This one is very short, but I just didn't feel it again... dang.
Start Fiction:
"I don't wanna be a chef," the pudgy, scraggly man began, "I gonna be a chef."
Hank gagged on his food. The man's statement didn't fit his demeanor. His black Poison t-shirt, mullet , sloppy appearance and lack of grammar basics just didn't fit the image of a chef, at least a fine dining restaurant. A roadhouse serving fried catfish, maybe.
Hank laughed after catching his breath.
The man's date was asking him how long he had wanted to be a chef to which the man replied since before he was born.
When he was asked when he started cooking he told an elaborate story of being in his high chair next to the counter where his mother had put out all the ingredients for cookies when the phone rang. When she went and answered it in the other room, he crawled from his high chair on to the counter and mixed the ingredients and had it waiting for his mom when she came back in to the kitchen. A story that left his date as wide jawed as Hank.
The man went quiet for several minutes, mainly because he was shoving large parts of his appetizer into his gigantic hole. Hank was annoyed with and entertained by the guy, at least the guy had some table manners.
The room became quiet the way a room with twenty people can right when the mam said to his date, "Try it and I can guarantee you I'll have a fork in your forehead before you even get halfway across the table."
Hank wanted to get up and punch this guy in the face, tell him to shut or something just to knock him down a notch or two; that and teach him how to treat a person better than he was treating his date. But that probably wasn't going to happen as Hank just didn't do things like standing up to bullies.
Maybe it was time he learned a new set of skills.
End Fiction.
No comments:
Post a Comment