Chapter 2: Back in the Kitchen

Errol pulled his Volvo into a small roadside park on the outskirts of Skylar, Montana. He'd been in the saddle for over five hundred miles and he just couldn't manage another one. Twice in the last half hour, he'd snapped awake when his tires drifted off the road and onto the shoulder, making a god-awful racket as loose gravel peppered the undercarriage and fender wells. He knew if he didn't stop soon, he'd likely wind up a highway statistic.

There were no other cars, but there was a semi hauling a load of rebar idling on the side of the road, its driver probably snoozing comfortably in the sleeper cab. A single streetlight cast its dim yellow glow over the little park populated by a playground, four picnic tables, and a cinderblock building housing restrooms marked "Stallions" and "Mares". Too cutesy, he thought to himself, Way too cutesy.

He cracked his window an inch, shut down the engine, reclined the driver's seat to maximum, and stretched out his six-foot frame as best he could. Sleep took him almost immediately.

It was the semi pulling back onto the road that woke him. The sun was up, and the dashboard clock said 7:12, so that meant he'd slept for almost five hours. Looking at the clock, he remembered he'd forgotten to change it to mountain time back in North Dakota, so it was actually 6:12, local time.

He raise his seat back into a comfortable driving position, stepped out of the car into the cool air, stretched and headed for the restrooms to empty his bladder. If experience counted for anything, the toilets were going to be filthy, and while he felt the urge, he wasn't so in need of a dump that he'd be willing to sit his ass down on one of the seats. It was as he suspected, and he wondered why communities even bothered to build roadside restrooms if they had no intention of maintaining them.

He drove into town looking for a local restaurant for some breakfast and a clean restroom. The secondary highway a few miles off the interstate was also the town's main drag, and about half way through, he spotted what must be the most popular place around, judging by the number of pickups, cars and horse trailers parked on both sides of the road. He found a parking spot about a block and a half away and took it.

The Big Sky Hotel and Restaurant was a brick three-story building, probably built around the turn of the twentieth century. As he stepped in the front door, the check-in desk was on his right, the restaurant on his left. The lobby was a little overdone with an "old west" motif, sporting a chandelier fashioned from a wagon wheel, and an ornate, silver encrusted saddle on display behind velvet ropes. The sign said it once belonged to William Boyd, who played the role of Hopalong Cassidy on early 50's TV. Maybe, maybe not.

The restaurant appeared to be packed, and Errol wondered if he was looking at a long wait to be seated. But then he spotted a small table all the way across the room next to the swinging kitchen doors. He made his way through the crowded room and claimed it.

He counted three waitresses hustling their buns off to keep up. It was obvious they were up to their ears in orders, so he settled in for a bit of a wait. He really needed to use the restroom, but he didn't want to chance losing the table. He hoped one of them would get to him PDQ. That turned out to be only about two minutes.

She was a slim lady who looked to be in her early forties, wearing jeans, a western shirt and white sneakers. The tiny white apron tied about her waist looked out of place. "Good morning, sir. How are you today?"

Errol smiled because she seemed to really mean it. "I'm well, thanks. Is something special going on, or are you always this busy?"

"You're new here, I see. Yeah, it's two weeks of county fair and rodeo, so it'll be like this for a few more days. What can I get for ya today?"

"How about a short stack, two over easy with sausage and coffee, black please."

"Got it. Give us about ten or fifteen minutes on that. The cook's gettin' 'em out as fast as he can."

"I'm pretty sure I won't starve before it gets here."

"We appreciate your patience, Sir."

"Uh, where are your restrooms?"

"Out the door facing the check-in desk and down the hall to your left.

"Thanks."

A few minutes later, his pressing business taken care of, Errol had no sooner resettled into his chair and taken a sip of very good coffee, than a loud "GOD DAMMIT! OH, FUCK!" came through the kitchen doors.

Heads turned as his waitress hurried across the room and pushed through, asking, "What is it, Marty? What happened?"

"SHIT! I cut off my goddamn finger on that fuckin' bandsaw slicin' off some pork chops!"

"Oh my lord!"

Errol stepped into the kitchen and asked, "Can I help?"

Marty, the cook sneered at him and said sarcastically, "Oh hell yeah! Ya know how to sew a finger back on?"

Errol ignored the attitude. "No, but I know how to keep it viable until you get to the hospital. You shouldn't be wasting any time doing that."

The waitress asked, "Where's the finger, Marty? I'll pack it in some ice."

Marty, his stub now wrapped in a bloody rag, looked around and spotted the amputated index finger, taken off below the second knuckle, lying next to the pork chops on the band saw table.

"Over there!" he dipped his head toward it.

Errol cautioned, "I wouldn't put it directly on ice, ma'am! If the tissue freezes, they won't be able to save it."

She asked, "Then what should I do?"

"Wrap it in something clean like a paper towel, dampen it to keep the tissue from drying out, stick the whole thing in a plastic bag and then put it on some ice. I'd recommend you don't waste any time getting him over to the hospital because they'll probably want to send him to a trauma center that has a hand specialist."

In a less surly voice, Marty said, "You seem to know what you're talkin' about. You a paramedic or somethin'?"

Errol had seen way too many arms and legs blown off in combat. "No, but I've had some experience with severed limbs. You probably ought to get moving."

The waitress, who turned out to also be the restaurant manager, agreed. She hollered at the guy who had been operating the dishwasher, and now stood looking like he might pass out at the sight of the amputated finger, "Frank, quit your gawkin' and drive Marty over to the emergency room! Then get your butt back here in a hurry. Jeez Louise, how in hell am I gonna be able to keep up with all these orders? I guess I better call in the night cook."

Errol volunteered his services. "Well, I've got some experience as a short order cook. I'd be happy to fill in until you can find someone else."

She ignored his offer for the moment, wrapping the finger in a piece of wet paper towel, stuffing it into a baggie and putting it in a quart jar half full of crushed ice. She handed it to Frank and quickly ushered her two employees out the back door.

Then she turned back to Errol and said, "Oh, I don't know, mister, I probably ought to ask the owner about that first, because there's probably some kind of liability issue to think about."

"So, where's the owner?"

"Well, uh, I reckon he's sleeping off last night's poker game. He's not gonna like being woke up, either."

"Then don't. Look, what have you got to lose by letting me help out? If the owner has a problem with it, then you don't have to pay me. And if I cut off my finger, I promise not to make a claim against your insurance."

She looked at him, taking his measure as she considered her options. She quickly made up her mind and agreed, "Right! What do I have to lose except my job if you get injured? Hang your jacket on that hook behind you and grab an apron! I take it you know your way around a kitchen, so let's get to it! Oh, what's your name?"

"Errol. Errol Hansen."

"Pleased to meet ya, Errol. I'm Lulu, and I'm the manager, in case you hadn't guessed."

Errol thought it was starting to look like cooking was going to be his lot in life. But so what? There were worse ways to make a living.

Three hours later, the dining room had mostly emptied out. Lulu came into the kitchen and stood beside Errol who was setting a plate of pancakes and sausage links in the window. She patted him on the back and asked, "How ya holding up, champ?"

He looked around and smiled. "Doing just fine, Lulu. Have you heard anything from Marty yet?"

"Yeah, they're having an ambulance drive him and his finger over to the medical center about eighty miles west of here. He said to thank you for your good advice because the doctor said we did everything just right. They have a good chance of reattaching the finger since it was such a clean cut. Of course, Marty will be off work for several weeks, so I guess I need to hire a temporary cook. Um, I don't suppose you'd be interested, would you? You've sure been doing a bang-up job so far. Hell, you're better than Marty!" She looked around and said in a lowered voice, "But don't you ever tell him I said that."

"It's just between you and me."

She laid her hand on his arm and asked, "So are ya?"

"Interested in the job? Well, I was just passing through town with no particular destination in mind, so, sure, why not? At least for a while. Any place around here where I could rent a room by the week?"

She shook her head. "During rodeo week? Not likely."

Errol lifted his eyebrows and said, "Well now that's a problem, because I'm not really interested in living out of my car." He saw no reason to mention that he'd been doing just that for the last several days.

She knitted her brow as she gave it some thought. Once again, she looked him over critically and said, "Well, you don't look like a bank robber or a serial killer. You're not, are ya?"

He laughed, "Not even close. I might be the most peaceful, non-violent guy you've ever met. Anyhow, if I was a serial killer, do you think I'd tell you?"

She chuckled at that and committed herself. "Well, Errol, I'm gonna take a chance, and I hope to hell you don't make a fool out of me. I've got a spare room at my place you can use 'til something opens up. Would that seal the deal?"

"Sure, if you feel comfortable with it. I can promise I won't be any trouble." He glanced at her left hand and didn't see a ring. "You live there alone?"

"No, it's me and my daughter. She's a senior in high school."

"Hmm, you hardly look old enough for that."

She laughed, "You're a better cook than you are a liar, but I'll take a compliment wherever I can find one."

"So how do I find your place?"

"After the lunch rush, you can follow me there. It's not far, just on the western edge of town."