Rhubarb Pickles

Knucklehead

Conrad rode his bike to the house as daylight swapped dawn with a stark canvas.  In front, out on the street, various men kept shifting boxes from bed to trunk between a pick-up truck and several parked cars. It was difficult to follow, almost secretive, and Conrad did not want to follow.  Instead, Conrad took notice of flaws in the house under repair.  It sat on a crooked foundation, higher elements adjusting for what lie below - for an overall pleasant shape, like a stack of books with the top-most open spine up as a roof.  Its features enticed him to ride his bike there along shotgun streets flanked with slender trees recast as sentries guarding homes, and toil there, grateful for the work.

Conrad was no carpenter.  He was a cook.  He had completed a culinary program near Fountain Square and found good work with a growing food stand operation that had landed a beach head in a cafeteria abandoned during the downturn.  Its joyous Chef with her beret and apron helped Conrad improve his skills over the months. All his sauce and knife work was placed in containers labeled with his initials, awaiting plating, and then graded by Chef.

 “Conrad, this roux tastes raw.  You’ll need to add more butter and let it bubble.  No, never mind, toss it out and start again,” she would implore.

 “Conrad, your crostini are too thin. They char,” as she slide his failure off the sheet pan and into the trash bin. Months of inspections by Chef left Conrad waiting for an approval that never came. It all came to a head when Conrad went to the cold pantry to admire his work. Chef was there.

“Conrad, your rhubarb pieces need to be consistent for pickling,” as she fetched his work from the pantry to use in a puree instead.  Conrad turned to the shelving and saw likenesses of his own head in the last of his labeled jars; Mr. Potato Heads plunked in vinegar and salt.  He raised a stink:

“Chef, let me tell you.  The diners here will never know the difference.

 Chef responded: “I do and they do,” and relegated Conrad to restocking the food stand at hourly intervals with deliciousness staged from the cafeteria.  After a week of this, Conrad raised a bigger stink and soon went from replacing sustenance to hodding brick and sand in a wheelbarrow for a mason to tuck-point the house that sat on a crooked foundation. 

That stark morning found Conrad whimsically cusping a handful of mortar mix sifting some into his other palm until he finally felt a change in its heft with that last bit of sand, as a sudden heaviness. A few grains were the only difference, but let him finally feel all that had fallen before. His attention lost in sorting, Conrad ignored the constant carnival of the crew, knuckleheads all.

Manny, a tall wiry man with a thick moustache, seemed to lead the mischief.  As he cut studs on the second floor, he would toss out cull pieces toward open paint buckets lying below.  Most often his remnants would land harmlessly, but every so often a wet plunk resulted in a round of applause.  Phil used his nail gun to flatten the tire of a car.  Just as Larry ran up to scream at Phil, they all noticed a slowly approaching police car.  Each of the crew intently resumed work.  But Conrad could see their big round eyeballs signal each other as the police officer got out of the squad car to approach the house.  The officer started with the crew leader. After a while the crew leader pointed at Conrad.  Conrad sank.  The officer walked over to Conrad and explained that he needed to interview them all about a few things recently gone missing from a house nearby.
“Son, the foreman says you are new to this crew. What can you tell me about them?”  Snitch, thought Conrad, he wants me to rat on these guys.
“I’d be a marked man if I told you, even if I knew, Sir.”

“What?” replied the officer, “Listen, I know you don’t belong here. The foreman told me that you’re a cook. Listen come down to the station tonight.  The auxiliary is putting together a pitch in.  They need someone to run the galley.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Conrad as he sized up his next load of bricks.

“Well I do,” said the officer, “Be there tonight at five.”

With that the officer walked purposely to the rest of the crew, pointed to their cars and pick-ups.  Within fifteen minutes, seven members of the crew were sitting cross legged on the ground, their hands bound behind them with plastic ties.  The officer nodded at Conrad as he rode off on his bike. Conrad nodded back.

Conrad did not go to the station house that night.  But, the next week he did.  He found the knocked together kitchen pleasant and over time helped the auxiliary fashion a method and place for all of the food, to the hearty enjoyment of the squad. At length Conrad decided to take in an intern from the culinary school.  He was not surprised when she quit.