T'wrist & Shout
Yellowstone: Circa 1994—the Film Days
I had a bad case or the blurs—those low-down, dirty, “how-can-anyone-just forget-to-focus,” blurs. And it’s not like the bear cubs cared, hyperactively moving up and down the tree trunk like that. But why should they? Why should anyone? Alas, maybe the “suggestion” scribbled (by Norman), on the photo mailer was right. Maybe I shouldn’t quit my day job.
And did I ever hate my day job. Okay, so I worked in an actual wonderland, one where one could “in theory” step outside on break and snap a National Geographic cover shot. One where one could “in theory” discover a cute coworker, and—by photographing her—turn her into a glamorous (Non-National Geographic) cover girl. And one where one could “in theory” paraphrase the “dumpster chicken” (with or without air-quotes)—and live to tell about it.
But none of that would keep me from occasionally getting down on myself. Because “in practice” I was a cook. That’s right, I said it—a cook.
And there’s nothing wrong with that, of course, if it’s your calling. But if you have other aspirations, say, for instance, to become a professional photographer/author. . .
“Who’s that tap. . . tap. . . tapping on my dorm room door?” I wondered as a half-opened eye found the alarm clock readout. It said 4:30 am. And it was only Edgar doing the tapping, as usual.
Edgar was one of the 50 some-odd seasonal park employees I fed, of whom 10 or so were indeed truly odd, getting up earlier than me for no. . . good. . . reason. And they waited. . . waited. . . waited on the porch for me. . . every. . . single. . . morning. But sometimes they couldn’t wait. Hence the tapping.
And I swore every summer, that that season would be my last—as a cook.
“Nevermore,” I cawed, scattering dumpster chickens (and a few “porch monkeys”) on my daily dorm-to-kitchen trudge.
I fumbled through my keys. Why didn’t they just sleep a little longer if they needed coffee so badly.
So no, not all of the summer employees at that small Yellowstone general store were cute college-aged would-be models. Some were these semi-retired (odd) couples who seemingly lived, (as I liked to complain), for their next meal. They came from all over the country too, each with his or her regional food favorites, the southerners being the worst. But the hard-core Minnesota Swedes came in a very close second.
And I gagged just a little each time I rolled one of the Minnesotan’s so-called “wrap-scallions”—which were smelt, onions, and kidney beans wrapped and simmered in seaweed. Also called Sargasso (for obvious reasons), this dish wasn’t exactly the consensus choice, so I didn’t have to roll many. The majority would eat my generic baked-codfish-and-au gratin-potato meal, which I happened to be preparing that very day, that very morning actually, while everyone was still eating the breakfast I’d prepared.
Bleary eyed, I stood at the cutting board table mincing onions for the tartar sauce. And, like most people, I’d tear up just a little each time I did this, more so if I happened to look up through the window at yet another photogenic, (if slightly out-of-focus), day breaking—me being stuck indoors. Then one of the southerners, Buck, came into the kitchen to “chat.”
“Codfish? How’s come you never fix catfish?”
I grudgingly wrote catfish on my ever-expanding order list and went back to mincing.
Buck, for whatever reason, then felt obliged to comment on my chopping technique, speculating on whether or not I pranced like I minced. (Buck was very insecure).
And they all loved to comment—almost as much as they loved to eat. And one comment always led to another, this one leading to a remark about my “namby-pamby” stainless steel chef’s knife, which was a not-so-subtle way, I think, of bringing up his hobby—knife-making.
“Did I ever show you my Bowies?” Buck asked.
“Your buoys should stay in their neighborhood bro,” I answered, mixing and pureeing my pop culture references. And apparently this retort was his cue to “fetch” the knives anyway—and Amber’s signal to enter.
Amber was my token dishwasher that summer. Dressed in sweats, and probably hungover, she did her sleepy but flirtatious little “I know I’m late” turn on the kitchen catwalk. I called it her daily purr-Amber-late. And she knew that I could never really get mad at her, (mainly because I was a lech), but when I didn’t even pretend-reprimand her, and when we finally made bleary eye-contact, she figured something had to be wrong.
“Oh, sorry about the bear cubs,” she said, guessing the depression de Jour. “They don’t realize how famous they could have been. But maybe we can meet somewhere later on tonight and finish my Victoria’s Secret portfolio pictures.”
She knew just how to push my shutter buttons, (and presumably how how to make Norman the mailer-writer’s day too). But before I could even brighten a little, or excuse her, (so she could go back and “get a few more winks of beauty sleep”) Buck returned with his prized knives.
And I should mention here, that as much as I hated my job, I really didn’t hate the people I fed. It just seemed that way. They even found me to be somewhat amusing—like a clown. And that particular day just happened to feature my Emmitt Kelly sad-clown routine—a thoroughly pathetic pantomime.
The performance of this pantomime began with my cutting Buck off at the open double-doors to the dining room (laypeople weren’t allowed in the kitchen). I then feigned interest in his knives—which, by the way, was definitely the hardest part of the whole routine. But the location—there at the open double-doors—was also key, mainly because of the witnesses. And out of those many witnesses, I happened to spy Mel, from Maryland, who promptly saw me too—and his opportunity to suggest something.
“Hey, why don’t we ever have crab cakes?” he said, approaching the double doors.
He also knew how to push buttons—the wrong ones. You see, they all knew I died just a little inside whenever anyone “suggested” something. So, to illustrate this “death”—(by suicide)—I promptly grabbed Buck’s biggest Bowie (much like one would a short shiny fiddlestick); located the “dull” backside of the knife; and proceeded to “play” my upturned Stradivarius wrist—to the tune of “nevermore.” Actually, I think I shouted something like, “never. . . mamaaa . . !” which is approximately when I dropped the knife, and snapped my suddenly-free knife-hand over my left wrist.
The audience, of course, ate it up. Some of them even chuckled out loud—more so at my shocked-clown expression, I think, than at the stark-ravin’ misquote. And the laughter only increased as the “photographer ‘slash’ author” cautiously removed his right hand—revealing red—and slapped it back over the wrist. Mel—having stated that he’d “seen that trick before” told everyone it was just ketchup—and then started a chant of, “crab cakes. . . crab cakes. . . crab cakes. . .” whereupon Amber reappeared in a curtain call of sorts (no-doubt wondering just how anyone could have possibly known of her secret pet name, let alone why they’d be chanting it in an employee dining room).
Likewise, how was I to have possibly known that the little dip found on the presumably dull backside of all authentic Bowie knives is instead routinely sharpened—to a razor-sharp edge!
Later, at the clinic, the on-duty doctor decided to forgo stitches in favor of gluing my wrist shut. He even told me that the medical adhesive they used to do that was nearly identical to Crazy Glue, a remark he instantly regretted. The physician then brought up the delicate subject of counseling as he handed me a pamphlet.
I then felt the need to explain the injury, to which he replied with the questions,
“An accidental self-inflicted intentional knife wound in a room full of people?”
Amber, who drove me to the emergency room (in her amberlance), and who was there supposedly for moral support, made some sort of condescending facial gesture behind my back, and tried (unsuccessfully) to cover it up with a yawn.
Seems she didn’t believe me either. But at least it made for a few good “sympathy pictures” later on. And the drive to our trysting spot, Dunraven Pass, was pretty wild—crazy actually—if only because Amber liked to scatter “dumpster chickens” as much as I did. The next morning, however. . .
“Who’s that tap. . . tap. . . tapping at my dorm room door?” It was only Edgar, again. And later, after getting his coffee, and then his breakfast, he wanted to know when we were going to have pan-fried southern-style chicken.
“Soon,” I cackled between crow’s feet. “Actually, we’re having ‘squab’ for dinner tonight.”
I then contemplated my wrist. Luckily, no major arteries had been severed, nor any tendons. And although the doctor said I could someday “play the violin” again, he didn’t recommend an “audience.” And now that I think of it, he also said to take it easy on the “air-quotes” for awhile—at least with my left hand. No problem there. In fact, I’d always toyed with the idea of using some sort of substitute prosthesis for that anyway—no matter how fowl. I also took it upon myself to regularly reinforce my wound with “Crazy” Glue, carefully letting it dry before getting “down” on myself. And that’s not as easy as you might think—when plucking “squab.”
Now, if only I could get yet another assist from Amber when making Mel’s special angel-food crab cake, heh, heh, heh! Nevermore!
NOTES FOR THE YOUNGSTERS:
1) Norman Mailer was a famous author; Norman the mailer-writer, however, never made it big. I, on the other hand, eventually quit my day job and made it small.
2) National Geographic used to be a magazine—one made of paper that you could hold in your hand and physically turn the pages. (They never used any of my images).
3) Down jackets used to be made from raven down. (But don’t get down on yourself if you didn’t happen to know that.
4) Old people often have trouble sleeping and need coffee at 4:30 am. I can now personally attest to that.
5) “Your boys should stay in their neighborhood,” is a quote from the TV show Seinfeld and is vaguely homophobic, which was considered sort of okay back then. “Those aren’t buoys” is also a Seinfeld quote. A Bowie is a type of knife. (Read the story again with these notes in mind and tell me I’m not clever).
NOTES FOR EVERYONE ELSE:
6) I still have a faint scar on my left wrist in case anyone thinks this story was entirely fabricated, and a handful of the witnesses to the knife incident are still alive and can verify it.
7) Amber (her actual name was Cat) didn’t really have crabs—I made that part up.
The below book will be available sometime in 2025. It doesn’t have the above story in it, but it has many others—and pictures. Click or tap the cover to buy it.
You could be a columnist if they still had newspapers.