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A light rain began to fall as I flew over the sidewalk. My shoes, worn smooth from walking, slid on the rain-soaked concrete but I managed to keep my balance by grabbing the rusted edge of a downspout.
My sides were aching, my calves cramping when I saw the restaurant come in sight.Jerry’s Placeoccupied the corner lot of a high-end strip mall, not far from a movie theater. The restaurant specialized in upscale comfort food.
I saw my favorite waitress move by in her signature green apron. Amanda, one of my coworkers I was pretty friendly with. She saw me coming as I strode toward the front doors.
My smile faded when she shook her head emphatically and pointed toward the back. My gaze followed her gesture and I spotted Dill, the general manager. He looked like too much flesh poured into a mold meant for a much smaller man. I swear that he was born with a scowl indelibly etched on his face.
I couldn’t go in the front way or Dill would know that I was almost an hour late. He wasn’t even supposed to be there that day. Normally Dill didn’t show up until the lunch crowd at the earliest, if he showed up at all before the big dinner rush.
If he was at the restaurant early, then it meant he was looking for trouble or had already found it. I knew I had to find another way inside the restaurant, but how I would do that was another story. There was a rear entrance, but usually it was only opened to throw away garbage or to take deliveries.
I jogged around the back of the building, hoping I would get lucky. Fortune smiled as I saw the heavy dull gray door wedged open by a broom handle. Nearby, Jacob, our maintenance man, heaved a huge plastic bag bulging with trash into the massive dumpster.
It made a huge thud in the dumpster bottom, and a whiff of pungent, sun-dried ketchup rose up to greet my nostrils. I covered my mouth and nose and waved at Jacob as I went by.
“Good morning, Jake.”
“Good morning, Jennifer. How’s it going?”
“I’m late.”
“Naw, really?” His wide, expressive face split into a grin. Jake wasn’t much older than me, and his pudgy physique made him seem like he was just out of high school. His dark brown coveralls already had a dark sweat stain on his chest and armpits. “What else is new?”
I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but he wasn’t exactly wrong, either. I quickly took my place at the dishwashing station. I scowled at the sight of dishes piled high on nearly every spare surface.
“What the hell happened here?” I sputtered. It looked to me like the closing dishwasher didn’t finish his job. In fact, it looked like there had been literally no attempt to even start his job.
“Oh, the dishwasher broke.”
I turned around to find a dark-skinned, tall man with lanky limbs. His eyes were sympathetic, but also resigned.
“Again? And he didn’t wash them by hand? Why do I always inherit these messes, Ramone?”
“I think they said he had a gig and he didn’t have time.”
“And I do?” I knew that I was late, but come on… this was entirely too much.
“Better get started doing them by hand.” Ramone peered out of the kitchen into the lobby. “Dill is on his way back here.”
“Shit, shit, shit.” I raced to the sink and started filling the largest of the three stainless steel sinks. The first was for the wash, filled with soapy water automatically dispensed by a big tube adhered to the wall.
The second sink was for the rinse and the third and final one would be filled not with water but with a pink sanitizer solution. I had all of three grotesquely baked on pans in the sudsy water when Dill burst through the thin doors separating the kitchen from the restaurant lobby.
His piggish eyes narrowed to slits as he searched the kitchen for something to bitch about. I blinked sweat out of my eyes and tried to concentrate on my job. The kitchen air felt stiflingly hot. Plus, I was elbow-deep in hot soapy water, leaning up against a metal sink that conducted heat like a champ.
To say it was miserable in that kitchen was an understatement, and I’m not just talking about the temperature. Kitchens are loud, noisy places to work. There’s always someone bringing stock out, or clumping a heavy bag in a box refreshment refill onto the floor, or chopping, or throwing meat into a searing pan of olive oil.
I had grown used to the cacophony over time. I could differentiate Dill’s stride from the other sounds. Every time it drew near I cringed.
“Ricky, what in the fuck are you doing?”
I glanced sidelong at the fry station, where young college kid Ricky struggled to lift a box of vegetable oil up onto the stainless steel fryer.
“I’m refilling the oil in the fryer, Dill.”
“I can see that, idiot, but look.” He pointed at a bag in a box of vegetable oil on the floor, one which held a teaspoon’s worth of product in it. “There’s still a ton of grease left in that bag. Don’t you dare open a new box until the old one is completely empty.”
“Sorry, Dill.”
