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Fic, whut? 1/?
Jun. 14th, 2009 09:47 pmI'm tired. It's a very familiar state and unfortunately, I'm only going to hit exhausted before the day is over. After carefully putting away my flashdrive, the 4 gig one with all my class files in it, I quickly change into my uniform, grab my apron from the closet, and am out the door and running to the bus stop just in time to catch the 4 pm 56 to downtown.
Tonight, I'm lucky--the bus driver's not a newbie and I'm walking through Jack's service entrance five minutes before my six-hour shift begins. Jack's there, of course, a toothpick being chewed to splinters where a cigarette would've been three weeks ago. He grunts at me from his stove as I sign in one the beat-up old clipboard. "Cheryl's sick. Called in three hours ago from the hospital--got some kind of food poisoning. You get overtime pay for dinner rush."
The beginnings of a headache tingle, but I manage a smile, "Thanks boss. I'll handle it."
Therese comes through the kitchen doors, sliding three order forms onto the service station, "Oh, good, you're here." She tosses me the form pad, signs out and is gone before I can greet her.
Chris, the short order cook, dumps food onto two plates and deposits them next to two of the order slips, crossing out some of the items, "Hey man, two starters for tables three and six."
Tucking the pad of green paper into my apron, I grab a tray and take the orders out to the dining room. It's mostly empty, thank God. Only four of the ten tables are in use and Kyle, the bus boy, is occupying himself with the front windows. I deliver the fries with a minimum of fuss and head towards the tall redhead, "Hey Kyle?"
"Yeah?"
"Cheryl's not going to be here for dinner rush. Would you mind taking care of water requests?"
"Always do, don't I?"
I grin, "I know, but just to be sure."
"Yeah, don't sweat it. Just take the pitcher to my cart."
"Thanks."
The beginning of my shift passes with little trouble. One of the kids at table two spills his juice, but the mother's cool and tells me rather than wasting tons of paper towels trying to take care of what a quick swipe of a washcloth can clean up. Traffic starts to pick up around six and people waiting for sit down dining and to-go orders begin to build up in the waiting area. It's a good thing I'm good with my hands, for I often have bags on to-go hanging from my arms while trays full of appetizers are balanced on top.
Around eight, my worst nightmare shows up: Joseph Anderson and his demonic brood, ages eight to twelve.
Tonight, I'm lucky--the bus driver's not a newbie and I'm walking through Jack's service entrance five minutes before my six-hour shift begins. Jack's there, of course, a toothpick being chewed to splinters where a cigarette would've been three weeks ago. He grunts at me from his stove as I sign in one the beat-up old clipboard. "Cheryl's sick. Called in three hours ago from the hospital--got some kind of food poisoning. You get overtime pay for dinner rush."
The beginnings of a headache tingle, but I manage a smile, "Thanks boss. I'll handle it."
Therese comes through the kitchen doors, sliding three order forms onto the service station, "Oh, good, you're here." She tosses me the form pad, signs out and is gone before I can greet her.
Chris, the short order cook, dumps food onto two plates and deposits them next to two of the order slips, crossing out some of the items, "Hey man, two starters for tables three and six."
Tucking the pad of green paper into my apron, I grab a tray and take the orders out to the dining room. It's mostly empty, thank God. Only four of the ten tables are in use and Kyle, the bus boy, is occupying himself with the front windows. I deliver the fries with a minimum of fuss and head towards the tall redhead, "Hey Kyle?"
"Yeah?"
"Cheryl's not going to be here for dinner rush. Would you mind taking care of water requests?"
"Always do, don't I?"
I grin, "I know, but just to be sure."
"Yeah, don't sweat it. Just take the pitcher to my cart."
"Thanks."
The beginning of my shift passes with little trouble. One of the kids at table two spills his juice, but the mother's cool and tells me rather than wasting tons of paper towels trying to take care of what a quick swipe of a washcloth can clean up. Traffic starts to pick up around six and people waiting for sit down dining and to-go orders begin to build up in the waiting area. It's a good thing I'm good with my hands, for I often have bags on to-go hanging from my arms while trays full of appetizers are balanced on top.
Around eight, my worst nightmare shows up: Joseph Anderson and his demonic brood, ages eight to twelve.
