The Chicken Chef and other stories.
Back in October my company moved to a new office, and after I'd selected the parking spot, seat in the conference room, and bathroom sink that I will patronize unfailingly until I am no longer employed in that building, things returned to the normal mindless efficiency - or mindless inefficiency, if you happen to be talking about our clients. They have nothing to do with this story, though, so leave them out.
Anyway, it isn't just the compulsive expressions of mental illness that are disturbed in a move. We've also had to rebuild our cast of characters: no longer does the assassin pace endlessly on the front sidewalk, nor does the cell phone woman wield her namesake in the women's restroom. Even the mute Asian lady who was always walking about with her hands clasped behind her back is no more. Who were we going to talk about? With what imagined allies and nemeses would we people our granite kingdom? For a time, it seemed we had descended from the mystical freakshow forest into a flat, featureless desert of anomie and despair.
All of that was before the Chicken Chef.
We share our building, as it turns out, with the test kitchens for a national chain of fried-chicken restaurants - and that is why, one morning, I encountered a man in chefly attire down at the loading dock. Over lunch that day I remarked on the sighting, and my boss immediately replied, "You mean the cute one?" Silence on my part. "Well, describe him." "He… was wearing a tall paper hat? And blond." "That's him!," says the boss. "And with all these single girls here, well, I think you [indicating us] should meet him!"
Of course, of the three, I'm the only one who's not a vegetarian, and so the role of My Office Boyfriend was soon filled by the Chicken Chef. But not for long, oh no, because the boss caught some woman in the bathroom wearing a chicken-company shirt and interrogated her. So now my lover/problem is not the Chicken Chef, but "Malcolm".1 What do we know about Malcolm? He is a chicken chef, with a given name, "between 28 and 37", and unmarried - and such a man must be in need of a wife. Needless to say, Rachel-baiting reached a local high in the wake of this revelation. And then the plot thickened like so many gallons of slightly tweaked commercial gravy have failed to do, for one reason or another.
"I think I scared the chef," my boss announced at lunch a few days later. "I saw him in the lobby and said, 'Hey, Malcolm!' He said hi back, but he looked nervous." Possibly because you're not supposed to know his name, crazy stranger lady. Two days later, my boss again: "I found out where Malcolm lives!" Already we are protesting loudly, but she continues, "I asked him, 'Didn't I see you in Alpharetta the other night?' And he said, no, couldn't be; he lives in Midtown." Chicken Chef! Have you no instinct for self-preservation? Do you never watch alarmist television? My boss is going to kill and eat you. You will climb into your car (and I'm sure she knows which one that is) after a long day of adding "Poppers" to the names of various menu items, and my boss will be in the back seat, all "Hi, Malcolm! I planned a fun evening for us, with reservations at your favorite restaurant, and tickets to the movie you were going to see last weekend, but then your mom called and distracted you so you did laundry instead - and here, I brought you a mix CD. It has twelve of the wordless songs your soul sings in darkness! I can hear them, Malcolm. I can hear them all the time." It will be too late to run.
Today a twenty-something man in khakis came and played guitar right outside our windows, by the fountain. I tried to convince everyone that it was Malcolm's boyfriend, rehearsing a serenade, but they decided it was probably another of my suitors.
Speaking of improbable things, Nina had me Google myself the other night, and Facebook claims that someone with my name lives in Japan. Speaking in turn, therefore, of things where they don't belong, it turns out my story about an octopus on the moon was published in the Slavic Department's student magazine down at UChicago. (Right-click to snag your own free copy and scroll down to page 42, then on to 43 if you care what it says.) How is it that three years ago I knew enough Serbian to fill that page, and now I couldn't string four words together correctly? Holly and I were discussing this injustice (among others) last night: barring determined action, the body will hold onto an M&M forever, to the needless detriment of your pants size, but damned if your brain will keep even the most important paperwork as long as accountants recommend. Last year's taxes? The title to your car? Your brain shredded that shit two weeks ago, and it wasn't even an accident.
Your Tuesday trio2: three things people have said to and about me lately:
"You're smart. We wish you hadn't left."
"Rebecca says you're what I wish I could be if I could be really [ridiculous ?]."
"So you and I are probably both flawed manifestations of the same platonic ideal."
And a fourth thing: "Thank you, sir."
1. Name changed to protect the innocent. Though as you'll see, the innocent might want to consider a restraining order also.
2. You and I both know we can't risk waiting until Tuesday. "Tuesday" is Middle Neglected Blog for "March".
Anyway, it isn't just the compulsive expressions of mental illness that are disturbed in a move. We've also had to rebuild our cast of characters: no longer does the assassin pace endlessly on the front sidewalk, nor does the cell phone woman wield her namesake in the women's restroom. Even the mute Asian lady who was always walking about with her hands clasped behind her back is no more. Who were we going to talk about? With what imagined allies and nemeses would we people our granite kingdom? For a time, it seemed we had descended from the mystical freakshow forest into a flat, featureless desert of anomie and despair.
All of that was before the Chicken Chef.
We share our building, as it turns out, with the test kitchens for a national chain of fried-chicken restaurants - and that is why, one morning, I encountered a man in chefly attire down at the loading dock. Over lunch that day I remarked on the sighting, and my boss immediately replied, "You mean the cute one?" Silence on my part. "Well, describe him." "He… was wearing a tall paper hat? And blond." "That's him!," says the boss. "And with all these single girls here, well, I think you [indicating us] should meet him!"
Of course, of the three, I'm the only one who's not a vegetarian, and so the role of My Office Boyfriend was soon filled by the Chicken Chef. But not for long, oh no, because the boss caught some woman in the bathroom wearing a chicken-company shirt and interrogated her. So now my lover/problem is not the Chicken Chef, but "Malcolm".1 What do we know about Malcolm? He is a chicken chef, with a given name, "between 28 and 37", and unmarried - and such a man must be in need of a wife. Needless to say, Rachel-baiting reached a local high in the wake of this revelation. And then the plot thickened like so many gallons of slightly tweaked commercial gravy have failed to do, for one reason or another.
"I think I scared the chef," my boss announced at lunch a few days later. "I saw him in the lobby and said, 'Hey, Malcolm!' He said hi back, but he looked nervous." Possibly because you're not supposed to know his name, crazy stranger lady. Two days later, my boss again: "I found out where Malcolm lives!" Already we are protesting loudly, but she continues, "I asked him, 'Didn't I see you in Alpharetta the other night?' And he said, no, couldn't be; he lives in Midtown." Chicken Chef! Have you no instinct for self-preservation? Do you never watch alarmist television? My boss is going to kill and eat you. You will climb into your car (and I'm sure she knows which one that is) after a long day of adding "Poppers" to the names of various menu items, and my boss will be in the back seat, all "Hi, Malcolm! I planned a fun evening for us, with reservations at your favorite restaurant, and tickets to the movie you were going to see last weekend, but then your mom called and distracted you so you did laundry instead - and here, I brought you a mix CD. It has twelve of the wordless songs your soul sings in darkness! I can hear them, Malcolm. I can hear them all the time." It will be too late to run.
Today a twenty-something man in khakis came and played guitar right outside our windows, by the fountain. I tried to convince everyone that it was Malcolm's boyfriend, rehearsing a serenade, but they decided it was probably another of my suitors.
Speaking of improbable things, Nina had me Google myself the other night, and Facebook claims that someone with my name lives in Japan. Speaking in turn, therefore, of things where they don't belong, it turns out my story about an octopus on the moon was published in the Slavic Department's student magazine down at UChicago. (Right-click to snag your own free copy and scroll down to page 42, then on to 43 if you care what it says.) How is it that three years ago I knew enough Serbian to fill that page, and now I couldn't string four words together correctly? Holly and I were discussing this injustice (among others) last night: barring determined action, the body will hold onto an M&M forever, to the needless detriment of your pants size, but damned if your brain will keep even the most important paperwork as long as accountants recommend. Last year's taxes? The title to your car? Your brain shredded that shit two weeks ago, and it wasn't even an accident.
Your Tuesday trio2: three things people have said to and about me lately:
"You're smart. We wish you hadn't left."
"Rebecca says you're what I wish I could be if I could be really [ridiculous ?]."
"So you and I are probably both flawed manifestations of the same platonic ideal."
And a fourth thing: "Thank you, sir."
1. Name changed to protect the innocent. Though as you'll see, the innocent might want to consider a restraining order also.
2. You and I both know we can't risk waiting until Tuesday. "Tuesday" is Middle Neglected Blog for "March".