The kitchen at Club Front was laid out oddly. Most kitchens do an open sort of thing, but not here. The Dead had all voted that quinoa surprise (the surprise was that it contained pork) Bobby liked to cook stank, and therefore, the kitchen should be enclosed. There was a heavy door with a lock, but over the sink was a large window made from plexiglass; it faced into the main room, so everyone could look in and watch Billy do his Swedish Chef routine, or Keith get chased by the lobsters he was forever buying, bothering, losing control of, and being pinched by.
So when Garcia wandered in one morning at three in the afternoon, he was not surprised to see the kitchen full of smoke.
“GARCIA!” a voice coughed out from inside the kitchen.
Garcia’s shoulders slumped and wondered if he could run back to his car, claiming deafness.
“Garcia. It’s me. Mickey.”
“There was a radiation leak, Garcia.”
And with a SCHMOCK! Mickey’s face slammed against the plexiglass: it was covered in cheese and sauce of some sort, but probably marinara.
“A radiation leak?”
“You didn’t forget to take the chicken parm out of the foil before you microwaved it again?”
“No. Definitely radiation.”
“Well, open a window in there, man.”
“NO! The jams of the many–”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“–outweigh the jams of a few.”
Mickey wheezed and hacked, and then stubbed out his cigarette, and then wheezed and hacked some more.
“Front Street…out of danger?”
“Sure, why not.”
“And you are…my friend?”
“Well, we’re definitely bandmates, Mick. let’s stick with you’re my drummer.”
“Then I am…your drummer?”
“Oh, yeah: you are amongst my drummers.”
Mickey slapped his hand against the plexiglass in the Vulcan salute. Garcia looked at it.
“Mick, I don’t really…”
“I don’t ask a lot of you.”
Garcia put his hand on the plexiglass, too.
“I feel it would be more iconic if you used the fucked-up hand, Jer.”
“And I’m done here.”