Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [31]
Tommy pointed to a small metal crock. "All fried and ready to go," he said.
Service began. The waitrons set up their iced watercress, sprigs of fresh thyme and rosemary, butter curls, and chopped parsley. Mel returned from the walk-in, wearing a Band-Aid over one knuckle. But there were no orders right away. After a short while there was an order for two soups and a half order of pasta; then nothing.
After a few more minutes, the chef beckoned Tommy back to the office. "Let's go over the specials for tomorrow," he said, grinning.
Seated behind the desk, the chef put his grimy workboots up on a stack of magazines and took out his cigarette pack. He reached into the space between the cellophane and the pack and removed a glassine bag of dope. He got a cut-down piece of a plastic straw out of his desk, stuck it in the bag, and snorted most of the contents. He held out what was left to Tommy, the straw sticking out of the bag.
"You want a poke at this? You can kill it."
Tommy thought about it for a moment. "No, thanks," he said. "I'm trying to be good."
The chef replaced the bag in his cigarette pack, nodding his head in approval. He pursed his lips and said, "You know, I got myself on a waiting list for a methadone program."
Surprised, Tommy said, "Oh, yeah? That's great."
"I went in and signed up the other day. But I gotta wait till a spot opens. I don't know when that's gonna be."
"At least you're on the list, right?"
"Yeah . . . " sighed the chef. "That's something . . . " He rubbed his face with both hands. "I gotta get off this shit, that's for sure. It's taking away all my money, all my time. You know, I forgot to call in the fish order the other night? I had to run leftover stuff... I lucked out, we were dead or I never would of had enough. Can you see me eighty-sixing fish? The shit is fucking my whole life up."
"When do you think you're gonna start?" asked Tommy. "How long you have to wait?"
"I don't know, I don't know. They said they'll call me . . . when there's a space. They're gonna call me."
"You gonna make it? You can hang in till there's a space?"
The chef shrugged. "Don't have much choice . . ." He looked up at Tommy and lowered his voice. "You know, I can hardly even get a hard-on anymore?"
Shocked by this confession, Tommy didn't know what to say.
The chef continued, undaunted. "At first . . . at first. . . it's good for sex . . . but later . . . you know . . . " The chef shook his head, sadly. "You know, I was gonna ask Cheryl out the other night. . . Stupid, right? I got all dressed up in clean jeans, put on a clean shirt. Even managed to save a few bucks I didn't spend on dope. I come all the way over from my place at the end of her shift, I was gonna go in, she's getting off, ask her out to the Crow or someplace . . . You know what happened?"
Tommy looked at the chef intently.
"I stood there. I just stood there out front a the restaurant. Afraid to come in . . . I mean, what if something happened? I go home with her or something, get her in the sack, my prick's just hanging there like a fuckin noodle . . ."
"So, what happened?" asked Tommy, quickly.
"I went home. Never even came in," sighed the chef. "A glorious and triumphant end to a glorious fuckin' day. Went home and watched Dobie Gillis and shot up." He shook his head and crinkled up his eyes, disgusted with himself. "Can you believe that?"
Sixteen
THE UNITED STATES ATTORNEY for the Southern District of New York, Raymond Sullivan, pushed his half-eaten plate of corned beef and cabbage away and wiped a thin mustache of beer foam off his upper lip with a napkin. Al, sitting opposite him in the darkened bar, stubbed out a Marlboro and looked around in vain for a waitress.
"You didn't eat," said Sullivan.
"I try not to eat anything comes out of a steamtable," said Al. "You know how long that shit sits there?"
"They put it up fresh every day he says," said Sullivan.
"Sits there under those light bulbs, people hockin' and sneezin on it. Shit grows under there. Like a petri dish."
"It's