Forfucksake Sam

Sam couldn't remember exactly when he was renamed Forfucksake Sam but it seemed now to be a constant prefix for everyone in the kitchen who spoke to him.

“Forfucksake Sam, get those dishes washed we going down on the Titanic here!”

Or when the manager shouted, “Forfucksake Sam, we need those bins emptied and cleaned pronto!”

Even when being kind, the chef would say

“Forfucksake Sam, there’s a burger for your lunch on the counter.”

Sam grew to ignore the implied insult and just treated it as a title of sorts.  It was bloody hard being a kitchen porter and physically it pushed him to limits that were way beyond name-calling.  Standing at a station washing dishes for eight hours made his backache until his arm muscles grew strong enough to cope.  Having his hands in soapy water so long had caused eczema and it wouldn’t clear.  His doctor warned him that it would be a chronic condition if he didn’t stop.  His fingers were like huge red inflated sausages with dry skin flaking off all over. 

When he examined them at night and covered them in cortisone cream they seemed not to belong to him at all.  They gave the impression of strange appendages that had been grafted on along with the title Forfucksake.  Some shifts he would find himself holding his mouth in a peculiar way, off to one side and twisted shut.  As if there were words he wanted to shout but had to hold him in at all costs by this pursed contortion.  He passed the floor manager screaming at a waitress on the stairway, and as the manager screamed abuse the waitress cried, head bowed weeping huge monstrous tears over a face young and raw like juicy meat.  Sam had wanted to intervene but passed saying nothing, this, like the deformed hands and his title Forfucksake, was another symptom of his new persona.  

At odd moments he found himself examining himself when shaving as if to try and find the person he was before this killing year in the hotel as a kitchen porter.  When he looked in his eyes he saw a broken figure looking back, weary and watchful for the next unexpected deformity to appear, mentally or physically.  He was watchful over himself and others.  You had to be in the kitchen, there was hot oil, burning gas hobs and perhaps more dangerous than all, the cleaning fluid.  To clean the deep fryers you had to use almost neat acid and it got everywhere.  Even his lungs seemed filled with the toxic stuff after a long shift-scrapping gunk from deep within the bowels of the machine.  Some nights he coughed long and hard and wondered if the lining of his lungs matched his grotesque fingers. 

But he liked his fellow workers.  They were an odd bunch but real.  The alcoholic cleaner from Albania, the Afghan chef, missing an ear, the Philippino waiter who minced into the kitchen swinging in time with the music.  The laughter was constant in between the shouting and Forfucksake Sam knew that what you saw was what you got.  In the relentless work load of the kitchen there was no energy for fabrication or pretence.  You worked until you dropped, you could not maintain anything under veils of restraint and tack.  It felt raw but genuine.  When the load was quiet, a rare event, they’d put the music on and each would do a small gig at their station in time to the music.  A moment of abandonment and celebration of life.  They would give each other advice and Sam grew used to “Forfucksake Sam, this is no life, you need to get the hell out of here!”  He saw evidence of kindness too, Forfucksake Sam give me the other handle of that, you’ll break your back!”  It seemed that words mattered not a jot.  Deeds counted and when your arms ached like pulled teeth all became clear.  People are not what they say, thought Sam, they are what they do.  Of every second of every day they show you what they are made of.  Forfucksake Sam realised that even his title had been earned on this odd battlefield of a kitchen.  

Colette’s Commercial Tips/Guidance

1. I love Moleskine notebooks, they are so robust, last forever and my particular favourite is the ones with squared paper inside.  Don’t ask me why but that type helps me be more creative.  I filled my last book with stuck in leaves, flowers, poems, short stories and could not bring it with me to Malta.  Do you know, I am missing it still and am determined to get a new one fast.
2. I have long copied my mother in using Oil of Ulay as a moisturiser (pink bottle).  She would hold all my children’s faces to her cheek when looking after them and they would return to me smelling of this cream.  I cannot use the sensitive version or even the sunscreen one as they don’t have that gloriously familiar smell.
3. One of my son’s girlfriends introduced me to Donkey/Ass soap.  Don’t laugh, Cleopatra used it after all, and I have to admit for cleaning the skin this soap beats everything else on the market.  Before you laugh yourself silly, try it!
4. Never ever write letters, complicated emails or have deep detailed conversations last thing at night.  It is a recipe for a sleepless night.  Create a bedtime routine that includes calling yourself to account each night.  This should not be a berating self-damaging process.  It just means thinking about the day and how you handled yourself, what you would improve, what you would do better and what you should have neglected.  It should help kick start a better day ahead, not finish you off in depression.
5. Don’t backbite as a principle.  I remember being in a committee meeting with a very challenging person who invariably got everyone’s back up.  One meeting I had a heated consultation with her and said my piece honestly but knowing me bluntly too.  The next meeting the lady did not show and suddenly the other committee members launched into verbal assaults of this missing member.  I was furious and told them that if I had a problem with anyone they would know about it and I certainly was not willing to attack a person who was not there to defend themselves.  Besides being a waste of time I have long felt that what people do to others they eventually do to you.  So, if they are running someone down be pretty sure when you are not around they are doing a hatchet job on you!
6. Be with good people as much as possible.  My neighbour on Rhodes was an architect, when not feeding the local stray cats with huge bags of food that he bought, he was on the slopes of the island planting trees for the environment.  Apart from that he was an exceptionally kind person who was a joy to our entire apartment block.  He and his wife just improved the neighbourhood somehow and raised the bar on what a real human being should be.
7. Be grateful, it has nothing to do with what you have, own or are.  It is a state of being and as such should be aspired to.  Be grateful for health, if you don’t have that be grateful for loved ones, if you don’t have that be grateful for all those who you once had, if you have never had anyone be grateful that in the days ahead you will have an opportunity to love someone you have yet to meet.