Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [51]
Suddenly, I’m straddling the couch cushion, a letter opener I’ve picked up off the desk poised dagger style in my hand. I plunge the opener in again and again, until the stuffing begins to fly and my chest is heaving. Finally, weakened and dizzy from the effort, I flip the cushion over and restuff and replace the pillows I’ve disturbed in my frenzy. I pull on my drawstring pants and tunic and wrap my apron, meticulously folding down the edge. I run my hand over it, appreciating its cool crispness against my flushed skin. Attacking the defenseless seat cushion was a childish, vindictive move, but it has given me a rush of satisfaction that only an act of pure and naked aggression can engender. Even Dr. Phil might understand.
Paolo, the guy who runs the security scanner at the Manhattan County Courthouse, and I have become sort of friends. Our friendship has evolved over the several weeks I’ve been attending anger-management classes, helped along by my chronic lateness and natural absentmindedness. The class meets at two thirty, which means that I have to leave Grappa before lunch is really over, often when things are most chaotic. In my haste, I invariably forget to remove from my knapsack or pockets items considered dangerous by the powers that be in Manhattan County. Things like a pepper mill, a whisk, assorted spoons, and once, an antique French fish-boning knife that I’d thrust into my belt during lunch and forgotten to remove. Okay, even I can see that the French boning knife, wonderful for filleting, represents a justifiable threat, but the pepper mill, at best, is questionable, and the only things at risk for being beaten senseless with the wire whisk are some unruly egg whites.
Usually confiscated items are not returned. Paolo, however, has been intrigued by my interesting and exotic contraband. It has been the subject of several conversations between us, usually as he summons the female matron to direct the hand search of my person. He knows and understands the attachment chefs have to the tools of our trade, having a brother who’s a line cook at the Mesa Grill, who (you never know) might need a job someday. I’m sure Paolo sees our friendship as a potentially reciprocal one, which is fine with me. He’s been gracious enough to hold my tools until class is over, sans the paperwork. Today, I’ve forgotten to remove my meat thermometer from my tunic pocket, a long, needle-like skewer with a sharp, pointed tip. He stows it in the top front pocket of his uniform and gives it a surreptitious little pat.
Class has already begun. The other five members are seated in a circle on the floor, eyes closed, practicing their breathing exercises. Mary Ann gives me a disapproving look as she gestures to a spot near her on the floor. I’ve learned from Mary Ann that my chronic lateness is a “passive-aggressive act,” and that, for my optimal growth and development, I should at least attempt to “master” this unhealthy impulse. She’s probably right about my lateness being passive-aggressive, but I personally prefer to think of this move from active to passive aggression as progress in the right direction, something to be lauded, not criticized.
Today I’m so mentally and physically depleted that I’m actually glad to be sitting on the filthy linoleum, breathing quietly in and out in the close company of the other unfortunate victims of their own impulses, with whom I have lately begun to feel a deeper