Foreword


This novella is a critique of the contemporary publishing industry, a restaurant cook’s manifesto, a commentary on modern systems of aesthetics and an editorial about a protest camp in South Dakota. Though it is primarily a work of fiction it contains factual information about a real place known as Camp Justice and is based on the true story of a struggling artist who is forced to work as a line cook in a family restaurant. The book ends with a description of the events on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation that lead up to the foundation of Camp Justice.

At first glance, it might seem these issues have little in common. After all what do the publishing industry, restaurant business and contemporary systems of aesthetics have in common? Though it might seem these issues have little in common, in fact they are all linked and play a role in the development of modern society. All of these three issues are linked by the common philosophy that governs American society and can be contrasted with qualities found in Camp Justice. It is the philosophy of more for less used by corporations, restaurants, publishers, governmental agencies and every day people. Ultimately, it is my claim, that this philosophy leads to dehumanization, poor cheaply constructed materials and a depreciation of the creative arts.

Book Nazis is a term used in this novella to refer primarily to the giant publishing houses that control the book industry, but it is a term that can also be used to address the biased media run by a system of sensationalism. In today’s market creative authors have an extremely difficult time getting published because anything creative is seen as a risk. Most publishers will only publish works that fall into a set, elaborately-defined genre. If a work crosses genre lines or expresses something critical it is usually sent back. If it is controversial it is seen as a risk. But don’t "controversial" ideas push us to the limits of our consciousness and more importantly push us to be critical of our own thoughts and beliefs? I believe critical thinking pushes us to grow and learn. Our society can not grow and learn when we the people are only getting one side of the story. It is important to challenge notions, ideologies and philosophies that are handed to us, and it is important to speak out when we feel something is wrong. It is in that way we grow. Creativity can only aid the process as it makes us think about things in new ways.

Though this novella is entitled Book Nazis and intends to critique the publishing industry, it spends much more time describing the restaurant business. Indeed in this work the restaurant business is a metaphor for the publishing industry. I chose the restaurant business to symbolize the publishing industry for two primary reasons. First of all both operate under the more for less ideology that leads to the depreciation of aesthetics. Quantity is valued over quality, productivity is valued over humanity and profit is valued over everything, including morals. The consequences of this ideology can be seen in the cheap, ugly, plastic products produced by most of the companies in America. Have you ever been disappointed with an expensive radio that broke right after you bought it? Do you find strip malls ugly? Does the repetition of places like McDonalds, found all over the globe, ever bother you? Why aren’t automobiles made to last? Similar questions can be asked about the publishing industry and the restaurant business. Why are there so many Idiots Guides? Why doesn’t your restaurant food ever look like it does in the picture? Why was your food burnt?

The second reason I chose the restaurant business to symbolize the publishing industry has to do with the relationship between the two industries in association to class struggle. The very real need to work in the restaurant business (or any other service orientated job) is dialectically opposed to the desire of striving artists to publish their work. In this respect the need to work and the desire to be published, together comprise a whole. To achieve balance an author needs to be paid for his work but if this is not an option, for whatever reason, the author is forced to find another way to earn money for living. In contemporary society, menial cooking jobs more and more serve this purpose being as there is an abundance of family restaurants and fast food joints. Though it is a bit ironic I found it necessary to speak about the publishing companies through the dialectical reality of every day life for the short order cook.

This novella is a cook’s manifesto! Restaurant cooks are trapped in a vicious circle. If you are a cook, whether you know it or not, you are trapped in a vicious circle intrinsic to the restaurant business. This vicious circle is part of the industry and can not be separated. The feelings of frustration and stress stemming from the job are built into the system. It is part of the more for less philosophy and a direct result of the corporation’s desire to gain an unlimited amount of profit from your labor. Feeling overwhelmed, stressed out and falling behind are all part of the job. Your lacking ability to be in two places at the same time doing two separate tasks affects you while you’re stocking, closing, cooking breakfast orders at night and when you cook the first order of the day when you’re trying to put away food brought in from the truck. Broken equipment, empty medicine cabinets and the poor job done by the night crew the day before, are all built into the system. As long as you are cooking you will feel dissatisfied, frustrated, disappointed and angry.

Brother and sister cooks you are not alone! This novella aims to point out how and why the cook is oppressed in the vicious circle of restaurant life. By better understanding his situation in the restaurant the cook can better react to the problems he faces on a daily basis. With this work I aim to draw attention to the reasons why cooks find themselves surrounded by negativity and I aim to be a beacon of hope for those who think they are alone. The vicious circle of restaurant life can be broken!

Contemporary thoughts about aesthetics penetrate more than just the above listed issues. Contemporary thoughts about aesthetics penetrate most every faucet of life. In today’s mass market society everything is governed by the philosophy of more for less. Contemporary modes of aesthetics are of no exception. More and more art is considered "good" if it is that which is profitable. Poignancy, beauty, quality, level of expression, meaning and relevancy are overlooked in the name of productivity. The Book Nazis aid this process by publishing books that undermine American intelligence i.e. Idiot’s Guides. Poignant, expressive art is lucky to find it’s way into a museum but an ugly picture that makes a good advertisement will have no problem finding an audience. More and more art is defined by it’s marketability. This shifts the focus from the aesthetic of the expressive to the commercialistic aesthetic of advertisement. It depreciates the value of creative art and makes it difficult for thoughtful artists to make a living.

Throughout the centuries art and literature have often served the purpose of social criticism. From contemporary novels like those of Kurt Vonnegut Jr. to the writings of Che Guevara, Bertrand Russell, John Steinbeck and Ward Churchill we can see examples of social criticism. Even in the Bible we can see examples of social criticism. Though not all of the authors of these works would consider themselves "artists" many of them have been perceived as artists by society and more importantly many of these books have been the inspiration for artwork based in the tradition of social criticism. Though the opinions of artists and different members of society will always differ it is important that all people have the opportunity to express themselves freely. Unfortunately artists who choose to express themselves in a non-corporate context are finding it difficult to do so without making grand sacrifice.

Contemporary corporate attitudes about aesthetics are leading to a new form of censorship. This "over-commercialism" depreciates artistic expression and will ultimately lead to an artistic tradition of art for consumers. I visualize a world where every artist is the paid employee of a company, where no art exists without a brand name, logo, or product information. Not only do I see a world where art as social criticism is nonexistent, I see a world where art as expression is nonexistent. In this world "true" artists that believe in human expression will be subservient to service oriented jobs. The artist that chooses to express himself freely will be a janitor, a garbage man or a cashier. He will labor twice as hard to produce meaningful artwork outside of his job and he will never feel fulfilled because his desire to make a living at something meaningful will be contrasted by the necessity to work at a corporate or service orientated job. He will watch his artistic skills go to waste making advertisements for companies or he will watch his life go to waste working a cash register. The artist will never be fulfilled. He will live a lie just to live at all. He will be subservient in order to support his family, he will feel shame and sorrow when he gets a ten cent pay raise. He will barely make the rent and he will live in an underclass neighborhood where his children will receive an inferior education. He will stay late and work on his day off. He will be griped at and mocked by his manager. He will constantly feel frustrated and he will constantly be angry. He will be alienated and estranged, caught, in the vicious circle of restaurant life…he will be a line cook.





Book Nazis


In the age of monopolies, multinational corporations and the globalization of big business the elite were omnipotent. It was the age of plastic solutions. Plastic telephones, plastic toys, plastic containers, plastic cars and plastic cooking utensils for plastic people with plastic souls. The best product was the cheapest and most profitable. Quality was undesirable because it wasn’t profitable. Subsequently everything was poorly made, cheap and ugly. Art was dead and beauty had been destroyed. Literature was no exception. It was the turn of the millennium and everything concerning literature was run by the Book Nazis.

Of course the term Book Nazi was not commonly used and indeed, had absolutely nothing to do with old Nazi Germany. Instead the term Book Nazi was used to refer to the totalitarian nature of the publishing companies that reigned in the U.S.A. INC™. It was a phrase used by the minority of writers, artists and musicians that had the courage to express themselves in a creative manner. It was a phrase used by the minority that believed in quality above quantity, integrity above profit and beauty above ugliness. It was a phrase used by "liberal dissidents" as they were duped by the mainstream press. No alternative press existed.

Raymond B. Westwind™ was one of the last authors still writing in the fiction genre of literature. Worse than being a fiction writer was the style of fiction he wrote. Raymond™ or Ray™ as he was called by his friends, was one of the last authors of satire. Satire was the form of writing despised most by the government of the company in which he resided. The Book Nazis hated it even more.

Satire was despised by the government of the U.S.A. INC™ because it had been used for centuries as a form of social criticism which helped keep the government™ in check. This clearly did not sit well with the robots making up the different branches of government in the U.S.A. INC™. Satire was disliked by the Book Nazis for a different reason. It was disliked by the Book Nazis because it was considered an art form. Art was not profitable and worse than that, art made life more beautiful. Beauty was a distraction for the workers and led to a decrease in productivity. Productivity was valued above all else and was considered the highest of all human qualities. In essence it defined humanity.

Since Raymond™ was an author of satirical fiction he found it hard to put food on the table and consequently he needed to work a second job. Since he was a writer with no training in business, Raymond™ lacked the formal qualifications, experience and friends needed to get a "good job". Of course this meant Raymond™ had to labor for little pay at a menial monotonous job for a boss that was ungrateful and penurious. In this respect Raymond™ was just like everyone else in the company of the U.S.A. INC™ because most people didn’t like their jobs.

Of course just because most people didn’t like their jobs didn’t mean they complained. It was a social taboo to complain about work and people who did so were rejected by their coworkers. There were many social aphorisms and cliches made to reinforce this as well. Since people liked to believe they were free, these social aphorisms and cliches were held to tenaciously. One of the most common of these was this:


"You can do anything you want to. If you don’t like your job you can quit and do what makes you happy."


Of course most people couldn’t do what they wanted to because they didn’t have enough money. If a person did have enough money to start his or her own business for example, he or she would have difficulty competing with the giant corporations. Of course most people wanted to travel or work with their hobbies but this was not possible for most of them. Instead they found jobs that they hated and pretended to like them, reassuring themselves by repeating social aphorisms and cliches.

Since people who were making a lot of money usually were happy and had better work attitudes to begin with, it follows that these cliches were most common in the workplaces where people were not happy. These jobs, of course, were those that were most common. They were the jobs in which people labored for little pay for a boss that was ungrateful and penurious. They were jobs that were menial and monotonous.

Raymond B. Westwind™ worked as a short order cook for a chain restaurant known as the CHEF’S PALACE™. The CHEF’S PALACE™ was operated under a company called VICON™ industries. VICON™ industries owned several restaurant chains including John Beefy Corn’s™, MacJack’s™ and of course, the CHEF’S PALACE™.

"You can’t be standing around!" blasted Ray’s™ boss.

She was a wretched looking middle aged woman whose personality was more repulsive than her face, though both were pretty bad. She had short dull-brown hair and wore thick glasses. Though she had been Ray’s™ boss for over three years he still couldn’t get over the fact that her wire-like neck, oddly shaped head, and her twig like legs, combined with the manner in which her glasses added to the awkwardness, made her look more like a wild turkey than a person. Since she was always nagging at people Ray™ would picture her clucking and scratching at the ground. Her name was Betsy™.

"I’m on a twelve hour shift Betsy™! This is the first time I’ve sat down in eight hours!" snapped Ray™ viciously.

It seemed Betsy™ would always gripe at the wrong times. After all, he had been working all day and the restaurant was understaffed. Since he was required by law to take a half -hour break he assumed it would be alright to sit down for five minutes. Of course everyone knew "labor laws" only existed for appearances. They couldn’t be enforced in a society that valued productivity over generosity.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck" Betsy™ replied.

"Witch!" cursed Ray™ as he walked back into the kitchen. With much exhaust he began to cook. The day was only half over.






Since the citizens or consumers, as they were called, of the U.S.A. INC™ had been reduced to nothing more than a commodity, worth no more than the market price (kept low) it followed that parents, at the time of their child’s birth, had to pick out a trademark for their son or daughter. The trademark would serve as the child’s name and would be printed on his or her birth certificate. This gave a whole new meaning to the saying "you are a product of our love". Children actually were products! And it wasn’t uncommon to hear a mother affectionately calling her new born baby a "cute little product" or "my little commodity".

Being as no two consumers were allowed to have the same trademark (this would be a copyright infringement) Raymond™ felt lucky to have a "real name". Since the law had been passed, five years prior, all of the "real names" in English had been used up and could not be used until the death of their possessor. This caused two major problems in the company (country).

Firstly, just as it was difficult to market a business without the proper name, it was difficult to market one’s self without the proper trademark. Since most "professionals" and "business types" had names like Jane™ Bill™ or John™ it was not uncommon for someone to kill a person for his or her trademark. It was the price one paid for being successful.

Secondly, since all of the "real names" had been used up in English many people looked to foreign countries for his or her child’s name. Of course, since other countries didn’t necessarily operate under the same laws as the U.S.A. INC™ there were often disputes when an American consumer claimed ownership of a name. Just as some Native Americans didn’t understand the concept of owning property during the pre-colonial era, many people in foreign nations didn’t understand the concept of owning a name. Consequently this lead to many disputes.

Of course a lot of people opted for a numeric trademark for their child but this too was not without it’s flaws. Due to overpopulation the numeric trademarks got to be quite long. 6,789,429,031™, for example, was a difficult name to remember. Of course this made it difficult for a person with a number to compete in the market with a person who had a "real name". Most parents would try at all costs to get their son or daughter a "real name" in order to ensure his or her marketability.

Though Raymond B. Westwind™ felt more like a number than a person, he was happy he had a "real name". He liked the way "real names" sounded. Sometimes he would even blurt out a name of someone he knew just to hear the sound of it. Sometimes he would even blurt out his own name just to hear the sound of it!

"R-a-y-m-o-n-d" he said to himself as he entered his apartment.

It was one o’ clock in the morning when Raymond™ got home from work. He had ended up staying two hours later than he was supposed to and had put in a fourteen hour day. It wasn’t unusual for him to stay late. On the contrary, it was expected of him. Though it had been a long day and he was exhausted, Raymond™ wearily sat himself down in front of the computer and began to write. He was working on his next satire.






The next day at work was hell. Raymond™ had been up most of the night writing and had only gotten a few hours of sleep. It was Sunday morning, the busiest time of the week, and Betsy™ was flapping her wings like a wild turkey in flight. Worse than that even, was the fact that the opening cook hadn’t done anything to prepare for the breakfast rush and it was already getting busy when Raymond™ arrived. The opening cook was 0972™.

0972™ was a heavyset middle-aged man with long black hair and a scruffy beard. Though 0972™ was lucky to have such a short numerical trademark, he wasn’t lucky enough to know exactly what his job in the restaurant was due to his lack of common sense. Though this was sad, it was quite burdensome to Raymond™ who had to pick up the slack.

In the CHEF’S PALACE™ there were four primary positions for the cooks to work. The cook working the sandwich/salad station was responsible for all cold sandwiches, salads, microwave items and sautéed vegetables. The cook working on the grill was responsible for cooking all grill items such as hot sandwiches, burgers and chickens. The cook working the fryers was responsible for all that was deep-fried. And then there was the window cook whose responsibility it was to call off all of the new orders to the other cooks. The job of the window cook was the most difficult and the most stressful due to the fact that the window cook was held responsible for everything that went wrong. He also had to see to it that all orders were prepared within ten minutes and was responsible to see that everything went smoothly. If the window cook made an error everything went to hell.

When he came onto the line Raymond™ went directly to the window station and began to call off the new orders that had been collecting at the end of the printer. Every time a new order came in the printer blasted out an outrageously irritating "beep". Every annoying "beep" served to aggravate the cooks more. Every annoying "beep" also served to take away part of their spiritual essence that could never be returned.

Since the kitchen was understaffed, Raymond™ and 0972™ had to work all of the stations on the line themselves. A job made for four would have to be done by two. Since 0972™ was neither competent nor capable of doing an adequate job, Raymond™ would have to work three of the four stations while 0972™ struggled to manage one. Of course this wasn’t unusual for Raymond™. On the contrary, it was expected of him.

Raymond’s™ day started with a special order. Special orders were despised by cooks for two reasons. Firstly, when a cook was busy he often wouldn’t remember that an order was special and he would make it the way he was accustomed to anyhow. It was an easy mistake to make when a kitchen was understaffed and a cook was burdened with fifty orders. The second reason cooks hated to make special orders was, a cook would often have to drop everything he was doing in order to focus on one food item for one client. This seemed absurd to a cook that was responsible for cooking fifty orders in ten minutes. Sometimes one special order would slow down the twenty or thirty "normal" orders. This made cooks angry.

Of course the worst thing about cooking special orders had to do with the clients themselves. Clients that ordered special orders were usually pickier and more likely to send an order back to be re-cooked. Though sometimes there was something wrong with the food when it was sent back, most often there was not. Usually clients that ordered a special order and sent it back to be re-cooked were arrogant, conceited and egotistical. They were ultra picky and they wanted their food cooked in a perfect manner that was only understood by themselves. These people didn’t mind ingesting bodily fluids.

Though it wasn’t an uncommon practice for a disgruntled cook to spit in a special order that was sent back to be re-cooked, Raymond™ didn’t like to resort to such tactics. Instead he, and indeed many other cooks, elected to swear, punch the walls, and mistreat the waitresses. So it went in the restaurant business.

Raymond™ started his day out with a special egg-white only omelet.

"God damn it!" he cursed as the order came in and the printer let off an annoying beep. Days that started off with an egg-white only omelet were always negative.






Break time came for Raymond™ seven hours later and was short lived. 0972™ had been gone for three hours and had taken three cigarette breaks before he had left. The night crew had been on for an hour and already everyone had sat down for a cigarette. That is everyone except for Raymond™. Since Raymond™ didn’t smoke he wasn’t allowed to sit down. Though there was no company policy that nonsmokers weren’t to receive a break such it usually was in the restaurant business. Since Raymond™ was working a double shift and since he hadn’t even sat down once he decided to take a five-minute break before the dinner rush.

Just as soon as he slouched to a comfortable position Betsy™ strutted past the entrance to the break room. She was scratching at the ground with her scaly feet and clapping her beak. "Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!" she snapped.
"Yea, yea, yea," Raymond™ replied. Looking up at the bulletin board he could see the company had posted a new bulletin. Quietly he began to read as he tried to shut Betsy’s annoying chatter out of his mind:

Despondently Raymond™ shook his head. He had to get out of there. He had been cooking too long. As he was contemplating the words of the bulletin he thought about his latest book submission. He hoped the Book Nazis would get back to him soon. He had been waiting for months.

"They’re trying to turn me into a damned robot," he grumbled in a jaded manner. He could hear the sound of the printer as new orders were coming in.

"Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep…"

Sadly Raymond™ returned to the line. The dinner rush had begun.

"Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep…"






The next day was Monday and Raymond™ was fortunate to have the day off. Of course, because he was a good cook and a hard worker, he had every Monday off. Competent workers and good cooks were rewarded by getting the easiest, least busy, day of the week off. This was a standard in the restaurant business that existed so the best cooks would be working on the busiest days.

At ten o’ clock, earlier than usual, Raymond™ got up to meet the mailman. He hoped the Book Nazis had sent a reply. "If only the Book Nazis would accept one of my books I would be a lot better off," he thought as he walked out to meet the mailman. At this point in his writing career he and the mailman were well acquainted with each other.

"Hello Raymond™" spouted the mailman in a cheery manner.

"Hello 975,317,285™" replied Raymond™. "Any mail for me?"

"Just these bills."

"Damn" cursed Raymond™. "Maybe tomorrow," he grumbled as he went back into the apartment. "They had to have read it by now!" he thought. After all it had been five months!

The book Raymond™ had sent to the Book Nazis was about squirrels. It operated under the premise that people were like squirrels. The story took place in a forest. Good little squirrels worked hard all summer long in order to prepare for the winter. Summer, of course, symbolized the good years of a person’s life. Winter was a metaphor for retirement. Anyhow good little squirrels worked hard all summer long in order to prepare for the winter while bad little squirrels struggled to be productive. This was because bad little squirrels weren’t satisfied with the task of collecting acorns. They believed there was more to life than the search for acorns and they searched for meaning instead. They enjoyed good books, art and music. Bad little squirrels were shot by hunters.

Returning from the front door Raymond™ went straight to the computer and began to type. He wasn’t going to let the Book Nazis discourage him. So what if they didn’t get back to him? He would send his new book to a different publisher.

"There has to be someone out there that still believes in art," he said as he started typing away.

Raymond’s™ new book was the sequel to his last. In his new book the society of squirrels had advanced and grown out of proportion. There was an overpopulation problem and the forest was infested with squirrels. In his new book the political elite or "squirrel kings" as they were called, had a monopoly on the acorn producing oak trees. Nearly all of the other squirrels worked for the squirrel kings. They labored daily at the tedious task of carrying acorns from the trees to the palace of the squirrel kings. Most of the squirrel commonwealth was barely capable of earning enough acorns to make it through the winter. The main character in Raymond’s™ new book was a squirrel by the name of 98,372™. 98,372™ was forced to work laboriously in the palace of the squirrel kings at the task of roasting acorns for the gluttonous overlords that feasted on the labor of the nation. Raymond™ had been working on his novel for no more than fifteen minutes when the phone rang. "Damn it!" he cursed as he got up to answer.

Raymond™ was reluctant to answer the telephone for good reason. It was too early for his friends to be calling. They wouldn’t have dared call this early, even if they were awake. But they were not awake and Raymond™ knew it. It was times like these that Raymond™ wished he hadn’t had to have the caller ID service disconnected. It was unfortunate he didn’t even have enough money for caller ID. Of course he would have sold or disconnected anything to keep his computer. Without his computer he couldn’t write. Well, he couldn’t write as efficiently that is.

Somberly Raymond™ looked down at the spot where the caller ID used to be. "Ring, ring, ring, ring!" The irritating sound of the telephone was beginning to annoy him. Finally he gave in against his better judgement. Reaching for the phone, he hoped it was just a telemarketer.

"Hello," Raymond™ said.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, BROK BLOCK!"

Sadly Raymond’s™ worst fear had been confirmed. It was Betsy™.

"Yea, um, I don’t know…" he replied.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck…"

"Yea, I know, but…it’s just…"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck…"

"No it’s not…yea, I guess…no…I can come in."

It wasn’t uncommon for Raymond™ to be called into work on his day off. And it wasn’t uncommon for him to go. On the contrary it was expected of him. "Shit" he said as he looked at his computer. "Maybe tomorrow."

Before he arrived at the CHEF’S PALACE™ Raymond™ already knew who he would be working with. E3-42™ the angry cook worked every Monday morning. Though E3-42™ the angry cook worked every Monday morning he was pretty good. The worst part about working with E3-42™ had nothing to do with his work skills. The worst part about working with E3-42™ had to do with his social skills. Since he had been working as a cook for twelve years E3-42™ was always angry. As Raymond™ entered the kitchen he figured someone else had called in sick. He was right.

"Hello E3-42™" he said.

E3-42™ didn’t answer. He was a thin yet commanding person with strong forearms and weak legs. Though he possessed a certain quality of austerity his thin legs made him look laughable. Somehow he was caught between his sternness and his awkward appearance. This only added to his feelings of anger and aggravated his bad temper. He had short reddish-brown hair and a crimped moustache of the same.

As Raymond™ put himself to work a moment of silence passed.

"CookoidG these hash browns aren’t well done!" bickered a waitress. It was waitron 9 (her actual name was 342-A™). She was griping at E3-42™ who was working at the grill station.

"If you want your god damned hash browns well done then tell the customer it’s going to be twenty minutes!" snapped E3-42™.

One of the good things about being a cook at the CHEF’S PALACE™ was that the cooks had power over the servers. If a waitron didn’t like the way the food looked a cook would often shout at her until she cried. Because of this waitrons usually didn’t complain. Even if the food was burnt most waitrons would rather take it out to the customer than ask the cook to remake it. Of course 342-A™ had no problem asking E3-42™ to remake something because she was his girlfriend. Since they had been seeing each other for a long time they were always fighting. Though they didn’t get a long, they refused to break up and they would fight every time they worked together.

As Raymond™ watched E3-42™ and 342-A™ fighting he was glad the cooks at CHEF’S PALACE™ had power over the waitrons. He had heard of restaurants where the waitrons had all the power. In these restaurants the waitrons would come into the kitchen screaming at the cooks. If a waitron said the food needed to be re-cooked the cook would have to oblige and if he didn’t he would lose his job. In those restaurants the cook labored with even less dignity. Raymond™ shuddered to think about it.

"If they want it cooked so damn perfectly they should stay home and cook the shit themselves!" grumbled the angry cook.

"Yea," Raymond™ replied.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep… beep, beep, beep…"

The lunch rush had started.






The orders started coming in fast that day. They came in faster than usual for a Monday. The lunch rush ended three hours later and E3-42™ had left the line to smoke a cigarette. He had been gone for forty-five minutes and Raymond™ was cooking alone. Before he could leave Raymond™ had to bring new food out of the walk-in cooler to replace the food that had been used during the lunch rush. It was a practice called stocking in the restaurant business and it was common to hear a cook say something like "I’m going to stock the grill side or I’ll be right back, I need to stock pickles. Before he could leave Raymond™ needed to stock. Everything had to be full and everything had to be clean before he could go.

Since Raymond™ had to cook every order that came in, and there were always orders coming in, he couldn’t finish stocking. Since he couldn’t finish stocking he couldn’t leave. It wasn’t that he couldn’t keep up with the new orders coming in that aggravated him. It was easy to cook the food. The hard part was stalking and cooking at the same time. It was possible of course when there were only a few orders but it was difficult when there were more. There were always more. Since it was all he could do to keep up with the new orders coming in, and since E3-42™ the angry cook was gone, Raymond™ couldn’t get any closer to his goal. It was a vicious circle. All a cook wanted was to do a good job. Since he could never be in two places, doing two separate tasks at the same time, he never felt like he was doing a good job. Consequently the cook always felt frustrated. So it went in the restaurant business.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It blasted three annoying beeps. Every time a new order came in the printer blasted three annoying beeps. Raymond™ of course thought it would be adequate if the printer only blasted one beep. The sound pierced him like shards of ice. He could feel them slice through his skin like bullets, tearing at his insides and leaving a dull burn. It was the same feeling a person got when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer or AIDS. It was the same feeling a person got when he knew he was going to die. It was the feeling of a human heart sinking in frustration. Every time the printer sounded a cook lost part of his spiritual essence, part of his soul, if you will. This is why cooks that had been working for many years at the same job appeared lifeless. In reality they had lost their spiritual essence. These "soulless cooks" were ghosts. Only their flesh was alive…but their souls were dead. Though it wasn’t known in the U.S.A. INC™ there was no afterlife for a career cook. When his flesh was dead the process was complete, his soul having died many years before.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer again. Raymond™ felt the sound piercing through his side. His heart sank and he let out a sigh of anguish.

"God damn beefalo!" he cursed.

Beefalo were cattle that contained a percentage of the genetic material of buffalo. They were raised on farms in Wyoming and were the common food source in the U.S.A. INC™. But beefalo was also a cook term for customer, that derived from the manner in which the customers herded themselves through the front door of the restaurant. It also referred to the manner in which customers behaved and their attitudes towards everything from food to politics. To a cook all customers were the same. They were mindless, faceless, repetitious beefalo.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It felt like hot nails slicing through Raymond’s™ chest. His heart sank in defeat. He burnt his finger on the grill but didn’t feel it.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. Raymond™ reached for a burger. He turned and threw a lasagna in the microwave.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. He sunk a little further down. "Beep, beep, beep" sounded the printer.

"Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep."

"God damn beefalo."

"Beep, beep, beep."

"Do you need help Raymond™?" shouted the angry cook. He had been in the back working on the order.

"No," Raymond™ replied.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep."






"Beep, beep, beep."

The next day was much better. Raymond™ was working with his closest friend 8,792,418,362,777™. Raymond™ got a long with 8,792,418,362,777™ really well. The two had many things in common. They read the same books, they both liked music, and they had elaborate conversations about life, love and man’s existential dilemma. They both also shared an affinity for "real names".

Since 8,792,418,362,777™ had a long, ugly numerical trademark Raymond™ liked to call him Carlos™. This suited 8,792,418,362,777™ just fine. Though it was an infringement on copyright laws neither one of them seemed to care. They hated the copyright laws.

"Hey Carlos™ where were you yesterday?" asked Raymond™.

"I we we went to get the title to my car put in my na na na nam e," he replied.

Though Carlos™ was the most intelligent person Raymond™ knew he would stutter from time to time. It usually came in phases and Raymond™ knew by the end of the day Carlos™ wouldn’t be stuttering at all. He usually only stuttered when he was excited to talk about something and since he and Raymond™ both shared agoraphobic tendencies it was probable that Carlos™ was going to tell him about an agoraphobic experience. Both of them hated bureaucracy and both of them struggled with the little things that were easy for "normal" people. Indeed Raymond™ could write a book rather easily because he loved to write but something "normal" like opening a checking account was pure torture. Neither he nor Carlos™ functioned efficiently and since they both feared the little bits of bureaucracy that made up "normal living" they both felt like outcasts. Because they shared this bond they were usually excited to tell each other about the problems they encountered due to their social inadequacies. They were both agoraphobic! Of course Carlos™ had his own terminology. Carlos™ liked to call them "bad chickens".

"Bad chicken" was a term that Carlos™ used because he had grown up on a farm watching how chickens behaved together. On the farm when a chicken was sick, different, or completely ugly it was referred to as a "bad chicken". All of the other chickens would peck a bad chicken to death. Carlos™ and Raymond™ were bad chickens because of their agoraphobic tendencies and fear of bureaucracy.

"How did it go with the car title?" asked Raymond™.

"No, no, not good. I got ag, ag, ag agoraphobic as soon as I pulled into the parking lot and I we, we, went home."

"Ha, ha, ha" laughed Raymond™. "You didn’t even go in…Shit Carlos™ what are you going to…"

"You can’t call him Carlos™!" blasted a waitress. Her name was 709™. She was always reciting the nationalistic company propaganda. Since she was fortunate enough to have a short, easy, numerical name she was always rubbing the copyright laws in someone’s face. Carlos™ and Raymond™ didn’t like her because she spoke without thinking. She had no courage and she listened unquestionably to everything she was told by the media.

"It’s a violation of the copyright laws! His real name is 8,792,4…"

"Shut up you damn waitron!" snapped Raymond™.

"We weren’t talking to you waitron 7!" shouted Carlos™. His stuttering had stopped and wouldn’t come back for a while.

"Assholes!" she asserted as she stormed out of the kitchen.

"Ha, ha, ha."

"Ha, ha, ha."

"Thirty minute ticket times!" shouted Carlos™.

"No tips tonight" laughed Raymond™.

In the restaurant business a ticket time referred to the amount of time it took to cook an order. The standard was ten minutes and generally speaking this was plenty of time to cook an order. Of course the standard existed because the beefalo couldn’t wait any longer than ten minutes. Beefalo were impatient and pretentious. Food was just like everything else in the U.S.A. INC™. Since productivity, quantity, cheapness, and speed were valued over quality, food needed to be prepared quickly. Fast food was better than good food and food was cheap because restaurants kept the cost of labor low.

Anyhow "thirty minute ticket times" was what the cooks said when they wanted a waitron to stop talking. It was more than a threat. It was the way the cooks asserted their power. If a waitron made a cook angry enough he would pull her tickets and wait for fifteen minutes before he started cooking the orders. Since waitrons were paid by tips, and since beefalo wouldn’t leave a good tip if it took a long time to prepare the food, the cooks were able to control how much money a waitron made. It paid to be nice to the cooks!

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer as a new order came in.

"So when is your brother coming back to work?" asked Carlos™.

Raymond’s™ brother had worked at CHEF’S PALACE™ for a long time but had taken a leave of absence to go back to school™. He was due to start back at work the next week. Raymond™ and Carlos™ couldn’t wait for him to get back because he was an excellent cook. He was also a bad chicken and consequently one of their best friends. Though his trademark was B329™ Carlos™ and Raymond™ called him Tomas™.

"Tomas™ will be back…"

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. The sound pierced like cold shards of ice.

"Thomas™ will be back next Saturday," said Raymond™. He made sure to say the name Tomas™ loudly so waitron 7 could hear him. She was trying to ignore him but it was obvious he was getting to her. "Yea Tomas™ is looking forward to coming back."

"That’s great…I look…"

"Beep, beep, beep."

"I look forward to seeing Thomas™," Carlos™ finished.

"Beep, beep, beep."

"Have you heard back from the Book Nazis?" he asked. "And how’s your new story coming along?"

"It’s co…"

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

"It’s coming along…"

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer again. The sound stung and made them feel lifeless. It was an order for a table of fifteen.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…"

The diner rush had begun.






Unfortunately the dinner rush hit hard on Tuesday night. It hit harder than usual for a Tuesday and Raymond™ didn’t have any time to talk to his friend. He was disappointed because he didn’t even have the chance to tell Carlos™ the premise of his new book. Since Raymond™ and Carlos™ both worked so much the only chance they ever had to talk was at work. Since they were always busy they didn’t have the chance to talk about much. So it went in the restaurant business.

On Wednesday Carlos™ worked in the morning and Raymond™ worked at night. Wednesday nights usually went smooth and Raymond™ was generally happy because he knew he would be working with Jeffery7982™. Jeffery7982™ was an excellent cook and a friendly person, which was generally enough to brighten Raymond’s™ day. It was always nice to work with someone who knew the job well…but sometimes it wasn’t enough.

Raymond™ though he liked to work with Jeffery7982™, didn’t love the idea. Jeffery7982™ was nice, intelligent and fun but he had a character flaw that made him hard to work with at times. The problem with Jeffery7982™ was that he always felt the need to impress people and he was always trying to prove to people how "bad" he could be. Or more correctly he was always trying to prove to people how bad he used to be.

Since Jeffery7982™ couldn’t afford to get arrested again, being as he had already been convicted of two felonies, and since he had a family to support, Jeffery7982™ couldn’t do the "bad" things he used to. He didn’t smoke crack, didn’t drink or do the drugs he used to, he didn’t steal anymore, and he didn’t get in fights anymore. Though Jefery7982™ didn’t do the crazy things he used to he couldn’t bare the fact they might be forgotten and he had to constantly be reminding people of "how bad he used to be". Sometimes Raymond™ just wasn’t in the mood to listen…though most people usually were.

"Yea if I were you I’d be fucking all these hot little waitresses" Jeffery7982™ said to Raymond™.

"Yea" Raymond™ replied.

"I mean if I didn’t have a wife I’d do it," he said.

"Yea" Raymond™ replied.

"Back in the day, when I was your age, I used to do some crazy shit," he said.

"Beep, beep, beep," the printer sounded.

"Yea" Raymond™ replied.

"Man back when I was snorting Meth every day I used to be fucking ‘em all the time. I remember this one time, when I was running drugs down from Canada™…"

"Not this one," thought Raymond™. Over the years he had heard this same story almost eight times. Though Raymond™ usually didn’t mind listening to Jeffery7982™brag, he just wasn’t in the mood for it this time. As he put a plate of chicken strips up in the window he realized he hadn’t been listening to the story at all.

"Yea…and then we all took turns on her. It was great but we were all so fucked up on Meth. We were so fucked up I can’t believe we made it across the border. Those were the days! Man, those were the days!"

"Yea," said Raymond™. He was glad Jeffery7982™ didn’t notice his lack of enthusiasm.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It was an order for three omelet s, a cheeseburger, a chicken stir-fry salad and an order of onion rings. Raymond™ threw a burger on the grill and started the chicken strips.

"Back when I was stealing cars I could really hold my liquor, shit, we used to get all coked up and we’d go out and find us a nice car to take on a joy ride. Man I wish I were young again. Man those were the days."
"Yea," Raymond replied. "So how are the kids?"

"Shit. Those little bastards are all right. The new one is still sucking on my wife’s tit. Can’t drink out of a bottle. Shit, that little fucker gets to see her tits more than I do…now back in the day things were different."

"Yea," Raymond™ said.

The sad thing for Raymond™ was he knew that Jefery7982™ was actually intelligent behind the façade. Raymond™ really did like him and it was sad to watch him try to impress people in such a pathetic way. For one thing he wasn’t always trying to act bad. When Jeffery7982™ wasn’t trying to impress people he was actually quite fun to be around. But for some reason he was out to prove something. Whether he was trying to prove it to himself or whether he was trying to prove it to the world Raymond™ could never know.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It cut like hard snow. It was another breakfast order.

"So what have you been up to?" Jeffery7982™ asked.

"Not much," Raymond replied.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

"I’ve been doing a lot of writing," he continued.

"Shit…writing…back when I was your age we used to…"

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. "Beep, beep, beep."

Raymond™ cut his finger but didn’t realize it. The dinner rush had started.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…"






At the end of the night Raymond™ finished scraping the grill. He was the closing cook and felt exhausted from the nights work. The dinner rush had hit harder than usual that night and Jeffery7982™ had left early. Jeffery7982™ always left early. Of course Raymond™ didn’t care. Though it was extra work, sometimes he would rather cook alone than listen to Jeffery7982™ try to impress him. It just wasn’t worth it.

Just like the cook that had to stock, the closing cook was caught in a viscous circle. It was expected that everything be spotless when the closing cook left. He had to wipe everything clean, cover all the food, turn everything off, sweep and mop the floor. Everything was supposed to be left perfect, fully stocked, and the cook was supposed to be gone exactly when the restaurant closed. Since the restaurant closed at midnight and since all of the other cooks were supposed to leave as soon as the dinner rush was over, the closing cook had to do it all alone. Of course he had to cook every new order as well. There were always new orders.

Again, just like stocking, the frustration stemmed from the fact that the cook couldn’t be in two places at the same time doing two separate tasks. The boss expected the cook to be done as soon as the restaurant closed. The cook tried to get everything done before close but new people came into the restaurant all night and the cook had to make them food. Since the cook couldn’t be in two different places at the same time he became frustrated. If the cook didn’t get everything done before the restaurant closed he was punished by his boss who would tell him to hurry up, yell at him or call him slow in a mocking tone of voice. If the cook did get done on time he was punished by the beefalo that came in to eat just before the restaurant closed. He would then have to unwrap the food, turn everything back on, cook on his clean grill rewrap the food, re-clean the grill, re-clean the counter, turn everything off again and pick up crumbs on the floor. This of course, was after he ran around the kitchen grabbing all of the kitchen utensils, plates, knives, and supplies that he would need to cook the order. These things were supposed to be put away at the end of the night and would be off the line at this point. Indeed, the cook couldn’t win and due to the nature of the viscous circle, the cook was always punished.

In all actuality the restaurant business was just like the publishing business. Restaurant CEOs, just like the Book Nazis, wanted to keep cost low and valued the most for the least. Quantity was valued over quality. Profit was valued over elegance, profit was valued over decency, and profit was valued over humanity. In both cases the final product was cheap and in both cases there was apathy towards beauty.

Raymond™ finished scraping the grill at twelve thirty that night. He was thirty minutes late. As he walked to the sink to wash his hands he noticed a figure moving awkwardly out of the corner of his eye. As it wobbled closer he turned to meet it. With beady eyes and a long wiry neck outstretched she was clucking annoyingly. It was Betsy™. Her blotchy feathers were ruffled as she spoke rapidly. She didn’t even make eye contact with him.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck," she chattered.

"Yea," Raymond™ replied.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck," she continued.

"Yea, I’m done. I’ll be off the clock in a minute," he said.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck."

"What ever!" Raymond snapped as he left the kitchen and punched out.

Walking in the parking lot Raymond™ was surprised to see a figure standing in front of his car. "Who could be waiting for me this time?" he thought. As he got closer he realized who it was. It was Carlos™!

"What’s up Ray™?"

"Carlos! What are you doing here?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted to get a cup of coffee or something."

"Sure! Let’s go!" Raymond™ replied.

Sadly they went to a twenty-four hour restaurant.

It was another problem facing the closing cook. Most cooks avoided going to restaurants by heading straight to a bar after work. If a cook didn’t drink, however, there weren’t many options open to him. Of course, most cooks did drink. Drinking was a form of self-medication that helped cooks forget. And since most cooks had to work double shifts with only a few hours off in between, forgetting was an important concept. Unfortunately because Raymond™ was a bad chicken and because he had had some negative experiences with alcohol, he didn’t like to drink. The alternative was ironic and at times punishing.

As they pulled into the parking lot of the Sunset Cafe™ they were glad not to be spending money in a restaurant owned by VICON™. Never the less they couldn’t help but feel like they were doing something wrong anyway. It felt like they were giving their money back right after they earned it. It also felt like they were committing a crime against a brother. It was the guilt a cook felt every time he walked into a restaurant.

"What can I get you two?" droned the waitron. "The special tonight is the hot turkey sandwich."

Raymond™ had been cooking turkey dinners all night. He pictured Betsy™ wobbling towards him with a plate of freshly cut turkey clucking violently. "Coffee" he said.

"Me too," asserted Carlos™.

Neither one of them could bare the thought of making a brother work any harder.

"So how did it go tonight?" Carlos™ asked.

"Same as always. Jeffery7982™ was talking shit all night and then he left early. He did a lousy job on his clean-up and I got out of there late."

"Same old bullshit. Have you heard back from the Book Nazis yet?"

"I’ve gotten rejection letters from a few of them."

"What did they say?"

"Same old bullshit. They say my book doesn’t fit perfectly into the genre they like to print. They keep telling me to write an Idiot’s Guide™ to something. One company told me my book was too expressive. They said no one wanted to read artistic literature…but I don’t believe it. That’s why I keep writing."

"Damn!"

"Hey did you see the new bulletin they put up at work?" Raymond™ asked.

"Yea! It’s crazy!"

"Can you believe that?"

"They’re trying to turn us into mindless machines!" Carlos™ asserted.

"It’s outrageous! I’m not going to comply with that shit! If they think I’m going to call you a dam cookoid they’re wrong!"

"No shit! If they try to enforce it we’ll just quit!"

"Yea. That place would be screwed if it weren’t for us! I’d like to see them find two competent cooks to replace us!" Raymond™ said.

"They’re not going to enforce it!"

"You’re right…but you wouldn’t believe what Betsy™ said to me tonight!"

"What?" Carlos™ asked.

"She told if I didn’t start getting out of there sooner she was going to make me work off the clock!"

"She can’t do that!"

"I know…but that’s what she said."

"What a witch!"

"Yea, I know! I’d like to see her do as good of a job as I do on the line!"

"She couldn’t!"

"I know…shit!"

"What?" Carlos™ asked.

"Why do we always talk about work when we’re not there?"

"I don’t know! Let’s talk about something else."

After a good long conversation with his friend Raymond™ arrived home. The two of them could have easily talked all night at the Sunset Cafe™ but Raymond™ knew he had to get some sleep before work. It was three thirty in the morning. Wearily he looked over at his computer. Though he would have liked to have worked on his story he was just too tired. "Maybe tomorrow" he said as he walked towards the bedroom.






"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It cut through his side like fire and vodka. It was an order for three skillets, an omelet and a burger.

"Damn breakfast orders!" Raymond™ cursed.

Cooks hated cooking breakfast orders at night. Again it was a vicious circle and the cook was trapped. Since companies in the restaurant business felt they would make more money if they offered breakfast all day long, and indeed it was true, the cooks would have to comply. The problem lied in the fact that most people didn’t order breakfast at night. Since most people ordered dinner specials, burgers, and hot sandwiches the cooks would have to completely rearrange the line before lunchtime. Since there wasn’t a lot of space in the kitchen many of the breakfast items would have to be stashed out of the way in some corner of the restaurant where they wouldn’t get in the way. This made these items difficult to get to at nighttime when a cook needed them. Often a cook would have to drop everything he was doing just to cook one breakfast order. It seemed ridiculous to a cook who had to cook fifty orders at the same time. But so it went in the restaurant business.

Restaurants made more money by making the cooks work harder. The less cooks working the less a company had to pay in labor. More for less was the idea and because of this restaurants were always understaffed. At CHEF’S PALACE™ the kitchen was divided into two areas or sides as they were called, for cooking. One side was the breakfast side. The other side was for lunch and dinner. When the beefalo ordered breakfast items at night the cook would have to leave all the food that was cooking on the lunch side just to cook one order on the breakfast side. This was how the kitchen was designed by the VICON™ central computer.

Since the breakfast cooks were supposed to leave everything clean, and wrapped the night cook would have to unwrap the food, run to the back of the kitchen to grab the cooking utensils he would need, cook the order, rewrap everything and clean the mess he had just made. This would be done every time a breakfast was ordered at nighttime. It made the job harder for the cook but it made the company more money. It also made the beefalo happy. If a beefalo sent a breakfast order back to be re-cooked at nighttime he or she wouldn’t mind consuming bodily fluids.

While Raymond™ was cooking the breakfast order three new orders came in. "Damn breakfast orders" Raymond™ cursed.

Quickly he finished cooking the omelets and ran back to the dinner side. There were two fajitas, a cheeseburger, a chicken sandwich, a baked turkey dinner, and three breakfast items.

"Damn beefalo!" cursed Raymond™ as he started cooking the new orders. He was working alone because the other cooks were late. "Where is everyone!" he grumbled.

"Beep, beep, beep," the printer sounded, fire and vodka. "Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep."
Raymond started cooking as fast as he could. Frantically moving back and forth around the kitchen. He burned himself but didn’t feel it. The dinner rush had begun.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

Every other order was a breakfast order. Raymond™ was still cooking alone.

"Damn breakfast orders!"

He went to start the eggs. There were no eggs!

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

"No eggs!" he screamed.

The orders were coming in at a steady pace. Nearly all of them were breakfast orders. Raymond™ was still cooking alone.

"We’re out of eggs!" shouted Raymond™. "I can’t make the omelets!"

"Cook it!" screamed a waitron.

"What?" contested Raymond.

"Cook it!" shouted the waitron. Her skin was melting off her face like cheese sliding off a pizza. He could see her circuits and gears. She was a robot!

"Cook it!" she screamed. Her voice contorted into a robotic shrill.

"But we’re out of eggs," Raymond™ pleaded.

"Cook it!" she shrilled. Her eyes were glowing red and all of the skin had fallen off her face. Her arms moved mechanically as she stammered back and forth.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

In a panic Raymond™ started to cook. He had to get the orders out!

As he was trying his best to cook what he could he went to cut a sandwich. He pushed hard to cut through. The knife wouldn’t cut. Again he tried. The knife wouldn’t cut!

"Beep, beep, beep."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something large coming towards him. It was Betsy™! But she was different! She was gigantic and beast-like. Her feathers were missing in some places and her eyes too, were glowing red.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!" she screeched.

"But we’re out of eggs" Raymond™ screamed.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"Beep, beep, beep!"

Each time the printer sounded Betsy™ struck out at Raymond™ taking one of his fingers or a chunk of flesh in her beak. "What the fuck!" Raymond™ shrieked as he dropped to the floor. Betsy™ began her assault. Instantly she took off two more of his fingers. Blood. Next she moved towards his eyes. She was scratching at his face with her talons while she took out first his left and then his right eye. Blood.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep!"

Raymond™ shot up in his bead sweating profusely. It had only been a nightmare. His heart was still beating fast as he rolled over to turn off the alarm. It was six o’ clock in the morning and it was time to get ready for work.






Work nightmares weren’t uncommon in the restaurant business. Though not all cooks experienced them many cooks did. The worst part about a work nightmare was that it led to feelings of oppression brought on by the monotony of the viscous circle. If a cook worked a double shift one day and he knew he had to return early the next morning, the feelings were even worse. When this happened a cook would often feel like he had never left. If it happened often a cook would lose his sense of reality, dignity and hope. He wouldn’t believe in life away from the job.

Of course sometimes a cook didn’t know of or wouldn’t believe in life away from the job anyhow. Many cooks worked six days a week. These same cooks would also work double shifts as well. To top it all off they would usually be called into work on their day off too. The better the cook you were the more of a chance there was this would happen to you. Since restaurants were constantly searching for a way to cut down labor costs they would often schedule one good cook to do the job of two or three marginal cooks. Though a good cook could do the job of two, three, or sometimes four marginal cooks it did not make him feel good. His energy output was higher, he received fewer rest cycles, and he was called into work on his day off more often. Since all of this was expected of him he never received a pay raise, a thank you, or the praise of a job well done. In this way the good cooks were punished instead of being rewarded.

"It’s too bad I’ll never get my book published," said Raymond™ out of the blue. It was Friday morning. He was cooking with Carlos™ and E3-42™ the angry cook. "I guess this is my future," he said.

"Why are you so pessimistic? Maybe they’ll publish it…you don’t know," Carlos™ replied.

"Ha, ha, ha," Raymond™ laughed. "Yea right…more for less that’s all they want."

"What do you mean?" Carlos™ asked.

"They don’t care about literature. All they see is a market. They want to sell the most books to the largest number of people for the most money by taking the least risk…they don’t care about expression. They’ll only publish books similar to the ones that have made them money in the past. If something is fresh, new and creative it is seen as a risk. If it doesn’t fit perfectly into a publisher’s genre it is seen as a risk. If it expresses something controversial or critical it is seen as a risk…like I said more for less."

"More for less," Carlos™ repeated.

"Quality is sacrificed for profit…just like this lousy food," grumbled Raymond™.

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Carlos™. "I guess so."

"It tastes like garbage."

"But who eats it? I don’t have the stomach for it."

"The robots," said Raymond™. Both of them began laughing.

"Damn Book Nazis!"

"What are you two laughing about?" asked E3-42™ sarcastically. "Don’t you know it’s against the company policy to have fun here."

E3-42™ seemed to be in a better mood than usual.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It stung like iodine.

"God damn it!" shouted E3-42™ as he slammed his fist into the cooler door. Things were normal.
"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

"New order, two ham omelets, eggs and hash brown scrambled and a veggie skillet" Raymond™ called as a seatbot wheeled up to the window.

"There’s someone here to see him," she said as she pointed a robotic finger towards Carlos™.

Looking out towards the lobby Raymond™ saw a beautiful brunet, with tight fitted cloths and smooth dark legs. She was wearing a revealing skirt and a tank top.

"Mamacita!" Raymond™ said with angst. "Hey Carlos™ your girlfriend is here."

As Carlos™ walked to the lobby to talk to her he looked back and gave Raymond™ a dirty look. He must not have liked the way Raymond™ was staring at her.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

"Where the hell did he go?" muttered E3-42™ bitterly.

"He just went to talk to his girlfriend for a minute…he’ll be right back."

"This is god damn work! He can talk to her on his own time!"

Raymond™ turned his head to laugh.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

Carlos™ had been off the line for about three minutes when Raymond™ looked towards the lobby. What he saw was more than annoying. Trying intensely he could just make out some of the words.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!" yapped Betsy™ as she chattered her beak. Her feathers were ruffled and there was down floating in the air around her. Raymond™ watched as Carlos™ was moving his mouth rapidly but he couldn’t make out the words.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck cluck!…Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!"

Carlos’s™ girlfriend turned away with a look of sad embarrassment on her face and went towards the door. Carlos™ said good bye and came storming back into the kitchen. He seemed angry.

"What was that all about?" Raymond™ asked.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer.

"Bi, bi, bi, bitch!" Carlos™ murmured.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"What happened?"

"She said Jennifer707™ co, co, co, co, couldn’t co, co, come in here anymore!"

"What?" Raymond exclaimed! "That’s crazy! Why?"

"Sa, sa, sa, said it makes the work a, a, a, a, environment bad…said it was a bother."

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"But she’s your girlfriend!"

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer again. It burnt like caustic acid.

Carlos™ and Raymond™ started cooking faster. Carlos™ burnt his arm but didn’t feel it. Raymond™ cut his finger.

"Damn!" he screamed as he punched the counter. "I cut my god damned finger!"

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer.

Raymond™ left the line to clean and dress his wound.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…"

The breakfast rush had started.






The next week Raymond’s™ brother Tomas™ came back from school. On Saturday night Carlos™ Raymond™ and Tomas™ all worked together. Though it was busier than usual the three of them had no problem keeping up since they were all good cooks. It was one of the rare times that three competent cooks were all scheduled at the same time. Since they were all friends it was even better.

"What’s the deal with the new bulletin hanging in the break room?" Tomas™ asked as he flipped a chicken onto a bread set and placed it on the cutting board for Raymond™ to cut.

"Oh you mean the waitrons and the cookoids? I don’t know I guess they’re trying to turn us into robots."

"Waitrons?" asked Tomas™ surprised like. "No…It’s about employee friends."

Carlos™ and Raymond™ both looked at each other. Neither one of them had seen it yet.

"What?" shouted Carlos™ as he and Raymond™ ran back to look at it.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer. It cut like cold frozen glass but neither one of them cared. They knew Tomas™ could handle the new orders while they read the new bulletin. This is what they read:

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"God damn witch!" hollered Carlos™.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"We’ve got to get out of this place!"

"If she ke, ke, ke, keeps this up I’m gonna qui, qui, quit!"

"Beep, beep, beep!"

Maybe the night wasn’t going to be as fun as the three friends had anticipated.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!"

It was Tomas’s™ first night back.

The dinner rush had started.






Streaming down the highway like the wind, the night air was fresh and it smelled good as it entered through a crack in the window. It felt rewarding for Carlos™ Raymond™ and his brother to be away from work. Even if it was only for a week they were happy. A week was more than most people got. The music was playing loud and the conversation was cheerful as the three friends sped into the night. They were on their way to the Badlands of South Dakota™ for a week of camping.

"How long until we get to the Badlands?" Carlos™ asked.

"Eight hours," answered Tomas™ who was driving the car.

"When will we be in South Dakota™?"

"There’s only four hours to South Dakota™."

"That’s great!" Carlos™ exclaimed enthusiastically. "We’ll get there right at sunrise."

"I told you it was a good idea to leave tonight," said Raymond™.

"Yea maybe so…we would have just spent all night at the Sunset Cafe™ anyhow," Carlos™ responded.

"Besides it’s nice to put some distance between us and the restaurant…that place is evil."

"It starts to get to you doesn’t it?"

"Shit I just came back last week and I’m already sick of it," Tomas™ said. "It feels like I never left."

"Well I didn’t leave and I can assure you it feels much worse than you think," Raymond™ said.

"Ha, ha, ha," chuckled Tomas™. "Maybe you’re right."

"And what’s with those new bulletins? Do they really think we’re going to comply with that crap?"

"We’ll just quit!" asserted Tomas™.

"That place would be screwed if we quit!" said Raymond™ and Carlos™ at the same time.

"I’d like to see them find three more cooks as competent as we are!" said Raymond™.

"Let’s talk about something else" grumbled Carlos™.

"Yea…why do we always talk about work anyhow?"

The night was long with anticipation but nearly seven and a half hours later the drive was almost over. As darkness slowly gave way to light and the sky began to fill with blaze the three cooks approached their destination. They were almost there.

Every quarter mile they passed a billboard for Wall Drug™. Every half-mile they passed a billboard for Mount Rushmore™. In between there was always a billboard for Cosmos™ and Reptile Gardens™. "See Elvis Presley’s™ motorcycle here!" said a sign.

"What a bunch of crap!" said Raymond™ with disgust. "Elvis Presley’s™ motorcycle! Who the fuck would stop to see that?"

"The robots" said Carlos™ with a big grin on his face.

Raymond™ couldn’t help but laugh. Neither could Tomas™.

"But seriously…this state is full of garbage! It’s a bunch of cheap junk! Wall Drug™! Why do people go there? All of these lousy tourist traps are pathetic! It’s the kind of crap you should find in a cereal box! Cheap, ugly and profitable!"
"More for less," said Carlos™.

"More for less," Raymond™ repeated. "It’s just like everything else in this company. People sacrifice quality for quantity. They sacrifice integrity for profit."

"People sacrifice beauty for ugliness," said Tomas™.

"People sacrifice their humanity for nothing."

"Productivity is valued above everything else," said Carlos™.

"No!" said Raymond™. "Profit is valued above everything else… even human lives."

As the three friends pulled through the main entrance to the Badlands National Park their conversation was silenced by natural beauty. The sun, a blazing globe of incandescence, began its assent over broken renegade rocks and desperado mountain peaks. The beauty was overwhelming as the sky filled with a blaze of fire orange. Shades of purple and maroon danced across the landscape like the pronghorn antelope dancing on the grass. The moon, a sliver of silver, languished in part of the sky, dark. She was crowned with blue and glistened in the face of day. It was astonishing!

"Wow!" said Tomas™ as he pulled the car to the side of the road.

"Look!" said Carlos™ as he pointed towards a jagged peak. A big horned sheep was scaling the side of a hill. He stopped standing majestically on the side of a cliff.

"Incredible!" exclaimed Raymond™.






The three friends arrived at their camp sight in the backcountry of the Badlands sometime late in the afternoon. They had made slow progress through the park, stopping often to look at wildlife. The hills were teeming with antelope and deer. The sky was a dark, fresh shade of blue. The hills were painted yellow with wildflowers and spotted gray with jeering rocks. It was a beautiful day.

The travelers had even stopped to stare at a herd of Bison™. Sadly the last of the great free Bison™ had become the center of attention for the beefalo that flocked from all over the company to gawk at them. Being the main tourist attraction the Bison™ were sometimes the only reason people paid to enter the park. As if they were used to it, yet still unappreciative, the Bison™ stood majestically yet annoyed while beefalo from all around the company snapped photos of them.

Though the three travelers had stopped to look at them they became annoyed by all of the tourists that were stopping and they realized the hypocrisy of their actions. Pitifully, the once free Bison™ had become objects of commercialization. Just as the objectification of the labor of cooks made the restaurant owners rich, the Bison™ were objectified by the National Park system to make money for the government™. Sadly the three cooks felt a bond with the Bison™. Since they empathized with the animal they decided to leave him alone. The Bison™ was a symbol! He stood for class struggle, inequality and the estrangement of the cook in the vicious circle of life in the restaurant business! The Bison™ was sacred!

Within an hour the three friends had the tent set up, a pot of coffee cooking on the one-burner and their sleeping bags rolled out. As the sun sunk behind the twisted hills a chill filled the air and the three travelers began to talk. They talked about what they had seen and discussed their plans for the next day.

"What a beautiful place" said Tomas™.

"It really is," said Carlos™. "It’s hard to believe they want to fill it with a strip mall."

"Yea…so it goes in the U.S.A. INC™ I guess," answered Raymond™.

"Ugliness over beauty," said Tomas™.

"So…should we go on a hike tomorrow?" asked Carlos™.

"Sounds great!"

"We’ll head back where there won’t be any tourists," proclaimed Tomas™.

"Into the wild heart of beauty!" exclaimed Raymond™.

As the three friends were talking a shooting star streaked across the twilight sky. "Did you see that?" Tomas™ asked.

"Yea," answered Carlos™.

"Can you believe how incredible it was too see the Bison™?" said Raymond™ rhetorically. "I’ve never felt so connected to a wild animal before. I feel like I understand him…like I can feel his sorrow…I feel like I know his pain."

"You’re right," said Tomas™. "They are majestic creatures yet they carry a sorrow with them."

"And they share our plight," proclaimed Carlos™.

"They are brothers," said Raymond™.






The next morning the three friends were awoken early by the heat of the day. Quickly before it got any warmer they gathered their supplies, plenty of water and set out into the wild heart of beauty. They wanted to get a good start on their hike before it got any hotter. And they knew it would get hotter.

Hiking through the winding trenches of the Badlands it was easy for a person to get lost. It was important to pay attention to where one was going. The land almost had a mystic quality to it. From a higher vantage point everything looked flat but in fact it was not. What appeared from a distance to be a flat plain was really a stretch of twisted crevices and small canyons. In this way t