i

let out the stuttering words to awkwardly proclaim this fact. So, when Chef ordered
me to Go get the scallops from the walk-in, ) dashed off agreeably, letting the walkin
door close behind me and stood paralyzed in the cool air, consumed by self-doubt,
the shelves of food blurring through my tears.
Envisioning the contempt on Chefs face if ) brought him the wrong food item made
my stomach swirl into a sour mash; like being called upon in class to read, knowing
my words would not obey me. My face burned a hot red despite the chill in the cooler.
Embarrassment was an all-too-familiar feeling and I worked hard to avoid such
situations. What had he said exactly? Scallions? I panned over to the produce shelf
where the slender, green bunches laughed at me. No. Shallots? Had he said shallots
and was tricking me? A nightly special with shallots? Cant be. ) pivoted to the meat
shelf and stared at a box of boneless chicken breasts, a plate of flattened veal cutlets
wrapped in plastic, a pan of iced halibut steaks, a few Cryovaced beef tenderloins––
the usual mise en place for the dinner shift. Off to the side on the middle shelf sat a
clear bag of milky white something.
This was not part of the usual walk-in-meat-shelf-still-life. I picked up the bag and
mashed my nose into it, as if my nose could save me here; but my brain was
calculating, in its logical Virgo and Spock way, that this had to be it––the special––
because this was the thing that did not belong. The special thing. Scallops! Soaring
down the hill of relief, I emerged back into the sultry kitchen, rounded the corner and
presented the bag to the chef. What took you so long? he asked.
Oh, jus–– s-straightening some shelves.
I had cheated embarrassment.
The piano began again. Nothing. A few gasps from the audience.
Liz, one of the voice teachers, appeared at the edge of the stage, arms motioning,
coaxing our frightened daughter with smooth words, smiles, nods, cajoles, you can do
its, while ) held my breath, holding in a tidal wave of an all-too-familiar, built-up fear.
But its what you do, isnt it, when you fear something? )n order to lose the fear, you
have to do the thing, until there is no more fear. Sissies avoid fear. My daughter is not
a sissy; neither am I. Fearful at times, but not a sissy; which is why, after twenty years
in the comfort of working in kitchens, I gave it up to pursue scarier endeavors.
Sales? Me? In sales? Funny looks from longtime friends who were familiar with my
speech impediment, as my stutter was called in grammar school by a speech
therapist. Are you sure? they asked. I was sure. Out of the sixty-plus hour work
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