Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Stand-Off at the Walk-In Cooler
Contains sexual content
I'm given to understand that things are different these days, but back when I was working restaurants you could always pretty much tell where you were in the house by the ambient sexual preference. The gay guys worked the floor, the straight guys the line.
Not that you would have guessed as much from the banter that you'd hear in the kitchen. In every restaurant that I ever worked, the cooks were constantly on about who was going to suck whose dick, or boff whose butt.
(According to my friend David, this is because the human male is instinctively and intrinsically homosexual. [All heterosexuality, apparently, is acquired behavior.] My own take on it is that such verbal micro-aggressions help relieve the tension of working in a stressful environment with too little personal space. You can make up your own mind.)
One day, for a reason I can no longer remember, I went to the walk-in cooler to get something.
Now, you have to understand that in a restaurant kitchen—for reasons that you can readily divine—all doors open in. Unfortunately, it so happened that at that very moment the head chef was standing immediately inside taking inventory, so that I clobbered him with the door as I opened it.
Apologies immediately sprang to my lips, but when Chef saw who it was, he beat me to it.
“Hey, hey, you're banging me in the butt,” he deadpanned.
Thank Goddess for presence of mind.
“Be the happiest day of my life,” I simpered back.
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