Pool_1

"Stupid? Excuse me? Well, maybe. I need money for college," Marcus blurted after struggling with this less than vital reception. "I am no stranger around food." Marcus offered his appreciation of the various nuances in Italian cooking in the historically different sections of Italy, continental traditions, and even Scandinavian traditions. As the cook listened in disbelief, intermittently looking away with a lopsided open mouth lip smack, Marcus continued on by pitching his abilities in biology, chemistry, physics, and threw in his other past credits including merits in the humanities. "Man, quit now! This place is not for you. Really. It is boring beyond human tolerance," the cook counseled. "It's worse than jury duty. Your brains will fall out." "My last job was hell. The guy before me died doing it! I don't care if it is dull, I can reflect. I'm used to that." "Reflect?" Rubbing his lips looking left and right, "Reflect. OK, Reflect. Jake, that's him with the book, sitting on the window sill over there. Jake will fill you in. You'll be his reflectee." Jake, a black man of about thirty years, was well spoken, dignified, yet kind of street wise in his manner. He had two books beside him. One was a James Joyce and the other a James Baldwin. "I'm in my James period," he explained as he quickly deduced the lightening speed reading glance of his new trainee. "Anger and gloom, thing, I guess," as he sized up the new recruit. "Hi. I'm Marcus, Jake. The cook said that you would tell me what to do." "Do? Sure thing," prodding Marcus by the shoulder to turn about, "Leave. Leave now," as Marcus resisted smiling an I-don't-get-it look. " Man, you talk in complete sentences. How the hell did you get this job?" Jake was genuinely surprised.