Read Room
“Dropping a loaded basket of fries”: living in the minimum wage zone
The fryer spits grease on his arm. He swears under his breath, keeps trying to load the fries into the basket, but he doesn’t trust his hands. The residue from the chips sticks to his fingertips and strains under his fingernails. He doesn’t want to drop the basket like he’s seen some of the other newbies do. He’s been there for six months now, and he likes to think he’s graduated from something better than a novice. Being called a novice is the night shift’s worst insult, a nickname he hopes he’s left behind, a hope that can be destroyed in an instant by doing something stupid like dropping a loaded basket of chips, or accidentally burning yourself during an unexpected rush.
“Where are you going, newbie?” Bhav growls. Bhav is the one who trained him and any mistakes he makes will reflect on Bhav, something that Bhav seems to communicate with every word and gesture he makes towards him.
“Fries, again.”
‘The fryer is going to kill someone! Andre!”
Bhav yells across the brand station, to the office. He just stands there, holding his arm, not sure whether to put it under water or have it ready for André’s inspection. The pain gets worse.
“Just run it under the tap,” Bhav says, taking the frying baskets and dunking them in the oil, pushing them toward the doorway with a thrust of his hip in one swift motion. “Don’t stand there. Jesus. I have this. Hurry up, damn it. Jesus.”
He does as he is told, he sees the letters flying out of the printer and abandons Bhav at the worst possible moment. He shuffles into the preparation room, turns on the tap and lets the water flow. His arm is shaking. He didn’t realize how much pain he was in until it stopped.
‘You have to shake them. You didn’t shake them.”
He turns to see Andre, the giant, with his strawberry blonde hair sticking out from under his filthy plastic cap.
“Come here. Fuck.” Andre grabs his unburnt arm and drags it back to the frying station. ‘I am watching you. You don’t think so, but I do. And I’ve never seen you shake them.’ Andre picks up a handful of frozen chips and tosses them into the basket, shaking the icy fat flakes over the two of them.
“Who the hell trained you?” He glances at Bhav who turns right at him.
“They’re frozen. And the oil doesn’t like lazy shit who don’t bother to shake the basket before putting it down. Not my fault if you can’t follow the instructions. I didn’t fucking hire you and Mr Botha isn’t here.’
He almost says something. He can recall someone saying something about an accident log, and it’s their responsibility to use it, but one look at Andre tells him that the accident log is the last thing he should mention right now.
“Come on home. And if you try to say shit about me, nobody will believe you, and nobody will care, even if they did.”
He just stands there, bewildered. He wants to ask if he still gets paid for the service, but thinks it through again. His arm begins to swell.
“What are you looking at? Fuck off.” Andre hits him with the filthy tea towel he keeps in his apron. The tip of the damp cloth swings his arm not far from the burn.
“What, are you going to cry?”
*
He tries to get past without touching her, but the hallway isn’t wide enough. She stands in the middle of the white corridor with high ceilings, her small figure taking up all possible space.
“Another big weekend planned?”
“Hurry up, Sarah.”
“You are so eloquent.”
She looks back in the mirror, wipes foundation on her nose with the round pad, stands on tiptoe in her heels and miniskirt. She clicks her tongue. “Yeah, another night out with pizza and Porn Hub, right?”
He slides past her, into the kitchen, her laughter follows him and he grabs the worktop of the kitchen island. Pain stabs his still throbbing arm and he lets go of the marble as if it were a white-hot poker.
Not done with him yet, she walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge, takes out her small premixed vodka can and takes a sip.
“You smell like fries. It’s absolutely disgusting. You have to shower as soon as you get home. Dad, he needs a shower as soon as he gets home.’
Their father’s eyes wander between the rugby on TV and his children.
“He’s at work, Sarah. You may want to give it a try. I might want to take a leaf out of your brother’s book.’
She angrily looks at her father and then back at him, rolling her eyes. You are an inspiration to all of us. Dad is so proud.”
“That’s enough Sarah.” The tone gets louder, their father is a wimp in almost every way, but he never tolerated meanness.
“Whatever. I’m leaving. Have a nice evening, you two.”
“Don’t be late tonight, Sarah. I mean it. Tomorrow will be hard enough…’
“Like I’m late tomorrow.”
“Good. I know you won’t. I know.”
She walks over to her father and kisses him on the cheek and he turns back to rugby. She gives him a look behind their father’s back, mouths out the words, fuck you, which he returns by mouthing the word, slut.
His father raises himself and waddles to the fridge, grabs himself a beer and hiss opens it.
“It’s not easy for her either.”
“It’s not easy for anyone, Dad.”
“I know that. I know.” His father exhales and rubs his eyes. “I know that.” He flops down on the couch, the foam from the beer lands on his white business shirt. He tries to stroke his son’s arm, but he swerves. He doesn’t want to be touched now.
‘You can have a beer if you want. They are in the fridge.”
“No, thank you. I’m going to bed.”
“You always sleep.”
“I’m tired.”
His father tries another pat, but misses again.
“I’m proud of you, you know. You have a job. You make money. Be proud of that. I am proud.”
“Thanks Dad.”
‘Have a beer if you want one. I mean, I don’t know what tomorrow will be like… well, it couldn’t be any easier. I’m not saying that. But this year, you know… of course it doesn’t get any easier. I don’t know.” His lip wiggles. “I don’t fucking know.”
He gets up from the chair. He can see the road his father is about to take and he doesn’t know what to do if he has to participate even in silence.
“Good evening, Daddy.”
*
The wind howls in deep, powerful arcs across the graveyard and despite the physical sensation it causes in his lungs, the stinging in his eyes, he only feels the burn on his arm. He rolls up his sleeve and looks at the bruised flesh. The film is cracked. The wound itches. He wants to scratch it to the bone. His father reaches and pulls him towards him, grabbing his son as if he would fly away in the wind if he didn’t hold on tight enough.
They are next to each other. His father’s body trembles and is not from the cold. He’s been like this all day. That’s how he is every year. There is no way out. For each of them. He tried that too, but didn’t have the guts. The only thing that binds him to the world is fear. No hope, no love, for the girl who stands over the grave and tears fall on the ill-weeded grass, or for the trembling figure beside him.
Sometimes he can’t see her face anymore.
His father is now sobbing. At least he let him go and walked over to his daughter, his arm around her waist, her tears falling on the badly weeded grass. He never cried. Not once. Maybe that’s why Sarah hates him. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. In a few years he will be gone for good. He can imagine never calling them again. Disappear in the corners of the world and never come back. Not exactly like she did, but die anyway.
His father turns his head towards him, they are now almost the same height:
‘I’m so mad at her. I know I never told you that. I never told myself that. I’m just now realizing it. After four years. I am a slow learner. But know now, oh I know well. I can not sleep anymore. I just lay there and yell at her in my head. And myself. I’m mad at me too. Because I couldn’t make it better for her, and for you, and Sarah. And I. For all of us. And I tried so hard. You should know that. I tried so hard. To make it better for her. And then we could be a family, and maybe that would make it better for her, and she wouldn’t be in pain anymore, and maybe she’d have some hope, you know, to fight it, to fight her own brain . The whole thing is screwed up. I mean, what kind of animals put themselves through the kind of pain we do? People do. It’s not natural. It’s not right. I just don’t know how she could have done it. I just do not know. How.”
It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before.
Next week’s short story is by Charlotte Simmonds.