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TITLE (EDIT)
The Kitchen |
DESCRIPTION
The price of serving.
[838 words] |
TITLE KEYWORD
Drama |
AUTHOR
Whynot Ican |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
passionate reader and writer
[November 2006] |
The Kitchen
Whynot Ican
The door swung open almost hitting me in the back. I should know better by now. Four months on the job and I am still surprised b that door.
“Eddie,”. I placed the ticket by the metal kitchen shelf, sticking it under the thin metal bar. “Eddie!” I leaned my head through the opening trying to see where Eddie could have gone.
Faith walked in with a stack of tickets in her hand. “Hon, you don’t mind, right?” She took three of her tickets and put it before mine. “The kid’s sick again, need a good tip, I can just tell this group won’ wait.” Faith pushed her hair off her forehead with her left hand, ring finger bare. She did his, trailing bits of stories together, we followed her, it was usually an eight hour shift turned to twelve. Faith puffed out her cheeks and I saw the fine lines coursing across her nose and down by the skin beneath her eyes. Who was tending bar tonight? Johnny, again? Maybe if I promised him a bigger cut he would water down Faith’s drinks.
I took one last look for Eddie and headed out of the kitchen.
“Can I get you something else?” I smiled and I tucked the pad into my apron, reaching for the plates. “Dessert?” Neither of the couple looked at me, but it gave me a chance to see them. “Please, please,” I thought, “make the bill just a bit higher. The couple didn’t acknowledge me, yeah, I know, we are a couple and you aren’t. I got it, really I did and would for years to come, but tonight, I just needed more money. I reached for a plate dripping with ketchup and neither one moved, the plate slipped through my hand, straight past the candlelight, right onto the woman’s silk blouse. White. Sheer white. I thought about mentioning Jackson Pollock and figured I was done for anyway.
“Want to watch what you’re doing?” I looked at the woman and saw the wedding ring on her finger, pretty big too. The man laughed. Her husband? He sat and smirked at my ties. We were required to wear ties, part of the rules. I picked mine up at the Thrift Shop, ten for five dollars. Yes, they were that hideous.
“I’m sorry, it was an accident. It slipped.” I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead, my kitchen hair sticking to me. She gave me a look, turned to the man and rolled her eyes, he leaned over, slinging an arm around her shoulder, nestling into her neck.
I choked, “can I get you anything else?” I knew I shouldn’t have taken the double shift, it was Saturday, all of the really serious couples came out to eat and it depressed me on more levels than I could acknowledge. I wanted to pull the blouse out of the waistband of my pants and get some air and rip off my name tag, even animals in the zoo were allowed pseudo-anonymity.
The woman began to laugh, “Oh honey, I think you’ve done enough. We’re ready to go. Give us the check.” I smiled, pulled the check from my apron, totaled the amount and left it on the table, suppressing the urge to curtsey.
Back in the kitchen, I could see Eddie by the grill. “Hey Eddie, you got that chicken for me?” He looked the other way and went on turning burgers. “Eddie?” I looked at the shelf and my ticket was still there. Faith.
A blur of activity sent my ticket falling to the floor. “Damn them! They only gave me three dollars. And they think I’m wrapping their leftovers. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll wrap them in my spit!” Faith’s face burned red, she grabbed the take out tray and dumped the food in. I saw a mile flicker on her face as she reached and picked up a French fry, licking it and placing it back in the container.
“Faith, come on, don’t.” I was leaning on the shelf waiting for an order.
“What? They think they come in here and own me? Hotshots that can’t even tip and treat me like I’m dirt?” She smirked and looked for a bag to stick the trays in. I walked toward her and reached to stop her but she was out the door in front of me. I followed her to the wait station, looking out from behind the coffee machine. Something hit me from behind and squeezed. I only caught ketchup on the dark sleeve of a jacket that trailed to the back of my uniform where he grabbed again, winking. I walked to his table now abandoned save for a note from the woman with a number to call to arrange for payment of the cleaning bill. I picked up the plates staring down at the mess they had made. There beneath his coffee mug, written in ink on the table cloth, call me tonight. A number in ink.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2006 Whynot Ican |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
November 2006 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
1606
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