Exersize in Being Interrupted

It comes at an interesting time that I post this… my Memoirs of Grease… my experience at my job working in a deli.  I just got the news that I am being promoted to lead sandwich artisan or whatever, a title that has not existed in my whole time being here.  I mean, I get a pay raise, but I have yet to learn if it will be worth it, here in this land of grease I call the deli.

I don’t mean this as an exaggeration either.  Almost every surface is greasy to some extent.  We wear gloves pretty much any time we’re around food, so we don’t really notice it, but between sets of gloves, I feel a glimpse of it. These memoirs will be a  a detailing of each area, and its own brand of grease.

The sandwich bar is where I spend most of my time.  It holds various types of grease.  I open it in the morning to clean the layer of grease from the previous day that has worked its way in between and inside of the various pans that hold all the ingredients.

Starting from the middle is the cheese tray.  Cheese cut to go on a sandwich can be brittle, and although it starts out in solid slices, going through it throughout the day causes some to fall apart, and you will end up with a big pan full of scraps hiding under the usable stuff.

I get fresh trays for pretty much everything because it keeps everything cleanly and looking good.  We get these trays of avocado mush, easy for both spreading and smearing across various surfaces.  This gets cleaned next.  Veggies like lettuce, tomatoes and onions go next, but they’re nice, fresh, and just moist rather than greasy.

The far sides are grease hell.  We have our tray of sauces, and the bottles are pretty much always slick with a thin layer of invisible grease.  It makes them jump out of your hands sometimes.  But the worst is to come.  Last up is the Muffuletta, Artichoke Hearts, and Mozzarella, all in their own little corner.  Mufuletta, or olive mix is a good part olive oil.  Artichoke hearts and the fresh mozzarella sit in oil as well, for flavor and freshness.  It also goes everywhere when you want to put it on a sandwich.  This area gets cleaned extra well.

Meanwhile, we are open for business.  So while I do this, fill up the other ingredients, roll up portions of meats, and generally prep,-an activity which goes throughout my shift- customers are free to come up and order.  As my coworker said once, it is an exercise in being interrupted.

The Interview

The floss digs in between your molars and jabs deep into your gums.  You struggle trying to pull it out.  “I can’t remember the last time I did this,” you say to yourself.  You spit, making a crimson line that beads down bowl of the sink.  You endure the mint flavor being wrung in and out, into deep cracks you didn’t know existed.  As you finish, you grit your teeth in the mirror.  There is a slight red spot right in between your two front teeth.  You run your tongue across the spot and hope that it will go unnoticed.

You brush and remember to go over your tongue more than usual.  You rinse and look up at the mirror to see a tiny black whisker growing out of your neck.  You grab the tweezers from your left, and guide the pincers to it.  The tweezers click a couple of times awkwardly before you can grasp it and yank it out. Continue reading “The Interview”

Mother of Mars now readable!

My pet writing project of the last few months has finally reached its final stages.  My book, Mother of Mars, is now available as a preview copy, in particular for all of my coworkers who have been asking to read it.  It still lacks cover art and definitely some editing that needs to come from someone else than me, but the story is all there.

Leaving the Earth to join the Mars Development Project was the hardest decision Cecil ever had to make.  After a freak accident leaves him debilitated and unable to fulfill his purpose, he falls into despair and must consider what he must do next.  Through the darkness, a voice calls out to him.  How will he respond?

Click here to read the whole story; let me know in the comments your feelings!  Ask for an autograph while you’re at it, you know, before I get big.

More of Trump’s Wall

So as to not lost interest in this writing project, here’s more!  Other stuff to come soon!

In my case, they figured any chance to return ‘home’ was better than living with my adopted parents, who obviously knew nothing of my heritage and how to conform to my needs and a young Hispanic man.  Granted, my parents shied away from anything remotely resembling a pepper and all around avoided any seasoning that had even a slight hint of red to it, but I barely knew better myself.  After all, I grew up eating Taco Bell because of my parents’ afore mentioned lack of taste buds.  I did try various things that were a mixed bag of flavors and textures that were foreign to me.

I visited several classmates’ houses over the course of my childhood.  I remember being invited in ardently by parents who immediately bombarded me with fast tongued Spanish, returning a blank look to them. My friends would eventually rush over and whisper something to their parent, probably explaining that I didn’t in fact speak Spanish.  I didn’t even really have an accent either.  Their parents would always blink at me a couple of times, and then totally switch gears.

Dinner at houses like these always had me guessing at what would be served.  Like I said, a mixed bag.  Who knew there were so many parts of a cow that could be eaten?  Not to mention some of these hardly resembled meat, and if they did they resembled no cuts I had ever seen.  Let’s not even go into the names I may or may not have been able to pronounce.  I remember coming back home, sometimes still hungry, and trying to describe what I had eaten to my parents.  “Is that supposed to be food?” they would say.  Sometimes, I didn’t know myself