Cat-astrophe

Fired from a few feet away, a fork sails end over end, landing in the utensil tray with a loud clank, spraying Bobby Bolin with dishwashing liquid.

“Doggone it, Claire!”

Claire Conan may be mute, but she can still snicker, and she enjoys seeing Bobby covered in soap suds.

Barry Moore shakes his finger at Claire.

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s dangerous to throw your silverware, Claire? You could have hit Bobby in the eye.”

Claire puckers her lips, then touches her rear end, showing Barry what part of her body he can kiss. Shaking her hips, the voluptuous blonde freshman blows a kiss at Barry. Forming her hands into a heart, she gives him a coquettish smile, prancing off.

“Jeesh. She’s a psycho. Maybe you’re lucky she can’t speak,” Bobby says. “How’d she lose her voice?”

“I heard it was from yelling for more… Barry Moore,” Tom Terlizzi chimes in.

“She damaged her vocal cords screaming for help when she was eight. She and her mother were in a car accident. They were run off the road by a truck in the fog. Fortunately, another passing truck driver heard her last scream.”

“And how did you come by this information?” Tom asks.

“We might have passed a few notes back and forth over a couple of lunches.”

“So, what kind of marbles are shaking in that horny head of hers?”

“I don’t really know her that well. She lives alone in an apartment in Bristol with her kitten, Mr. Buttons. Her favorite color is blue, which matches her eyes; her favorite music group is the Moody Blues; she’s studying business administration, wants two kids, likes wine, and long walks.”

Tom chuckles. “Yeah, sounds like you’ve barely met.”

“Why do you attract the weirdos, Barry?” Bobby asks. “And why do I have to pay for it?”

“To quote Elvis, she’s stuck on you,” Tom points out. “You would think a girl who has an apartment off campus would make dinner at home and wouldn’t come here to pay and eat this swill. I’m sure you’re the main attraction, Barrymore, not the food.”

“Please take her out so she’ll stop treating us like we’re part of a knife-throwing act,” Bobby pleads.

“Do we need to point out the advantages of having a mute girlfriend?” Tom teases.

Sophomore students Barry, Bobby, and Tom are a three-man dish room team that cleans the plates, glasses, and silverware for the more than 3,000 hungry students at Roger Williams College. The trio is a culinary version of the Marx Brothers, laughing their way through their shifts. Easy-going and soft-spoken, Barry has a striking profile worthy of a matinee idol, earning him the nickname “Barrymore,” a play on his last name. Lanky and pigeon-toed with a bushy mustache, Bobby is Barry’s wingman, always happy to entertain Barry’s romantic castoffs. Short, but wiry and agile, Tom’s often bloodshot brown eyes peer at the world through coke bottle lenses. He loves sarcasm and beer and often downs several Budweisers before coming to work.

The trio does their best to let their fellow students know who is in charge. When a spoiled brat burst into the kitchen, complaining there was no bottled water, Barry listened to his two-minute tirade, during which he was called a “cafeteria monkey.” Then Barry calmly sprayed him with a hose, saying, “Let me know when you’ve had enough water.” When a student who fancied himself a ladies’ man made a lewd comment to co-worker Connie “Cha Cha” Covaleski, Bobby marched up to his table and dumped his plate of spaghetti over his head, following up with two glasses of milk. Tom’s claim to fame is being the phantom who changes around the magnets on the menu to read something funny. He considers changing Chili Con Carne to Chili Art Carne and altering Crab Salad to read Crap Salad among his finest works.

The crew is abetted by a dozen other cooks and servers, including Cha Cha Covaleski, a gorgeous, ginger man magnet known for using her nickname in nearly every sentence, and Donnie Dutton, dubbed “Space” because he’s always in space and takes up space. The boss is Jerry “Big Mac” McIntosh, a roly-poly ex-Navy seaman who doesn’t realize his employees know more about running the cafeteria than he does.

The kitchen crew eats dinner at 3:30 pm, half an hour before the hordes of famished students descend on the cafeteria like bloodthirsty barbarians.

***

On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving break, the crew has to wait for the new cook to finish preparing the sausage and peppers, leaving them with little time to shovel the food down their throats before the doors open.

Tom belches, grimacing. “Is it me, or do the sausages taste a little off?”

“Everything must taste like Budweiser to you,” Bobby teases. Biting into a sausage, Bobby’s features twist into a frown. He pushes his plate aside.

“Cha Cha Cha. That’s got a bad aftertaste,” Cha Cha notes. “Maybe the new cook is experimenting with a new recipe.”

“Yeah, but why does he have to experiment on us?” Tom replies.

The staff hurriedly finish their dinner and take their stations.

A few moments later, Bobby's stomach begins to swirl, making a loud, distressing gurgling noise.

Tom and Buzz’s stomachs growl in unison.

At the stroke of 4:00 pm, the three boys clutch at their stomachs, groaning in pain.

“What the heck is happening?” Tom wails.

“Food poisoning!” Barry answers, racing to the bathroom.

The trio later learns that the new cook left the first batch of sausages meant for the staff thawing for too long before cooking them.

***

The weekend shifts are the longest, from ten in the morning until seven at night, covering brunch and dinner. The weekend following the tainted sausage incident, two kitchen staff members call in sick, including their beleaguered new cook. Big Mac enlists Barry to help Space crack the eggs for brunch.

Space gags as they begin cracking the eggs into a large pot.

“I hate the smell of eggs,” Space comments. “They smell like…”

“Rotten eggs?”

“Yeah.”

Barry cracks an egg against the side of the pot.

Something plops into the soupy, yellow liquid in the pot.

“What the heck was that?” Barry asks.

Space holds his stomach. “A fully grown chicken. We get those from time to time. Don’t worry, it’s protein. It gets ground up along with the bits of eggshells.”

“Yuk. I guess that answers the question of which came first, the chicken or the egg. You all right, Space?”

“I’m really hungover, and with the cook out sick, I have to take his place and cook the eggs.”

“Put yourself in my shoes. I have to clean the plates you use.”

“I feel lousy. I wish there was some way I could catch a break today,” Space says, looking away as he cracks open an egg and another fully grown chicken plops in the pot.

“I might have a solution that could benefit both of us.”

***

A pair of students ordering breakfast stare goggle-eyed at a pan of omelets.

“They’re green!” one says.

“I ain’t eatin’ that, garbage. It’s spoiled!” complains the other.

Watching the exchange, Big Mac grunts in disgust. Stomping down the service line, he plants himself in the dish room’s doorway, giving the boys the stink eye.

“What did you and Space do, Barry?”

“We just substituted chocolate milk for regular milk. We made green eggs and ham.”

***

After work, Barry, Bobby, Tom, and Cha Cha sit at one of the tables, discussing their plans for Thanksgiving.

“I’m going to Thanksgiving dinner at my ex’s house,” Cha Cha declares.

“Awkward,” Tom comments.

“Nah. He’s still crazy about me. After dinner, I’m going to the movies with his older brother.”

“Doubly awkward.”

“I might go to dinner with their cousin the next night. You know, make a clean sweep of the family. Cha, cha, cha.”

“You’re like a keg of dynamite waiting to go off, Cha Cha,” Tom says. “I’m going to do something a little more mundane than destroying a family. I’m going skiing with my sister.”

“We’ll sign your cast when you come back,” Bobby replies. “I’m having dinner with my girl and her family. Turkey, fish, all the trimmings. What about you, Barry?”

“The usual, I suppose, dinner at my grandmother’s.”

“I’m leaving right after our shift is over,” Tom says. “Maybe we can get out early. Most of the kids have already left. How are you getting home, Barrymore?”

“Alvin Hanrahan, like always. He lives four towns away. He drops me off and picks me up on his way back to school.”

Tom and Bobby glance at each other, chuckling.

“It’s a long walk from Rhode Island to New York, Barrymore. Alvin left yesterday,” Bobby says. “He’s gonna spend the holiday with his girlfriend in Vermont. Looks like you're stuck here. Maybe Big Mac’ll let you work a few days to kill time.”

Cha Cha glances toward the cafeteria’s entrance. “Time to do the Cha, Cha, Barrymore. Trouble is heading your way.”

Barry turns to see Claire striding towards them.

“Missed you at dinner tonight, Claire.”

“Yeah, and I missed you chucking your silverware at me,” Bobby snipes.

Claire’s hands blur as she moves them in all directions.

“You know I don’t know sign language, Claire.”

Claire flaps her arms like a bird.

“I think she’s asking about your plans for Thanksgiving,” Tom notes. “Turns out he’s free, Claire!”

Reaching into her pocketbook, Claire takes out a small pad and a pen. Scribbling frantically, she hands a note to Barry.

Blowing him a kiss, she winks at him as she leaves.

“What’s it say?” Bobby asks.

“Pick you up at noon on Thanksgiving for dinner and…”

“And what?” Tom prods.

“That’s the part that worries me.”

***

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Tom comments.

“She’s a boy toy magnet all right,” Bobby replies.

The trio watches as two besotted freshman boys work the desert table. Her hands on her shapely hips, and displaying a teasing, bright ear-to-ear smile, Cha Cha stands nearby, telling the boys what to do.

Big Mac pauses in the doorway of the dish room, looking at Cha Cha and her admirers.

“How does she do that?”

“Gravity,” Tom replies.

“I’m not talking about her figure. How does she get people who aren’t even getting paid to do her work?”

“Same way she got you to set up the table for her,” Barry says.

A fork poised in readiness, a girl comes up to the dessert table, pointing at a plate of blackberry pie. The boys reach for the plate at the same time, tugging it back and forth between them.

“My money’s on the one who looks like a Ken doll,” Tom says.

“Don’t underestimate the Nutty Professor look,” Bobby replies.

The Ken doll yanks the plate away. The slice of blueberry pie jumps off the plate, hitting a musclebound member of the football team sitting nearby.

He swiftly rises from his table like a bad case of projectile vomiting.

“This isn’t going to end well,” Barry remarks.

Picking up a slice of strawberry pie, Muscles hurls it at the Ken doll. Ken ducks, and it hits the Nutty Professor in the face.

“Retaliation is imminent,” Tom announces. “You’d better get in there and break things up, boss.”

Big Mac manages to take a few steps toward the dessert table before a piece of coconut custard pie hits him in the face. Wiping it away, he’s hit by a slice of rhubarb pie.

“Saves us the trouble of having to throw it out,” Tom jests.

In an instant, the Nutty Professor, the Ken doll, and Muscles are hurling slices of pie at each other.

The words, yelled by a skinny hippie tossing a slice of pecan pie, echo throughout the cafeteria.

“FOOD FIGHT!”

Cha Cha quickly abandons her position at the dessert table, joining the others.

Tom pats her on the back. “I love the way you inspire men to greater heights. We’re going to have to clean this disaster up, Cha, Cha.”

“Don’t worry, fellas. There’s plenty more lovesick freshmen where they came from.”

“I’ve underestimated you, Cha, Cha. I thought you were just a bubble-headed flirt,” Tom admits. “You’re really a manipulative, diabolical genius.”

She smiles at the others, knowing her grin can cast a spell. “Cha, cha.”

***

Barry accidentally steps on the tail of Claire’s kitten, Mister Buttons, thinking it’s a rough way to start off his dinner with Claire. The tiny butterscotch colored cat is unforgiving, hissing at him.

Claire leads him into the kitchen. She picks a piece of paper up off the table. Grinning broadly, she hands it to him.

“A menu… Let’s see, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, green beans, turkey…”

Claire puts a large pot on the stove, dropping in a slew of eggs.

“It could take a while for the eggs to boil,” Barry notes. “We could listen to a few tunes, watch the parade…”

Claire throws her arms around his neck, kissing him.

“…Or we could do this…”

***

Barry and Claire are interrupted by a jarring boom.

“…Sounds like a bomb went off…”

Putting on his pants, Barry nearly trips over Mr. Buttons as he hurries out of the bedroom into the kitchen.

Eggs are splattered on the walls and ceiling.

Wearing a towel, Claire rushes into the kitchen, her jaw dropping.

“We forgot about the eggs!”

Claire rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, I know, we were occupied. The water evaporated, and the eggs exploded. So much for the appetizers.”

***

Claire reheats the turkey she’d cooked earlier, while Barry works on the mashed potatoes. Plugging in a mixer, he stirs the potatoes.

Barry hears a click.

The lights go out.

He holds up the electric beater, looking at it quizzically.

Holding up her finger as if to say, “Give me a minute,” Claire leaves the kitchen.

She flips the circuit switch, and the lights come back on.

When Claire returns, Barry and the walls are covered in mashed potatoes.

“This is becoming a habit.”

***

Looking in Claire’s full-length mirror, Barry laughs aloud at the sight of himself wearing Claire’s bathrobe.

The pair set the table. Barry retrieves the turkey. Nearly tripping over Mr. Buttons, he sets it on the table.

“Looks delicious, Claire. You’re a real magician. What other magic can you perform?”

Claire pulls at the bathrobe’s string.

“The turkey’s liable to get cold.”

Claire shrugs her shoulders, pointing at the microwave.

“Yes, I suppose we could reheat it.”

***

Barry carves the turkey, his eyes fixated on Claire’s content smile.

Claire gasps. A small head covered in stuffing emerges from the turkey’s cavity.

“Mr. Buttons!”

Mr. Buttons tries to claw his way out, only to get covered in pieces of turkey and stuffing.

“I guess that takes care of the main course.”

Claire’s expression droops.

“It’s not your fault. I tell you what, if you’ve got some pasta and sauce, I can make Spaghetti Barrymore. It’s got a bit of a kick to it. It’s like you, spicy.”

***

Sneaking in short kisses and hugs, Barry and Claire carefully watch over the spaghetti until it begins to boil. During a lingering embrace, neither of them notices Mr. Buttons climb up on the shelf above the stove. Mr. Buttons knocks over a tin of Cayenne Pepper labeled with a skull-and-crossbones. Claire rights the can without thinking about it.

Barry puts a steaming bowl of pasta in front of Claire.

“Bon appetite!”

Claire digs in.

Barry takes a bite of his spaghetti. His tongue and lips immediately go numb.

Seconds later, Claire reaches for her glass of wine, coughing and gasping for air.

Barry rushes to her side, massaging her back.

Claire gulps down her glass of wine.

“IT’S SO HOT!”

Barry looks at Claire in amazement.

“You spoke…”

“Yes, I did!”

“It’s a miracle… Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you want?”

“Can we go out for Thanksgiving dinner?”