He laid in his bed, waiting, waiting for 1:30 am to come to rise him up to turn on the bed lamp ...waiting for something, someone else but the crippling routine... silence wearing a black heavy dress of loneliness, mourning his life, he was waiting...
He turned off the alarm. Got up. His feet touched the familiar soft dirty rug with burnt cigarettes holes. He had this bad habit of smoking in bed and falling asleep with a cig dangling in the corner of his mouth.
Before he could dress in words a thought that silently came out of his dungeon of personality , he saw it holding in front of itself like a painting a scene of his wife and a man as when he had found her, him, them...his rose impaled on a thorn...words came running down creaky staircase of his mind...now, he was cursing outloud. "A fucking whore,a fucking whore...damn right, i am glad the bitch died". The sight of his wife in bed with another man seemed to purge his mind of any other mental, emotional scenery ,but that one that had congealed itself into formless disgust, hate and anger.
He smoked five cigarettes, trying not to see it, not to think about it, but it was in vain. He knew that not until he would get to the kitchen the sight of this atrocious betrayal would be present in his mind as much as the chair he was sitting on.
At 2:30 am he left for the kitchen where he was a supervisor and where the scene would dissolve like salt in hot water.
The kitchen was his Soviet Empire and he was like Stalin there. Tyrannical, vicious, suspicious, alert, and fatigued by the two dishwashers who worked there. One, a lazy, incompetent nigger, and the other, a commie, fag polak. He just couldnT stand them. He hated them passionately, unreservedly. How many times he found himself wondering what happened to America from his childhood when niggers could be lynched behind a barn, commies hang or shot in a public square, faggots spat at and ran out like lepers. Back in those days those two clowns would have been gone, dead or alive, either fucking way, out of his kitchen, thought the cook to himself. But now, them: lawyers and laws protected all and sundry perverts and misfits.
He opened the kitchen, turned on the lights, came inside and scrutinized its state of being.
Everything was as he expected it to be; the floor was mopped, the silver counters were wiped cleansharp shine, the ovens were cleaned inside-out.
He made himself a cup of coffee, weak tastless hogwash. The scene of his wife in bed with another man did indeed dissolve like salt in hot water. Now, he was ready to start cooking, to get from the stockroom all the canned products he would need for that day when out of the corner of his right eye he noticed a dirty towel laying under his desk. That was it.
He had to hold on to something or he would collapse. He leaned on the silver counter whose clean sharp glint almost cut his hands. He was breathing heavily, with a difficulty as thou he had a slob of marble laying on his chest. His heart beat in slow strokes, then missed a beat...two...three. he felt noxious and weak. He felt dull pain in his chest grip his heart. He pushed himself off the edge of the counter, standing still. He pulled a handfull of grey, lanky hair. He blinked his cocked eye, a big salty tear scutted down his taut face. he was pale, trembling.
He went over to his desk, a wooden wobbly mamoth of a tree trunk. Nobody was allowed to sit at that desk. It was his. He had brought that desk to the kitchen. It was an inheritance he came into possession after his grandfatherS shamless death at the hand of a nigger his grandfather thought he could still whip into a servitude, but the nigger pulled out the gun and blew the old fartS brains out.
He pulled out the towel from under the desk. Suprisingly it was clean except for few hard spots as if somebody wiped starch with it, but tossing it under the cookS desk was in the cookS eyes like pissing on an altar. Desecration. An abodinable and unpardonable act that had to be paid for. The only way to find out who worked the night shift was to check the schedule that was always pegged in the same place to the cork board hanging above the desk. Well, according to the grit it was that damn commie, fag polak who closed the kitchen last night, so it had to be him. There was a notice in big red letters telling all and sundry to stay out of the kitchen.
The story of the towel.
Around 7:00 PM, the polak's nympho girlfriend showed up at the kitchen, demanding an explanation for his recent, as she had put it, wierd behavior. "What? i am not good enough for you...i have been calling your place for the past three days...what the fuck have i done to deserve all this fucking bullshit...ah?tell me...what have i done that all of a sudden you been avoiding me...i know, i know... you got yourself another pussy?...whatS the bitchS name?"...
"oh, baby, come on...stop blowing things out...thereS no another pussy...i just havent been feeling good...been working this damn third shift for the past two weeks...how do you think i feel when i get home beat like shit...i just didnt feel like ..." Of course, like 99,9 percent of men he wasnT honest with her. But to tell her in the face that "you have fucked the life out of me, my balls are still aching from having you kneed them like some fucking pizza dough, my asshole wet for days from your "oh, please, let me see how it feels thumb up in my ass". He wasnt going to tell her all that, but to stop her from bawling in the kitchen when there were still other employees in the building, he knew that the only way to stop this cunt was to whip his dick out and just let her have it...
Once they were done, she looked for something to spit it all out and there she found a clean towel while the commie fag polak was washing off his aching boner in the sink she sucked all the marrow out.He didnt even see her throwing it under the desk, otherwise he would have told her about this old, sour freak cook and how much that wooden jonk meant to him.
The end of the story of the towel.
The cook was sitting at his desk with the towel laying in front of him. He picked it up and smelt it, just to see if his suspision of its being used to clean some starch was correct. Then, slowly he stuck his tounge out to taste it. And it tasted to him like starch. Slightly salty but its only because it was used some time ago, but he thought he was right.
To be continued ...