The Recession Special

The subway car rocks methodically, sending you into a trance as you stare at the new Metrocard in your hand. Your mind conjures the image of that familiar eye of your empty wallet staring at you after you took out the last few dollars you had for the honor of, once again, experiencing the exhibition at the zoo of humanity that is the New York subway. You feel its judgemental glare on you all over again. The deep emptiness surrounded by thin fabric wrapped in cheap leather sarcastically whispering to you ’Hello, old friend.’ You feel all the air drain from the subway car, as the minutes blend together in a moment that feels like it will last forever.

The harsh grinding stop of the subway shakes you from the fog you put yourself in. It’s been an hour and a half. It’s finally your stop.

The ominous light-gray glow from the cloudy sky above you grows darker as you walk away from Times Square. The once blue ceiling of the city was replaced with the dull fluorescent light of an imposters hazey gloom. The further you walk the more clouds arrive to mourn the death of the sun. You feel a drop or two of their grief-ridden tears plop on your shoulder. But the clouds don’t break down and sob. They stay strong. They knew this day would come. The sun was a hot ball of gas after all.

The interview is only a few blocks away so you get to your destination before the sky is turned to charcoal.

You smell the freshly cooked noodles and steaming broth from outside. Before you are able to enter the front door you see a head peak out of the more discrete side entrance. You are ushered by the owner with a nod and a wave into the neighboring doorway fostering a descending staircase into what you deduced was the basement of the establishment. You hesitate for a moment, but you need this to go well. You follow the owner down the stairs and duck your head through the narrow doorway to be greeted by a cramped room with a low ceiling. In front of you is a large man wearing ski goggles covering his eyes and a face mask covering his mouth wielding a large kitchen knife. Separating you two is a table with a large wooden industrial cutting board carrying at least a dozen green onions. To his left there are bins of some kind holding various freshly cut vegetables.

He regards you by tilting his head slightly while simultaneously lifting the blade up, as if to say ’Hello there’ without wasting the words. The owner walks further into the room, behind the man to a small table with two chairs and you instinctively follow. He sits at the chair against the wall and you sit with your back to the onion murderer. The space is so small that the owner’s chair is touching the back wall and you can feel the heat of the sweaty man radiating off his back.

The owner gives you a disingenuous smile and shifts in his chair to a more upright position before asking you about yourself. You begin to stammer out an answer as you feel the heat in this basement begin to force sweat to trickle from your forehead. As you realize that the interview has begun, the sudden sharp slice of an onion behind you takes you by surprise. The owner, unphased, continues his questions one after another.

“What is your previous employment experience?”

“What made you want to work here?”

“Do you live in the city?”

“What level of education do you have?”

You start to feel yourself getting more comfortable. You make a joke and the owner chuckles. You stop paying mind to the sounds of the blade slicing through the onions to get to the wood. You feel the room become less suffocating. This guy’s not so bad, you think, I could like it here.

But then your eyes begin to swell with tears.

“How did you hear about this position?”

You start to cough slightly and realize how potent the smell of onions have become in this small chamber. The tears begin slowly pouring down your cheeks as you muster up enough air to give a halfhearted answer. With each question the walls get closer and closer.

“Do you have prior experience working with food?”

The owner looks like he is underwater. You can barely see through your tears. You keep rubbing your eyes but every time you do the smell becomes stronger. You pretend like nothing is wrong.

You need this to go well.

The owner doesn’t react to the smell. He grew up around this smell. It reminds him of his father. Of his childhood. He remembers it as a tough childhood, one with many hardships. This was not the case. In fact, he was quite a fortunate child. He was quite happy most of the time. His parents never worried about money. Now, they certainly weren’t an extravagantly wealthy family but they were never living month to month. His bills have never once been late. His mother was an engineer and his father ran a moderately successful restaurant. He was a supervisor and part owner but he loved the kitchen. It was what drew him to the restaurant business in the first place. He couldn’t help but get sucked into that fast paced world, that loud, busy, exciting atmosphere. He would never mean to but he would end up cooking and cleaning with the rest of the workers that worked under him. He would just cut vegetables for hours. He loved it. When he came home he would bring the kitchen with him. He would walk in the door at 3:00am, covered in a new color every day, either from sauce or power or spices or fire, and go to his sons room. He would wake him up gently and show his son the meal he had made at work and brought for him. The sons mother would offer him dinner every night but the boy prefered to wait for his father. They would talk and eat for an hour or two before both passing out. Sometimes his father would fall asleep right next to him. Neither of them either said it but these talks meant the world to both of them. It was their personal ritual. Their time for each other. And it was always over his father’s dinner. Sometimes when the boy would wake up next to his father, still in his work clothing from the night before, one aroma that outlasted and overpowered the others was the pungent smell of onions. After years of awaking to this smell, not only did he grow used to it, he grew fond of it. But you didn’t grow up around onions and onion smells. Your mother is the manager of a Starbucks and your father does ‘something with construction?’ You aren’t entirely sure.

“What is your biggest weakness?”

Is this ever going to end?

Just as that thought enters your mind the owner stands up and holds out his hand, inviting you to give him yours. You rub your eyes one final time to get a good look at the owner’s face. His disingenuous smile has vanished and has made way for an apathetic impatient glare. It wasn’t until you passed the onion man, who regarded you the same way you entered (with his head and knife), ducked through the narrow doorway, made your way up the steep stairs, walked back outside reentering the land of the living, that you processed the fact that you weren’t going to get the job.

You took a deep breath finally being able to take in air without it making you cry. You walked to the front of the store and peered through the window to look at all the happy faces enjoying their delicious onion filled food. Some of them were chortling in front of their divine looking meals. You even see one rub their stomach and go “MmmMmmMmm” while looking at their ambrosial broth which appeared to be fit for a god. The toothsome display made your stomach grumble.

You rifle through your pockets and find two crumpled up dollar bills. Take that wallet! You catch yourself thinking. You realize that being in opposition to your own wallet feels somewhat counterproductive. But you had no time for apologize. You were planning your next meal. Looking in your hands you reflect on the victory of the two dollars. Not enough to buy half of a side dish. Perhaps you celebrated a bit too prematurely. As you stare at the money you see a pearl of water appear on Washington’s face. As if the onion smell has finally gotten to him as well.

You look up to the melancholy chorus of misty gray clouds that have now fully gathered, longing for the sun. Still a droplet here and there but remains mostly dry. The funeral of the sun has turned away from an emotional side over to a more clerical one. Dividing assets of the Sun, determining what clouds will get what parts of the sky. Apparently the Sun did not have a clearly outlined will and testament. There are some clouds that are less than satisfied with their share. You can hear the rumbling of the argument from above. As if the sky is warning you for what is to come.

You make your way to a nearby hot dog stand that you had heard about. It was famous and soon would be closing up its umbrella for good. It was called Gray’s Papaya, and had a reputation for it’s delicious and cheap food. Now would be your last chance to taste their bouffage. You were excited to have one upside to your day. You look at a nearby sign that advertises one of their fantastic combos. “TRY OUR NEW ‘RECESSION SPECIAL’ TWO DOGS AND A PAPAYA JUICE FOR JUST 2.95$!” You squeeze the last two dollars you have to your name and ask the man who you assumed to be Gray, if two dollars would be enough for the Recession Special. Gray looks at you with enough pity to close his eyes and shake his head. You hang your head at another defeat and saunter down the street.

You walk back in the direction of Times Square as the sky snaps out of their callousness and aloofness to realized the Sun is really gone. Finally overcome with grief and unable to hold it back, the has clouds begin to weep. The deluge from the anguished sky covers the city in a new illuminating hue. You notice that the downpour pixelated the blaring lights of Time Square as walk through it. You see all the happy tourists, likely full of oniony delectable food, happily looking up, amazed at the rain’s magical glow on the buildings and lights and cars and signs. You veer your weary eyes to the quickly soaked pavement as you walk. Your eyes have been wet enough today.

The city makes you feel the way it makes everyone feel if they stay in it long enough. The buildings all leer over you and you feel them telling you that you don’t belong. You keep your eyes on the pavement and ignore their harassing scowl.

You make your way to another hot dog vendor, with an unremarkable name. This stand had no reputation and would likely be open until hell froze over. “4.50$ for a dog! Best Price Around!” the sign on the stand falsely advertised. You walk up to the man operating the stand and look at him through the rain. “Hey man, I live in the city and I only have 2$.” you say to the man with all the courage you have left to muster. “I’m sorry but can I please get a hot dog or something?” He looks at you with the faintest hint of compassion.“Yeah that’s fine kid.” He says.

You hand him the money and wait patiently, feeling your stomach’s anticipation for some semblance of satisfaction. You turn as the man holds out what resembles a hot dog. It is sitting on a soggy slice of white bread and melts into your hands, the hotdogs moisture dripping onto your fingers as you make note of the weight of the ketchup hiding the protein. You take a bite trusting there is a hot dog hidden in the gloopy mess. You know as soon as it touches your taste buds, this is the worst hot dog you’ve ever had in your life.

You eat the entire thing.