If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

  — I don’t know what shit’s going down with her. Kendra shakes her head so emphatically she is moved to subsequently check that her hair is still secured back. — All I know is I had to intervene at my mom’s last weekend. I pulled her over to the full-length mirror and lifted up her tank top. I pointed at her stomach and said: ‘Care.’

  — How did she react? Stephanie asks.

  Kendra shrugs, taking in a long breath as she painfully watches a bum with a cart shuffle past the window, so gratified that he does not stop or turn to look in. Thank you. She nods tersely at Stephanie in shared relief. — The usual crappy defensive-offensive rhetoric about me being anorexic, you know how they lash out. She narrows her eyes. — You think I was wrong?

  — No, not at all. I just think that the intervention could have been a little more structured, Stephanie offers.

  Kendra considers this. Steph was pretty smart. Sometimes Kendra wishes she’d stayed on to do a masters at DePaul. Now Stephanie was almost a partner in that pet behavioralist practice on Clark, while she was stuck in real estate.

  But she was making money.

  — I ran into Monica Santiano yesterday, y’know from Highland Park. She’s moved into the city, Stephanie informs them. — You know what she said to me: ‘I really got to hang out with you guys.’ I was like, ugh, a total DNA situation! Stephanie and Kendra high-five each other.

  — I thought she was kinda fun, Stacie says. — What’s DNA mean?

  — Desperate and Needy Alert, they sing at her in unison. — Another one we added to our lexicon, I think it was in CJ’s on Wednesday, Kendra elaborates smugly. — Where were you, Stace?

  Stacie looks a little forlorn as the conversation drifts back to work. — How’s the wonderful world of real estate? Stephanie asks Kendra.

  — Still booming, and still lucrative, Kendra chirps, swinging into breezy professional mode, before something sours in her mouth. She hesitates for a second, then lets rip: — But that fat lesbo bitch Marilyn’s been on my case. She’s sooo disgusting, sitting there packing her face with Doritos all day and she doesn’t even have a college degree, she rasps.

  — Loo-zir! Stephanie ticks, stretching out her fingers to examine her nail extensions. They were perhaps a bit long for the metal chopsticks.

  — I see her looking at me sometimes in that creepy way, and then she breaks into that revolting smile of hers. And that horrible mole on her face. Yuk! Then sometimes she’ll go all girly and gross and make comments about straight girls wanting to experiment, Kendra winces. — It kinda makes me wanna puke!

  — Gross, Stacie acknowledges.

  — And bordering on sexual harassment. Stephanie’s head twists. — Somebody oughta stick a lawsuit on that bitch’s fat ass!

  Kendra nods thoughtfully. Then she looks searchingly, imploringly, at Stephanie and Stacie. All suddenly raise imaginary rifles into the air, training and then firing them on invisible targets. — She’s so NRA, they scoff.

  The girls exchange high-fives. — Not Really Awesome, they squeal in a delighted harmony. They catch the chef observing their antics, his dark eyes glimmering, and they raise embarrassed hands to mouths to stifle their nervous giggles.

  It took Kendra a while to get ready for her run that evening. The gray DePaul sweatshirt and blue shorts were pulled on quickly enough, as were the Nike Air Zoom Moire trainers, a hundred bucks a throw and selected because their color matched the shirt, but the hair had to be off the face and the ponytail tied high. Most of all, the makeup needed to be just right. Too little was not an option, but too much indicated a lack of serious sporting edge, perhaps even hinting at sexual laziness or passivity. This stuff she used was subtle and didn’t run, not that Kendra intended to do much sweating.

  Darkness is pressing down as she goes off at an even trot along Lakeshore Drive where it’s cooler, the air coming off Lake Michigan smelling slightly sour, tawny and feeble, like an elderly relative doused in a favored fragrance. After several yards, boredom and fatigue gnaw at her, and she feels self-conscious and ridiculous as an elderly man passes her with ease. No matter; the best part is the slow pretend-exhausted walk back around the neighborhood. Walking with Toto got lots of attention but the problem was that the male dog walkers were invariably gay. Jogging was different. Like the Lakeshore Athletic Club, it was a way of meeting straight guys. But it was not a good method of keeping your weight down; too much like hard work. Dieting was easier, except Friday lunch, which would set her up for the weekend. It was too hot for the sweatshirt but she worried that there might be a slight distension of her stomach after that lunch. It would take till Tuesday before she could be confident about just wearing the sports bra.

  Kendra pulls up to a brisk walking speed in order to enjoy the night. Looming shadows emerging from the overhead trees herald little more than the chatter of lovers or more dog walkers – this is a safe neighborhood – and she notes there is a van parked outside her block. Two men are unloading furniture. There is a third in attendance whom she immediately recognizes as the Asian chef from Mystic East. It seems like he is moving in, to her apartment complex. — Hi … she simpers on approach. — Are you moving in, like here?

  The chef seems to take a while to recognize her. He squints in the darkness, holding a framed print, which he sets down on the granite curb. — Ah … yes. Hello. His smiling face expands.

  — I’m on the second floor, Kendra explains, watching two movers engaged in a sweaty push-pull dance with one of the last of the stubbornly heavy boxes on the back of the van.

  — I move into third floor, the chef tells her.

  — Come and have some tea, Kendra offers, reasoning that it will do no harm to keep in with her favorite local restaurateur.

  — You are very kind. Chef bows his big head slightly. Kendra holds open the doors of the apartment building as he carries the picture up the stairs. She follows him all the way up, taking in his shadowless, almost spectral form under the fluorescent stair and hall lighting. Then she hears a sniggering behind her. The moving guys. Leering at her ass. Fucking pigs. At the stair-bend she tugs the edge of the DePaul sweatshirt south, her only concession to their presence.

  When the men are left to finish putting the last of the stuff into the chef’s apartment, she takes him downstairs to her identical dwelling. Kendra feels a bit awkward as his eyes scan the clutter of her space. I should have fucking tidied up, she thinks. As she heads to the kitchen to make green tea, she notes that Toto, whom she’d left while she was running, and who was normally timid around strangers to the apartment, especially men, is enthusiastic about the Asian chef. First he licks his hand with an almost obscene look in his black, glassy eyes, and then rolls over, allowing his tummy to be rubbed.

  — Very nice dog, the oriental cook smiles in delight.

  — He seems to like yoooo! Don’tcha, baby? she says to Toto, — Don’tcha, sweet baby boy? Yes you do! Yes you do!

  — If you ever need me to take dog for walk, the chef grins, sipping his green tea, — let me know.

  — Thank you. Kendra twists her head to the side, as Chef goes out onto the stair to sign the removal docket and the men depart. They sit with their tea as Kendra tells him about the trash collection and the mailboxes, and she’s unable to resist slipping in some gossip about the neighbors. Then she takes him down to the basement to show him the laundry facilities, which he seems particularly keen to view. — Very important for Chef, he explains, as they embark on the long walk down the steep and badly lit back staircase. The gate to the laundry room is heavy and stiff, and she is pleased when he comes to her aid in pulling it open. Inside Kendra clicks on a switch and there is a hum as the pitch-black cavernous room flickers into a buzzing fluorescent bluish-yellow glare revealing two washers, two dryers and an aluminum rack of bicycles. Big silver tubes carrying the air con hang overhead, snaking into the cavities of the building like space-age woodworm. — Such an essential for a Chicago summer, Kendra smartly informs Chef, thinking of Stepha
nie sweating away sourly under fans – and an enthusiastic Todd – in that antiquated condo of hers.

  No, Steph would be on top.

  When the tour is over and Chef departs upstairs to organize his new home, Kendra is straight on the phone to Stephanie, then Stacie, delighted as she informs them, — Chef, our Chef, only just moved into my apartment block!

  The next morning Kendra has a crisis. Christie, her dog walker and sitter, calls to say that she had just learned that her father has been taken seriously ill in Kentucky, and she needs to go there immediately. — Thanks for everything, Kendra says spitefully down the phone. She realizes that she is going to have to take Toto into the office. It is an emergency. Outside is hot, but muggy and overcast. The dour, dirty sky seems to press down on her, she feels it in her ball-bearing eyes, house-brick brain and anvil jaw. Toto whines a little, dragging on his leash and panting, until she’s forced to take his gasping body in her arms.

  She is at her desk for about ten minutes, talking to her co-workers Greg and Cassandra, when Marilyn, hands on bovine hips, casts a shadow over her desk. — Kennie, princess, she looks at the dog, whose ears prick up although he remains sitting loyally at Kendra’s feet, — Toto’s a charmer, but the office isn’t for dags.

  — But –

  Marilyn’s large head cocks to the side, as she pats her stiff hair. Her voice coos, incongruently soothing, — Butts – even cute little ones – are for sitting on and getting fired, honey. Please don’t ask me to get more explicit.

  — My dog sitter had an emergency, I’ll try to get something sorted out –

  — Now, sweetheart. Her smile slides a millimetre south.

  — Right, Kendra says neutrally, and picks Toto up.

  Marilyn follows her out. As Kendra gets to the door, she stops her with an arm on her shoulder. As Kendra turns around, she can smell a sickly sweet corpse breath. Stroking the dog’s snout, Marilyn fixes her in a flinty stare. — In case you ain’t heard, hard times are ahead, baby. The condo market has gone to shit. People are like sheep. They see a few players making a killing out of condo developments and they build and build until there are too many developments and not enough people to fill them. It’s a classic bubble and you can see the pin. I’m talking layoffs. Do I make myself clear?

  Kendra bites her tongue. How unprofessional is this bitch! Talking down the freakin market! — Yes, she says blankly, exiting and heading outside. The dog is panting in her arms as she walks down the street which shimmers in the baking heat.

  She hates leaving Toto in the apartment on his own, but now she has no choice. On her way back she sees Chef hanging out in the shade of the porch by the apartment entrance. He’s out of his robes, wearing a blue suit, collar open at the neck, as he smokes a cigarette. The suit contrasts with the vivid red roses which climb up a wooden trellis next to him. For the first time she notes how thin his body is compared to his head. She tells him what has happened with the dog and her work. Chef explains that he is going for a walk by the lake. He has no shift until the evening and will be happy to walk the dog and look after him till she comes home from work.

  Kendra is delighted, leaving Toto happily in his hands and heading back to the office. Avoiding Marilyn, she checks her messages, but there’s nothing from either Trent or Clint the developer guy. When she finishes work, she returns to the apartment complex, calling upstairs first where she finds Chef cooking in his kitchen. As she crouches Toto jumps up, into her arms, delighted to see her.

  — Something smells good, she says. — Has he been a good boy?

  — Dog no trouble at all, Chef says and puts some food on the small table.

  Kendra notes how wonderfully organized everything is. Chef must have been working so hard to get all the stuff out of boxes and set up. The front room is dominated by a huge fish tank and a collection of ornate swords which hang on the walls. — Collect swords, Chef points at himself, then at the mounted weapons.

  — These look … Kendra can’t think of a word, and then settles for, — … nice.

  Chef takes one down from the wall. It has a curved blade of around thirty inches, with a black leather handle a foot long. He sets it down on the table, disappears briefly into the kitchen, returning with two large watermelons. He balances one on what looks like a giant cat’s scratching post that he has pulled out from a darkened corner of the room. — Stand well back, he smiles at Kendra, — blade very, very sharp. Can easy sever four inches of bamboo.

  Kendra moves away. The chef takes the sword in two outstretched arms. He shuts his eyes for a few seconds and seems to go into an almost orgasmic trance. Then, in a sudden explosive movement, he twists and slices through the melon. It falls away, in two equal sides. Toto moves over and sniffs at one portion on the floor.

  — Now you try. Chef places the next melon and gives her the blade by its handle. Kendra takes it and grips it tentatively. Chef moves behind her, standing close. — Take weight … that’s good. Feel the weight. This Musashi Japanese katana. Shinto sword.

  — It’s kinda neat, she says.

  — Imagine sword is part of arm. The edge of blade fingernails … His arms circle around her, holding her lightly but firmly at the wrists. — Now on count three you raise blade and bring down on melon. Like you putting fingers through melon. One … two … three … Chef pulls up Kendra’s wrists then pushes down, pulling his hands away at the last second as the sword falls, splitting the melon as before.

  — Wow … Kendra smiles tensely, embarrassed now at the physical embrace and a strange charge that hangs in the air. — That was great …

  Chef stands back, bows, and points to the food on the table. — Now eat, he urges her.

  — Lordy … I can’t … she thinks of her weight, — you shouldn’t have done this … what is this?

  — Pulgoki. One of the famous Korean dishes to Westerners. Means ‘Korean barbecue’. Marinated with soy sauce, garlic, sugar, sesame oil, and other seasonings. Cooked over fire in front of table.

  She puts down the sword and examines the fish swimming in the tank. There are two of them. — Are these …?

  — Pufferfish. Common red puffer. Also called avocado puffer. Not so cause taste good with avocado, but they do, he grins.

  Kendra’s hand goes to her mouth, which is mimicking the fishes. — Do you … I mean …

  — Yes.

  — Oh, Kendra says, then, anxious to ensure that he doesn’t think she’s offended by this, adds, — I would love to go to Japan. Eat pufferfish in a big restaurant.

  — I have prepare some for now. We eat them, he says, heading to the kitchen and returning immediately with some small raw fillets of fish.

  Kendra looks at the fillets, then at the tank. — Eh … I dunno … aren’t they really dangerous to eat?

  The chef stares at her, his eyes gleaming. — Can be fatally poisonous. In Japan they are delicacy after poison has been removed but eating can still be fatal. One hundred diners die each year from eating pufferfish.

  — Is this okay? She looks nervously at the fish.

  — Very good. Eat, he urges, then he lifts a fillet into his mouth.

  Kendra takes the small piece of fish in her mouth. It is smooth and tastes buttery. She chews and swallows.

  — With poison you feel tingling in mouth and lips. Then dizziness, fatigue, headache, cannot speak, tightness in chest, shaking, nausea and vomiting, Chef explains cheerfully.

  — I … I … feel okay, I guess … she says shakily. Actually, she feels dizzy and sweaty, even in this air con.

  Chef points at the tank. — Even though they poisonous, pufferfish popular in aquarium. Can be tame but no hand-feed because of sharp teeth.

  In an instant, Kendra realizes that she’s not going to die, that the nausea is largely of her mind’s making. She walks over to the tank. — Can I see them puff up?

  — No. Too stressful for fish to make this happen, Chef sternly shakes his head. Then he regards Kendra with those shining black eyes. — Yo
u seem like lady who loves food.

  — Yes I do. I don’t overeat like some, Kendra says smugly, — but I like to try new things and I’m very adventurous, she purrs, suddenly horribly aware that she’s flirting with the chef.

  — Me too. You can eat almost anything, Chef declares, then raises a finger, — if it is properly prepared. So you no try cook pufferfish at home!

  — Don’t worry, Kendra smiles chastely, aware that she’s backpedaling, — I’ll always come to the experts.

  Toto is at her feet and she picks him up, now anxious to leave without eating any more food. — Right, sweet baby boy, we’d better get you home! You gotta be hungry too!

  In her departure, she is aware that her pulse is racing as she heads down the stairs.

  The LP Tavern is very dark inside, illuminated only by some indented wall and bar lights, and a bank of buzzing neon at the gantry, all glowing phosphorous blue. Until their eyes adjusted, a stranger might be forgiven for thinking that it’s still the dive bar it used to be. However, the exotic and comprehensive range of spirits and beers on offer and the dress and bearing of the clientele soon dispel this notion.

  Kendra is drinking with Stacie, Stephanie, and Cressida, a research assistant at Chicago University. Cressida wears her black hair short, and it glows silkily in the blue light in exactly the same way as her top. Sparkling earrings dangle like small chandeliers. The girls sit on tall stools at a round table, big enough for just the drinks and the odd elbow. Kendra admits that it is good having Chef living in her apartment complex. — He’s awesome. It’s unreal, she tells them. — Toto’s really taken to him.

  — Seems like he’s not the only one, Stacie says, her tones and glance laden with coquettish inference.

  — What? Kendra raises her plucked brows.

  — Would you, like, well, sleep with him?

  Kendra looks at her in disgust. — Don’t be crazy. He’s way too old. He’s … She stops and scrutinizes her friend’s face for signs of treachery. — What the fuck are you trying to say, Stacie?

  — He’s kinda neat though. Stacie shrugs vaguely, then offers, — I’d go with an Asian guy.