House Salad

Per Loufman

My cousin Alba pulls over outside one of our favorite restaurants. We’ve ordered ahead of time. I’ve just lost a long argument and she’s making me go in to pick up the food. This wasn’t my plan; I always get self-conscious ordering food for pickup. Plus, I really like eating out at the Patriot. All the staff dress up in colonial attire, and I love watching the waiters uncork bottles of wine in petticoats and bonnets. It felt like a betrayal getting something to go.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Alba and hop out onto the curb.

I ask a waitress at the front of the house for our food and she goes into the back to pick it up.

“I’m sorry,” the waitress says coming back out, “but we’re out of our house salad. Want the mac and cheese instead?”

“No,” I say, “I’ve never really been a mac and cheese person, what other salads do you have?” The waitress looks at me for a second and adjusts her gown. 

“To tell you the truth it’s our salad chef. He’s ridiculous, won’t prepare salads for any of my tables unless I go out on a date with him.”

“That’s crazy,” I say, laughing.

“Yeah, been going on all week.”

“Would you go on a date with me?” I ask. The woman doesn’t look happy.

“That’s really not helpful,” she says. That probably wasn’t what she needed to hear, I think to myself and leave a big tip, hoping it comes off as apologetic and not crude. I walk back outside.

When we get back to Alba’s house, I get a call from my dad. He tells me that he just repaired one of his barber’s handwoven baskets.

“Tell your friends,” he tells me, “tell them I traded my black ash weaving skills for two free haircuts.” My dad wants to be known as the grizzled man of peculiar skills, but I also want people to know my dad that way, so I enjoy spreading this around for him.

“Your dad’s awesome,” Alba says, after I tell her about his recent bartering.

“Yeah,” I say, before being interrupted by a couple loud shouts from upstairs. “What’s that sound?”

“Sonya’s upstairs,” Alba says. “She’s listening to a live concert through her surround sound. She went to a concert Thursday and has been trying to relive it ever since, apparently it was the best night of her life.”

“I love Sonya,” I say.

“Yeah, everybody does,” Alba says.

“I think it’s because she just says really relatable things. Most people nod really hard when they’re having conversations with her,” I say. Alba takes some toilet paper out of her pocket and blows her nose.

Sonya comes downstairs about an hour later. Alba told me once that people always look more attractive when they’re walking down stairs. Now, when the doorbell rings in my house I always tell my roommate to answer it and go upstairs to wash my hands, or clean my glasses. I don’t look over at Sonya until she sits down next to Alba on the couch.

“Hi guys,” Sonya says, “I’m heading to the grocery store, anyone want to come?” I look at Alba curled up on the couch watching Jeopardy!.

“I’ll come,” I say, pulling on a sweatshirt. Sonya grabs some non-disposable bags and we start walking. She hands me a green bag that says “The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling” on it with a picture of a white tree. 

“Big Kipling fan?” I ask.

“No, Rudyard’s an asshole, but it’s a nice shade of green.” I look at Sonya. 

“I don’t really know that much about Kipling, I’m just a big Jungle Book guy.”

“The book’s kind of imperial racist trash. He’s not the best person,” Sonya says. I’ve never read the book, so I keep quiet for a while and then tell her about my dad repairing baskets.

“Alba told me that when you were kids, you didn’t like soup,” Sonya says when we get to the store. We’re in the produce section and she’s picking out an onion for chili.

“Yeah, I wasn’t a fan.”

“She said once she came over for dinner and your mom made soup with turkey and noodles, and you started crying, but then she brought you a turkey sandwich.” I don’t remember this but it sounds like me.

“That sounds like a great memory, I wish I had it,” I say. Sonya laughs and I go off to find eggs. I really want my relationship with Sonya to be unique in some way. 

We start walking back and cut through the parking lot.

“That’s a great car,” I say, pointing at a Toyota Camry.

“Ooo, I love Camrys. I don’t know though, not a lot of legroom,” Sonya says, shaking her legs out.

“My brother was born in the front seat of a Camry. I was in the backseat and my mom pushed the seat all the way back, and my legs were still fine.”

“Really? I thought you only had an older brother?” Sonya says.

“Yeah, my younger brother died when we were little,” I say. 

“I’m sorry,” Sonya says.

“No reason to be sorry,” I say, “but the Camry, don’t sleep on the leg room.”

Sonya doesn’t say anything for awhile and then answers. “Yeah, it’s a hell of a sedan.”

When I come back into the grocery store for work the next day my hair’s still soaking wet from the YMCA pool. I’ve started swimming laps every morning. I hate forgetting a towel. I work behind the counter in the seafood section, and the ice makes it too cold for my hair to dry.

“Did I miss the morning rain?” a woman asks me as I weigh out her tilapia for her.

“No ma’am, just trying to get in a few miles at the pool before work every day.” My coworker Erik snickers behind me.

“The English Channel waits for no man, out over into the surf and the waves!” Erik says when the lady leaves. I ignore him. I know two miles in a pool is a lot different from 19 in the open ocean, but I don’t believe some people are born with the ability to swim for 19 miles and the rest of the world isn’t. Maybe tomorrow I can tack on another half mile.

I finish all my morning prep work and sit on a stool behind the counter. I pull out a copy of The Man Who Would Be King that I got from the library last night. Near the end of the day, I recognize the waitress from the Patriot in the supermarket. I don’t know if I want her to buy seafood—I don’t know if I want another interaction with her or not. I tap a crab leg against the counter. After a while she walks over and asks for some salmon. I weigh a pound out for her and wrap it up.

“You’re bleeding,” she says. I look down at my hand.

“Oh, just fish blood,” I say, smearing it across the front of my apron. She takes the salmon, thanks me, and walks over to the oatmeal.

“I can’t believe she didn’t remember me,” I say to Erik, and then explain last night’s events. 

“Maybe she didn’t recognize you without her costume.” I look at Erik.

“That’s not how that works,” I say.

I stop by Alba’s on the way home to pick up my leftovers from last night, and end up staying to watch Jeopardy!. The guy that won yesterday is back on and I enjoy his mannerisms. He has really poofy hair and answers each question like he has no idea if it’s the right answer. I don’t ask Alba if Sonya’s home, but I stay there for another hour. Nobody comes through the door, or comes downstairs. Alba starts doing the dishes in the kitchen and I head home.

The next day I swim five miles and show up two hours late for work. Erik has been covering for me. 

“You’re lucky I was working today you bum,” Erik says to me when I walk in. “The rest of the seafood staff can’t handle the rush by themselves. Why are you so late?”

“Five miles today, Erik, Five miles.” Erik shuffles off. He doesn’t seem all that impressed, and returns with a bucket of shrimp for me to clean.

I go back to Alba’s after work; she lets me in.

“Gotta see if our boy wins another round,” I say as I walk in, before she can ask why I’m dropping by for a third straight day. Sonya is sitting on the couch putting on her shoes. She smiles at me. 

“Fuck Kipling,” I say and she laughs. “The Man Who Would Be King, riddled with prejudice, utter garbage,” I say.

“He was still pretty influential though,” Sonya says, and heads out the door waving back at us. “See you guys later.” 

I sit down next to Alba and watch Jeopardy!. The poofy hair guy loses by a landslide.