Chicken Salad

Articles

Chris Falcon

Chicken Salad
Sept 16, 2003

"What are you writing about today?" a handsome 20- ish, italian-looking man in a green T-shirt says to me.

He is shoving a pepperoni pizza into a blazing hot brick oven with a long wooden stick. The restaurant's Italian-food aroma is teasing me, I am so hungry.

"I think I'll write about you," I say, though I really need to hurry.

I have only a few minutes to eat because the editor saw me leaving and despite my having eaten all day, I was told if I miss deadline for the sake of eating to not bother coming back. No problem. I will get my chicken salad and go.

Man, my stomach is growling. And another customer's chicken salad looks sooooooo good.

Ever since the day I interviewed the mayor here, I have been trying to eat their chicken salad ..something always prevents me from actually getting to eat it....but today, it will not illude me. Today I eat. Then I will write my story. Then I will go home. One, two, three.

"You're gonna write about me, huh?" Green-shirt says to me, laughing and smiling a surprise killer smile. The kind that holds you captive for a second.

"Sure. Why not?" I ask.

"Because you don't know me, how you gonna write me?" he says laughing.

"Um. Well, I will just guess your life," I say.

"Ooooh, you are going to guess, huh? Very smart."

"Sure. Why not? Yeah, I will guess your life. Then ask you what it's really like. Then I'll write about the difference," I say laughing. I am only kidding, though. Just absent mindedly chatting. And my chicken salad is actually almost ready..they are taking the perfectly cooked chicken out of the broiler, placing it on crispy leaves...I can see it being set on the back counter now... and I am dying to grab it and run.

"She is going to guess our lives," Green-shirt says to a guy in white, bowed down on his knees before the soda machine to load it.

"Yeah? Well better his than mine. You couldn't guess my life, the Soda-guy says. "Too hard. NO way."

"Yeah, for sure you can't guess mine neither," says Green-shirt.

"Yeah, his life? Forgetaboutit, you can't," says the Soda-guy. "Sure I can," I say without any thought other than unashamedly thinking, hey, if I grab that six-foot-long-pizza-oven-stick-thing, I can drag the plate of chicken salad toward me without having to wait for the guys to serve me.

"Guys!" a suddenly-appearing-cook from the backroom shouts."Everybody get out here in front! The reporter is going to guess the new guy's life!"

Apparently there is after all, some funny background to this, because a sea of guys in white suddenly come storming out of the kitchen, wiping their hands and not hiding smiles. I am shocked at their approach but then quickly relieved to see that one of them is carrying my chicken salad ..he also takes a calzone and winks at me....and motions me to a table across from a woman with a little boy. The woman is wearing a sweat shirt and jeans and she is taking ten thousand items out of her purse and lining them on the table...nail polish..a date book...glasses.....a lollipop, all while the boy with the sweetest hopeful expression and the backward Yankees baseball cap and the grey T- shirt fidgets.

The kitchen guys all lean on the table or stand nearby and look at me expectantly. What have I done, is all I am thinking now.

"Go ahead," says the tallest of the kitchen guys among a sea of smiles. "Guess the new guy's life."

I have suddenly become the room's entertainment, their make shift gypsy about to read a fortune...well..about to read someone's past. I feel like I need much more jewelry, make up, a sudden accent and a crystal ball.

But shoot, I want nothing to prevent me from my chicken salad so I just rifle through my mind as to what I can quickly say.

"Um. You ...you...you.....OH, I know..you were hired here because you know the owner...or his friends.."

Before I can even say another word, what I hear now reminds me of the sound of the collective shout of a crowd when the baseball has just been hit...and is.... in the air...in the air..in the air...on it's way.... to the outfield....Oh, will it go over the fence? Or behind the fowl post? It's the sound of a crowd before it's seen see if it's gonna count as outta the ball park or just another strike.

"Yeah, exactly!" shouts the Soda-man, laughing at the ring of truth and delightedly clapping his hands. "We hired him because no one else would hire him!" He rises to his feet laughing so hard he comes over to lean on my table but looking at the new guy saying.... "Has she ever got you figured!"

But because the Soda-man has moved from his spot, I can now see that the little boy is crying... and the mother's motioning that her wallet is empty and they have to go. And I see the little boy close his eyes, as if making a wish.

I am distracted from everything though, because my cell phone suddenly starts urgently playing the Flight of The Bumble bee, and vibrating...surprising the kitchen guys and me too...and I have no idea who it is calling me on the cell phone, but I swiftly say out loud to the room, "Oh, I better get back to the newsroom."

I quickly scoot from my table and walk through the sea of guys...with my chicken salad and my surprise calzone in my hands...and I slide them onto the table in front of the woman and the little child.

That little boys expression makes it soooooo worth not eating the chicken salad and going back with an aching empty stomach.

The kitchen guys are silent.

I scoot out the front door, onto the sidewalk to rush back to the newsroom, when Green-shirt emerges from the front door, calling after me.

It's only later that I realize what he was calling after me..he was saying, "We're not that good at guessing...tell us the newsroom's address, and we will send you dinner."

But I am back in the newsroom now anyway, and not thinking about food, I mean, how can ya after seeing a little face like that so sad then so happy...I did finish the story and meet my deadline..It came out pretty well...but I need to go. Tell you more tomorrow.

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About the author: Chrissa Falcon is a newspaper reporter in the New York Metropolitan Area. Chrissa may be reached at ChrisFalconColumn@hotmail.com

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