I didn’t want it.

I’ve been back in the kitchen for about a week now. Temporary position just to make sure I can make ends meet till I start at the big amazing job. Night shift, just me and this older guy, in his 40s but sometimes behaves like he’s 16. Football, gambling, casual racism, boobs and butts effectively make up the entirety of the personality he projects out there. I can tell he has a good heart though, I can tell he’s secretly sensitive. He’s difficult to work with. Makes off hand jeering comments in the sort of way you can’t justifiably get angry against because he’ll say it with a laugh, as if its a joke, so if you get upset you just seem sensitive, like you’re no fun, like you can’t take a joke. I usually just ignore it, I don’t respond, keep a straight face, let him suffer in the few seconds of awkwardness. I try not to hold it against him. These macho types they actually need a lot of care and tending to yknow? His ego is bruised by my presence, he makes comments about how I seem like Im in tip top shape, he’ll often comment on my height, ask about girls Im interested in. He makes fun of the techniques I’ve learned and developed to do specific tasks, he hates when I comment on how outdated, broken, or just dysfunction some of- almost all of the equipment in there is. He hates that a guy half his age just strolled into his territory. I don’t blame him, I’d probably feel the same way if I was in his position. He asked what I was doing this weekend, and said “I’m married man, the most fun I get is when we go out shopping or something” I tell him, I’d give anything to be grocery shopping with my wife. He says “yeah, we sort of overlook that sort of stuff huh?” I’m thinking about how yesterday he said someone on the radio station sounds like a fag. Later that radio station did a bit “if Mona Lisa was from Compton” it was someone impersonating what they thought was a “ghetto” black accent for Lisa. This is the sort of stuff he consumes.

Today were making banana bread. I pour a few too many grams of cinnamon into the batch, a large clump just happened to fall in near the end. He tells me we have to throw the whole thing out and start again. I argue against it, I can just scoop out the additional portion! He insists. I stand there silently for a while. He’s waffling, Im stewing. He asks “what happened” after more time passes without a word from me. A few grams of cinnamon wont destroy a batter, if anything it will improve it. I’m pissed, I’m thinking of walking out, but I have things I’m working towards, so I stay. I’m working and I’m angry, now I’m much faster, more precise, much more efficient, just better over all. This isn’t new phenomena, especially in the kitchen. Again, I’m only good when I’m miserable.

I’ll have to be more than good when I get to that new job, I’ll have to be perfect, I have so much to prove. $800 dollars a night to stay in the hotel my new kitchen is a part of, I already feel like a fraud, and I have so much to prove. It wont be difficult to put myself back in that way of thinking, to become one of the other me’s, I already constantly hear the screaming and chastisement in my head. I wish I could be happy and still be good, but that’s never been the case. Not once ever.

Looking at my hands on the keyboard, I notice the big burn scar on my right hand. I can’t feel it, and when Im working with my hands, somehow I just don’t see it. I forget its there. It’s surprising every time I notice it. I still don’t know how I got it.

“A burnt child loves the fire darling, you’ll never be good, never ever, it’s always going to be fire for you. Always. You can play pretend all you want, but at the end of the day you are what you are and nothing else.”

post script.

Notification Center

7:35 AM

Text from banana:

“Thought about the absence of your physical being too hard and felt a deep ache in my bones.”

That fucking song was playing on the radio at work today-

“And when I’m back in chicago, I feel it…”

I’m going to puke. Not sure if its from the bad croissant or the despair.