Memoirs of an Artist as a Line Cook

Working at a frantic pace Darby and I finished the lunch rush at Rosie's Restaurant with cracker jack timing, even if it lacked grace and human understanding between us. We were angry at the customers for surprising us with their hunger, our status in society, and, to some extent, each other. Being in one place, especially a basement kitchen, for long hours will try a person's patience and tolerance of fellow human beings. Our quirks and mistakes are quietly judged by the other with little to no forgiveness under stress. However, we remained silently professional, pumping out the entrees, focused on the immediate tasks.

"Man, Jaime! Why is your freight train ass in my way all the time? It's like you're hypnotized or in some dream state. Are you fucking high, you needledick moron?" Darby sighed quietly, because she was too exhausted to raise her voice.

"High on life, because I'm spending my day with you, Captain." I sighed back with some sincerity to my answer. We argued back and forth everyday hurling infantile insults or clever bon mots at each other, but I felt a real connection to her.

Knowing the rush was over, Darby bummed a Camel off me, and we sat out in the alley to recollect our thoughts of our past history and aspirations. We would express fears and naive understandings of current politics and societal hysteria. Sometimes we would talk about music, movies, and share a brief synopsis of a book that moved us. And underlying these conversations, I imagined Darby's boxy, sturdy figure unadorned by her muted ragamuffin attire. Pale white skin, like porcelain that was cool and soft to the touch.

"We've got tops coming in guys!" cried Kara from upstairs in the dining room. Darby and I dutifully rose and walked back to our kitchen stations. As we walked in, Darby put her hand on my shoulder as if to comfort me in our shared fate.

I could hear the chairs being dragged back and the feet of heavy people, which meant heavy eaters. Like hungry piglets rushing to a trough, I could hear them taking their places. I could imagine them squealing with delightful anticipation.

"Up there's the beast, and he hungry tonight", Darby sighed, looking into my eyes with a sad simper.

At that moment, the printer went wild with orders. Darby worked the ovens and the fryer, and I worked the grill, salads, and appetizers. Running on rubber floor mats, we would dance around one another to reach the freezer or refrigerators, grabbing for the ingredients to complete our entrees, and send up to the feeding frenzy. Occasionally, I could feel Darby's hand on my upper and lower back, ostensibly to guide her to her destination in the kitchen. I savored every touch.

Eventually, the madness petered out, and we could hear the herd upstairs, heavier and more lethargic, lumber out of the establishment. Their defeat was complete, yet our kitchen looked like a crime scene. Excess food and condiments littered the floor like an abstract expressionist painting. Dishes overflowed in the sink. Our work was far from finished.

"I deserve a better life." I claimed boldly to Darby.

"Deserves got nothin' to do with it." She quickly shot back with her best Eastwood voice.

As we restocked and hosed the mat, Darby saw my sketch pad on the counter. Sometimes, when on break I'd draw still-lives of bottles, cans, and equipment. She opened up my pad and perused through it, giving most pages some attentiveness. That, in itself, flattered me, and I just watched her look.

"These are really nice. They have some expression to them. You don't draw them like some boring formula. The lines have a personal signature. And it's like you're not trying to recreate a photo." She said without taking her eyes away from the pad.

I was dumbfounded. I struggled to find something to say to Darby. No one gave me such a critique about anything I had ever created.

"Can you draw me?" She asked with almost a childlike innocence, laughing at her own question.

Flattered and sincerely honored, I answered, "Absolutely."

We finished cleaning the kitchen and had no more customers. It was miraculously quiet. I picked up the sketch pad and sat on the only stool in the kitchen to draw the muse in front of me. Darby smiled and suggested we turn off the music and the fan so that I can concentrate on her. And then, without suggestion, she removed her patched shirt and bra with few movements and to my surprise.

"I just wanted to show everything. The bare portrait in this fucking awful place." She diffidently whispered. She looked up the stairs leading up to the restaurant to see if anyone was there. Rarely anyone came down. We were the dumbwaiters that brought everything up to the servers.

"You're gorgeous, Darby." I assured.

What I imagined earlier became embodied to the purest form. She dropped her jeans to expose her white legs. She twisted slightly to her right exposing her buttocks and her obliques. Her left arm was akimbo, and her legs were parted. Darby suggested she should remove her shoes and jeans, but I said it was fine to leave them. Her skin was smooth like I had imagined it would be. Her breasts were small but shapely and firm. Soft fat thinly insulated her back revealing modest folds and thickening curves.

I drew her curly dark brown hair, her downcast coal black eyes, her full lips parted for air, her thick arms and legs, her bushy pubic triangle, her stretch marks on her stomach, her hand on her head, and the fryer in the background.

As clinical as I was about drawing the human figure, this was, as Darby wanted, a portrait. This was no still life or object. And I was captivated more by her expression than my own for once.

I frantically drew, because I knew she couldn't pose long. But I also wanted to do her justice. She dedicated her time and beautiful figure to my drawing. Even in her mid-twenties, experience weathered her quicker than most people. But her beauty

would stay with her for a long time.

"Jesus, are you done yet?" Her downcast eyes looked up petulantly.

"Yup. I can do the fryer later." I said.

She walked over to me completely nude, somehow removing her Doc Martins and letting her pants slide off her feet. Darby put her arm around me without looking at the drawing, which I thought was great, and drew me to her mouth. She kissed me with her full lips and put her hands on my neck and cheek. Her hands moved to my thin chest down to my stomach.

I buried my fingers into her curly boyish hair and sealed my lips around hers. I breathed her breath and searched for her tongue. Darby's breath was fragrant of whiskey and cigarettes, but I could care less. My hands felt her warm back and moved to her breasts.

I rose from the stool and pressed her to the rubber mat with some reluctance because of the food refuse from earlier. I quickly spread her legs and slid my hands beneath her buttocks. For some time, I licked and nibbled my way to the mossy mound untampered by Brazilian waxes. My hands kneaded the flesh of her soft stomach and moved back down to her bottom. As my tongue began to flicker within, I became happy to hear her sounds of pleasure and acceptance. As my tongue seemed short and inadequate, I enlisted the help of my nose at times, stroking and smelling the saltiness of her excitement. As Darby quivered and convulsed, I eagerly repeated actions that excited her, not letting up, and letting her know I was in control. When she moaned rapturously, I inserted my finger within her tight anus slightly while rubbing her clit and licking ferociously.

My face became wet, and the once quiet kitchen was chamber of absolute cacophony. Darby's screams were everywhere, as if I were committing murder. I continued rubbing lightly, and I rubbed her stomach and kissed her cheek and neck.

After she dressed, we embraced for a long time. Kissing, we held hands and continued to hold one another. Looking into each other's eyes, we said nothing. Later, I gave her the drawing, knowing she would keep it and hoping she would value it.