don’t do that, because I’ve seen you. Goddammit. Too slow.” He grabs the bowl of potatoes from James and whips them himself, creating thick white peaks. “Creative license,” he shouts at Rich, pulling several spices down from the rack and sprinkling them liberally. He brings his nose down to plate level, flourishing the garnish before setting it delicately over the whipped potatoes and drizzling the leftover juice from the steak over the vegetables. “Let go, just let go” Charlie says, slapping measuring spoons out of James’ hand. They go clattering across the kitchen tiles. “There,” Charlie says, plating the steak and kissing the tips of his fingers. “Parfait!” He throws the plate onto the pass-bar. “Runner!”

There are only a few tables of customers left. Two West Vancouver cougars on their second bottle of rosé laugh together — probably about their husbands’ shortcomings, Charlie guesses. A young couple shares dessert at the other end of the restaurant, the guy texting on his phone as the girl concentrates on gathering up every last remaining drop of chocolate raspberry coulis on the plate. The well-heeled salt-and-pepper boomer and his portly wife taste wine while Rose stands dutifully by their table, presenting the bottle.

Charlie carries his drink to the back stairs for a cigarette. A carved pumpkin from last week’s Halloween decorations has been left out here to rot, its sad, sunken face glaring at him. He glares back. It grimaces. He grimaces. It mocks him and he picks up the fool thing, its softened features sinking further into themselves, and bunts it down the flight of concrete stairs, watching it come apart with soft, wet squelches, a ring of pumpkin stuck around his shoe. He knocks back his drink and bends over to scrape off the pumpkin guts, almost tipping over — he’s drunker than he thought. The rain suddenly comes down harder, stinging his head, and he steadies himself against the railing before heading back into the restaurant. “Cleanup on aisle four.”

“Huh?” The waterlogged dish boy looks stunned that Charlie is actually speaking to him.

“Clean up the back stairs before someone cracks their skull,” Charlie says, slurping his drink. The boy drops his rag and slinks out the back hall.

“Charlie?” Susan’s head pops around the corner. “It’s Aisha again.”

“No time. Tell her to call after the dinner rush.”

Heavy metal music thumps from the small stereo next to the dishwasher. Charlie yanks the cord out of the wall and carries the stereo to the back steps, launching it into the dumpster next to the dish boy, who is picking bits of obliterated pumpkin up off the concrete. The stereo lands with a soft thud on a pile of mouldy hamburger buns and vegetable peelings. Dish Boy stares wide-eyed for only a moment and then pretends not to notice his stereo in the garbage as he walks back up the steps into the restaurant. Charlie is impressed with the boy’s recovery. He pulls out another cigarette and smokes it in the doorway, watching the rain shoot down from the sky. When he comes back inside, Dish Boy is quietly staring at the dishwater.

“Like this,” Charlie says, pushing him aside and furiously scrubbing at the pans collecting in a teetering pile on the counter, sending dishwater on the floor. “Do it like this.” He heaps scrubbed bowls and ladles and cutting boards with a clang and then shoves them so they go skidding along the soapy surface of the metal counter and come crashing onto the floor. “Like that,” he says, chucking the dishrag into the sink.

Charlie stalks back into the kitchen and dices an onion so he can feel the sting in his eyes. Rose pushes a plate with the steak half-eaten back across the pass-bar. “Overdone,” she says. “Inedible, supposedly,” she shrugs. “Not my words.”

“Bullshit.” Charlie pokes the hunk of meat and holds it up to the light, turning it this way and that, before throwing it back on the plate. “You tell him that steak is cooked exactly the way he ordered it.”