Kitchen Accounting

Posted on 09 Jan 2013 @ 1:39am by Ansen Pawlak
Edited on on 09 Jan 2013 @ 2:38pm

4,318 words; about a 22 minute read

Mission: Episode 02 - Resupply
Location: USS Galileo - Deck 2, Mess Hall
Timeline: MD 16 1000

[ON]

Jeremy stood in the corridor opposite the doors. He really didn't want to go back in there but he still had a job to perform. As long as he was aboard the ship, he would peform it to the best of his ability. Despite what others might think of him. Being thorough and competent didn't make him a war criminal or fascist. He shook his head and flexed his hands, trying to clear himself of thinking about the signs placed in the mess hall. It didn't solve anything to continue being worked up over them.

But he finally managed to get to a point where he had time to get information he was missing, to help complete the reports for Holliday. Though, he hadn't heard back from the Commander regarding it, Jeremy was sure that his admission to sending preliminary reports was further justifying Holliday's unfavorable opinion of him.

The doors slid open. At least at this time of day the mess hall was relatively empty. Not crowded like service before the start of Alpha shift. The few who were in here also seemd to be working in the mess hall, so that made it less of a problem for Jeremy. He headed behind the buffet counter for the galley in the back. One crewman looked up and started to say something to him, but Jeremy ignored him. He had the right to go to any part of the ship he wanted in the course of his official duties and he wasn't in the mood to be detered by a crewman.

The other crewman, the one who spoke to him this morning about the sign, took one look at him and froze, his eyes wide. Jeremy wasn't a telepath, but he'd worked security long enough to know when someone's thoughts turned to their guilt. This crewman certainly did. "I'm looking for the head of the galley or mess hall."

The crewman, trembling slightly, pointed toward Pawlek. Jeremy glared at the crewman for a moment more then without a word he turned and went to Ansen Pawlek - his mind filling in the details of civilian. "Mister Pawlek?" he asked, coming up to the man who looked like his personnel file facesheet.

Ansen, for his part, remained oblivious, his headphones firmly anchored on his ears to allow him to focus on his task and his music. The hard rock he preferred had been switched for a blend of old folk songs and the dreadful operas Marek had been so fond of. They were horrible, of course; dramatic and tense. But they were Marek. Just as the terrible collection of marbles were his brother; a tiny round stone for every planet, every memory, collected into a massive glass jar that now sat, like ashes, on the counter beside Ansen's plants. it was chance that he glanced in their direction and caught sight of the quartermaster pointing at him shakily as an aggrieved-looking gold suit stared directly at him. Pulling a headphone aside, he followed Kilborne's gaze to the new face. "Co slychac?"

Kilborne cleared his throat apologetically. Ansen had never seen the young man look so anxious before. "That's Polish."

"I know," Ansen said in slightly accented Federation standard, quirking a brow.

"But he doesn't."

Jeremy brought out his PADD and clicked through a few screens until he accessed a small program he put on there some time ago. Once activated, he waited.

Ansen shrugged a shoulder, glancing between the two gold shirts. He wasn't sure why they were called "gold" shirts anyway. They looked more saffron than gold. "Tak, fine. The uncommunicative Standard, then. Sit, sit," he waved the lieutenant towards the stools beside his counter. "You're making my friend Kilborne very nervous, standing over him like a hungry hawk. Do you like soup?"

Kilborne ducked his head on a hiss.

"Here," he placed a fresh bowl of ciorba in front of the stool he'd indicated for Stone, then poured a shot of vodka, offering it to the unusually nervous quartermaster. Kilborne shook his head. With a shrug, Ansen lifted the glass. "Na zdrowie!" he uttered, waving a hand negligently, then downed the liquor as though it were water. "Eat, drink, talk," he beckoned Stone. "Kilborne, tell him the story you told me before, about those ridiculous posters someone pasted up on my counter. Nazis," Ansen snorted. "Such a thing would make the bastards roll in their graves, using their precious name as the butt of a joke. Don't you think? To think in this day and age someone wouldn't find the beauty in that-" he frowned at Kilborne who was frantically miming a saw at his own neck. "You need a drink? You're choking?"

"I... need to go," Kilborne said, backing out of the galley. "Urgent... Accounting... In the science department..." He bolted.

Ansen stared at the swinging door, rolled his eyes, and picked up the half eaten bowl of soup from Kilborne's place at the counter. His gaze flicked to Stone, "I am sorry, my friend. He has such a way with stories, better than I. I think it's the collecting, all the tallying and rostering and such, he picks up the fine details. Me, I just cook and listen."

"Dzikuj za wasz gocinno, Twoja kuchnia jest ciepla i przytulna." Jeremy said, hoping that it came out right. It was what his PADD said should be a compliment to a host. Jeremy remained blank regarding the offer of soup, immediately aware that Pawlek was completely sincere in an offer of nothing more than a meal rather than attempting to carry on the 'joke'. "Jestem pewien, e jedzenie jest smaczne, ale jestem na subie i jestem ju zbyt peni swojego wspaniaego niadania."

He hoped this was coming across as he intended. Translation was not his forte.

"Jestem Porucznik Stone. Chc zrobi przegld bezpieczestwa w tym obszarze."

"Tch," Ansen uttered the sound and retrieved the filled bowl. "No one ever wants to eat on this ship; you'll all put me out of a job," he muttered, glancing back over his shoulder with a small, wry smile to take the bite out of his tone. "Your translation service, it is quite good and the gesture is appreciated, but your accent..." He shook his head fondly, "Too Russian for my fair language. It's fine. I am very good with languages. We will speak in yours. You've come to inspect me?" He gestured around the kitchen, "Knives, forks, skewers, things that burn, things that freeze, things that steam... It is a veritable forest of dangers, no doubt, but not one injury in here, nor in any kitchen I've had charge of. Why? Because I like to keep a clean kitchen. People bleeding all over... It's unsanitary." He swallowed the sorrow for his brother and poured himself another shot. "Still, take a look. What's mine is ours. Drink?"

"Thank you, no," Jeremy said. Alcohol was not on his approved list of foods that he liked - or could have. It was forbidden to him. Not just because of his medication. But however, he was...saddened...that his attempt to return a courtesy had fallen so far afield. It wasn't often that people were...hospitable...upon meeting him. That he couldn't return the courtesy overwrote that the chef was drinking in the middle of the day. "I have been tasked by the executive officer to do a thorough security analysis of the ship and a kitchen is full of potential weapons. I wish to do an inventory, accounting and to see what your security measures for securing any and all potential weapons are. Then I'll leave you to your..." he looked around, approving, "very well maintained kitchen."

Security. The chef shut his eyes, just for a moment, as grief welled, but managed to stumble past it yet again. "Thank you. Take your time," Ansen invited, pouring the contents of both abandoned bowls into a small pot to the side. He'd reheat it later and eat it himself. In his headphones, a woman was wailing in German about being in love with her brother. He made a face and tugged them free, dropping them in a drawer of tea towels and shutting it. "The XO wants you to count my spoons, eh?" he asked, settling back in front of his soup pot to stir. "What did you do to piss him off?"

"I exist," Jeremy said as a means of answering the question only, "That seems to be enough for him. But I'm conducting an in-depth analysis. The galley is only a part of it.". Jeremy was looking around and making notes while he spoke. "Music is supposed to bring joy," he said referring to the disgust on Pawlek's face as he set aside his music player, "Not..." he trailed off, not sure what exactly Pawlek felt. To say anymore would be guessing and he hated guessing. It was so...imprecise. "How do you secure your cooking implements?" He asked as he looked over one rather large cleaver.

"Secure them?" Ansen followed the officer's gaze to the thick blade and turned back to his soup. "When I leave the kitchen, I place all the cutlery in the drawer-" he nodded towards a deep drawer beside the steam cleaner. "It locks." He'd never really thought about using the lock overmuch, but he assumed it was still as operational as when Marek had pointed it out to him their first day on the ship. He was still thinking about the man's comment about his music. "It's not my music," he said. "My brother had different interests than I." He stared into his soup, his hand moving as if by robotics. Stir. Scoop. Sniff. Drop. Tap. Beat. Stir. Repeat. "What is it about your existence, do you think? I've only met the guy in passing, you know, but he didn't seem exceptionally vindictive."

Jeremy went to the drawer, frowning at it. He tested its draw and looked at the meager, cheap lock that wouldn't survive a half hearted attempt to defeat it, much less someone determined. "I can only guess at his motives," Jeremy said, spitting out 'guess' like it would leave a greasy, fowl taste coating his tongue. "But, he seems to be the bleeding heart type that dislikes security and I'm not exactly...socialable." He tried the drawer again, noting the types and number of knives in the carefully arranged drawer. "This is the extent of your security for weapons?" He didn't mean to sound condescending or superior but the idea of this flimsy lock securing weapons was anathema to his very being.

He noticed that his brother's music player was even less secured. While everyone wanted to believe that tightknit communities like ships didn't have thieves, Jeremy knew better. And not just thieves...but batterers, addicts, alcoholics, murderers...all sorts of crimes were committed on smaller ships as well as the larger ones.

"Not weapons," Ansen corrected. "Tools." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Never heard of anyone dying by spatula or bread knife," he added with a little smirk. "Why not?" he asked, switching tracks. "I mean, why aren't you sociable? You seem like a fairly likable human."

"Cleavers, butcher knives, scissors. People could be killed by this," he said, holding up a spatula with a serrated edge, "Or at the least seriously maimed. I've seen people seriously injured, nearly killed, just by the trays used in the Mess. We almost had and attack like that the other day." He moved away from the drawer making notes. The pots and pans weren't secured by anything more than hooks hanging from a rack attached to the ceiling. Cabinets not secured. Jeremy realized that his initial report to Holliday was far more inaccurate than he thought. "I don't know how to be," Jeremy said. "That frustrates me. Then people are always being false with things they say. Like "how are you"? I try to tell them and they become upset." he continued making notes on his PADD as he moved about the galley. "Then they say things that are imprecise and get upset when I question their meaning. It's just...very frustrating. So I do my best to avoid impersonal communication disguised as 'pleasantries'."

Ansen turned from the stove, resting back against the counter to eye the security officer. "Okay," he said, lifting his chin. "How are you?"

Jeremy stiffened as he slowly turned, glaring at Pawlek, trying to determine if he thought he was being funny or if all that alcohol had made him feel that they were somehow close or friends. "I no longer answer that question. The last time I did, things I didn't want to happen, happened. It's easier now to simply answer 'I don't answer that question'."

"See- that's the first unsociable thing you've said." Ansen sighed. Listening to the man's troubles would have served as a distraction from his own misery. Now he was left alone all over again.

"How so?" Jeremy asked. "I just explained my frustration with that question and then you asked it. How am I unsociable because I don't answer it anymore?"

"Well... there was the glaring. And what you said was that you tried to answer and people got upset," Ansen clarified. "Thought I'd give you a chance to unburden. Marek would get wound up pretty tight over people from time to time."

"Marek?" Jeremy asked, avoiding the obvious personal issue. He looked around the room unsure if he missed someone else in the room.

"My brother. He's - was- a security officer, too. Winds you up, that job." He poured another shot with his left hand, nudged the bottle aside, and sucked the vodka down. "Not an easy calling. And not one easy-going people are called to." He pressed empty glass to his forehead, took a breath, and smiled miserably. "You can ask me, if you want."

Jeremy blinked as he looked puzzled. "Ask you what? You have failed to provide enough data for me to formulate a series of inquiries based on...anything."

Ansen laughed. "You sound like a Vulcan, sorry. You can ask whatever. How I am. How to be. What's deemed socially acceptable in Poland, on Earth. What's in the soup. Where I store the cheese grenades. I've nothing on."

"Cheese grenades?" Jeremy asked, flicking a screen on his PADD. "I don't understand this concept, 'cheese grenades'." He widened the scope of the search but still found nothing. "You keep grenades in the kitchen?" he asked, his tone coming across, unintentionally, horrified. "I don't believe that's authorized."

"Joke," the Pole grinned, still stirring. "It was a joke. The cheese grenades... well. You could ask where I store them, but I don't happen to have any, so my answer wouldn't do you much good."

Jeremy frowned. "I am told that I do not have a sense of humor." He looked up, wondering why anyone would find 'cheese grenades' funny. Maybe it was something he should ask Kell about. Kell understood all this humor and emotional stuff. He looked directly at Pawlek and sighed. "You are intoxicated. Your ability to help is no longer available."

"I respectfully disagree with you, but you'll think whatever you wish. Everyone does." He shrugged, watching Stone frowning. "You remind me of him a little. He was always very, very serious. Can't speak to whether it did him much good, but it got us here. Got me here, anyway." He sighed, shaking his head, "What kind of help do you need?"

"Sober help," Jeremy said, directly, removing the bottle from Pawlek's reach. He frowned again. "I'm afraid you are in no condition to continue assisting me in this matter. I will return later to complete my assignment." he frowned as he started to walk out of the galley but stopped after a few steps and turned. "Do you need assistance returning to your quarters?"

"You don't know much about the Poles, do you?" Ansen asked wryly. "I've still got another eight hours of work here. Three, just one this one pot." He paused, then added, "Thanks for the offer, though. The sentiment is appreciated."

"Poles?" Jeremy asked. "Arctic, magnetic, bi or monopoles?" Jeremy asked. He had some knowledge of the four, but Pawlek was correct in that he didnt' know a whole lot of any of it. "You are intoxicated. You should not continue to work." Jeremy frowned. This was the person responsible for making the food he ate? This...drunk?

"Poles," Ansen repeated, unbelievably amused at the disgust in the saffron shirt's eyes. "Narodu polskiego. Trzymamy nasz trunek lepszy od ciebie wiele. Moe nie lepiej ni Klingonow."

Jeremy blinked before looking at the PADD. "That may be the case but..." he looked away. "Is it really necessary? Drinking so much? Becoming intoxicated? I am told being intoxicated doesn't help resolve anything. It just...I'm told resolving your pain is better than hiding it."

"My brother was my only family. He saved my life. He raised me, while putting himself through the Academy. He died mere weeks ago on this ship." Ansen met Jeremy's gaze seriously, "Tell me how to resolve that pain. In the meanwhile, I will hide it, so that I can work."

Jeremy looked away, his face falling. He glanced at his PADD. "I am sorry to hear of your loss. I am told that losing family is a very hard thing to deal with." He frowned. "But, killing yourself with intoxicants can't be the answer to the problem. I know several good psychiatrists who could help you." he lowered his voice until he was whispering. "They helped me."

Ansen was quiet for a long stretch of seconds. He wasn't sure he wanted to let go of the pain. It was all he had left of Marek now. That, a collection of over dramatic music, and a jar of marbles. He'd been angrier in the last two weeks than he'd ever felt before. Euphemisms only irritated him more. Marek wasn't "lost". He wouldn't drop any breadcrumbs on the path and stumble his way back. He was dead. Bowing his head, he took a breath and let it out. "Dzienkuje. Thank you. Perhaps."

Jeremy sighed. "I understand pain and misery," he said, trying not to sound insincere. "I understand losing loved ones and the whole they leave in our lives. I have, in effect, lost not just my entire family but who I used to be. I have spent years in therapy trying to find a way to regaining some of what I was but to no avail. I understand the pain and the hurt." He grabbed the bottle of Vodka and went to the sink. "I have been in groups with people who are where you're at now, suffering, in pain, in anger, wanting to let go but holding onto it because as long as you feel that pain, then the person isn't gone." He began dumping the vile liquid down the sink. "As long as you feel pain, you don't have to feel anything else. But I've seen where it leads. Anger, years of your life wasted, stuck, suicide, self-harm, pushing away those that care about you until you are lonely, bitter and all you have left is the pain and one final solution." He went back to Pawlek and - very awkwardly and cringing inside - placed a hand on his shoulder. "There are many on this ship who will understand and sympathize with what you're feeling. Who will be able to help you, as you could help them. To remember your brother shouldn't be about misery and pain, you should remember the joy and a man who loved you enough to fight to keep with you after you both suffered the loss of your parents. I could..." he sighed, he'd taken training in this. "I could try to help you. Together, we could take the first step and form a group of people who are feeling as you do. Together, you could help others heal. You'd be honoring the memory of your brother, a man you told me wanted to protect and help others."

He gripped the man's shoulder, hoping it was still considered a friendly gesture. "Will you help me to begin that process? Will you honor-" he scrunched his face, desperately trying to remember the name he kept using. He had to get it right this time, otherwise if he had managed to get through to this man at all, he would lose him just as quickly. "-Marek's memory by doing what he would have done?"

Ansen wondered what that meant; Stone had "lost his entire family and who he used to be. 'In effect'." Words. He didn't feel suicidal, or even like harming himself. He knew his limits; he'd been drinking since... well. Since his first ship, really. He liked drinking. He'd really liked the bottle of vodka the officer had wasted. He'd distilled it himself. Still, the guy was making an effort, reaching out, and Ansen didn't have the heart to pick at semantics with him. Stone was right, in a way. There were others on the ship who'd lost friends recently, if not family, and Marek would have been among the first to try to help them to heal. Focusing on them would give him something to think about aside from his own grief. He nodded, once.

"Okay," Jeremy said, wondering why he felt relieved and...pleased?...at the same time. "The first step is to not drink so much. The next, we'll need to get you an appointment with a counselor, maybe a lot of them. I'll go with you if you need. Just to wait for the appointment, not into the session. Unless you want that. In the meantime, we'll start putting out notices to the crew for a..." he hesitated. He was involved in group therapy but there was something less...formal. "Support? group that we can have meet in the mess hall. That is if we can get permission from the chef." He frowned not recognizing why he said that.

Ansen glanced up, a half-smile on his lips that widened a little as he saw the look of confusion on the other man's face. 'And you think you aren't funny,' he thought wryly.

"Do you have a commbadge? Did they issue you one? If not, stop by my office, I'll get you one so that you can contact me as you need. For...support."

"I have one... somewhere." Ansen patted his pockets and his apron. "Never needed to use it, really. I'll find it." It felt good to have a plan of action; something to do. He gave up his search for the combadge; it was probably somewhere in his quarters from his last venture off the ship. "Thanks."

"Okay, good, how about now, we get you to your quarters to get a little sleep? I'm sure your staff can prep the big dinner you're planning for our return to space while you get a little rest." He looked around the kitchen, wondering if there was any other staff that worked in the kitchen. Well, even if not, he'd find some way to make it work out.

"My 'staff'?" Ansen laughed. "What do you think we're on? An Ambassador-class? It's just me and the replicators." He patted Jeremy's shoulder lightly, "I appreciate the support, and the counseling, but... honestly. I am perfectly capable of doing my job. You can give me a sobriety test if you want."

Frowning still, Jeremy looked around. There wasn't anybody else around and...well...he understood doing a job while working through issues. "Alright," he said, scratching his head. "Okay, but...no more drinking today? And I'm going to have to speak with Ops about putting in some security rated drawers to have things locked up when the galley's closed? Just for the safety of the crew from intruders and others who may not be as...pole as you?" he still didn't know what kind of poles Pawlek was talking about but he seemed to take pride in it so hopefully he would respond. "And contact me if you start to feel the need?"

Ansen nodded. "Immediately." He pulled Jeremy into a tight, firm hug, then released the other man with a pat on the back. "And if you need anything - even if it's just a snack - just let me know."

Jeremy took a step back after Pawlek let him go, clearly uncomfortable with the amount of physical contact from the man. "Sure, okay," he said, still trying to keep his fight response down. "I'm going to go and return to my duties. I'll..." he frowned, "I'll come back to finish up the review later." He started walking away considering the need for a shower because...people didn't touch him. It made him uncomfortable. It felt like...emotion.

"Tak, as you wish." Ansen nodded, turning back to the ciorba bubbling on the stove. "Stone?" he queried, as Jeremy reached the galley door. "Whatever it's worth, I think you're plenty sociable."

"Thank you," Jeremy said, not realizing he didn't look at his PADD as he said it. He frowned as he stopped just outside the galley and looked at a surface. He seemed to be...why did he seem to feel good?

[OFF]

Ansen Pawlak
Chef
USS Galileo

LTjg Jeremy Stone
Chief Security/Tactical Officer
USS Galileo

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