Читать книгу Miss Lamp - Christopher Ewart - Страница 21

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The Pickle.

The Cook rings the kitchen bell, so Room Service Boy gets off his chair. He presses wrinkles from his lap and swings through the kitchen door with his two straight cuffs. Mindful of the wet kitchen floor, he eyes The Cook.

‘Is this it?’

The steam from lightly browned bread and old cheddar cheese whets Room Service Boy’s appetite. The soup suspends flecks of parsley and black peppercorns. Freshly cracked. The pink hue in the blue bowl means the soup contains at least one part milk. Two thin slices of cantaloupe dignify the matching plate. Last week’s honeydew melon balls would certainly have clashed.

‘Where’s the pickle? It needs a pickle. It’s a grilled cheese. The lady in Room 32 wants a pickle with her grilled cheese.’ Room Service Boy pays attention to detail.

A gravelly sigh brings the impressive jar of Bick’s Polski Ogorki dill pickles down from the top shelf and onto the wooden cutting board. The Cook’s stubby little fingers twist away the lid, dive into the brine and flick about for a keeper. His stubby little fingers find a shiny, well-textured specimen of deepest green. He holds it under the heat lamp, dripping shiny brine from his stubby thumb and forefinger, seeking approval from Room Service Boy.

With hands clasped together and a nod of chin to chest, Room Service Boy admires The Cook’s dirt-free nails. The garlic in the brine keeps them clean. The Cook cleans a thin knife on his apron, eyeing the moist pickle on the cutting board.

Chop chop. Chop.

He places four symmetrical, aromatic pickle quarters on the blue plate, employing great care not to disturb the garnish of cantaloupe. Under the lava glow of the heat lamp, the pickle lets out a sizzle.

‘Yeah. I bet she does,’ says The Cook.

Room Service Boy straightens his cuffs again, noticing the shine of the heat lamp on the wet kitchen floor. He should mop it up for safety. ‘Does what?’

‘Wants a pickle.’

‘A what?’

‘A pi-ckle.’

The Cook unties his apron as Room Service Boy removes a plastic tray from the stack, examining it for cleanliness. He folds a clean yellow linen napkin in the shape of a triangle and places a large soup spoon in the middle of it. He pulls enough cuff to grasp blue plate, saucer and bowl away from the gnaw of the heat lamp. The food for Room 32 appears on the tray without a spilled drop or shaken crumb. Three seconds. Room Service Boy takes pride in his efficiency.

The Cook folds his greasy apron over his arm. ‘Get it?’ he says.

‘Get what?’

With a strange gesticulation of hips, The Cook hovers those stubby little fingers around his fat white T-shirt belly and his belt. These two articles of clothing don’t quite meet up over the bounty of coarse black curls hiding his belly button. In a circular motion of hands, with pelvic thrusts for emphasis, he says, ‘The pickle. The pickle. The pi-ckle.’ A bead of sweat runs down his forehead, right through a fence of hairnet.

‘Oh,’ Room Service Boy replies, placing the tray on the cutlery table beside the juice fridge. Quickly. One small carton of Tropicana Orange-Peach. One bendy straw, and a single plastic daisy in a single plastic daisy holder. The modest card reads FOR OUR VALUED GUEST. He never knew The Cook could dance so well.

Past the swing of the kitchen door, Room Service Boy finds a comfortable stride clear across the lobby to the elevator that works best. Balancing the tray in one arm, he tries not to smell the food too much, as it would diminish its value. The elevator goes ding.

‘The Cook sure likes pickles,’ he says to Front Desk Man.

‘Thirty-two. Thirty-two!’ Front Desk Man shouts.

During the twenty-three seconds it takes to arrive at the third floor, Room Service Boy ponders the value of a guest. Every day, card after card disappears from the stack on the cutlery table with the wobbly leg, beside the noisy, noisy juice fridge leaking water all over the kitchen floor. Unsafe. He should mop it up for safety. Staring at the card on the tray, he sees no candy beside it, and no wrapper that reads COURTESY MINT, because the mint is in his mouth.

The third floor dings clearer than the others. He sniffs at his armpits, catches a glance of his purple dickie bow tie, slightly askew, and prides himself on his fresh breath. ‘Very important face to face,’ he remarks.

Usually, he gets from the elevator door to Room 32 in eighteen generous steps. He might be able to do it in seventeen today. He is on stride. Solving the enigma of being helped out with a can of soup lessens the desire to bite his lip. Minty.

Banana Tray Hair’s reference to him as Soup Boy over the entire public-address system of Safeway gives him an efficient idea. With one leg significantly longer than the other, and the special shoes she wears, Banana Tray Hair improves Room Service Boy’s sixth possibility of being helped out of Safeway with a can of soup:

6. Banana Tray Hair delivers the soup to Room 32 without spilling it – in fewer than seventeen steps.