Marcus Silcock
Salad Bar
In America, he worked at Sizzler. Washing dishes, but he wanted to move up to salad bar. It was hard to meet Salad Bar. Salad Bar was slick. Salad Bar was on his toes. Salad Bar aged his wrinkled fingers for 2 years washing dishes before becoming Salad Bar. Good eyes and quick fingers, he said, sliding the shoelace of beets down the slick counter. Also stealthy. You had to look like all the rest of them. Dropping your ear into conversations. His sticky fingers on the pulse of the diners. Slipping something creamy or tangy into the bounties. Salad Bar sometimes popped into the backroom where Tatra was washing dishes with floating cigarette butts and yolky bottoms. His hands wrinkling into baby steps. Keep trying, said Salad Bar. By the midnight glow of his refrigerator, Tatra dipped his hands into crisp lettuce. Salad fingers salad fingers salad fingers, he said. When you say something three times, magic happens.