“Dammit!”
In a corner of a noisy bar, Julio drained another beer in an attempt to drown his sorrows. How many had he drunk? He’d lost count. He couldn’t even taste the beer at this point, but that didn’t stop him from knocking back one after another.
The bar was full of carefree patrons enjoying a chat after work. Julio spotted someone who looked like him, another man in his midthirties. He must have been doing big things at the office, because his coworkers were showering him with praise, younger women were shooting him desirous looks, and he was in the middle of it all, red-faced. He was taking a big bite of food, trying to cover up his embarrassment by declaring how delicious it was.
In the bar’s bustling kitchen, Julio could see the chefs with their frying pans. They looked up when the man expressed his appreciation for the food at the top of his lungs, but they went right back to work. Julio caught the slightest smiles on their faces. Well, who wouldn’t be happy to have someone be grateful for their effort?
Julio got that. He got it so hard it hurt.
Because that was where he’d been until a few hours ago. He’d worked in the kitchen, serving up food for the customers with his fellow chefs. He’d worked his ass off at this restaurant.
Until today, when the manager had chased him out. “Julio, you’re fired,” he’d said, and that was it. His job was over. He had been right in the middle of helping his colleagues whip something up.
“Huh?” Julio had said. At first, he thought it must be some sort of joke. But the manager heaved a sigh that came out along with a cloud of cigarette smoke; he didn’t look like he thought this was funny at all.
Most striking of all, though, was the complete lack of interest in Julio or anything about him that he saw in the owner’s eyes.
“You, you’re just not any help at this restaurant. Everyone else has a job to do, but you just sort of back up whoever’s around you. Frankly, this restaurant can run fine without you.”
And so he was fired. No need to come in tomorrow.
“N-no, I… But…but, sir!”
How could he just drop that on Julio like this? How was Julio supposed to muster a response? Wasn’t he going to ask for Julio’s side of the story? He couldn’t just do this, could he?
Julio struggled to put the words together and tried to get the manager to reconsider. But it was no use.
“You don’t have a single actual talent,” the manager spat. “You’re an assistant at best. The one thing you’ve got going for you is a long history here. If I asked for your ‘story,’ you’d just grin and laugh and produce no useful ideas whatsoever. You have no principles, no guiding motivation. You’ve got nothing.”
Each and every word that spilled from the manager’s mouth cut Julio like a knife. Had this man always seen Julio as deadweight? Was his existence not worth anything? It was then that he knew: There was no place for him here anymore.
“What do you want to do with your life?”
That was the last thing the manager said before stalking away, and there was nothing Julio could do to stop him. Julio turned in his chef whites, and before the day was over, he had been summarily shown out of the restaurant.
It was agony.
Julio hadn’t been able to come up with the words on the spot—it was all too sudden, and he couldn’t think of what to say—but he certainly wasn’t zero help in the restaurant.
In fact, given the length of his tenure, he had more experience with the place than anyone else. He took every care so that his coworkers standing in the kitchen could cook comfortably. He prepared every ingredient thoughtfully so that his coworkers wouldn’t have any unexpected surprises. And when someone made a mistake, he was usually the one who managed to fix it.
He was certainly not unnecessary.
“Damn, damn, damn!” Julio slammed his mug onto the table, furious. It was already empty. He called for the nearest waitress to bring him another beer. How many did that make? How many had he gone through?
The moment he was out of alcohol again, the anxieties he had been trying to drown resurfaced once more: How was he supposed to survive? What was he going to do tomorrow? What about the rest of his life?
Then a woman sat down across from him and said, “Good evening.”
Julio looked at her, puzzled. “I’m pretty sure I ordered a beer. Where’s my beer?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t work here.” The woman smiled at him.
He couldn’t help staring at her. Her face was very beautiful. She had long black hair and wore a black dress, almost like mourning clothes, that looked out of place at this bar. But she sat very properly, like a doll.
“This is where I work.” She bowed and handed him a business card. As Julio bowed back, he took it.
“Antiques Carredura?” he said, peeking at the card.
“That’s right. And I’m the owner, Carredura.” She smiled again. So she named the store after herself? “I’ve been watching you here, and I can’t help thinking you seem to have something on your mind. Would you like to talk to me about what’s going on?” Carredura peered at Julio, and her eyes seemed as dark as the lightless depths of the sea.
For a moment, Julio was quiet, but then he found himself opening up to her about everything that had happened that day. Maybe he had just been waiting for someone who would listen to him. There must be something wrong with him, he thought, to tell a stranger he’d just met about all this. Even as he had the thought, though, he couldn’t stop talking. It was just tragic. Tragic that she couldn’t have seen him hard at work. Tragic that the owner had thought he was doing nothing.