Chapter 3 #2
The cringe in my soul is reflexive. Mike is as predictable as he is annoying.
“Looks good and hot, sweetheart.”
Were his eyes on her face or the chicken fried steak she set in his place, my fist wouldn’t be balling in my lap.
And talk about fake, that smile of hers before she wheels around to a neighboring table.
Mike executes a not-exactly-blatant but not-quite-subtle, guy-turn of the head. “Man, I’d like to—”
“Dude.” I don’t intend the word in the friendly context. The poor woman deserves respect.
She heads for the kitchen, but the rigid set of her shoulders leaves no room for wondering whether she heard.
Mike’s lip curls, and there’s an edge to his expression. “What’s your problem, Saint Knox?”
Even though the waitress is out of earshot, I lower my voice. “She was three feet away, man. She could hear every word you said.”
“Maybe I wanted her to hear. Ever heard of flirting?”
I choke on my own spit. “That’s not what flirting is.”
Picking up his knife in one hand, fork with the other, he snorts. “How would you know?”
Just because I suck at the activity doesn’t mean I don’t know it when I see it—and when I don’t. I unwind the flatware from the paper napkin, eyeing him. Truth is, I’d be within rights to cut the guy loose here and now. His work shirt bears the LHS logo. So help me, the next little screwup…
I shake my head and reach for the bottle of ketchup next to the jellies and mini butter tubs. I’m already tired, and my appetite for food far outweighs my appetite for conversation, much less conflict. I squeeze a puddle of the tomatoey stuff onto the plate.
While the others talk about inane things I have zero interest in, I check the stocks app and thumb through the day’s news.
Only some crumbs and a handful of fries remain when a notification banner interrupts the scroll. I decline the call, but I wipe the grease from my fingers and take a twenty from my wallet. I wedge it under my coffee cup and tell the guys I’ll meet them at the truck.
On my way to the door, I return the call.
Everly
Men are such…ugh.
Two days down and—
Never mind. Doing the math on my time left at Uncle Charlie’s will only cast me into a pit of despair. That or tweak my rotten attitude, which can’t afford to ripen much more. It already stinks, even to me.
The greasy diner, the love of Charlie’s life, has nosedived since my teen years.
What happened to the families that once made up the bulk of my uncle’s customer base?
Now, it’s all burly guys who flirt and leer and insinuate—and track mud across floors I’m going to be the one mopping up at ten o’clock tonight.
Yep, me. I was five minutes into my new assignment when showered with the happy news that Charlie’s current staffing situation lies at a point somewhere on a spectrum between problematic and dire.
Lovely. Not only am I performing owner and manager tasks, I’m also filling in for cooks and dishwashers.
Worst of all, I’ll be forced to wait tables far more than I care to.
Which, if I had my way, would be none at all.
I’m already sick of this place with its sticky menus, walls, and floors. I’m tired of the holiday season too. Ready for a new year and new chapter—although, thanks, Charlie, I’ll be living that new chapter from yet another apartment community. Shoot. I really want my own backyard.
The table of yahoos in back is particularly obnoxious.
The guy with scraggly blond hair escaping from his grimy cap is simply awful, but there’s also the big guy, the gawker built like an ox.
I’m not sure he was checking me out so much as he was too dumb to form words.
The type who plows his way through life by virtue of his strength, only bringing his mind out on special occasions.
Am I exaggerating a tad? More than likely. Being unduly nasty? Definitely.
Probably I should duck into the bathroom and read a few Bible verses on my phone.
Maybe after the lunch rush.
To Mr. Wide Shoulders’ credit, I think he was also the one to shut the creep down, but my back was turned. He indistinctly mumbled his order earlier, so I can’t be certain, but the dark chocolate voice that rose in my defense sure didn’t fit any of the others.
The moose has nice eyes, too. I will give him that.
Several minutes later, I glance up from the coffee I’m pouring into the cup of an elderly gentleman at the counter. Phone to ear, the big guy pushes through the front door, jingling the sleigh bell on the end of a red ribbon. I hung it there yesterday to lend a modicum of holiday cheer.
Wow, he’s even bigger than I realized. A solid six-three or maybe four, wide shoulders, and…well, just wide. Kind of a hoss of a man. The guy on speed dial whenever friends and family have a move planned. If he owns a pickup, he probably never gets a weekend to himself.
By the time I make my return trip to the table of obnoxiousness, all the chairs are empty. I prefer to check people out at the register, but since we’re shorthanded, money on the table will suffice. Lots of Charlie’s crowd do it this way anyhow.
Green bills are set atop each of the four tickets I delivered. Except for one.
Hoss is a dine-and-dasher.
Creep. No wonder Uncle Charlie is a grump.
I jam the unpaid check into my apron pocket. I remember the logo on their work clothes and hats, so I could sic the cops on him.
Eh, fifteen bucks isn’t worth the trouble.
But rest assured, Hoss has received his last meal from this establishment.
The fixture above the stove glows when I enter the house through the laundry room door at nearly eleven.
Light from the living room television flickers and flashes.
Mom smiles at me from her recliner while a black and white movie plays on the big screen.
A cream-colored turtleneck peeks above the ruffly neckline of her nightgown.
Nothing has changed in the years I’ve been on my own. Yes, the weather is raw, but Mom wears the extra shirt even in September. As long as I’ve been her daughter, she’s complained her neck gets cold.
She mutes the television. “Hi, honey. How was your day?”
I drop onto the sofa and throw my head into the cushion. A rush of diner stink swirls around me. “I don’t know how Uncle Charlie stands it there.”
She reproves me with a frown. “That diner is his life, Everly.”
Oh, right. Saddest story I’ve heard in a long time.
I press my hands, already chapping from bleach water, to my cheeks. “I know it is, Mom, but it’s a ton of work. How does he manage?” My back and feet are screaming rude things at me.
Mom’s chuckle is humorless. “Well, considering he just had a heart attack, that’s not a tough question to answer.”
True enough.
“If he can’t return to work, he’ll be heartbroken.”
Getting old must stink. I’m not looking forward to it, and the thought of being all alone, like Uncle Charlie, scares me to death.
I hope by his stage of life I’ve found someone to join my life with and that they’ve stuck around for the golden years.
According to family lore, watching Charlie run off prospective life partners with his grizzly bear ways was practically a family sport.
Mom vees her hand at the base of her throat. “I was thinking. Let’s plan to decorate the Christmas tree on Sunday. We can bake sugar cookies and make hot cocoa.”
My inner groan sounds off. “Fine, but if you want my participation, it will have to be around this time. I’m working these days, remember?”
She bites her lip. No, clearly the merry image Mom created in her mind of the three of us decking the halls blocked out reality—a reality eagerly foisted on me by her, no less.
“You don’t have to be there until close every night, do you?”
“Remains to be seen. I discovered this morning that Uncle Charlie has one waitress recovering from surgery, one walked out last Friday, and one of the kitchen guys landed in jail over the weekend.”
“Oh, dear.”
Oh, dear is right. And as of this week, every bit of it is my problem. Remind me again how that happened?
Mom is never easily deterred. “We'll try for Sunday. As I recall, Charlie closes at two on Sundays.”
I don’t bother covering a loud yawn. Right now, my brain can’t process the prospect of any activity other than crawling into bed.
I sit straight. “Hey, maybe we can begin closing early on Saturdays too.” Weekend evenings, most folks choose more interesting dining establishments, and ones that typically include alcohol, for that matter.
“Now, honey. You can’t waltz in and change all Charlie’s ways.”
Um, sure I can. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Grr. Definitely that was mean. I’m on the fast track to becoming a grizzly myself. Clearly, the diner is to blame. Maybe the place has been Uncle Charlie’s nemesis all along.
Pain shoots through my feet when I stand, stretching and yawning. “I need to shower so I can crash, Mom.” I tell her I love her, kiss her cheek, and stumble upstairs to the same bedroom where I spent my childhood.
Sometimes, it seems more should have changed by now.