"Al" by Lucas Restivo
I ask Al what am I doing here.
Al breathes in as if to suggest whatever he was about to say would take longer than the time it takes to cook a shaved steak sandwich.
I drop the raw steak from the wax paper. It hisses on the flat iron. I hit it with two oversized metal spatulas.
He begins with a story about two cowboys, a rattlesnake, and a doctor in a town a horse ride away.
I rain black pepper over the steak.
I attempt my best offering to the mystery. I tell myself not to think, which is a form of thinking.
Al backtracks. He forgot to mention the snakebite was on the man’s penis.
At this point I can sense the punchline will revolve around sucking venom out of the man’s penis.
I dice the meat into a more palatable mush with the two oversized spatulas. Once the pink cooks out, I apply pre-sliced American cheese, which is rumored to be so made of oil that it can’t trigger an allergic reaction. After these melt to near liquid, I add salt because I saw an Instagram video that said adding salt too early dries the meat out.
Al says the doctor tells the cowboy to make an incision at the wound and suck out the venom.
The small pieces of steak crisp around the edges. I’m stalling.
When the non-bitten cowboy returns, he says the doctor said there’s nothing he could do.
I chuckle and slop the steak into the roll. I pat Al’s shoulder, which feels instantly patronizing. I try to demonstrate, “I appreciate that you are here and you share this with me.” I don’t know how to properly demonstrate, “I appreciate that you are here and you share this with me.”
Al has lots of ideas. One of those old-timers who knows a little about a lot and everyone's great-grandfather. A gabbing old guy. It drives the other workers mad. It drove me mad, too.
One day, the deli was slammed busy, understaffed, and he talked my ear off during my allotted twenty minute break about the JFK assassination.
“You know that the government report, the actual government report, had to be recalled due to accuracy issues?”
“If you take it at its word, the bullet had to curve. The bullet had to curve.”
The next day, on my lunch break, Al turned the JFK assasination conspiracy into a magician’s card trick, though he bungled the prestige.
That’s the thing about Al. Just about everything he says, every strange filler of sound, is always so… Al. A brand of intuitive absurdity slipping through the cracks of efficient, workplace conversation. He feels entirely from the ether. It’s creative. It baffles me.
In simpler terms: He likes to talk, I like to not carry the load of conversation. His reality operates in a realm of consciousness very different from mine, which means there are surprises and color to nearly all of our interactions, even when color and surprise are now expected. Even when he got quieter when he finally realized no one else liked him.
Sue claimed that Al pathologically wants to “save others” who he deems are “troubled” because it scratches the itch of saving himself.
I asked what he was trying to save himself from, though I already had an answer in mind.
She said, “Who the fuck knows and I don’t give a shit to find out.” Sue was my favorite coworker.
It seemed simple. What else do talkative old people try to avoid? It rhymes with meth and I like to think it feels even better.
On Sue’s last day, he came in with an elaborate bouquet from the florist next door and a card with a hand written note. He claimed he just asked for some flowers and the florist went overboard with it.
Hanging in his usual spot by the back door near the flat iron grill, Al reveals to me he has a nickname for the older women who work the morning shift, who are already referred to as “The Mothers,” even if they don’t have kids. This shift attracts moms because it allows them to pack and send their kids off to school and be home when they return. I’m technically one of The Mothers. But also one of the “The Kids” because I’m leaving in the fall.
I’m going to New Smyrna, Florida.
I’m going for a month.
I’m going to split an Airbnb with my roommate/cousin Billy.
I’m gonna spend the rest of my money.
I’m gonna practice three point turns in my old beat up bus I bought from a government resale.
I’m going to avoid shark bites, as my mother informed me New Smyrna is the shark bite capital of America.
I’m going to make my mother proud that I did not get bitten by a shark.
I’m going to pick up Saturday shifts beforehand so I could run out of money properly.
I’m gonna elevate my stupidity.
I’m gonna come home and get my commercial driver’s license.
But first I have to hear how Al named The Mothers, “Green Peppers” because he likes them but they don’t like him. He never explains why Green Peppers, the vegetable, don’t like him and that’s why I love him.
Lucas Restivo is a writer from Massachusetts. His Twitter is _Mr_Lou_ and his Instagram is not_lou. The excerpt is from an unpublished, unnamed book.