Day 4 (Part 7)

The local fairgrounds hosting their annual festivities lead to a packed diner. Two servers, two line cooks, and a fairly inexperienced hostess held down the pressure-filled restaurant like their lives depended on it. With zero room or time for error, the servers were quick and stone-faced, but no less polite. We are working for tips, after all.

Yes, I was working this faithful morning, pouring as many cups of coffee as there are stars in the sky. Most of the customers were satisfied, but out-of-towners can sometimes create an air of ‘We know better’ at the table—an incredibly taxing energy for any experienced food service worker.

Rose, with experience nearly ten times my own, often pacified them effortlessly. She seemed to know what they needed as they came through the door. Perhaps not much younger but a lot less experienced, it took me a bit more effort. 

“My eggs are made of rubber,” said a rather bitter woman dressed in mournful blacks that I was unable to please.

While seating her party she complained, “The restaurant is too crowded.”

“Ha, isn’t it?” I said, trying to disarm her. “We have a big event in town this weekend.”

“Duh, that’s why we’re here!” Oof.

When I served the coffee, she complained it was too hot before lifting the mug to her lips. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. Can I get you some cold cream or ice?”

“Ice? Who would put ice in hot coffee?” she sneered before sending me off for the cold cream she swears to the others in her party she would not normally use. “If not for this cup of boiling brown water.”

This was fine. I could handle her. The money would be well worth it today.

 But now she was asking me to address Cook with one of her complaints—while we had a butt in every booth and stool, and every butt included an average of two hands to double-fist bacon and eggs.

I swallow hard. “I’m sorry Ma’am. Would you like something else?”

“I want my eggs made right!” She said, and she’s laughing a little, but nothing is funny in her tone. The rest of the table appears embarrassed, and it is a bit of a relief for me. I hate the laughter, but I keep my composure as her company does.

“Ok, I’ll ask the kitchen to make you new eggs.” I whisk her plate away and appear at Cook’s side.

“What?” he says flatly, not looking at me. 

“This lady wants new eggs. She says they’re rubbery.”

I jump as Cook slams down his two tools and picks up two new ones. “Fuckin’ hell!”

“I’m sorry! Please!” I beg. “She’s really barking up my tree.”

“I have no space on this flat top and tickets up to my ass, Missy!”

“Please, please, please!”

“Tell her to shove it up her xxxx and die.” He agrees.

“Yes, Chef.” The entire interaction ate up about fifteen seconds of service time and I flew out of the kitchen, narrowly dodging Rose as I rush to the coffee station.

“Hey, careful!” she snapped, but her expression is easy-going.

“Sorry, sorry!” I say miserably. She pats my back and carries on.

I tend to several low coffee cups and in about two minutes, fresh, very good looking eggs appear on a clean plate in the window. I rush over, nearly knocking into Rose a second time, and race them to the sensitive woman. Rose knows I need them badly and says nothing to me. The eggs are still steaming when they hit the table. I rather detest eggs in this form, but even I want to take a bite. “Okay?!” I say frantically before moving on to another group, now looking quite anxious for my attention. While perhaps still unsatisfied, the woman was finally silenced. 

The eggs get eaten. They leave a reasonable tip and the table is quickly cleared by the hostess and filled with a smaller party of easier-going diners. The rush begins to die down. We breathe again.

At the end of the shift, only Rose, Cook, and myself remain. Rose is pouring herself a mimosa— a closing time ritual of hers. Cook enters the kitchen after taking out the trash and I try to give him a couple dollars for helping me with the Angry Egg Lady. He refuses. “You earned it,” he says. “I can’t do what you do.”

“Sure you could,” I reply. “You know how to write up orders and pour coffee.” Cook shook his head.

“I can’t hold my tongue when people start getting all fussy. I mean, you heard what I woulda’ said to that whiny bitch.”

“Ha. She wasn’t so bad.”

She was, but the wad of bills in my pocket balms the mark she left.

Cook shook his head again, but this time, he was smiling. “That’s exactly what I mean.” He walked past me, his refusal final. “Save it for the fair.”

Day 4 (Part 8)

“Damn!” said Handsome, slamming down the toy gun with an unintentional force I thought would break it.

“So close!” said the carnie. “You win second prize, buddy.”

“Which one do you want?” he asked, turning to me with an expression drenched in shame. My moony eyes do nothing to soothe his disappointment.

“The ice cream cone with its tongue sticking out, please!” I say, and the carnie happily passes it off to me. “Thank you!” I turn to Handsome. “I love it, thank you.” I purse my lips, and he leans close to let me peck him on the cheek.

“I was so close to first prize.”

“I know, that was ridiculous.”

Hand-in hand, we peruse the other games and vendors for whatever suits our fancy. Mostly, we simply enjoy being out and about with one another, not working tirelessly or restlessly sleeping. Handsome, normally very much in the moment, is still thinking about the out-of-reach first prize.

We run into Cook and his family, and he seems delighted to see us, quickly introducing his wife and two children to Handsome and me. It’s strange to see him sans apron and in comfortable plain clothes. We talk shortly about the attractions we each visited, but the kids seem keen on their father’s attention. They were two boys, nearly identical, but not quite. One put his hand on Cook’s pant leg and yanked. 

“Great fair this year, huh?” says Cook, hoisting one of his exhausted young boys in his arms while his pretty wife takes the other. “Well, we’re getting out of here. The kiddos are totally spent. See you at work. Bye!”

Handsome lures me in the direction of the haunted house and I yank him away. His arm turns to stone and my heels slide in his direction, despite my best efforts.

“No!” I snap. He stops and looks me deep in the eyes. I read him, and then sigh. “I don’t want to!”

“It’s just a lil’ ol’ house, my dear, nothing to fear,” he said with a tricky smile.

“Oh lordy lord,” I say, hoisting my cone under my armpit so I can cover my face with one hand and grip Handsome with the other. We step slowly to the entrance of the house. It feels like a walk down the aisle blended with a pee pee pants waltz.

We get in the back of a medium-length line. A teen youth turns to look at us and makes a loud and startling “boo!” After that, he left us alone entirely. I tapdance in place, needing to be coerced into taking every step forward.

“Two please” Handsome says too quickly and passes over two bright pink tickets. She mutters something and motions us through the door.

“Did she say, ‘good luck?!’” I ask, terrified.

“I think she said, ‘thank you’,” replied Handsome as he held back a rubbery curtain for me. “You first, m’lady.”

“I’ll never forgive you for this.”

“Good,” he says as I pass into the darkness, taking Handsome’s free hand with me as I go.

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