Beasts and Violins

Into Days Between Snow

56 Into Days Between Snow When the roads were asphalt again, and the dusters given different jobs, I used to step out to the parking lot with a prep girl for most of her smoke breaks. The restaurant didn’t schedule those, so during shifts I eyed her coat hooked nearest the door. The weather was getting good enough for full-time habits, but I wasn’t going outside for the cigarettes. I went to stand beside the curb past the Dumpsters, to bullshit with her about how she would quit Missoula and move to Portland. She said it was temperate enough in Western Oregon a person could live under bridges through all seasons, with easy trains to California if it got too bad. Her hair had been dyed black a long time, and there were holes in the wrists of her favorite hoodie, so her thumbs could come through. One night cleaning up, a line cook told me if as many dicks were poking out of that girl, as had poked into her, she would look just like a porcupine. I listened to the talk, with my rubber gloves on, then emptied his fryer waste. 57 By September, she had left Montana, the Mustard Seed Asian Cafe, and me a note, giving the little hand-built bench where she sat to roll sushi. It saved my back, made it easier to square off a corner from the rest of the kitchen, while I did the work that had been passed me. Until fall, when a few of the galley boys took it, broke it with hammers, burned it for their football party. ...