She always seemed high. In fact, I knew that until he was fired, she would smoke before clocking in with this white boy named Nathaniel who worked in the kitchen. One day he declared that his eyes were “redder than the devil’s dick”. A customer overheard and told the manager and that was the end of Nathaniel.
“I knew he was gon’ get fired,” Rachel told me over a cigarette that day. “He was always talking shit.”
I don’t know if she stopped getting high before work when Nathaniel left. He was the one who supplied their weed. Anyway, it was hard to tell because she always had this look somewhere in between hating everything and finding it all very amusing.
“What is this shit anyway?” Rachel asked, lifting up the multigrain bread on our gourmet sandwiches.
“Girl, hell if I know,” I mumbled, picking out the tomatoes. One of the perks of the job was a free meal every shift. Only the Ethiopians brought their own food, Tupperware containers of spicy smelling home-cooked meals. Everyone else took what was given.
“Look at these fools.” Rachel laughed, gesturing with her bag of chips to the ice rink outside. Customers circled around, flashing cameras and falling on their asses. “Damn near 70 degrees out there.”
“Indian summer,” I said. She gave me a confused look.
“What’s that mean?”
“Like when it’s hot in the winter or whatever.” I wasn’t totally sure what an Indian Summer was myself. I had heard our manager say it earlier to a customer.