“Wilbur, right?”
He nodded, hand poking sticklike from beneath his used but clean uniform jacket. It was swallowed by a beefy paw and used to maneuver him out of another chef’s determined path.
“Watch your step here. And listen for people using the word ‘behind’ like they’re supposed to, right, Javi?”
Wilbur was certain he’d been deafened by the bellow until the words drifted back. “Heard, Chef!” Granted, there was a ringing tone about the phrase, but that might have been the echo of other chefs around the kitchen.
Chef led him to one of the stainless steel prep tables. “Look, we’re shorthanded. Get through dinner rush and we’ll bring you in early tomorrow for some real one-oh-one, yeah?”
He swallowed hard, certain he was being set up for failure. Might as well put a brave face on it. “I’ll do my best, Chef.”
His voice squeaked despite his best intentions. A slap on his shoulder had him staggering into the cold metal.
“You’ll be fine. See, this is fish en papillote. Vegetables on the bottom. Then fish. Then herb butter. Okay? Then twist it all up. Like so.” Strong fingers made complicated movements look easy.
Wilbur gulped. “Yessir.”
Chef laughed. “Call me over when you have five of them done. Everyone starts with fish duty. No one ever likes it for some reason.”
“I thought I’d be dishwashing,” Wilbur ventured. He only heard that deep guffaw again.
Five minutes later, he was shaking and ready to quit.
“What nonsense is this?” He’d never been this aggressive in his life, especially against someone as large as Chef. Now he was downright belligerent, demanding answers.
“What?”
“The first! Stone walls and – and – reenactors from the Renaissance festival!” He refused to believe anything else. No matter how his nails cut into his palms.
“And then! Spaceships! Then seventies mustaches and Farrah Faucett hair, then pioneer days. And then – then Some guy in armor yelled and charged at me!”
“Do you like it?” Chef gave him wide, hopeful puppy dog eyes, incongruous with the tattoos that blended into his skin and muscles from handing fifty pound slabs of beef.
“Like it?” Wilbur ripped off his apron. “Every fish has another time, another place! What madness is happening?”
“No, no.” Chef shook his head. “Another thyme. Another plaice.”
***
This week’s prompts were exchanged with AC Young at MOTE.
