The Angel Behind the Sushi Counter

Desdemona, Reverend Al, and I went out to dinner last week at Sushi Train, which is exactly what it sounds like—a restaurant where all-you-can-eat sushi is served via a conveyor belt that winds through the restaurant.  If you spot a plate that piques your interest, boom, you just grab it, like at a buffet, only the buffet is a constantly rotating selection of sushi.  A train.  A sushi train.  

About 45 minutes in, I started feeling full, but I dug deep and powered through it.  I think I ended up rounding out the hour with a couple egg rolls and some pork gyoza, a salmon avocado roll, a spicy tuna cucumber roll, and a volcano roll, and then a few of those sugar doughnut puffs and one of those spongey, layered cake things.  Does anyone know the name of those?  Anyways, after I’d finished, Rev. Al found it appropriate at that time to remind me of the sin of gluttony.  I silently thanked him for the lesson on that particular deadly sin and then practiced a similar, yet different, lesson on my own as I turned the other cheek and refrained from bringing up what he’d told me the other day, because what I could’ve said was, but Father, didn’t you tell me you were nearly finished with that “gift,” the one you received from the parents of the bride you married a few weeks back, you know, the one with the four cases of wine and the pallet’s-worth of Cosmic Brownies and Fudge Rounds and Honey Buns and Swiss Rolls?  Remember when you said you weren’t going to share with the other priests and then, when you saw the look of concerned disgust on my face, you said you were just joking, but I could tell you weren’t because you’re a gut-churning gourmand when it comes to your merlots and Little Debbie snacks? Well, I remembered.  But like I said, I didn’t bring that up.

Anyways, for full transparency, and speaking of deadly sins, I admit that, for the entire dinner, I’d been staring, a bit shamelessly and lustfully, at one of the chefs behind the sushi counter, marveling at her beauty but also her craft—the way she’d make her blade whine as she sharpened it on the whetstone in long, clean, expert strokes, the way she’d neatly slice the rolls and then place them with care inside the receptacles where they’d begin their journeys to the hungry patrons throughout the restaurant.  But I could only see her face, because her hair was tucked up into a black skull cap, the rest of her body hidden beneath a thick, white coat.  Well, the pipes and valves of my brain responsible for clear thinking and levelheadedness must’ve been clogged by all the raw fish because, unprompted, I blurted out that she was beautiful, and Des and Al, who were sitting together on the same side of the booth, immediately turned around and looked over their shoulders, hoping to steal a glance at the sushi samurai who had so captivated my satiated stomach yet hungry heart.

Clearly, neither of them shared my yearning for her.  Des asked who I was talking about, and Al simply laughed and shook his head.  Perhaps they hadn’t seen her?  But surely they had.  How could they have missed her, this angel behind the sushi counter?  Perhaps they’d been blinded by her brilliance, her radiance.  I was particularly disappointed in Rev. Al, a man of the cloth.  A real angel in his midst—and not just one of those mythological sword-carrying messenger ones whose job it was to deliver inconceivable news unto unsuspecting women, like, hey there, see that omniscient and omnipotent and omnipresent being over there? no? oh, that’s right, He’s invisible, ha ha, well, this is gonna sound crazy, but He thinks you’re kinda cute and He would like to knock you up, immaculately, so just check the yes or no box on this valogram here and I’ll be out of your hair, oh, just kidding there’s only a yes, okay now, bye!—and all he could do was sit there with that Little Debbie cake-eating grin on his face.  I could feel my disappointment turning into frustration, but, thankfully, before it boiled over into full-blown anger, Des asked me again who I was talking about, to which I replied, still a bit heated: the sushi chef!  She looked over her shoulder again and then turned back around, saying, the dude in the weird hat? 

Now I would’ve been angry if I hadn't been so appalled at Des’ lack of decorum, her questionable eyesight.  She then retrieved from her purse a pen and an unopened envelope.  She scanned the front of the envelope, apparently deciding that it was trash, and then ripped it in half, discarding the contents save one yellow scrap.  She flipped it over onto its blank backside and took up the pen, adopting a pensive look.  I asked her what she was doing, and she replied that she was writing a note.  A note, I asked?  A proposal, she said, a proposition, whatever you want to call it, for your sushi chef over yonder.  I told her that wasn’t necessary, but she and Al were already deep in thought, huddled together like co-conspirators planning some half-baked bank heist, or something equally dreadful and idiotic.  When they’d finished, Des straightened herself, cleared her throat, and then read:

To my dearest, sexy sashimi slinger: As I sat here for the past hour, shoveling into my hole that which you have so exquisitely prepared, I have watched and longed for you with the explosive power of a thousand atomic bombs, the only thing more dangerous and more eruptive being the devil’s horn between my legs that grows larger and larger by the nanosecond.  Please, will you go out with me?  Sincerely, The lonely man at Table 22.

I closed my eyes and placed my forehead on the table, hoping to hide not only from the salacious and vulgar language in Des’ note, but also from my own shame at the fact that the language wasn’t too far off from how I truly felt.  Eventually, I gathered myself, and when I looked up, Des and Al were carrying on as if nothing had happened.  I asked Des to give me the note so that I could dispose of it, but she said she didn’t have it.  When I questioned her why, she remarked, rather indifferently, that she’d already placed it inside one of the receptacles on the conveyor belt, as if that was to be expected, like she’d simply followed through with the most normal course of action—the Sushi Express, the country’s preeminent mail service, guaranteeing same-day, no, same-minute, delivery.  The humiliation and the shame returned with a vengeance, and the color or the contours of my face must’ve drastically changed, because Des, again, rather indifferently, told me to relax, that she knew I wouldn’t have the balls to go up and talk to the chef on my own and that she was doing me a favor. 

Instead of arguing with Des, I spent the next moments frantically trying to assure myself of the improbability that the note would actually make it back to the chef—surely, she’d be too absorbed in her sushi-making duties to notice; surely, any waste on the conveyor belt was discarded before it reached her; and, surely, she only placed things in, and didn’t remove anything from, the receptacles?—when, suddenly, I was jolted from my fevered contemplations as Rev. Al, giddy as a school girl, exclaimed that something was coming!  Des spotted the referenced receptacle, and, yes, I could see, too, that there was a new note inside, a different color and shape than the first.  I’d be lying if I said the tiniest bubble of excitement wasn’t trying to push its way to the surface of the viscous pool of dread that still lay stagnant inside me, but I felt it finally escape in a celestial burst as Des read:

To the lovelorn sushi enthusiast at Table 22: Take heart!  For I have been watching you, too.  Though your reference to nuclear warfare thrusts upon me a melancholic remembrance of things past, much healing has taken place between our people, and have not lovers overcome even sadder, more insurmountable odds?  As for your devil’s horn, please keep it tamed until we meet.  Wait for me in the alley behind this restaurant.  By the dumpster.

Well, I’ll be goddamned, Rev. Al said.  I didn’t even register his shattering of the Third Commandment for I was equally, if not more, stunned.  As was Des, apparently, as she sat there in disbelief, that is, until I finally spoke up and noted that she, the chef, did not state at what time her shift behind the sushi counter ended.  Now you’re asking the right questions, Sterl! Des responded, reaching into her purse to retrieve another yellow scrap of paper from those discarded earlier.  A fool I’d been to doubt her before!  Anxiously, I allowed her to continue as she saw fit:

Huzzah!  You needn’t worry, dearest angel, about the natural, bodily function I relayed to you earlier.  The sheer thrill your response brings me has diverted nearly all of my blood to my head, so dizzy and flooded am I with excitement. When, though, shall I expect you?  I’ve no qualms about hanging out near a dumpster, but I would wish to limit the time doing so.  I hope this does not offend you.  Forever yours, The man at table 22.

I watched her place the note in one of the receptacles and followed its journey for a few seconds.  The anticipation, though, was too much, and I had to put my head down again.  Once I’d calmed myself, I looked up and noticed a group of teenage boys giggling over in another booth.  The poor fools, I thought.  Here I was, engaged in a steamy, yet romantic, correspondence with possibly the love of my life, while they sat over there and laughed like pre-teen boys who’d stumbled across an older sibling’s stash of nudie mags.  Had they ever witnessed an angel, or even known the touch of a woman?  I sincerely doubted it. 

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen, with no word from the sushi chef.  At twenty minutes, Rev. Al suggested that we leave, that the performance, while fun, had run its course.  Performance, I said?  Did he think this was some play, that we were all merely actors on a stage, that, after the curtains had closed, we would resume our other, real lives as if nothing had happened?  I expected nothing less from him, being a man married not to a woman or man but to a belief, an idea, so they say, but I was surprised to hear Des agreeing with him.  But just then, the group of teenagers stood and made their way towards the exit.  As they passed our table, one of them reached over and tenderly placed something at the center of our table, a bit of folded, yellow paper.  Dare I say, remarked Rev. Al, that this is a poor attempt at a swan?  Yep, Des agreed with a snigger, origami.  

Des and Al then told me that it was really time to go, but I wasn’t yet ready to surrender, was holding out hope that, yes, although it had been a while since we’d received word from the chef, there was surely an explanation for it.  I looked over to the counter and saw the hunched form of her, meticulously preparing more rolls—though I admit, with everything concealed by the black skullcap and white robe, it very well could’ve been someone else.  Still, I told them that they could go on, that I would wait a moment longer.  I could tell Rev. Al was about to say something, but Des stopped him.  Okay, she said, good luck.  But before they’d departed, I asked Des for a pen and several more scraps of paper, which she was more than happy to supply.