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Shorts
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| Last Chance Café | |
| By bwoz | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 25 February 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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Every had a first day on the job almost go wrong? A short piece from a larger story I have been writing forever. The old beggar rushed into the café quickly, then weaved between the tables and sat down in the middle of the dining room. Sarah watched as she poured ice water from a pitcher into a glass. She approached the old beggar with the water; first to see if he had money to pay for a meal, and then take his order if he did. She set the glass on the table, “Sir, I‘m sorry I have to ask,” She spoke softly, “but do you have…” “Shut up and bring me some eggs, gawdammit.” The old man hissed, eyes shifting from wall to table, to floor, then back to the wall. Sarah recoiled, a little stunned, as though her first day on the job had just jumped up and slapped her in the face. “Excuse me,” she reasserted, still nervous behind her pleasant smile, “It’s our policy to ask, do you have enough…” “Just bring me some gawdamn eggs, you cow.” The old man cut in, his rudeness wielded like a huge beach umbrella bound to knock everyone off balance as it unfolded. Sarah shifted her weight to one leg and let her hip protrude with an exaggerated bounce, snatched her order pad from her apron and a pen from behind her ear. “OK,” she set the water pitcher down then wrote “eggs” on her order pad. “What you want with them eggs, and how you want ‘em cooked?” She stood with her arms crossed and her head tilted slightly, squinting in disgust at the smelly old beggar. “What the hell you mean how do I want ‘em cooked? There’s only one way to cook eggs, and anybody who has to ask how to cook ‘em is a gawdamn idiot.” The old man scooted his chair back as if he intended to stand and walk out. But he stayed seated and spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t make me get up missy, or you’ll be the sorriest thing this town ever saw. Now, you gonna bring them eggs, or am I gonna…” Sarah leaned over to bring her face to his level. “Just hold your bladder, Mr. America” she cut him off. “You’ll get some eggs soon as I get back to the kitchen and cook ‘em. And if you don’t pipe down a little, you’re gonna drive off the rest of our customers, and if that happens you’ll be the sorriest piss-stained old loser this town ever saw, because I’ll see to it personally. Now, just sit there, shut up, drink your coffee and if I hear another word out of you I’ll call Buster out here to deal with you. Got it?” The menacing attitude that bobbed close to the surface of the old beggar seemed to recoil now. To Sarah’s satisfaction, the old man tucked himself and his chair back under the table and took a sip of his coffee without another word, eyes shifting wall to wall, wall to floor, not looking at Sarah. Margaret Kotch smiled her approval from behind the cash register as Sarah tore the order slip out and shoved it across the service counter. Margaret began to feel Sarah might be a pretty good waitress after all. The doubts about Sarah’s experience level at the beginning of the shift quickly evaporated. Buster read “eggs” on the order slip, asked Sarah “how you want them eggs cooked?” “Just throw them on the grill, heat ‘em up and toss ‘em on a plate. Only one way to cook eggs, according to Mr. Charming over there.” She motioned to the old beggar with her head. “Oh yeah, that’s Curt. Guess we should have warned you about him. He comes in now and then, when he has money. He likes his eggs naked on a raft – sunny side up on toast.” “I know what naked on a raft is, Butster,” Sarah whispered, “but this time just heat ‘em up and toss ‘em on a plate, leave them runny, and let me deal with the artist formerly known as pecker-head over there. He thinks there’s only one way to cook eggs, well he’s about to get a little education for breakfast.” Buster laughed and said, “You got it” as he tossed the warmed over eggs on a plate and slid it across the service counter. Sarah picked up the plate and a bottle of ketchup, and then breezed through the diner to present Curt his eggs – as if offered to royalty. Curt’s eyes widened with rage, and he snapped his chin up toward Sarah. “Dammint, these eggs is cooked wrong. What the hell is the matter with you, you old witch? I wanted …” but before Curt could finish his verbal assault, Sarah slammed the ketchup bottle hard on the table in front of Curt – WHAM! like a shotgun blast. The other customers all froze in their places, forks and coffee cups held motionless, mouths stopped chewing, waiting for the moment to pass into something more routine. “Now listen here, butt crack.” Sarah said with as much menace as Curt had dished out. “Since there is only one way to cook eggs that means no matter how you cook ‘em it has to be right. So, if you don’t want these eggs, leave ‘em be and hit the road, otherwise shut your trap before this bottle of DelMonte's finest becomes a permanent part of your dental plan. You want toast with these eggs, or what?” The other patrons seated in the diner watched the verbal exchange like a group of movie critiques. They put their coffee cups and forks down to gently applaud Sarah’s handling of the situation. Curt was speechless, and stared at the floor under Sarah’s feet. Nobody said a word for what seemed like five minutes, but was only 20 seconds. “Yeah,” Curt mumbled in defeat, “toast would be fine. And miss? Could I have some hot sauce too?” Sarah topped off his coffee with a smile, “Yeah Curt, you bet. I’ll go freshen up these eggs and set them a sailing, just the way you like ‘em. Anything else you want, just let me know, Hon.” Curt lifted his head a little and nodded. Then, as Sarah weaved between tables on her way back to the kitchen, a weary smile came to Curt’s face as he watched her, and then shifted his gaze back to the floor where she had been standing. Margaret laughed behind her breath. Now she was sure Sarah could handle the crowd at the Last Chance Café.
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