The Contrast of Red on Red

by Richard Leader

I was standing knee deep in shit. A great big blue dumpster full of fucking shit. My boss figured that if he had one of his shit boys jump inside and pack all the shit down, he could fit more shit in. From the restaurant's point of view, the plan could not have been more perfect. So there I was, balancing on a crushed cardboard box, hopping between it and a pile of plastic cooking-oil jugs, trying to keep the real garbage below the level of my jeans. Fuck it! I had earned my minimum wage and not even the thought of doing inventory in the wine cellar would make me stay in there. I climbed out and dropped heavily to the rough asphalt below. I wanted to run. I wanted to feel the moonlight though my skin and race those black clouds that mocked me now with their freedom.

We were closed for the night. Though a few of the employees had gone home, most still lingered at the bar, smoking and playing at two-bit existentialism: I still had to stock and disinfect the place. I pulled on the heavy door latch of the freezer and entered into its numbness. One sixty-five pound box of prime rib--I slid it off of the steel shelf and cradled it across my forearms to leave my hands free. Wheeling across the grease-splattered floor, I reached the oven and let the box crash to the floor, wincing as the soup bowls and dishes rattled on their shelves.

The boxes are always pasted shut and in order to open them a good amount of mutilation is always required. Six individually wrapped bundles of meat stared back up at me through their thick plastic. I took the topmost one and held it up to the florescent lights. Blood streamed to the bottom of the bag, leaving bright rivulets above the darker pool. The purple mass was lined with white threads that crept their way across the surface--edges glowing red, expanding. I pulled a filet knife out of a pile of celery odds and ends from the steamer table. Neatly slitting the top of the bag open, I lifted it into the oven and squeezed it out of its bag and onto a shelf. Next. My knife went into the second bag and I dragged it across the seam. A fold caught the tip of the blade, resisting -- a snap -- blood splattered, a red mist across my face, little fire ants marched across my arm. I looked at the torn bag of flesh. It could have been a mirror.

Fuck it. I pulled the bag off of it, holding its dead weight between my hands. It was solid and yet it somehow flowed to accommodate me, as my fingers sank into it. It was not like in the movies. The blood did not run like water and splash about. It was cold and silent. As it dripped slowly down my wrists, it sank into my palms, adhering like glue. I was joined to it--for all of its hideousness, we were one. I hoisted it up to the oven and placed it next to the first one on the rack.

I flattened the third bag and cut it straight, though at this point, cleanliness really was not an issue. The door to the dining room squeaked as it opened. Someone had given up at cards and had decided to face whatever might lie at home. I stood and turned towards the aisle to say goodnight.

She was standing there. Completely motionless. Above her head, slotted spoons and whisks rocked back and forth in the hallway's night breeze.

"Are you?"

Suddenly, I saw myself through her eyes, covered with blood, knife in hand, silent and staring. I set the knife down on the table. "Yes -- No, I'm fine. I just had an accident --a problem, I mean -- with the prime rib."

With seven quick steps, she was in front of me. "So you didn't cut your hand?"

"Nope." I slid my hands across the front of my apron in a futile attempt to clean them. The contrast of red on red. I gave up and put my arms behind my back. She picked up the bottom of my bloodied apron and gave a slight laugh. There really wasn't anything to say, I knew she already understood. Her white shirt was marked with splotches of coffee and butter, now wrinkled and un-tucked, and grease stained the collar where she had fiddled with her top button all night. We both knew that underneath all of it, we were still the people who had walked in only eight hours earlier, shiny and new, young not old. Nothing had been changed. Nothing had been lost or destroyed, or could ever be. She let go of the apron and slowly rubbed a dab of blood between her thumb and finger.

"Here, it will probably help a little," she said as she pulled a towel from under the counter and handed it to me. She took another and held it against her side.

"Thanks, I'm glad you're here tonight." I didn't take offense to the little snort she gave. I had to laugh too. "It's not really coming off." She reached forward and rubbed her finger across my wrist. The blood bunched up in a ring around it, leaving a glossy white streak on my crimson arm. "Cute, I can do that too." I drew another line, coating the tip of my finger with blood. I grabbed her arm and traced a line down her wrist. "Now we match."

She brushed her hair back with her clean hand, "More like opposites."

"I don't see it that way," I said. She smiled, and stepped forward, pressing the towel into my left hand and pushing herself even closer, curling her fingers between mine. I stepped back, the base of my spine pushed harder into the steamer table. No thinking. We were past that now, just existing in the kiss. She spun, guiding me, landing against the refrigerator at the end of the kitchen. Her shoulders flared as they met the face of it.

We just stayed there. Breathing, feeling the rhythmic force of the machine move through our bodies, trapped inside its steady hum. Everything was suddenly enough. In the past it had never felt that way.

The dining room door burst open as a waitress walked through.

"You're still here? I thought you left a while ago."

"I already punched out, it's OK. I'm going now."

And she didn't look back.