"You'll do"

   One day I showed up to try-out for a catering job. This was back in the 1990's.  The "trial room" was a mix of getting close to a high school graduation/retirement party/funeral black.

  From the kitchen came a mix of music that sounded different than the "top five" played over and over on the radios and in the stores.  "What is it?  What kind of music?" One of the cool kids from a local technical college launched into a description as eloquent as writing about fine travel in Italy.  "All local?" 

  Mmmmm-mmmm he savored each sound like it was the food to cater.  And told of late nights traveling the hours between not twin, but something cities: Asheville--Knoxville.

  "Time to pack up the tunes Chico," a middle aged woman tapped on her wristwatch.

  "Iss not Chico."

  "Oh, hi, are you in charge of the catering try-outs?"

  "Depends.  These wise asses threw me a retirement party."

  "That was nice of them.  Did you help?  With the music?  What was your name again?"

  "I am Michael.  My friends call me Miguel.  Not chico."

  "Yes they do."

  "No, they don't.  And besides this, you are not a friend."

  "Well.  Until next week." She made way toward a restroom.

  The boy turned, the broad back of his super-ironed dress shirt almost glaring in the Spring sunlight, and the smell of his cologne left a path for me to follow into the kitchen.  Tall, hansome, bright, short, stout, straight-backed, young people were busy all over in the various spaces of the kitchen.  A couple "goths" were exchanging telephone numbers near a countertop with menus and binders and lists and temperature pens.  "And who are you with privileges to come and go?"

  "Privileges?"

  "Working to get in or out of the prison?"

  I started to pull a business card from a pocket but thought better of it thinking of the high-jinx going on with phones at the time.

  So I studied a book of local photography until the middle aged woman came back.  "What kitchens have you worked in?"

  "Oh, you know,

  "No I don't

  "KFC and Sonic most recently. 

  "Oh, are those kitchens now?"

 "Though I started in fine dining at an old school tavern/inn in the mountains up in Vermont."

  "Move around a lot?"

  "No.  Not really.  I'm just out of college so I don't own any property, yet."

  She kind of looked past her swollen knees at the floor and then out a window.  "Is this job, would this job be your life's plan?"

  "Well, not exactly.  Isn't it catering?"

  "It is.  But it's in the hospitality field."

  "Right.  Well, whatever job I do, I, uh, show up with a good attitude." 

  "And then the day happens."

  "I try to maintain."

  "Do have a temper though."

  "Kitchens are great for working that out."

 Other men and women started to arrive for work tucking jackets and purses into shelves and drawers.

  "You know, I've known Michael since he was this tall," she indicated her knees again.  "Nobody in his family is, uuum, feeling positive about him choosing DJ as career."

  "Ooooh."

  What happened next was nothing short of miraculous.  The professionals needed a win and it played out in a kitchen where people juggling family, friends, and many jobs at the same time appeared to me to be doing a ballet.  And in between trial tastes and rehearsing team moves for serving people actually talked with each other about car repairs, babysitting, church going, drinking problems, and whose elders needed what.  Turns out there was like a whole segment of population in our country just driving around with no housing exactly.  

  Even Michael came back in more casual clothes.  He told me he wassss from/de Brasssil.  "You are not," a gorgeous young mom and kitchen manager said.  "He's Mexicano like most of us here tonight.  I know his family."

  "How'd I do?" I asked of running food between the back and the front of "the house".  "Ask me again after you do the dishes."

  I took it as a challenge.  The practicing chefs had not burned a single thing.  "Easssy clean up?" An older cousin asked before he zipped up his leather jacket.  We didn't have to lie when we answered yes.  "Good job Michael."

  "Thanks." A younger guy came as the older cousin shook the ignition key from a keychain full of keys.  He had, I counted, 4 pair of dress pants on his arm and the cloth measuring tape hung around his neck.  Michael wiped his hands like a pizzaman on the blown out blacks he was wearing.  He took out a slim wallet and removed a ten and a five and a one, paid the man who'd done the tailoring.

  "It had to have been after the mudpit, see, because some of us women who'd been enemies before had teamed up to beautify."

  "Beautify?"

  "Well, see..."

  The Church Ladies had come with each their own make-up cases, bulb light mirrors, and traveling cases of clothing.

  A nephew had ushered them into "backstage"/you mean behind the altar dear

  Do I?

  Mmmmm-hmmmmm, one of the Church Ladies groaned beautifully.  

  On one of those first visits a gangly crowd formed in the parking lot.  Grumpy about being at something Church some people propped feet on dashboards and tailgates and broke open the last of the weekend's six packs.  Quickly tanning arms and necks and faces brought smiles and laughs.

  The Unicorn pushed her way through the stall in the parking lot and pushed her slightly older girl friend up closer still.  An interpreter was signing "an update".  The Church Ladies' particular kind of holy singing was getting so popular they'd agreed to stay in the area for a few Sundays.

  "That sucks!" The Unicorn's friend said real loud because she was "forwarding" questions from back in the crowd and just repeated what somebody else said.

  Inside....

  A man smelling of cedar and aftershave knelt next to one of the Church Ladies called Vangeleese, What'd you hear?

  About what child?

  About us all?

  She swiveled the leather desk chair away from the lighted mirror and shook her head slow and sad.

  Not good someone interpreted.

  Truth be told 'cuz that's the only way, I heard y'all's been ugly.

  Someone gasped.  Said y'all have been acting ugly, someone else passed the verdict.  Now get out. 

  No.  You can't hog them.

  Clean up your act some and maybe....MAYBE....you can come in next Sunday.

  The door was shut.

  What'd they say?

  Said we're too ugly.

  Haw.

  More judgment.

  How dare they.

  Yeah, they don't know what it's like out here.

  Cases of water were dwindling on the back of a truck as a van edged its way in behind without running anyone over.  Ugly.  

  Cans of sweet potatoes and corn.  

  Get a couple cans of corn and we'll go fishing.