Twenty degrees. Sunny. Clear blue
skies. A breeze that neither slaps you in the face with sticky humidity, nor
pricks your skin with goosebumps. It is the absolute perfection of a day.
And I’m stuck in this hellhole.
In this building, air conditioning is
nonexistent. I mean, that’s not entirely
accurate—the dining room has air conditioning. The dining room, in fact, is
quite pleasant. It’s the kitchen that makes you feel like you’re trapped in the
depths of the devil’s lair, at his mercy for eight hours on end.
If someone offers you a job as a
line cook, turn it down. You’re better off with the waitstaff, with all the
screaming babies and picky eaters it comes with.
I’ve worked here for five years now,
which is just long enough to realize how much the job sucks, but also long
enough to form bonds with the people who are actually tough enough to last this
long in a kitchen job. (Kitchen jobs, I’ve learned, are not for the faint of
heart.) It’s long enough to adapt to the closing routine like second nature--learning
to flip all the switches and wash all the dishes within five minutes of closing
time, dragging the last bag of garbage with me on my way out the door.
Now, the sun has already gone down,
and the air cooled from its perfect daytime temperature. I pull a sweater over
my head and fling the garbage into the dumpster out back. Before I reach my
car, I look up.
The moon is shining, and the stars are
out. The cool air is a welcome change from the humidity of my day, and the sky
remains as clear as it had been during the day.
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