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Heat comes off the flattop in waves. Every time I open the oven door, more heat escapes into the kitchen, where the temperature is already reminiscent of the Sahara Desert at noon.
I do my best, but even so, orders keep piling up because I’m trying to cook for twenty fucking tables on my own.
Miserable doesn’t even begin to cover the experience.
Indy’s cursing gets more and more colorful each time she enters the kitchen.
“The second booth is still waiting for their burgers,” she calls, yet another complaint in an evening already filled with those. People don’t like to wait for their food for thirty-five plus minutes unless they’ve signed up for a culinary experience in a fancy restaurant. Burgers and fries at Sal’s is definitely not that.
“And number nine says their bacon isn’t crispy enough,” she throws in like an afterthought as she shoulders past me.
I curse out loud in reply.
“It’s been forty minutes, dude,” she says the next time she comes into the kitchen. “Table two will leave if you don’t get them their food.”
“I only have two hands,” I call back.
“Brinleigh dropped a salad in some woman’s lap,” she announces on the next trip to the kitchen. “She’s crying in the bathroom and refuses to come out.”
“Brinleigh or the customer?”
“Brinleigh.”
“Have fun with that,” I say.
She flips me off.
She’s back with more delighted customer feedback a few minutes later. “Table eleven wants to talk to the manager.”
“What manager?”
“Fuck if I know. All I know is they’d like to make a complaint. It’s about you, by the way.”
“Yeah? Tell them to suck me,” I snap.
She raises both hands and backs away. I close my eyes for a moment. Take a deep breath.
And keep going.
The fuck else is there to do?
I burn the next sheet of bacon and spend a good few minutes staring at the charred remains.
A sharp laugh escapes.
A realization hits.
Settles over me and around me like a cloud of ash.
Fuck me.
Fuck me.
Fuck. Me.
Come September, I’ll be a college dropout.
And this?
