Page 35 of Finding Parker

“Are you angry, Vicky?” Tony began to mock me as he walked my direction.

“Watch out uncle Tony, she got a knife,” Paulie laughed.

I hate confrontation. I simply hate it. All I wanted to do was come to work, do what was asked of me, and eventually be promoted into a position I deserved. Having a superior who was capable of recognizing my strengths and weaknesses, and be willing to help me when I didn’t understand shouldn’t be too much to ask for. Instead, I had this kitchen full of simple-minded Italian testosterone.

I looked down at the plastic bucket of chicken skin beside my feet and drew another short breath.

“I asked you a fucking question, Vicky,” Tony said as he slapped his hands down onto the edge of my prep table.

We don’t always plan what happens in our life. Sometimes, things just unravel. Later, I suppose we may look back on the event or happening and wonder if we should have done something different. Either way, once it’s done, it’s done. Undoing it is never an option.

“Fuck you,” I shouted as I dropped the knife onto the prep table.

“Fuck you and your worthless assed lazy fucking nephew. I wasn’t arguing,” I raised my right foot behind me as if I were going to kick a field goal for the San Diego Chargers football team.

As Tony looked down at my foot, I swung my leg forward and kicked the bucket of chicken skin across the kitchen floor. As the bucket bounced off the wall behind Tony, bits and pieces of chicken exploded into the room. I reached behind my back and began untying my apron.

“Go fuck yourself, Tony. You don’t appreciate shit. I worked hard for you, and you never appreciated it. Not once. And my name isn’t Vicky, asshole,” I shouted as I tossed my apron on the floor in front of him.

“It’s Vic-tor-i-a.”

And, just like that, my employment with Angelina’s ended. I never quite understood who Angelina was, but I imagine whoever she was, she wouldn’t appreciate Tony treating people the way he did.

And I bet Tony never called her Angie, either.

Fucking asshole.

PARKER. Nervously, I had explained matters to Kenton regarding Victoria. I suspected he knew I was doing something, but he had been patient with my not presenting someone to him. His expectations of my measurable advancements were potentially far different than what I believed they were. Either way, he listened intently as I explained about Victoria and my feelings for her. Feeling somewhat guilty, I made clear our plans to go on a date, and my understanding of my obligation to introduce her to him.

Although I had not taken the time to read the contract entirely, I had spent a little time skimming through it. Promptly, I found the portion Downes referred to regarding Kenton’s requirement to meet the women I chose to take on a date. After reading that particular section, I once again tossed the contract aside, feeling no real need to bore myself with the incidental remaining contract language.

As the date to meet Kenton approached, I began to feel odd about introducing her to him. I struggled with the idea of her being someone I was contractually bound to see, and our time together not being by my choice. I finally settled with the idea of her being nothing more than what she was, and Kenton being nothing more than what he was. A woman of true interest to me, and a man who found value in witnessing me treat her in a gentlemanly manner.

When I thought about it in this particular fashion, it didn’t seem awkward at all. So, with my view on matters somewhat askew, when the day arrived, we made our way to Kenton’s mansion. Now, sitting in the same room where Kenton and I had once shared our first sandwich, I listened as he talked to Victoria.

“Just like that?” Kenton chuckled.

“Just like that,” Victoria snapped her fingers.

“Called him a motherfucker, just like the piccolo player,” Kenton began to laugh.

“The what?” she laughed.

“Oh, it’s an old joke, I’ll tell you in a minute,” Kenton sighed.

“I called him an asshole, I think. I really don’t remember. But definitely not a motherfucker. At least I don’t think so,” she grinned.

“Well, either way. Good for you. Having a boss that doesn’t appreciate you isn’t very rewarding. And Parker,” Kenton paused and turned to face me, “remind me to never call Victoria by anything other than her given name.”

“I’ll remind you,” I grinned.

“So,” Kenton stood from his position in the chair.

“One Sunday morning, down south at a southern Baptist church, the choir began to sing. Although the congregation didn’t realize it initially, they soon found out there was a new piccolo player playing along with the organ as the choir sang. He was nothing short of awful,” Kenton paused and smiled as he alternated glances at Victoria and I.

“So, after a few torturous songs, someone in the crowd hollered, the piccolo player’s a motherfucker.”

“The reverend of the church stood up, shocked that someone would say something so awful, especially during the service. Who called my piccolo player a motherfucker? He hollered out into the congregation.”