Not absent - still here!
Keep Calm and Carry On Poeming. 😂
“Come” says the Chef, for this is Switzerland, the chef Yugoslav and the only other English he knows is “Mister”. Gesture at sink full of crockery and used utensils. “Come Mister” – mop bucket and expanse of floor. “Come Mister” as he disappears out of the back door. And so through the mist of bleary eyes and the misery of queasy guts I follow him at a trot. (Oh why the hell did I drink so much last night? I know the gathering was congenial, the beer free, but why?)
Heading in the direction of the cool room, no real time for such self examination. There lie 20-30 chooks, bare and goose pimply waiting passively for their intestines to be removed. Dry mouth and furry tongue, aching head. Shove bare hand up, grasp the squelchy mess and pull. The ripe atmosphere tickles at my nostrils and the painfully eaten half roll and coffee which constituted breakfast begin to churn. Dry mouth wetted with sticky saliva. Head pounding. Sweating despite the cold. Already messy hand into second fowl, grasp and pull. “Nix langsam, mister” shouts Chef over the sound of the refrigerator. My third bird corresponds to the Chef’s seventh and the nausea is now too strong to deny. Bowel makes its presence known and warns of need for action. Stomach is also making similar demands of breakfast.
I leave at a fast canter, back through the kitchen, up the stairs, through the office to the only toilet which is locked as another member of staff ponders upon the mysteries of the Universe or reads a comic and gently deals with his evacuation in an easy deliberate manner.
-
Author:
Doggerel Dave (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 29th, 2021 23:28
- Comment from author about the poem: 1967 - Large restaurant large turnover. Kitchen Hand lowest form of life.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 60
Offline)
Comments7
My gagging reflex barely allowed me to read this piece.
It stinks - in the nicest possible way.
Thanks dusk.
Got a confession to make (Full disclosure) – My need for a dramatic open ended story overcame my inclination to tell the truth: in actuality, the toilet was empty, as was I, completely, within the next ten minutes.
Dave, when you gotta go you gotta go! Very much enjoyed this short story. I promise, I will never read again while sitting on the throne!
Thanks Fred - but I assume you have your own hale with a throne you can claim as your own.....?
I do! It's just my wife and I in a big house and multiple..., so we can choose where we want to go. Do I really have to go into all the details?
Thanks as ever for your kind and to the point comments!
..............to put it mildly, that's fowl sir ...
Arr - you be got it sorr
I remember those times well when my Gran was teaching me how to draw and clean birds - you poemed your fast canter and the result so vividly Dave - - - sympathy amid my smile after reading your backalong kitchen experience..
Managed to extract lots of empathy from you today, Fay - I hope I manage to maintain it...In the meantime, many thanks.
Cheers Munro. I'd never have guessed irony was one of your talents.
Gag me ..... great visual write DD!
Hauled that out from the back of my closet, didn't you, PV..... I hesitatingly wonder what else you might have found there.... thanks - I didn't mind the revisit myself.
🙂
Not been there but similar and your words framed the images well. Very unpleasant and the locked door well that's the coup de grace.
You don't have to go there, Soren - It wasn't a very life enhancing experience.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.