Hot Potato

1. Double Whammy

I delighted in the rapt attention of the line cooks and preps while I demonstrated new ways to plate the final orders, then with the lunch rush over, I left them to handle the cleanup. As I plopped onto the couch in the empty staff room, John entered and said, "It's time to let you go, Gianna."

"Oh! Let me go where?"

"To a position more suited to your talents."

I looked up at him, puzzled by his sad face. "Ooh, sounds exciting. What is it? I thought you said there's nothing more for me to master here."

John laughed. "And that's my point. We're too small to allow your full potential to blossom."

"I'm a bit fagged from three hours nonstop. I don't follow what you're saying."

"Consider it being set free. You've not had a day's vacation in the two years you've been here – not even sick days. You're a workaholic, Gigi. Take a few weeks to unwind, so you're ready for a fresh start."

I pointed toward the kitchen. "Who'll handle that until I'm back?"

John tilted his head. "Hmmm! I should have made it more clear. You're not coming back here."

Oh, God! As realisation swept in, I shuddered. "Does this mean you're firing me?"

"Better to say I'm releasing you from your contract – a necessary step in moving on from your dead-end position. Full short-notice severance and compensation for your unused vacation will be deposited to your bank. I've said this before, Gianna – many times – you've far too much potential to waste, and you're working yourself to a frazzle here trying to satisfy your need for more..."

John blurred as my eyes watered, his words becoming background babble while my mind repeated like a stuck record, Gigi, the unemployed sous chef. Gigi, the unemployed sous chef.

"... let you go ... break ... career ... refreshed ... placement ... talent ... growth..."

Gigi, the unemployed sous chef screamed in my head nonstop, louder and louder while I stared at John in disbelief, his disjointed babble continuing for a long time before he turned and left.

Not fully resigned to the new reality, I trembled and fumbled as I changed into my baggy jeans and hoodie. Then, with my clogs and whites in the backpack, I looked at the wall clock. More than an hour before sushi with Marcy. Home first. Try to wrap my mind around this before we meet.

A few minutes later, when I opened the door to my condo, loud guttural moaning came from the living room, and as I rushed toward it, I asked, "What's wrong, Garth? What's happened?"

"Gigi! Why are you home early?" He looked up at me as I entered the room. "Keep rolling, guys. Include her in the scene – ignore the script – we'll ad-lib from here. Add some excitement."

"What the fuck are you doing, Garth? Who are these people?"

"Actresses and cameramen, shooting a –" He paused and grabbed a bimbo's head and forced her to continue bobbing on him. "Doing modelling for animation."

"Get out. All of you. Now!"

"I paid them for four hours. We can't stop now."

"I. Said. N-now." My trembling voice defeated the emphasis.

"Aww! You're just jealous because you're not doing this." He thrust deeper into the Bimbo's throat. "And that you don't have boobs like these." He squeezed and bounced them; then, he moved a hand down and fingered. "Or a perfect pussy like this, rather than your ugly meat curtains."

"Fuck you, Garth."

"You wish."

Giggles and laughter followed me as I ran to the bathroom, slammed the door and sat to lean against it, trying to deepen my rapid breathing and control my trembling. Oh, God! What now? Who can I get to help? Would the police? Domestic violence? But he didn't touch me. I shuddered.