Well, this really happened. I think writing the story was my way of processing it.
Training
“See that guy?” Rhonda, the senior server, pointed through the circle of glass in the swinging door between the kitchen and dining room.
Genevieve nodded. The lone man, bald and age-spotted, occupied a table in an otherwise empty room filled with faded Victoriana and late autumn sunlight, eating the breakfast Rhonda had just delivered.
“He eats the same thing every time he comes here. Always alone, a couple times a year late in the season. Eggs Benedict. Bring him two sweet rolls and decaf. You’re new, so he won’t trust you, especially after I’m gone. Bring a steak knife with the eggs. Bring a separate dinner plate of kale.”
“To eat?” Genevieve asked, thinking of the tough crunchy stuff between her own teeth.
“Yeah, the whole plate. Gross, huh?”
“And a knife for poached eggs?”
Laughter erupted in the kitchen behind them. Rhonda smirked, drawing out the moment, Genevieve thought.
“Yeah,” Rhonda said. “So he can kill you if you get his order wrong.”
“Shut up. He’s a nice guy. He tips good.” The red-haired server, Kyleigh, wrung out a clean rag by the sink. “Don’t listen to him, Gen, they’re just trying to scare you.”
The sweating breakfast cook, surrounded by boiling pots, said, “Just don’t make him mad, new girl.”
“Don’t marry him and make him mad!” the prep cook shouted.
“They can’t prove anything,” Kyleigh called back, anger in her voice.
Rhonda glanced through the little window again, Genevieve beside her. Their customer read with his folded newspaper propped against the coffee carafe, cutting up kale with a knife and fork.
“Keep it down, you guys,” Rhonda hissed. “Come here, you.” She pulled Genevieve away from the door, to the other side of the room where the table for salad prep stood, littered with diced tomato, onion, and cucumber. Rhythmic chopping filled the air.
“Listen. Last year there was an article in the Globe about him. His wife disappeared. At their house, the police found blood.” She paused again, leaning a little closer to Genevieve. “It was hers.”
The prep cook wiped at his red face with his sleeve. “No body, no crime.”
Genevieve pulled her braid nervously. What would she say to the man if he sat in her station? How could she look him in the eye knowing everyone thought he’d murdered his wife?
“You have to have motive,” the salad prep said. “It’s not like he’ll get her life insurance, not until they find her.”
“Maybe she left.” Kyleigh pulled the toaster crumb tray out from the ancient toaster and wiped it off into the sink.
“Maybe she has dementia and wondered away. My grandma does that all the time.” Genevieve started folding napkins, unsure how she felt about contributing to the conversation. She didn’t like to gossip, but it was hard to avoid here.
Kyleigh brushed crumbs from her hands. “Oh, that’s so sad.”
“Maybe she was wicked sick?” The new dish washer brushed by Genevieve with a rack of steaming hot silverware to sort. “Maybe it was a mercy killing.”
“There would be medical records.” The salad prep popped a head of lettuce onto the sideboard and ripped out its stem. “Dr. Kevorkian he’s not.”
“The cops always suspect the person closest to the victim,” Rhonda said, heading back for the dining room. She stopped short with a gasp.
The door swung open, then fell back. A grunt as the heavy wood landed on the arm wrapped in a gray cashmere sweater, accompanied by a rattle of plates.
The breakfast cook bared his teeth and cocked his head. “Heeere’s Johnny!”
Genevieve didn’t think it was funny anymore.
Rhonda swore and waved her arms. “It’s him.”
Kyleigh said, “He can’t come back here. Stop him, Gen.” She wiped her buttery hands on a cloth with quick movements. “Jesus, never mind. Hey, Mr. W,” she sing-song-ed, putting a sashay into her walk. “You’ve got to give the door a hard kick—if he slips and sues us—Gee, are you looking for a job, we’ve got plenty of work back here for you.”
She held the door for him, then took the plates with expert ease as he peered bashfully around the room. Once she unloaded the plates by the dish pit, she led him back to the door, sweet talking him into the dining room. She threw a glare over her shoulder at them. Nobody spoke. Work had effectively stopped.
“Boy, he’s an old man,” the dishwasher finally said.
“What should I do?” Genevieve asked.
Rhonda smirked. “Bring him the check.”
Coffee And Ink 
You must be logged in to post a comment.