All my co-workers in the kitchen stare at me. I can feel my face getting pale while I try to feign a smile.
"Yeah Yeah, just um, cut myself. Do we have band-aids?"
"Oh really? Let me see. Sylvia, go grab some band-aids."
"Lemme see... Oh wow! Okay hold on."
I just laugh pathetically and run the gushing finger under water. "No worries, it just won't stop bleeding."
Sylvia runs off to find first aid and the cook comes around the grill to examine the damage.
This is what hell must be like, stuck in a hot room while slowly bleeding waiting for aid. Or perhaps I am thinking of the emergency room.
This is my own fault. I had thought what a bad idea it was mid-division to wield a large serrated knife to cut a moist English muffin. It crumbled, my finger got slashed. Maird.
The life in a kitchen is wrought with dangers.
"You see this? See this?" the cook holds up a mangled finger. "Almost cut the tip of my finger right off."
"Ew, well mine doesn't hurt it just won't stop bleeding. That's all."
I start to have one of those odd out of body experiences where I wonder how did my life get reduced to this. The tip of my finger is irrevocably maimed forever and if the cook is any indicator will also induce the need to vomit in others for years to come. But all I can wonder is if I was suppose to deliver ketchup to one of my tables.
"Hey Domingo! Can you take out this food? This food right here," I holler at the busy bus boy. "I'm just kinda dealing with something right now." I check the bread for signs of blood. Muffin preserved. "Here take this out, too."
Domingo looks at the paper towel that is quickly turning red. "What happened? Let me see."
I look beyond the double doors that shields customers from the reality of a restaurant kitchen to faces of anticipation in the dining room. I am the only server on the floor. Domingo the bus guy will have to take one for the team.
This is what my life has come to. I'm going to be left here to bleed to death, while starving customers attempt to eat me for lunch.
"Stick in coffee." The cook just looks at me in interest and says, "Domingo, grab her some coffee grounds. It will make the bleeding stop."
News to me.
Sylvia comes running in the room with two of the smallest band-aids I've ever in my life.
"Sweetie, are you serious?"
The poor thing just looks at my finger that would probably benefit more from stitches than an aid that would better serve a human the size of barbie.
So here I am sticking my finger in coffee grounds, while I image the look of the customers faces as I place their delectable platter down with a oozing finger that is covered in roughage.
And I need enough tips to be able to go to a music festival. This is getting serious.
"Look at this cut." Now Sylvia is in on the trick. I look at a large mark across her forearm that looks more like a burn from what I can only imagine came from a slick kitchen blade.
She merely shakes her head to show how brave she is and how accepting she is of her daily trials.
"Don't we have any bigger band-aids? Perhaps some gauze?"
She straps two of the aids fit for baby on my finger, both of us praying for a miracle that I won't leak all over a table somewhere.
Domingo enters from stage left, "You have some people that want to order."
Of course I do.
'They're in a hurry."
Of course they are.
I try to hide my hand as I run out to the counter. Their first words to me are, "I'm in a hurry."
Aren't we all, bud. Aren't we all.
Manager John creeps up from out of nowhere. He looks preoccupied. I privy him for a more sufficient form of first aid.
"Hold on," he says.
The couple stare at me, "How long of a wait do you think it'll be?"
Johan returns with a rubber sanitary glove and chops off one of the fingers.
"Here put this on."
I slip on my finger condom and stare at the ingenuity.
"Thanks," I say and stare at the pale gloved finger. It works.
I may be able to afford a music festival filled with drug-addled hippies after all. Go summer!
I continue the rest of my day imagining I'm Margot Tenenabaum sporting a fake appendage. This might be a look I could get used to.
The cook made me feel better pancakes. Sometimes getting hurt is the best!
