J. Wilhelm was the kind of cook who would only work over the broiler. He needed to lose a solid one hundred pounds. Instead, he was content to slave over the five hundred degree heat all shift, carpet-bombing the steak and chicken with droplets of sweat.

He was older than all of us by fifteen years. He’d offer tidbits of wisdom like the appropriate sexual habits of a girl worth dating. Those habits were never flattering. He called everyone “brother” like it was some special honor. He wanted us all to know just how tough he was.

He would smoke a cigarette in between puffs off of his oxygen tank. He only had the tank for a short while. Why he had it and where it went, I don’t know. It was a big deal to show all us young bucks he was the bull.

There was a stove next to the commercial-sized dishwasher. It usually held a five-gallon pot filled with boiling water. Our soups came in frozen bags, and we’d toss them into the pot. That’s how we’d prepare the chicken noodle or minestrone the people ate that night.

We’d all go to the dishwasher’s station and grab a stack of clean plates. Whereas the rest of us would take a small stack or use two hands to carry them, Wilhelm was content to grab a tall stack and tuck it under his arm as if it was the morning paper.

One day Mike was near the stove and Wilhelm was coming with a stack of platters. He got between the stove and the dishwasher and stepped into a hazard all restaurant managers want to avoid: a big, right-out-in-the-open pool of water. Dishwasher overspray.

Wilhelm’s feet flew up over his head. The platters shot up and touched the ceiling, then rained down. Mike was trying to snatch Wilhelm as he noticed Wilhelm’s hand reach for the still-boiling pot of water.

Mike stepped back.

Wilhelm’s ass crashed into the tiles. The platters cascaded down, shattering. The boiling water dumped out in a waterfall. From beside the stove, Wilhelm shot up, soaked from his massive gut down to his stressed ankles. A shard of platter stuck in his forearm. He was doing the pee-pee dance trying to cool down the water sitting on his skin.

“Take your pants off!” Mike shouted.

“I cain’t, brother! I ain’t got on no jimmies!”

Wilhelm’s accident toll: sixty-eight stitches, second degree burns on thirty percent of his body, a fractured pelvis, a $42,000 settlement and a promotion. And that was on top of his twelve weeks paid convalescent vacation.

Shortly after his return, Wilhelm’s chest hurt, and he stepped back into the stock area to walk it off. He was gone a few hours later.

Norton took over sweating on the food. It was like Wilhelm never dropped dead.

Ryan Sayles was born and raised in the midwest. He has been published at Short Story Library, SNM Horror, Powder Burn Flash, Nefarious Muse, Heroin Love Songs volume 7 and Beat To A Pulp (as “Derek Kelly”). He has been included in Short Story Library’s print collection “Branded Words” and will be included in an upcoming collection from SNM Horror.