The grease-slicked air of the Kingston evening felt heavy in Doug’s lungs. Behind him, the rhythmic hiss of the fryers and the aggressive beep-beep-beep of the vat timers created a chaotic symphony he’d long since learned to ignore. To him, they were a familiarity that kept him going ever since he turned 14, the minimum age needed for him to be legally employed.
"Order up on four! Where’s that spicy deluxe?" his supervisor barked, the sound cutting through the low hum of the lobby.
Doug didn’t look back. He kept his eyes on the touchscreen, his fingers hovering over the glowing icons. To anyone else, the smell was just old oil and salt, but to him, it was a small sacrifice for saving up for club fees. Every shift here moved him a third of the way to a full month of the program he was taking part in. With enough shifts, he wouldn’t have to worry about his expenses for a while.
"That’ll be two chicken sandwich combos, medium fries," Doug said, his voice flat but polite. "Will that be all today?"
The customer, a man in a weather-beaten windbreaker, leaned against the counter and squinted at Doug’s name tag.
"Yeah, that’s it. Hey, you’re the fencer, right? My kid’s at the high school a few blocks down, and he said he saw your name on the board for the regional qualifiers."
Doug paused, the heavy plastic of the register button still depressed under his finger. The transition from the world of fast food to the world of the sabre always felt like a sudden jolt. Not an unpleasant jolt though. Compared to fast food, the sabre felt like the world to him. If the sport wasn’t so expensive, he wouldn’t need this job.
"Yeah. That’s me."
"A big school competition is coming up," the man said, tapping his card against the reader. "Are you ready for it?"
Doug thought about the agonizing eight hours he was stuck here, and the way his forearm burned when he practiced his parry-riposte in the back room with a rolled-up cardboard tube.
"I’m training whenever I can," Doug replied, handing over the receipt. "But it’s going to be tough. The guys from the private clubs in Toronto and Ottawa...they aren't exactly taking days off. My rivals are training just as hard as I am. I don't expect it to be easy."
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the stainless steel of the warming rack, dark circles under his eyes, the hair under his visor matted with sweat. He didn't look like an elite athlete. He looked like a kid trying to survive a dinner rush. Okay, he was a kid trying to survive a dinner rush. Yet, this wasn’t going to be his future.
"But," Doug added, his grip tightening instinctively as if he were holding the hilt of his sabre, "I’m going to give it everything I’ve got."
"Next in line, please!" his supervisor yelled.
The man nodded, moving aside, and Doug reset his stance at the register.
The digital clock above the beverage station flickered to the end of his shift. Doug untied his apron, the heavy fabric stiff with the day’s accumulation of salt and aerosolized grease. As soon as the apron was off, he felt lightness, both from not physically removing the apron and the thought that his shift was over. The eight-hour shift wasn’t easy, and that was coming from someone who trained daily to stay fit.
Around him, the closing crew was already moving into their grim, nightly ritual. The rhythmic shloop-slap of a mop hit the floor near the fryers, and the harsh scent of industrial degreaser began to battle the smell of chicken. He could even hear the emptying of the oil from the fryers to be disposed of. Then, there was an unfortunate soul who was assigned the restroom cleaning at the end of the day.
"See you tomorrow, Doug," called out Marcus, who was currently wrestling a heavy trash bag out of its bin.
"Night, guys," Doug said, offering a tired wave.
He caught a nod from his supervisor, Sarah. She was already elbow-deep in the ice machine, her expression pinched with the focus of someone who had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. She was tough, as she’d written him up once for being three minutes late, but she never asked them to do a task she wouldn't do herself. She was well-liked by the crew, which said a lot.
As Doug pushed through the heavy back door, the cool Kingston air hit him like a physical relief. He looked back at the glowing yellow sign of the restaurant. He’d only been there a few months, but he felt the weight of the place. For Marcus, for Sarah, and for the others still scrubbing the grills, this wasn’t a "part-time" gig. It was the ceiling that they couldn’t break. While he lacked the details, his conversations with them revealed enough that they had few to no chances for upward career mobility in other fields. At least at this restaurant, they could stick to a routine and collect a cheque every two weeks.
He turned his back on the restaurant and began the walk home, his sneakers clicking on the pavement. He didn't plan on being a lifer. He wouldn't let himself be. In his mind’s eye, the fluorescent hum of the kitchen was replaced by the blinding white light of a stadium. The smell of grease faded, replaced by the metallic tang of electrified mesh and the crisp scent of a fresh white fencing jacket. He could almost feel the weight of a gold medal around his neck, the cold, heavy proof that he was more than just a kid from a fast-food counter. He saw the flashbulbs, heard the anthem, and felt the sudden, life-changing shift of being a professional as he stood on the podium.
The thought was a small fire in his chest, keeping him warm as the wind picked up. By the time he reached the familiar, slightly peeling door of his apartment building, the exhaustion in his legs had turned into a dull, manageable ache. He wasn't there yet, but every shift brought him one step closer to the podium.
Doug eased the door open, mindful of the way the hinges tended to groan if moved too quickly. The apartment was a cavern of shadows, lit only by the ghostly green glow of the microwave clock and the distant hum of the streetlights filtering through the thin curtains. He moved with the practiced silence of a ghost, navigating around the familiar creak in the hallway floorboards with his phone providing enough light for him to avoid furniture. He reached his room and began to peel off the uniform that felt like a second, grimy skin. He’d just pulled on a worn-out cotton hoodie when a sliver of light cut across the floor.
His mother stood in the doorway of her room, her silhouette framed by the dim light behind her. She looked smaller in her pajamas, her shoulders slumped while her eyes were barely open, hinting that they would rather stay closed. Doug couldn’t tell if she got skinnier, but the dark circles around her eyes were more pronounced.
"Hey," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep. "How was the shift?"
"It went great, Mom," Doug said, forcing a brightness into his voice that he didn't quite feel. "Just exhausted, as usual. It was a busy one. The dinner rush is the only thing consistent on the job. I’ll eventually get used to it."
She stepped forward, her eyes searching his face in the gloom. A small, pained smile touched her lips, a look Doug knew well.
"I'm sorry, Doug. I’m sorry you have to spend your nights over a fryer just to pay for your membership fees. If only we didn’t have so much debt right now."
Doug stepped toward her, cutting the apology short.
"Don't worry about it, Mom. Seriously. It’s part of the work. It’s what I have to do if I want to reach the podium. You can ask any other fencer at my school. They all have to work part-time to save up for the sport." He reached out and gently squeezed her arm. "You need to get back to sleep. You've got that early shift tomorrow."
She sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders just a fraction.
"Alright, you also get some rest. You don’t look so great yourself. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mom."
He waited, standing motionless in the dark until he heard the soft click of her bedroom door latching shut. Only then did he let his own posture break. He grabbed his towel and headed for the bathroom.
The shower was quick, a functional necessity to scrub the smell of the restaurant out of his pores. As he brushed his teeth, he stared at his reflection in the cracked vanity mirror. The water was lukewarm, and the apartment was quiet, save for the muffled sounds of the city outside. He spat into the sink, rinsed his mouth, and turned off the light.
Doug crawled into bed, the sheets feeling cool against his skin as the weight of the day finally settled into his bones. Despite the exhaustion, his mind was still buzzing with the tactical rhythm of the strip. He reached for his phone, the screen’s harsh blue light cutting through the darkness of his room. He didn't have a private coach or the resources available to practice whenever he wanted, so he had to find his edge in the digital world.
He pulled up a saved video on advanced sabre footwork, specifically, the transition from a defensive parry to a deep, explosive lunging riposte. He asked around some other people at the club, and they agreed that this channel was a stellar resource on the basics and the slightly more advanced stuff. They also agreed that, to become competitive, Doug had to get help through the competition program or get a private coach. The latter was too far out of his reach, so he had to be content with the program at his club, though that meant he had to work part-time to just get his foot in the door.
"The distance is the key," the commentator on the screen whispered into Doug’s earbuds.
Doug had been careful not to wake his mother. The apartment walls weren’t very soundproof, and he couldn’t afford to wake her up this late. He also didn’t want to deal with her apologies if she saw him watching fencing videos in bed. For both of their sakes, he would rather do his studies in secret. He could always apologize to her after he won his medal.
He watched the elite fencers on the small screen move like quicksilver. Their movements were fluid, expensive, and precise. Doug tracked the tip of the sabre, visualizing his own hand making those micro-adjustments. He knew his rivals in the well-funded Toronto clubs were likely sleeping in better beds, having spent their evening with professional trainers. He couldn't afford to fall behind. If he couldn't out-train them physically today, he would out-study them. As his father had always told him, hard work would always pay off more than talent alone.
The video transitioned into a highlight reel of international qualifiers. The clashing of steel and the sharp, electronic beep of the scoring machine were a lullaby to him. His thumb scrolled reflexively, but his blinks were becoming longer, the technical explanations blurring into a hum.
Eventually, the phone slipped from his hand, resting on the pillow beside him. The audio faded into a distant, rhythmic murmur as Doug finally drifted off, his last conscious thought a flickering image of a white jacket and the glint of a gold medal.26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ69n6Mb56RG
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