“Not down here,” Porter whispers. “Not in front of the boys.”
The words sting, even though I understand.
“Blondie, whatcha cookin' for me?” booms the man who bursts through the door.
“Oh hello. Is this our country bumpkin, Mark?”
“Meet Franko, your new boss. Total wanker, aren't ya, Franko?”
His voice and demeanor have shifted suddenly.
Blokey and rough.
Not the Porter I’ve gotten to know one on one.
“Total wanker, that's me. Don't wanna scare you off too soon though, do we?”
Franko holds out a hand and I shake it reluctantly.
This middle aged hairy brute really went to school with Beth?
And he had a crush on her?
She was right to give him the brush off.
But he must be alright if she sent me here.
“See you buggers at sunrise,” he hollers, hanging his apron and clipboard on a nearby hook.
My shoulders soften as I hear him roam down the corridor.
???
Sunrise comes and goes.
My first day is a little nerve wracking.
More fast paced than the previous kitchen.
But similar enough that I soon get the hang of it.
“Don't leave the pots on the draining rack,” Porter whispers.
“Why?”
“Franko likes them dried and put away.”
I nod. Good to know.
The first two weeks pass in a blur.
Early mornings, late nights.
Six days on. Mondays off.
The kitchen closes between two and four every afternoon.
Just enough time for me to explore the city.
