Ramen and Rolexes

Chapter Four: Blue Frosting and Structural Mechanics

The digital clock on the desk read 6:14 AM. The numbers were missing a segment, making the six look like a lowercase ‘b’.

Ray sat up. The cheap mattress springs dug into his left shoulder blade.

Across the room, the brass steampunk locomotive was hissing. Steam plumed from a chrome wand. Julian stood in front of it. He wore silk pajama pants and a white t-shirt. He watched a thick, dark liquid drip into a tiny porcelain cup.

The smell of roasted nuts and dark chocolate filled the cinderblock room. It was aggressive and rich. It covered the smell of the damp carpet.

Ray threw his legs over the side of the bed. The linoleum was freezing.

He picked up his plastic microwave-safe mug. Walked to the door.

Julian didn't look up from the dripping espresso. "Good morning."

Ray grunted. He walked down the hall to the communal bathroom. The left sink was clogged with shaved hair. He used the right sink. Filled the plastic mug with lukewarm tap water.

Back in the room. The microwave in the corner. Two minutes.

He pulled out the jar of Value Brand coffee. Unscrewed the plastic lid. The paper seal was already broken. He scooped out a spoonful of brown gravel.

Clink.

Ray set a dime and a nickel on the exact center of Julian's leather desk pad.

Julian picked up his porcelain cup. He looked at the coins. "What is this?"

"Your fifteen cents."

"I told you I would deduct it from the utility bill."

"I don't run a tab." Ray dumped the brown gravel into the hot water. It didn't dissolve. It floated on the surface in a scummy raft. He used the back of his spoon to crush the clumps against the plastic rim.

Julian touched the dime. He slid it a fraction of an inch to the left, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the leather pad.

On his perfectly made bed, the plastic clamshell of sugar cookies sat open. One cookie was missing a neat, semicircular bite.

"It tastes like sweetened drywall," Julian said.

"You don't have to eat it."

"I paid seventy-five cents for four. That implies a value of eighteen point seven five cents per unit. To discard it would be inefficient."

Julian picked up the cookie. The blue frosting was weeping a clear, sugary liquid. He took another deliberate bite. He chewed for a long time. His jaw clicked slightly.

The industrial dishwasher hummed at a frequency that vibrated in Ray's teeth.

1:30 PM. Lunch rush.

The air smelled of boiled hot dogs, bleach, and sour milk.

Ray stood at the end of the conveyor belt. A tray slid toward him. It held a half-eaten burger, a puddle of brown gravy, and a crumpled napkin stuffed into a milk carton.

He grabbed the plate. Scraped the waste into the slop trough with a rubber spatula. Tossed the ceramic into the plastic rack. Next tray.

"Who is the guy in the crinkly coat?"

Maya bumped her hip against the stainless steel counter. She wore a hairnet that smashed her bangs flat against her forehead. She pointed a wet spatula toward the dining room.

Ray didn't look up. He scraped a pile of limp french fries into the trough. "Nobody."

"He's been standing by the cereal dispensers for twenty minutes. Every time he moves, he sounds like a walking chip bag."

Ray looked through the rectangular pass-through window.

Julian was standing next to the Cheerios dispenser. He was wearing the fifteen-dollar olive-green nylon coat. Indoors. The thermostat in the dining hall was set to seventy-two, but the heat from the kitchen pushed it closer to eighty.

Julian was holding a small leather-bound notebook. He was writing with a silver fountain pen.

A freshman in a hoodie bumped into him. The nylon crinkled loudly. Julian didn't look up from his notes.

"Is he an inspector?" Maya asked. She dropped a stack of wet bowls onto the metal counter. Water splashed onto Ray's apron.

"No."

"Then why is he timing us?"

Ray wiped his face with the back of his wrist. It left a streak of grease across his cheekbone.

Julian put the cap on his pen. He slid the notebook into the pocket of the nylon coat. He walked toward the tray return window.

He stopped on the other side of the pass-through. He leaned in. The smell of cedar and cold air briefly masked the smell of sour milk.

"The conveyor belt operates at approximately point-four meters per second," Julian said.

Ray grabbed another tray. "Go away."

"I tracked your processing speed. You clear an average of twelve trays per minute. That is a tray every five seconds." Julian rested his elbows on the stainless steel ledge. He ignored a smear of ketchup an inch from his left sleeve. "At your current wage, you are compensated roughly one point five cents per tray."

Ray jammed a rubber spatula under a hardened piece of macaroni. It didn't budge. He scraped harder. The ceramic squeaked.

"Are you sweating?" Ray asked.

Julian blinked. A single drop of moisture was traveling down his temple. The shiny olive-green nylon was zipped to his collarbone.

"This garment," Julian said, his voice entirely flat, "is essentially a portable greenhouse. It traps all biological heat."

"Take it off."

"I cannot."

Ray dumped a cup of melted ice cream into the sink. "Why not?"

"Because if I take it off, I am wearing a cashmere polo." Julian touched the cheap plastic zipper. "And you explicitly instructed me not to draw attention to my net worth while on this side of the campus."

Maya leaned over Ray’s shoulder. She looked at Julian. Then she looked at Ray.

"What language is he speaking?" she asked.

"Ignore him," Ray said.

Julian looked at Maya. He gave a polite, measured nod. "I am calculating his labor output. It is highly inefficient."

Maya snorted. She wiped her hands on her apron. "Tell me about it. We should be getting fifteen an hour."

Julian frowned. The crinkling sound flared as he shifted his weight. "Fifteen? Even at fifteen, the physical toll outpaces the monetary gain. You are trading finite cartilage for depreciating currency."

Ray stopped scraping. He looked at Julian. The guy's face was flushed. The nylon collar was digging into his neck, leaving a red friction mark.

"Julian."

"Yes."

"I have three hours left on my shift." Ray pointed the spatula at him. "Go to the library. Read a book. Stop doing math on my joints."

Julian looked at the spatula. A single noodle hung off the edge.

He reached into his pocket. The crinkle was deafening. He pulled out a folded piece of paper. He set it on the stainless steel ledge, right next to the smear of ketchup.

"I found a listing," Julian said.

Ray didn't touch the paper. "For what?"

"A clinical trial." Julian pushed the paper a fraction closer. "The psychology department is studying the effects of sleep deprivation on short-term memory. It pays two hundred dollars."

The industrial dishwasher kicked into its rinse cycle. A blast of hot steam shot out of the side vents.

Ray stared at the paper. It was printed on heavy, cream-colored cardstock. Julian had probably used the law school's private printers.

"They require pairs," Julian said. He wiped the sweat off his temple with his thumb. "Roommates. We sit in a room for forty-eight hours. We do not sleep. They monitor our brainwaves."

"You want to stay awake for two days in a lab."

"I am already awake." Julian looked at the harsh fluorescent lights above the kitchen. "And you need the structural mechanics manual. Two hundred dollars covers seventy percent of the acquisition cost."

Ray looked at the ketchup smear. It was beginning to dry, turning a dark, rusty brown.

He picked up the cream-colored paper.

Maya leaned closer, squinting at the text. "They hook you up to electrodes. My roommate did it last year. She hallucinated a talking pigeon on day two."

Julian turned to Maya. "Did the pigeon offer actionable advice?"

"It told her to drop out of pre-med."

"A sound conclusion." Julian looked back at Ray.

The tray return belt rumbled. Three more trays slid toward Ray's station. A half-eaten salad. A bowl of watery soup.

Ray shoved the cardstock into his apron pocket.

"I get off at four," Ray said. He turned back to the slop trough.

Julian didn't move. He stood there, cooking inside his plastic shell, watching Ray scrape wet lettuce off a plastic plate.

"I will wait by the cereal," Julian said.