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ONE
Clover
Working at the House of Wieners is not as glamorous as it sounds. As the manager, I get all the fun of dunking wieners in hot grease, pan-frying them, and even baking them, which, yay, am I right? I also get the privilege of dealing with customers who just want to yell at someone because their dicks are tiny and shriveled and their partners, quite understandably, don’t want to touch them.
Okay, that makes me sound a little sexist. To be fair, I also get just as many shriveled vaginas that march in screaming because their last fried wiener had more cheese in it, or, you know, because their children are making them miserable, their husbands have shriveled dicks, and they miss feeling like people instead of mothers to their idiot partners and to the kids who don’t appreciate them. I’m pretty sure with them it’s kind of like the pressure it takes to make a diamond, only these women are under so much pressure that at a certain point they become women who just need enough damn cheese in their wiener to explode. Because that’s the problem. You know, not that they need to be appreciated by their families, or get time for themselves. Nope, they need more cheese in their wieners.
Well, that’s my theory anyway.
But I digress. What’s important is that I’ve been thinking about my life as the manager of the House of Wieners as it comes to an end. Right now, baking by myself is my favorite part of the whole day. None of the cooks or waiters are here yet. We don’t open for two more hours, so I just get to enjoy the silence of the restaurant and the feel of dough under my hands. It’s just… perfection. Because the House of Wieners is about more than just hot dogs; we make bread, pretzels, and even pretzel bites. Basically, anything adults who want to be kids still, or actual kids, would like. Things like hamburgers, French fries, grilled cheese, and lots of pastries and desserts.
But my favorite things to make are the breads and desserts, because baking has always been a specialty of mine. Something that came so easy, compared to all the things I suck at, that baking made me feel… special. Since becoming the manager, I haven’t gotten to bake as much. It’s something the cooks handle, but Bob popped a tire this morning, so I get to do all the fun baking until he gets his car straightened out and arrives. So, I’m playing the band Garbage on full blast while I knead the dough on the table and scream-singing the lyrics to I’m Only Happy When It Rains, because today I’m feeling happy as hell.
Happy that I get to actually cook, but even more, happy because this is my last day. Not on Earth, God no, but in this crappy big city dealing with a crappy owner who treats me like shit. Because fortune struck my best friend Willow, and now we have a get-out-of-jail-free card to this life. We get to do what few broke, young people without family support get to do: we’re picking up and leaving this city. We’re heading for a town called Sleepy Hollow, where Willow has inherited a restaurant and place to live from a family she never knew she had.
I’ll be managing the new restaurant and I get to create it from the ground up, with no crappy owner to have to deal with. Not only that, but I’ll get to hand-pick servers and cooks and help with the menu, including creating dishes.
It’ll be the closest thing I might ever experience to having my own restaurant.
A laugh of pure happiness explodes from my lips, and then I catch my reflection in the steel hood of the oven. I have flour smeared on my forehead and cheek. An apron protects most of my formal dress pants and blouse, but the apron’s covered in flour too. Normally, I hate seeing my reflection in work clothes, but not today.
My smile spreads. When I work for Willow, she’s already assured me that I can wear whatever I want, within reason. I know when she said “within reason” she was talking about all my t-shirts covered in swear words, which I’m fine with, and maybe some of my feminist ones like, “How does having a vagina mean I’m better at cleaning?” or, “Yes, I have curves. No, I don’t care what you think about it.” I might wear those. I might not. But I’m going to burn these clothes if it’s the last thing I do.
And that will be fine, because I’m leaving for better things.
The oven beeps, letting me know the first set of pretzels is done. I pull them out to let them cool, then put in the next ones. I wipe sweat off my brow with my forearm, glaring at the hot oven. The kitchen is getting uncomfortably warm, but luckily, I have the back door open to let in some fresh air. Still, it doesn’t seem to be enough, so I go to the door, ignoring the creepy, dark alley beyond it, and open the door more by shifting the heavy box holding it open further back.
Then, I stand for just a second breathing deeply and fanning the cold air toward my face, hoping to feel a little less like a piece of meat cooking in an oven before I keep working. A movement in the darkness catches my gaze. I stiffen, peering into the shadows. It’s a big city, so we do get a lot of homeless people, but I know most of them by name. They don’t slink around in the darkness; they know where I’ve placed any food they might be interested in, grab it, and get out of here before the owner catches them and throws a fit.
So what’s in the darkness?
And then, I see it… A dog? A big dog? A set of eyes peers from the darkness growing steadily closer. I reach behind me for one of the hot dogs I’d placed on the tray earlier to start seasoning.
“Here, boy. Come here. Are you hungry? I’ve got something tasty for you!”
The set of eyes continues to grow closer, and then I see two more sets of eyes behind this one. Now, my heart skips a beat. I like animals. I love dogs. But I’m also not stupid. This is one of those situations where the likelihood of me being mauled to death by wild dogs might just be higher than helping out some sweet ones.
I throw the hot dog out at them, and then the first dog emerges into the light from the back door. And, holy sweaty balls, it looks like a wolf. A giant, grey wolf with pale blue eyes. It’s easily four times the size of any dog I’ve seen in my life, and I’m guessing the two others behind it are similar.
So, before it can leap at me, I shove the heavy box that’s propping the door open with all my might and slam the door closed. I swear I hear at least one of the dogs hit the door with its huge body. There are some growls, some whimpering, but I just stand, staring at the door in a panic.
It grows quiet, and I just sink to the floor, my legs trembling. “Okay, that didn’t just happen. There’s no chance there are wolves this far into the city. I’m just tired from packing and working so much the last few days.” Or maybe this is from the stress of the move. As excited as I am, deep down I’m also a little worried about the change.
The other oven starts beeping. I force myself to climb to my knees, then to my feet, and go pull the bread out and put more in. Bread, pretzels, and cake. I’m rotating the best I can.
Behind me, the door rings. I practically leap out of my skin. Did the wolf somehow learn how to ring the bell meant for deliveries and staff? My heart races as I go to the peephole and look through. But when I do, I only see Bob. No wolves. No dumb decisions that might lead to being mauled to death.
Yup, I’m officially losing my mind. So I try my best to look normal and open the door.
TWO
Clover
The restaurant had been especially busy all day. Not just busy, but mentally draining. I’d had a kid throw a drink at me, which I’d mostly managed to clean up. When one of my waitresses gets an order wrong, I have to deal with a customer who repeats, over and over again, things like, “How fucking hard is it to get an order right?” “I can see why she didn’t go to college,” and even a few gems like, “My tips help pay for all your bastard kids after your baby daddies took off.” I smile politely, apologize for the screw-up, and assure him I’ll make his meal myself.
I don’t want to say what I did to that hot dog because I’m a lady, but he definitely got an extra special meal. However, because I’m a team player, I do encourage my waitress to watch him eat the whole hot dog. Being the manager might mean that I can’t say what I’d done, but I’d been a waitress here long enough that I don’t put up with customers abusing my staff, and they know it.
So, the waitress, Stephanie, and I take a moment to watch the man eat, grinning ear-to-ear as we do so and feeling better about our lives as he devours his wiener. Which is a signal to all the employees that some sweet, sweet revenge is taking place. Within a minute, two cooks and four waiters and waitresses are standing by the door leading to the dining room, watching him finish every last tasty bite.
