Thirty (A Short Story)

These are the numbers that reign over my mind: It’s six o’clock PM and ninety-nine degrees, 4/05/2013.

Every time I turn my face away from the blazing grill to wipe the sweat from my brow, the ardent blinking of the LED screen clock face reminds me of the hours ahead and of the sweltering heat that besets me. I wonder if hell looks like a restaurant kitchen line. Surely it sounds like one. “Closing time” blares on the radio. The irony sinks in, but not one of us is amused.  The song was never one I liked, but what little charm it may have held has burnt away.
There are fifty-two tables a 20-seat bar in my version of Hell. Every seat is occupied. I'm told there are about more waiting in the entryway, watching the hostess like she's Saint Peter or Charon or something.

As I step over a fallen French dip sandwich, I scoop up some parsley-infused butter from a waist high cooler with one hand while the other reaches to the stainless-steel prep table to garnish a well-done hamburger, which now more closely resembles a hockey puck on a Kaiser roll than the fat and muscle from which the patty originated.

They call this the “Service Industry.” When I was nine, I earnestly told my parents I wanted to help people someday. This is not what I meant. Besides, this isn't someday, it's every day. 

I sure as hell never wanted to be subservient. The owner pays up a modest wage, which keeps us fed, clothed, and modestly sheltered for another two weeks at a time, to work for the benefit of others—not necessarily those who need our services, merely those who want it. In this regard, people we've never seen are our patrons; they patronize us, albeit unknowingly. And worse, some of these people might be the same people that gave us wedgies in 8^th grade. Maybe it was that kid who pantsed me in front of Trisha Swift when he found out I had a crush on her. One of these people might be the very same guy with whom I collided in the regional soccer finals in 11^th grade. In fact, I generally assume the clientele is composed entirely of people who tormented me or whom I confronted at some point in my life. I’m not sure which is more detrimental to my equanimity, which is tenuous at best.

“How’s long on that pork-chop, Jeff?” the manager pipes up as he customizes a filet of tuna with a lemon slice and a flaccid sprig of parsley as what passes for garnish here.

I respond with a, “ Three minutes, Bubsy,” and before I acknowledge his quiet comeback, I’m again looking at the clock. It’s 6:04.  In customary fashion, we briefly surface, and submerge again.

Tonight, I’m cooking with Sean—the flustered manager—, profane Evan, and quiet Johnny. We are called cooks, but what we really do is put out plates. Big plates. I think Dante would have invented a new section of hell for the enablers of gluttony if he had seen the mounds of food we put out. I wonder if the plates in Italy are like this.

We put out plates, and we talk to distract ourselves. Every night, we talk about something banal—the Predator movies or Star Wars, or we repeat old conversations about other movies, TV shows, or bands. We are loud and mouthy. While we seem very opinionated, none of us is really much concerned with the Predator movies. No one cares over much about Arnold Schwarzenegger.

We’re driven—in general—by a fear of poverty and in these moments of debate and plating, unwavering spite.

In case I haven’t already made it clear enough, I've come to resent the people I feed. I've never met most of them but I am fairly sure they must be terrible. Why would twelve people reserve a table two days ahead and all order Hamburgers? And why should they be so very disgruntled when said burgers don’t instantaneously materialize on their tables? Grilling ninety-six ounces of well-done hamburgers takes time.  We’ll put out your hockey pucks as quickly as we can.

“How much did they tip anyhow?”

“Five dollars on a hundred dollar check,” Shane the server grunts.

Not one of us is surprised. Apparently the group held hands and prayed together at the table. People who pray at the table never tip well.

I bet Jesus would at least have tithed. Ten percent was probably a great tip in those days.

Evan, who is about as white a paleface as you’ll find, manifests his frustration by dismissively saying what has become cliché here, “I fucking hate white people.” We savor this sort of irony. But perhaps we are speaking more literally than we realize. Most of us are white, sure, but very few of us are particularly fond of ourselves. Most of us nurse what little self-esteem we posses with cigarettes, beer, whiskey, or any combination of those things. At least, I know I do.

Another ticket comes in. Sean barks a combination of entrees and appetizers that we’ve heard only a thousand times before, his impatience weighing on his tone:

“Burger, tuna, burger with blue cheese, salmon, she has a gluten allergy so no marinade, strip steak, pork chop, fries on the side, oops, mashers on the side on a couple of those, and a side salad. And a four top with a full salad with chicken, and three French dip sandwi—ah hell, just read your tickets.”

I scramble to comply as sweat stings my eyes, cursing the “point of service” ordering system as more tickets roll in.  They keep rolling in.  I often hear the drone of that printer in my nightmares.

At 6:30, Shane requests a cup of soup for his table of four. I stride over to the soup-well and fill one small, off-white porcelain bowl with a light yellow-orange substance and put it in the small window that separates us. He thanks me cordially but I know he isn't overly grateful. It isn't his soup, after all. In fact, judging by the intensity of his gaze upon the rubbery glop, it’s likely that he hasn't eaten all day.

I shrug. I say, “No problem.”

My oldest ticket is pushing twenty minutes and the new server asks me to grill a steak between medium-rare and rare. With nine pieces of meat on the grill and five in the convection oven, guessing at which temperature a stranger prefers his or her meat doesn't rank very high on my scale of priorities. I decide the schmuck must mean rare. He’ll most likely send it back to “get rid of some of the red.” I’m guessing he would have sent it back either way.

Our most beardy prep cook, James, walks into the kitchen. Somehow it’s only 7:00.

Sean’s voice penetrates the haze, “James, hop on the line. Jeff, go grab a smoke.”

I smile, I whip off my apron, and I tell Sean I love him. He chuckles more loudly than I've heard all night. While he’s probably just excited that his own break is approaching, his over-enthusiasm distresses me, though I’m not sure why.

We aren't supposed to walk through the dining room on our breaks. We’re supposed to go out through the back and smoke by the garbage. Usually, I abide. However, tonight the NCAA “Sweet 16” becomes the “Elite 8.” Last I heard, the game was tied forty-to-forty and winning the pool we started with the servers could afford me groceries for a month.

So I walk through the dining room where flat screen TVs line the walls only to find that the score is now sixty-four to forty-two with four minutes left in the game. My brackets are busted. I turn away from the screen and glance around the dining room.

            Generally, I predicted the assortment of customers pretty accurately. Most notably, the guy who pulled my pants down in front of Trisha Swift in elementary school is actually sitting at table 12 with his arm around, of course, Trisha Swift. Their eyes almost meet mine, but to avoid an awkward wave, I turn to glance at table 10 where a group of Frat boys and Sorority girls speak too loudly about having the “worst day ever.” Apparently their Political Sciences test was “rigged” and “brutal.”

I almost make it out the door when a man in a three-piece pinstripe suit and carrying a black leather briefcase, surrounded by other men in suits, nods lifts his brow to catch my eye, taps the shoulder of my chef coat, and says, “be a dear and grab me a water, will you?” The suits around him muffle their laughter. I pretend I didn’t hear him and continue walking outside.

I fire up my cigarette curbside. The red glow is a welcome sight. I’d explain in greater depth why I enjoy these breaks so much but I’m not looking to sell anyone on these things. It’s a dirty habit. I look at my watch and take a drag every twenty-five seconds. I figure I can get the most out of my break this way. It takes me about ten drags to finish a cigarette. If I puff every twenty-five seconds, I’m guaranteed at least four minutes of unadulterated break. Plus, the break feels longer when I watch the second hand.

No matter how closely I concentrate on the time, my break eventually draws to a close. I swallow the bitterness, flick my depleted cigarette, and drag my feet inside and through the dining room yet again.  It is 7:06.  As I pass the suit-clad asshole I’d met before, I swear to overcook the steak I hear him ordering. As I look towards the TV to see who won the game, I hear a slight whimper behind me.

I look around, expecting a child, and see her—a red-haired girl, maybe 25 or 26 at the oldest, at table 30. I hadn’t seen her before. I don’t know how I could have missed her. Maybe she arrived while I was smoking.  Anyway, she’s crying, huddled in the corner.  I mean, the food here is pretty bad, but I don’t think it’s that bad.  No, the table is bare aside from a glass of water and two sets of silverware.  She’s with a man with a curly brown hair and a pink and teal striped collared shirt. I can only see his back as he leans toward her. He’s failing at consoling her, perhaps even increasing her grief. The girl’s gleaming face is lovely and slender. She has the fullest lips, and the tears don’t diminish her beauty; instead, they make her luminous.

 I consider meandering over closer to make out what the two are saying, but fall back when I realize how creepy that would seem. Plus, Johnny, Sean, and Evan are all waiting to go on their breaks.

I walk into the kitchen, wash my hands, put my apron back on, and return to my grill. I try to return to the grind, to the endless, dim chore, but the girl’s face won’t leave me, prevailing over the banter, the food, the job, and even the time. Why is she crying? Did that guy break up with her? Did someone die?

She’s just another customer, I tell myself.

“I was worried you might never come back,” laughs Sean.

I’m sorry I did.

I laugh the most genuine laugh I've let loose in weeks. I wonder why I don’t laugh more often. As I focus on the line, my new ticket comes in. It’s a two top at table 30. The beautiful girl and her collared associate. She wants a 12oz. chicken breast with truffle oil potato wedges. He ordered corndog bites to go.

I grill her chicken as well as I would make it for my own mother. I sear perfectly crosshatched char-marks into the meat. I pan-fry her potato wedges in duck fat left over from the soup special the night before instead of using the rancid soybean-shortening fryer. I ignore the restaurant’s “truffle and mushroom flavored olive oil” and drizzle a generous portion of the truffle oil my parents brought me from Italy and which I hid in the restaurant for—until today—my own food exclusively. Upon finishing the chicken, I apply a generous coat of tomato vinaigrette and plate the meal as carefully as I am able. I shave some Parmesan on her wedges instead of sprinkling pre-grated nubs.

When I’m done, I fill up a glass of water and grab the girl’s plate. Sean watches me, bewildered.  I hear his, “Where the hell are y…” as I pass the threshold between kitchen and dining room, apron and all.

 I walk the plate to table 30. I tell the man his corndog bites might be delayed as they are hard to catch. The girl giggles, tears nearly dried. She accepts the plate.

“Thuh-ank you.” She says through a thick, but still delightful, Eastern-European accent.

I ask her for her name as brown-curly man scoffs.

She blushes and smiles, embarrassed. “I am soo-ry. I do not u-understand Engleesh very… um... very much.”

I say, “It’s no problem at all. Enjoy your meal,”

“OH. Olga! My name eez Olga.”

“Nice to meet you Olga, I’m Jeff.”

I watch her trying to assemble and translate the words to the language she thinks in.

“Goodbye.” Says the man, in his similarly thick, slightly deeper accent.

I wish them a good night and smile as I appreciate Olga’s beauty one last time.  The curly man is relieved to see me off, and rightly so. I should find my own table.
Instead of returning to the kitchen, I turn again toward the front exit. I place the glass of water in front of the man in the pinstriped suit. His jaw drops a bit, evidently shocked, or maybe just drunk. Before he manages to formulate words, I’m striding out the door, striking my heel to pavement. The numbers fade from thought as I step over my still-glowing cigarette.
 I don't know where to look yet, but I know what to listen for:
"Hey, pull up a chair."