The Life of Remoulade Jenkins

For Devan Leonard:

Remoulade wasn’t sure how he was made.  He felt citrus and juice and no sense of purpose. In the plastic ramekin beside the ice bin he saw the flopping arms of the underpaid, crackheaded cook as light began to bounce off the insides of his container.

“Yeah, whatever,” Crackheaded yelled over the dish sanitizer behind him, “Fuck you, Dave,” he whispered under his breath.

“That color doesn’t look right,” the server who banged the cooks peered over Crackheaded’s shoulder.

“It tastes just fine,” Crackheaded put his finger in Remoulade retracting a glob of the beige goop and spread it in the server’s hair.

“You asshole,” she wiped it out of her hair.

A hair from his beard fell into the ramekin. Half of it stuck out of the side and the other half floated atop Remoulade.

As Remoulade sat in the dark fridge waiting for the dinner rush he contemplated how he wanted his life to go.  The door to the fridge began opening more frequently.  Remoulade weaseled his way down in the pile, past all the other Remoulades until he hit metal at the bottom.

In Remoulade gurgles another Remoulade, Remoulade Jones, asked how Jenkins got so far down, You sure do look fresh, boy.  This Remoulade had yellow gunk on his container and smelled awful. I’ve been down here for some time now…Don’t think I’m getting out before you.  We’ve got another couple of layers before they get close.

“You didn’t make enough remoulade for this party!  Goddamnit Billy!” One of the servers scooped up the few ramekins on top of the pair.  Shit. “What the hell is this?  This is nasty, y’all!” The server through Remoulade Jones into the trash.  She examined Remoulade Jenkins, decided he looked good enough, and carried him to the table.

“This is my favorite sauce ever,” said a girl as she mindlessly stared at her phone. After being poked and prodded for several minutes by French fries, shrimps, and whatthehelleverelse they put on ends of forks and he was barely left, they put the lid back on him.  They brought him along.

He was left in some car’s drink holder in the center console, for two weeks.  He had coffee spilled on him.  He smelled the driver smoking marijuana.  He slid around.  He smelled bad.  He could hear them talking about him, “Dude, you forgot that sauce again.”

“I’ll get it when we get out,” a girl’s voice said.

She didn’t.

Then, one day, at some random parking lot where the air smelled like sour coffee and rusty paint, he was taken up.  He was thrown to the asphalt.  He splattered in the sun.  He evaporated.


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