The Cockroaches by Matthew Leslie
It was the last shift I ever worked in that shit-hole. It all fell apart smack dab in the dinner rush when I looked up from the sink and saw a forkful of Dale’s middle finger on the counter and blood all over the plates and then heard Juan swearing in three languages.
The night before our gig with The PCP Gangbangs and Dale lops a chunk of his middle finger off cutting a fucking Spanish onion!
Juan had a pile of meat and fish on the grill, and I was washing a bin of dishes, when Dale made this really weird yelp sound. It reminded me of this one time I saw a German Shepherd get smoked by a Jeep. The poor thing let out this terrible bark on impact that sounded both pup and wolf-like at once. There was pain in it, but it also sounded like that dog was really fucking pissed off it was getting hit.
Same thing with Dale, because as soon as he snipped the tip, he knew he circumcised our gig too. Dale knew we’d been cut from the line-up. That’s why he froze after it happened and bled all over the plates and a piece of salmon and the Spanish onion. Not because he freaks out at the sight of blood.
But I do.
And Juan was just screaming at him: Dale, you fuck, move to the sink! Caray! Fuck! Dale! Tabarnac! He’s bleeding all over the fucking fish! Blake, grab him and move him to the sink!
Juan was sweatin’ his pelotas off in front of the grill, choking a raw steak in his hand. He looked about ready to pop a hernia. So I pulled Dale over to the sink and had a peep at his finger.
You know when you look at a fresh tree stump and can see all the years of growth rings circling round the heartwood in the middle? Well, that’s what Dale’s fucking finger looked like. After that things go grey, because I pass out and smack my head off stainless steel sink on the way down—
—and then we’re on stage at the show and Dale’s standing on top of his amp just wailin’ on his guitar. Lookin’ like Hasil Adkins up there. I’m beating the hell outta my upright, spinning it around during the chorus and working the mic. Spider’s all jacked on coke or something, cuz he’s as peppy as ever on the drums. Girls are dancing in circles and the dudes are bopping their heads. We’re in the groove, playing a Chuck Berry number and Dale’s guitar is spot on. We go straight into “Rockabilly Boogie” by Johnny Burnette, and then I wake up on top of the freezer by the walk-in fridge.
Krissy: How’s your head, Blake? You OK?
There’s a rag full of ice on my forehead and my right ear’s buzzing with distortion. The First Aid Kit is open next to me on the freezer and Krissy is sifting through it. I see Dale on his knees, his left arm in a bucket of cold water and ice. His hair’s a mess and he’s frantically tapping his boot on the floor. Juan’s standing over him, and Tracy is by the ice machine looking at us with huge eyes, holding two bowls of crab bisque in her hands.
I hear our boss Marcus all high-pitched from the kitchen: Juan, we have six tables waiting on food! I need you in here, the meat’s on fire! Tracy, he’ll be fine, it’s just a nick! Get those soups to table seven now!
Dale’s eyes are scrunched up treble clefs. His nostrils flaring F holes. It sounds like he’s playing the refrain to “Maybelline” through his nose. Dale’s hyperventilating in 3/4!
Krissy pulls a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some gauze out of the First Aid Kit.
Juan: Blake, your head? Ça va?
I dunno, am I bleeding?
Krissy: Blake, keep the ice on your head and just stay still for a second, OK?
Marcus: Juan! You can’t just drop everything in the middle of a rush! There’s blood all over the counter! Get back in here! Krissy’ll take care of them! Tracy, get those fucking soups out there!
Juan puts his hand on Dale’s shoulder for a second, curses in French, and goes back in the kitchen. He’d been riding us hard all shift just because he knew we were hung-over, and now he’ll probably end up blaming himself for what happened.
I look over at Dale but he won’t make eye contact with me. He pulls his nubbin outta the ice and Krissy pours the alcohol over it. The thing starts fizzling and bubbling and Dale’s face looks like how I imagine Robert Johnson’s musta looked like after he drank the pint of poisoned whiskey at that juke joint and started going all ape-shit on the crowd, barking and clawing at them, his mouth frothing like the tip of Dale’s middle finger.
Finally, Dale looks over at me and immediately breaks down: Goddammit, motherfucker, cocksucker! Blake, I’m fucked! I am FUCKED!
Then he starts crying. It’s the worst thing you can ever see a friend do. I’d rather walk in on Dale screwing my girlfriend than see him cry. It hurts too much to see a man hang his head like that. Krissy starts wrapping up his nubbin. His apron’s smeared with blood and I know he’s thinking about our gig. Picturing us on stage, rockin’ out, bringing our Cockabilly sound to the masses. We’d been practicing for weeks and had our set down tight. Forty minutes of in-your-face-rock-and-fucking-roll. Dale’s a wunderkind on the guitar. I’m tellin’ ya, the kid can rock. And we were just one day away from doing so at the Sala Rossa with The Gangbangs and Dapper Dan and The Skulls. Fuck!
Marcus finally comes in to assess the scene: Blake, your forehead’s bleeding! Where’s Juan keep the salmon? Krissy, have you had a look at Blake’s head? How bad’s Dale’s finger? You guys are in the fucking way! Take this gong show to the clinic!
Juan comes in and hands Dale a glass full of ice. He pulls his car keys from his pocket, gives them to Krissy, and helps me off the freezer. Marcus is gesturing wildly to Juan about the fish. He doesn’t give a shit about anything but himself and his restaurant. I wanna punch him in the Adam’s apple.
I look down at Dale clenching the glass in his hand.
The Cockroaches are playing the fucking gig, man!! I scream at him.
Dale tilts the glass so I can see inside and there’s his niblet of finger on top of the ice. I take the rag off my forehead and see it’s soaked with blood. I drop it to the ground. Juan squeezes my shoulders. I put a hand to my head and feel a warm gash.
"Plutoz Flight 1987" photo by Flickr user Zellaby
My vision strobes—
—and then we’re back on stage at the show, playing this quick little instrumental by Ike Turner. I don’t even know the name of it, but it’s got a vicious guitar solo in it and Dale’s smackin’ his guitar around like Tina. It’s gritty and golden. This is the part of the set where Dale really gets to show his stuff, because we go into “Cruisin” next by Gene Vincent and the guitar in that song is break-neck. The girls always scream and cheer when we play this tune. And I’m doin’ some serious Elvis swaggering up there, dancing with my bass, as Dale slices through the solo and Spider’s sounding like a Tommy gun behind us. We’re just killin’ it, looking like icons up there, in our leather jackets and motorcycle boots, our heads reeking of pomade, and pure rock-and-roll sweat trickling down our faces like blood and tears.
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Matthew Leslie lives in Toronto and can most often be seen riding his bike with suicidal abandon across the city streets. Well, that is until his front tire got caught in the streetcar track and sent him sailing headlong into traffic. Fortunately, he survived, and now can be found limping along the sidewalks and shaking his fist at the streetcars as they slog past. His fiction has been published in Misunderstandings Magazine, Echolocation, The Broken City, and QWERTY. He also writes music reviews for Juno Records and Headphone Commute. Check out his blog: http://mmmlele.wordpress.com.
