Editor’s Note: This story is a piece of fiction, meaning that all characters and events are purely from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Upon taking notice of the deer standing shock-still in the middle of the walk-in refrigerator, Iris is reminded of how often she has been let down by restaurant bureaucracy. How typical of her management, she thinks, to have unexpectedly introduced a new hire without notifying her.
The deer has arrow-tipped ears and black eyes as iridescent as a vinyl. Its mouth, mawkish and small, is currently buried in a silver tin containing carrots that had conveniently arrived in yesterday morning’s delivery. Though she knows that she ought to be disturbed by the clear disregard for health and safety protocols taking place, Iris can’t help the flush of affection that bubbles up from her chest. Suddenly: a memory of her aunt’s porcelain teacups, which, lined with silver rimming and adorned in watercolor bluebells, were to be handled with a gentleness so soft and slow, it used to bring tears to Iris’ eyes. Those summer Sundays spent in the quiet of the foyer, sipping Earl Grey on plastic stools with knees crossed just-so. Iris recalls how the humidity would sneak into the house like a cat, causing her bangs to stick flat against her forehead and make her eyes appear even larger than they already were. To this day, Iris refuses to drink tea for fear of crying: a habit that her brother constantly teases her for.
With the memory still wrapping its gauzy tail around her neck, Iris begins to instinctively cradle her hands together, mimicking the taking of tea. The deer, sensing unexpected movement, bucks up in attention and suddenly, the two are looking at one another. Oh yes, the issue of the deer. It had almost slipped through Iris’ mind.
“Let me get you an apron,” Iris says. “And then, I’ll walk you through training.”
***
Iris had been working at Soma Sushi for eight months and until today, was the restaurant’s newest employee. That wasn’t supposed to be the case, however. At the time Iris had been hired, the line to enter into Soma would regularly weave around the lot like ribbon candy, hordes of middle-aged couples wearing last-act Nordstrom Rack standing with an air of disinterest. Iris’ manager, Malcolm, would regularly ask Iris to monitor the line and as she walked up and down these rows of strangers, she would catch snippets of their conversations.
Erin Morose’s unbecoming PTA campaign, that unfeeling bitch, how she simpers and flirts and rests her French-press nails on the arms of every married man she lays her eyes on. The maelstrom of traffic it took to get here and the client’s unreasonable asks and Look, I got to take a call, and it’ll be five minutes max and the look of disdain that gets volleyed over from wife to husband and back again. The stilted non-conversation between two clearly uninterested people on a date.
Dreadful, just dreadful. Iris would return into Soma with nothing but a light buzzing in her head and then report to Malcolm: “The line is looking great.” Malcolm would then pull her into a hug, grazing his hand against her lower back and whisper in her ear with a gruff murmur: “Thank you honey.” His breath was always too warm and too wet, slobber like a dog. Iris froze up, her pulse pounding in a hot, uneven rhythm and her throat collapsing upon itself, the smallness of her body shrinking with each second she kept caught in his grasp. God, she could barely hold herself up.
The first time Iris was made to manage the line, Lydia, the head waiter at the time, pulled Iris aside and into the waiter’s backroom. In her low, sonorous voice: “You know, you don’t actually have to do that.” As she spoke, Lydia worked. From the industrial fridge in the back, she pulled out a large pitcher of soy sauce and slowly siphoned a little bit into the various empty soy sauce containers covering the workspace. It was clear that she had done this often. Lydia paid all of her attention to Iris, the movements of her hands an afterthought, and yet, she rarely spilled a drop.
Iris always had a difficult time looking Lydia straight in the eye. Lydia, with her deftly pinned bun, sharp-tack footsteps, and severe face, had been in the industry for over 12 years. The only reason she was working at Soma, rather than her old place, was because of a favor she owed Malcolm who, as the youngest of the Ramble’s, had a knack for whining and winning. That and the tips, of course. Iris remembers her first pay day, how Lydia had stalked into the backroom with her pointed chin and, with eyes pinned straight on Malcolm, jutted out her hand with the quickened reflexes of a sharpshooter. Lydia collected, counted, and then bound her stack of tips with an almost authoritarian grip, her deft fingers wringing the rubber band around and around and then closing it off with a predatory snap.
To the table of soy sauce containers, Iris said, “I know, but I don’t mind.” She fidgeted with her right earring, pulling the backing out and then back in, pricking her thumb each time.
“That’s not part of your job. We’re short staffed enough as it is, and I don’t need another one of my waiters running off to God knows where.”
A pause. “Malcolm asked me to.”
At that, Lydia pressed her fingers against the soft of her temples and began massaging. A woman in her late-30s, Lydia was as pretty as steel. One of those metallic sculptures with snatched pillars and gilded overhangings that can often be found standing sentry in front of a finance firm with no signage whatsoever. The Lydia that stood before Iris retained none of that poise nor severity. In the span of only a few seconds, she had seemingly aged three decades, her fingers trembling, a worry mark splicing through the plain of her forehead: a weariness that softened her to nothingness. Iris felt like an intruder to an intimacy meant only for one’s own self, if even that. Intimate, not because it was masturbatory or vulgar but because it was so drenched in self-shame that nobody would, in their right mind, willingly unveil themselves as such. Iris averted her eyes back to the soy sauce.
“Hm,” Lydia said and then she was off, the conversation never broached again.
***
When Iris first sees the deer, her immediate instinct is to call for Lydia but, of course, that is not an option anymore. So instead, Iris begins teaching the deer how to refill the wasabi and ginger trays.
“You have to use gloves to pick up the wasabi. I mean, obviously. For health and safety reasons. And the gloves are in that cabinet over there.” Iris points to the cabinet hanging closest to the refrigerator. “You have to push everything to the side to reach for them, but be careful because you don’t want to drop anything. To be honest, it’s difficult for me to do without a stepping stool. If you’re looking for that, you can find it in that little cranny to the left. Questions?”
Iris hears her voice trail off almost imperceptibly toward the end of her speech. As she glances around the backroom — the low cratered ceilings, the mounting refrigerator, the clear-glass cabinets, the messy workstation — the location of everything appears painfully obvious. The space is not so much snug as it is tight. When two people enter at the same time, they are always forced into doing an awkward shimmy, hips touching, elbows collapsing, a partnered dance against one’s will. Nothing is hidden. Everything is seen. From the side of her eyes, Iris can clearly spot the lurid purple gloves poking out behind a stack of small, blue-tinted rectangular plates. She sighs.
“You know what? Forget it. I’m going about this all wrong,” she laughs, puffing air. “I think, well, I think that these are things that you’ll learn as you do the job. Why worry about them now?”
Iris walks toward the front of Soma, the deer trailing behind. Though every table has been pristinely set up with plates, menus, and napkin holders, the entire restaurant is empty. Not surprising. It’s been slow ever since Lydia quit.
With the head server no longer managing the restaurant, service slowly fell into abandon, like rust creeping onto a machine. Waiters were never given any information about their schedules and slowly but surely, began skiving off of their shifts until they simply stopped coming in. Supplies like napkins or chopsticks would continuously run out and Malcolm, incompetent with logistics, would fail to order more. In only the span of a few weeks, the restaurant lost almost all of its business.
Malcolm never caught onto the problem, believing that the flurry of resignations and the horrid reviews were a symptom of the economy rather than his own ineptitude. And so, more and more, Malcolm has been stalking around the restaurant, jaw snapping and fists cracking. He’s become the sort of man who announces himself when he enters a room and then snarls at you when you deign to look at him.
When asked by her brother why she hasn’t quit yet, Iris is slow to respond, the saliva building up until threatening to choke her. Though she hates the place, hates herself when she is in the place, she continues to stay, for reasons known but unable to be verbalized coherently. What else is there to do for work, she says back to him and the self-pity which sticks to her skin is as thick as molasses, as opaque as motor oil. Yes, it’s mainly a matter of money but also, perhaps, a matter of ignorance. Iris has become so good at the job, at the posing and preening, at the biting-of-tongue and the making-of-small-talk, that she sometimes forgets who she is outside of work.
Iris has just finished reviewing the menu with the deer by the time the first customer of the day comes in. It is 12:37, and the restaurant is warm. Iris is sweating, little beads prickling off her forehead.
“Go ahead and shadow me,” Iris says to the deer as she inches toward the front door where a man in a light blue polo shirt is standing. “Welcome to Soma Sushi!” An open-toothed smile emblazoned upon her face; eyes bright; voice so animated, it is slightly animatronic. “Are we expecting more company, or should I get you a table for one?”
“Come again?” in a nasally voice. The man is busy looking at his phone so Iris can really only see the thinning hair on his small head. She steps closer, hands clasped behind her back as she asks again, “Should I get you a table, sir?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, his hand waving in a flippant manner, but when he finally looks up, he lets out a startled yelp, “What the hell?” The man’s mouth opens so wide that Iris can see every individual yellowed molar in it when he speaks.
Alarm shatters through Iris’ face. “I’m so sorry, sir. What’s the matter? Again, so sorry, sir.” She follows the line of his eyes to his hand where his outstretched finger, knuckles covered in hair, points accusingly at the deer.
Iris should have expected this. She had tried supplying the deer with her own apron but it dragged on the floor and the fabric ties broke into the animal’s body and within only a few seconds, the deer had flung the apron off. Iris was never one to skirt around company policy but if this was what the deer had chosen, then who was she to object? Clearly, a mistake.
“Oh, this is her first day on the job, sir, so she just didn’t know any better,” Iris says. Now addressing the deer, in a hush, Iris whispers, “Do you mind going to the back and putting on an apron? Also getting this man a glass of water?”
The deer is obstinate, unmoving, a sharp glare in her eyes as she looks toward the customer. Iris swears that she can see a faint glint of teeth, almost like a snarl, appear on the deer’s lovely face but the moment has passed. The deer heads to the back on nimble feet. Iris turns back to the man, expecting him to be satisfied but instead, he has a downturned scowl.
“Are you slow or something? That’s not your co-worker. That’s an animal, a-a fucking deer with the antlers or without the antlers or whatever,” the man intones with scorn and his hands manic with motion. “Helloo! You, with the big, dumb eyes, I’m talking to you.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
He grumbles under her breath, something unintelligible but filled with swears, the word “bitch.” Then, “I’m calling animal control now.” Between every word, the man nods exaggeratedly and smiles smarmily, speaking as though Iris doesn’t understand him. But Iris does understand. She understands perfectly. As a waiter, it is her job to anticipate customer demands and meet them. It is not rage that blossoms in Iris’ chest upon hearing this infantilizing tone directed toward her but rather fear, an all-encompassing urge to rectify the situation.
“There’s no need for that, sir,” she says calmly. “Let’s have you sit down for a second, and I’ll go get you some water, and we can work this out.”
She directs the man to sit in a booth, subtly placing a menu before him, but it’s no use. The man is too busy jabbing at his phone, searching something up.
Iris walks quickly — waiters never run — to the backroom and says, “Do you have that water?”
Whereas other animals would likely panic upon being trapped in a room as small as this one, the deer is unperturbed. She possesses an air of grace that is overwhelming. Her sloping head tilts left while Iris speaks, an image of coyness and haughtiness so similar to a princess’ portrait that Iris feels compelled to bow. The deer blinks slowly, slowly, in acknowledgement of the purple gloves and the wasabi and then, abruptly, keels her head right and toward the workstation. It’s a violet swing, a killing blow. Iris’s mouth opens in a silent scream and her hands tangle into her hair. No no no no. The scene falls away in slow motion.
But rather than slam her narrow face into the edge of the table, the deer angles at the last minute and knocks a cup of water onto the floor, the glass shattering with a clarifying snap. A revelation. The shards resemble daisy petals. Iris is still panting in shock when Malcolm’s voice barks from the back. It’ll only be a matter of minutes before he comes and sees the mess on the floor, the man in the booth, animal control.
She begins to crouch down and pick at the glass on the floor with her bare hands.
“Why would you do that?” Iris asks the deer. At that, the deer kneels, resting her head on Iris’ knee, and begins to lap at the water seeping into Iris’ apron. The deer’s coat is surprisingly soft and with her free hand, Iris begins brushing against the bristle.
Suddenly, Malcolm’s ballooning face appears in the doorway, his sputtering voice obnoxiously loud and rough with ire. Iris cannot make out any one word he says. She is too busy looking at his loafers as they kick and scuff against the floor like a bull rearing for a charge. It’s for this reason that she is so startled when she feels Malcolm’s sweaty hand grasp her hair, when she notices how close they are to one another, how small it all is.
The last time Iris saw Malcolm this angry was once during an argument with Lydia. This was a week or so before Lydia officially quit and it was out back in the parking lot, behind the garbage disposal. They both probably thought that nobody would notice their fight but their voices had echoed and even from within the restaurant, Iris could hear them mention her name, could hear Lydia’s racking sobs and defeated voice as she shrieked, “You always do this, Malcolm, and I can’t keep defending you. Nice girls, they always are, and you just love to toy around, don’t you?”
When Lydia had finished packing up all of her belongings the week after, it was she, not Iris, who refused to make eye contact.
The entire saga happens quickly: the deer and the girl and the man. The deer and the girl and the man who cries in pain upon noticing the deer with its canine teeth bite into the soft of his wrist and the girl sitting in a pile of glass and water and now blood as the man from the front of the restaurant comes rushing in only to howl at the blow he sustains in the knees from the deer whose red, red mouth is dripping and the backroom is a cacophony of noise and nobody is wearing gloves or saying the word “sir” and Iris, upon seeing the men lying upon the floor, feels as though she can stand up, on her own two feet, for what seems like the first time.
Iris steps around Malcolm as she fills up her own glass of water. She says that she is quitting and that though it is unprofessional to leave without a two weeks’ notice, she believes the circumstances justify the means. Malcolm groans and Iris nods affirmatively before leaving the back room. The deer is already gliding toward the front, fleet-footed and assured. She glances back at Iris who follows along. Iris takes off her apron, and they both exit the restaurant, the bell making a faint chime as the door shuts close.