No Substitutions

Their customer service really lends a hand.

The neon sign for Happy Garden flickered and buzzed. Greg hated the buzz, but loved the sesame chicken. Last week they gave him a bag of napkins and a raw potato instead of lo mein. Two weeks before that it was fortune cookies and somebody’s car keys.

Greg stood at the counter where the air smelled of hot oil and garlic. He grabbed the plastic bag. He walked to the smudged window to check because you never trust the staples.

He ripped the bag open. Steam hit his glasses. He wiped them on his shirt and looked down.

White rice on top. Correct. Under that, egg rolls. Correct. On the bottom lay a human hand. Severed at the wrist. Pale, with hairy knuckles, clutching a packet of soy sauce.

Greg sighed and checked the receipt. It said #4 Combo. He looked back at the hand. Thick skin. Calluses.

He walked back to the counter and rang the bell twice.

The manager slid out from the kitchen. His name tag said RICK. Rick looked tired, like he’d been arguing with a deep fryer for twelve hours.

“Pick up or order?” Rick asked without looking up from his clipboard.

“Problem.” Greg put the bag on the counter. “I checked the bag.”

Rick groaned. “We gave you extra sauce. I saw him put it in.”

“It’s not the sauce this time. Look.”

Rick leaned over to peer into the bag. He poked the hand with a pen. The fingers twitched.

“Okay,” Rick said. “What is issue?”

“I didn’t order this. It’s a hand.”

“Part of combo,” Rick said. “Very fresh.”

“I wanted the sesame chicken,” Greg said. “This is...I don’t know who this is.”

Rick rolled his eyes and tapped the sign on the register: NO SUBSTITUTIONS ON FRIDAY.

“Look,” Rick said. “Kitchen is busy. Supply chain is broken. We take what we get from distributor. Actually, that’s more protein. Heavy bone density. You get good deal.”

“It has a wedding ring on it.” Greg pointed to the gold band on the fourth finger. The finger was swollen around the tight ring.

Rick squinted, adjusting his glasses. He leaned over the counter and sniffed the fingers.

“Maybe Ken,” Rick said. “Ken is going through divorce. Maybe Ken want to throw ring out. Hand still attached. These things happen.”

“He threw his hand away?”

“Stress,” Rick said. “People do crazy things during divorces.”

Rick turned to the swinging silver doors and clapped his hands twice. Sharp. Loud.

“Kitchen! Line up! Now!”

The doors swung open. Three men shuffled out in stained white aprons. They smelled like old shrimp and bleach.

“Hands,” Rick barked. “Show me.”

The first guy, a skinny kid with a neck tattoo, held up ten fingers with dirty nails. Next to him, an older guy smoking a cigarette showed his palms. The smoke curled around his thumbs.

“Okay,” Rick said. “Next.”

The massive guy at the end held a cleaver. He raised his left hand, then raised the cleaver. Five fingers wrapped around the handle.

Rick nodded and marked something on his clipboard. “Okay. Back to work. Fryers are beeping.”

The staff shuffled back into the kitchen. The silver doors swung shut.

Rick turned back to Greg and shrugged. “Staff all good. Ken has both hands.”

“Then whose hand is in my bag?” Greg asked. Grease leaked through the bottom of the bag.

Rick tapped the counter, thoughtful. “Must be delivery guy. He drop off pork this morning. He seemed rushed. Maybe he leave it in bin.”

“Rick. You cooked it.”

“We flash fry,” Rick said. “High heat. Kills germs. It is sanitary.”

“It is a human body part.”

“Look,” Rick said. “If it is delivery guy, that is third party vendor. Not my staff. Not my liability. You have to take that up with Sysco. I can give you 800 number.”

Greg looked at the bag. The hand sat on top of the egg rolls.

“I’m not calling a distributor about a hand,” Greg said. “I just want dinner. My wife is in the car.”

Rick sighed and grabbed the bag. He took the hand out with a pair of tongs. The gold ring clinked against the metal as he dropped the hand into a plastic bin behind the counter marked RETURNS.

“Fine. I take hand. I give you chicken.”

He went to the back and returned ten seconds later with a new container. He dropped it in the bag and typed something into the register.

“That will be four dollars,” Rick said.

“I already paid.”

“Restocking fee,” Rick said. “I have to dispose of hazardous waste. Cost money.”

Greg stared at him. He pulled out his wallet and handed over a five-dollar bill.

“Keep the change.”

“Thank you,” Rick said. “Next!”

Greg walked out to the parking lot where the air was cool. He got into his Honda. His wife, Sarah, was scrolling on her phone.

“Finally,” she said. She grabbed the bag. “I’m starving. Did you check it?”

“Yeah.” Greg put the car in reverse. “I checked it.”

Sarah opened the container. The smell of sesame chicken filled the car. She popped a piece of chicken into her mouth and chewed happily.

“Mmm,” she said. “They really have the best meat here. It’s so tender.”

“Yeah,” Greg said.

He drove past the window. He saw Rick inside on the phone. He was holding the tongs and waving the hand at the receiver.

“Hey,” Sarah said, holding up the receipt. “Why did they charge you an extra four dollars?”

Greg stopped at the red light.

“Market price,” Greg said. “Inflation is killing everyone.”

Sarah pawed at the bottom of the bag.

“They forgot napkins again.”

Greg kept driving.

THE END

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Farrago: Volume 1