Tito

The kitchen was an expensive facility. Everything in Haymill was expensive, but the Kitchen specifically had lots of investment go into it. The oven and its burners must have cost at least 200 grand, and all the pots and pans and weird toasters and mixers and kneaders, and the knives so sharp, they cut through skin like…I don't know, butter or some shit.

The place was easily 600 grand in total. But the most valuable asset the place could ever have-was the fat Mexican cook, Tito.

The old guy ran the place like it was a deli. Loose pieces of ham and crumbs all over the place, old rags on the goddamn floor, grease stains all over the place, and he only used this one dull-as-a-rock ass knife his aztec grandmother must have made in the stone age. The sous chefs had to clean up after him just to pass inspection.

But I gotta say, the guy was alright. That morning the first thing he did when I got in there was yell at me.

"Martin!" he said to me.

His thick accent was so funny. If I tried to imitate it I'd just sound like a racist doing a chollo impression.

"Wash yu face mijo! You look dirty! And shave! You gonna get fired, I telling you!"

His I's sounded more like "ein." He reminded me a lot of the guys my step cousins used to hang with. Maybe that's why I liked him.

"I know, I know, I know man. I don't have my special shaving cream, I'll shave tomorrow."

I was making my way to the fridge as I talked to him, in hopes to maybe find some left over fancy wine or something.

"Nah man, chu gross"," he said, over his round and stumpy shoulder. He was tossing peppers or something in a pan. The searing sound and the smell, it made me feel sort of comfortable.

"Not showering is some nasty shet. Only spoiled no shower!. Chu know that girl? Sally? Ella no se baña, mijo"

I almost spit out the Chateau Margaux I found. The guy had no filter. How he even picked up on that sort of stuff, I had no idea.

He turned around swiftly, or as swiftly as his round body would allow him to, and yelled at me again.

"Aye! You're getting the floor dirty! And stop fucking drinking man! The people are gonna fucking-"

He grabbed the towel tucked into the waistline of his apron, and gave me a whip on the ass.

"Smell the fucking alcohol! They're gonna kick chu ass out of here!"

I grabbed my ass and hopped around. The bastard had precision like I'd never seen it. It felt like a bunch of fire ants gnawing on my fleshy cheeks.

"Goddamn it Tito! Okay! Okay!"

I put the wine back, rather reluctantly, since that stuff must have cost more than my rent, and tasted pretty good too. Tito wasn't gonna take it. He'd been sober for 10 years, since he joined the navy.

USS Shiloh was where I met him. He was a CS-E5. That means culinary specialist, and that he'd been on ship for about 12 years. The guy was by definition a great cook, he says he even cooked for the president a few times in the white house, which I'm not 100% sure if I believe.

I was only on the ship for a few weeks, but the guy took a liking to me, and told me I reminded me of his son, whom he joined the navy with originally.

He told me a few stories, about how he came to America really young, and the only thing he knew how to do was cook. He wanted to start a restaurant, but ended up becoming a cook in the military, along with his son, who was enlisted as a gunner.

Couple years went by, I had to leave the force after some circumstances, and the old man found me a place here.

I couldn't cook for shit, I couldn't really clean well, but they must have liked my pretty face and that I could speak 6 languages. They had people from everywhere at this hotel, so I was useful.

That's all it really is, isn't it? If you're useful, people want you there. At least until you're not useful anymore.

I was just sitting there, listening to Tito stir the veggies, sear some steak, talk and talk about his kitchen stories, about how he used to have all the women, something about how I should never get married, I wasn't really listening though. My thoughts were leaking again, and the sound of the sizzling was fading into a million other things.

My hands were in my pockets, and they were just sort of digging around, not really looking for something, just, moving.

But there was something there. Something fluffy. I pulled out 2 crushed and broken up cigarettes, once of which looked burned up.

I checked the time and saw I still had a good 10 minutes left. I wanted to get a quick smoke in.

I opened the greasy metal door of the kitchen, and stepped out into the pissy alley way. Tito yelled over to me, "Aye close the door man! It's cold out there!"

So I did, but not before grabbing the lighter off Tito's counter. It barley worked, but I got just enough to light the less fucked up cig.

The dumpster next to me smelled like shit, so I had to move over a little, though just enough so as to not step out of the darkness the alley way casted.

He was right, it was cold. Especially when a big truck or an ambulance rushed by and blew wind at me. I didn't really mind though.

The dogs barking, the ladies talking over the phone, the sirens, the flapping of the pigeons wings, they were all just the same sound. They were little blemishes in the golden sound of mid day. The few times I stepped out of the hotel to get a little smoke in or drink or just get some air, it always just blemished the golden sound of the hotel, just a little.

Tito's muffled singing from behind the metal kitchen door was like a little anchor though. A reminder that I still had to do work so that I could make money so I could fuel my stupid body and then make it produce a shit so that I could flush it- so that I would then have to pay the water bill-oh and Maxi's food, I cant forget her.

Speaking of which, I had forgotten to feed her.

Poor Maxi. I bet she was hungry.

Just then, the metal door swung open, and out came Tito. He was glancing around, like he was looking for something.

Then his eyes met me. His chubby face wrinkled in disapproval.

I thought he was gonna yell at me or something, but he just said it softly.

"Chu smokin' again man? I thought you quit already?"

I'd almost rather him just yell at me. I didn't like how he looked when he spoke to me like that.

"Nah,"

I kept smoking. I didn't really want to hear him. I had-what-5 minutes left? I wasn't about to hear him lecture me now.

"Mijo," he said, closing the metal door of the kitchen. He leaned himself on it, almost like he was blocking it.

"What's the matter man?"

He broke the trance, that's for sure. Auto pilot was off, and it was like he broke a wall of perspective. I was looking at myself now. In third person. I wasn't a zoomed-in camera lens.

I was silent. I didn't really know what to tell him. I was worried if I opened my mouth I'd say something I didn't mean. Or worse. Something I did.

So I just shook my head at him. I never really looked at his face though, I didn't want to see it. So I just looked to my left, out at Macy's right next to Haymill, and at the people going in and out. It wasn't much better though. The whole scenery, it looked like one big face to me now, staring at me with the same face Tito was.

"You stopped taking your medicine."

I heard him but I wasn't listening. I wasn't gonna open my mouth for nothing.

"I know because you always take it at this time, and you haven't been. C'mon mijo. Why?"

I threw the cigarette down. I'm not sure why. I wanted to keep smoking, it was just the only thing in my hand to throw.

I felt the words pushing on the back of my lips. I was gonna speak now.

"My insurance is shit now. I had to switch. It doesn't cover it."

I think I said it a little bit louder than I meant to. I felt the wall behind my back vibrate with my words.

It was his turn to be silent now. I could tell he wanted to speak, though. I wished he would.

Then I wished he didn't.

"I can help you until you get it back-"

"No. I'm fine." I hopped off the wall and adjusted my stupid little vest. "My shift starts now."

I made way for the door, and he moved to the side, letting me go through. I thought we were done with our little exchange but he yelled at me as I was getting ready to go.

"Martin!"

My hand was already on the door knob, but I guess he just had to tell me. He just couldn't see me leave

"My son was like that too. No puedes dejar que te lleve-"

"No!"

I stopped him dead in his sentence. My knuckles were white, gripping the knob so hard I was going numb.

"I'm not your son."

I wanted to say it. I meant it.

"And you're not my father."