Hello, Sunshine

I swung around toward the cooking line, expecting to see Chef Z. But he was standing at an empty workstation, in the back of the kitchen.

“TAYLOR!” Chef Z screamed again.

A thin and scrawny guy came running from the bathroom, back to the workstation. He had tattoos up and down his arms—one in notable block letters. I tried to read it without being too obvious about it. You’re the reason I’ll be traveling on . . . Don’t think twice, it’s all right. Why did it sound familiar? They were lyrics to a Bob Dylan song. I loved that song, though a little less on someone’s arm.

He wiped his hands on his apron. “Yes, Chef.”

Chef Z held up a dirty dish in his hand, a few tomatoes scattered across it.

“What is on this plate?” Z said.

“Those would be tomatoes, Chef. I believe from the strawberry pizza.”

“So you do recognize the fruit, then?”

The kitchen got quieter than before. Everyone was pretending they weren’t doing exactly what everyone was doing: looking back and forth between them, no one saying a word.

“Before you took off on your little break, or wherever you’ve been, did you or did you not mark that a plethora of tomatoes were left behind?”

“I did not.”

“And why not? Isn’t it your one job to note which foods return from the dining room uneaten?”

“I didn’t consider the amount to be a plethora.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“Absolutely not, Chef. We’re early in the evening, and before I disturbed you with it, I wanted to see—”

“A diner leaves a dozen tomatoes on his plate, I want to know. A diner leaves a single tomato on his plate, I want to know that too. Who leaves a tomato behind? I sat in the garden. I planted it myself. That is heaven. They left a bit of heaven on their plate.”

“And in a few weeks, it won’t even be around to waste,” I said.

He looked around the kitchen, meeting my eyes. “Who are you?”

Everyone turned and looked in my direction. I cleared my throat, knowing I’d just taken a risk, but knowing I had to, if I wanted to get anywhere with Z.

“I’m your new server. In training to be, at least.”

“So you’re not particularly useful.”

Douglas moved slowly away, as though the inevitable firing was something he could catch.

“What do you think about waste?”

“I’m against it.”

There was a chuckle in the group, but I knew that my answer was the right one: succinct, sure of itself.

Z tilted his head, taking me in. His attention was on me; the room’s attention was on me as well.

“Come here, please,” he said.

I hesitated, and Z started flapping his arm.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s go.”

I walked over, and he motioned for me to step behind the workstation, next to Taylor. I looked at Taylor, who turned away.