It’s 6:30 am..I’m smoking a chuckroll with onions for carnitas in between the sharp angry fat kid sounds my printer makes as it wretches orders for steel cut oats and toast at me. Everything seems very much like I’m watching a film that was shot with vasoline smeared on the lens. I was up way too late recording the podcast, but it was well worth the misery down the road.
Salsa music is blasting through the p.a. speakers around the kitchen, as requested by my amigo Marco. He tells me my name is no longer “phantasma” in reference to my stark whiteness, but “camaleon”. I’m not sure what the reason is, but it sounds cool, so I approve. Hashbrowns are staring at me.
My blood seems to be made of packing peanuts, but half a gallon of coffee is keeping me upright and cooking. Menu tasting at noon. The carnitas for family meal are done. The mechanical fat kid is asleep, and I finally catch a cigarette. Every cell in my body relaxes briefly, but it’s gonna be a long one. Even after I’m done here, there’s the podcast to edit. I also just realized my face is melting off my skull. Is it my skull? It looks like a pigs’…and it’s laughing at me from my cutting board. I think I need more coffee.
Where are these menu tasting people? The prep is long over, so there’s no longer a distraction from the rock salt that’s filling my kidneys. More cigs, coffee and about 8qts of icewater, please.
The work day is over. Somehow I managed to get through it, despite the burning caterpillars that are now covering every surface around me. Maybe because they can’t see me? If so, yo soy camaleon, indeed.