February exercise: Not Just an Ordina...

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Registered: 12-31-1969
February exercise: Not Just an Ordina...
10
Wed, 02-13-2002 - 1:01pm

February exercise: Not Just an Ordinary Day...


I know I suggested the space mission topic but I just had to write this short bit based on a job I had as a teenager. Question to CLs - If I get inspired to write about space, could I post it too?

Thanks, Eyewrite

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Not Just an Ordinary Day

“I need more beer mugs,” barks the hairspray queen in the second-skin jeans. She hands me the plates bussed from the tables on the patio. Less than half the food was eaten. “Got any chilled?”

“I got four in the dishwasher, almost done,” I reply.

“Don’t stick’em in the fridge till they cool off,” she shouts over her shoulder, “or else they’ll crack.”

Hairspray opens the ice machine and scoops fresh cubes into mason-jar mugs.

“We’re running out of ice – the machine can’t keep up.”

A hot day, customers want chilled drinks. This strip mall, the ‘downtown’ of the island, sits in a valley and attracts heat like honey attracts insects. These customers seek relief in the worst possible location – inland.

“I’ll go buy some at the gas station.” I volunteer to escape the oven that is the kitchen.

Hot water from the high-pressure sprayer. Steam from the dishwasher. The propane grill and oven. The heat given off by the reach-in refrigerator, the walk-in refrigerator, the reach-in freezer, Steve the cook.

I take five bucks from the till and walk out into the sunlight. Cinder blocks prop open the front and back doors of the Laundromat; melting children beg melting parents for Popsicles. All three hairdresser chairs have patrons seeking an airy style, relief.

“… And you have a good day!” chirps the blond ponytail at the gas pump. The bushy beard in the refueled yet battered VW van returns a scowl.

“Have you ever got a smile from him?” I follow Shannon and her parfum d’essence into the air-conditioned wonder of the Driftwood Service office. She grins, pink bubblegum visible in the left corner of her mouth; Les’s grouchy demeanor was an island fixture.

“You on a break?” she asks, as she stuffs the ten into her cash register.

“I wish. We need two bags of ice.” I hand her my five and she gives me back a two.

“Right-o.” She picks up the key ring inside the cash drawer, locks the register, and leads me outside to the Par-T Ice cooler.

“Jenn’s dad came after Steve with a hunting rife,” she tells me through motionless lips. Jenn’s father owns Driftwood Service and was under the hoist. “They say he’s gonna go to the young offender’s place up-island.”

“Can he do that?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“Oh, yeah,” Shannon continues. “Plus he wants her to get an abortion.”

“Who does? Steve? Or her dad?”

“Steve working today?” comes a muffled male voice.

We hush as Jenn’s father slides out from under a two-tone sedan. Shannon winks, my cue to saunter on back to my work.

I dump one bag of ice into the machine and shove the other in the freezer. I take two minutes to enjoy the breeze from the big box fan I brought in. Perched on an upended mayonnaise pail and aimed at my sink area, it kept the air moving, and attracted visitors to the otherwise distasteful dishwashing station to enjoy the only breeze available.

The back door bangs shut as the cook returns from yet another smoke break.

“So Steve,” I yell across the din, “what’s happening?”

A scowl, identical to that inside the VW van earlier, flies across the prep counter.

“Jenn’s dad’s a hoser! He assaulted me, he threatened me.”

Steve warms up to his favourite rant. Hairspray queen appears, collects her spinach salads, and carries them out front.

“Whatcha gonna do?” I yell as the dishwasher launches into the rinse cycle.

“I’m gonna tell him it isn’t mine, that Jenn’s been screwing around, that’s what!”

The phone interrupts us. Steve answers it and I return to my favourite job: cleaning out the sauce cups. The high-pressure sprayer does not get into the grooves at the bottom of the stainless steel cups used to hold dressing or condiments. It takes a tedious procedure of spray, soak, spray, soak, then stick-in-dishwasher-and-cross-your-fingers to get those darned cups cleaned, only to refill them with dressing or sauce and repeat the process.

“That’s it!” Steve slams down the receiver, rips off his apron, and storms out; I watch him stomp over to the gas station, where Jenn’s dad paces with his hands on his hips. A shout. A shove. Another. A shove with a taunt and a hook to the jaw, and they’re off, scrapping outside the gas bar.

Hairspray queen and I wander onto the patio. We shield our eyes from the sun and watch the testosterone-fueled conflict at the Driftwood Service and Boxing Ring.

“He’s gonna kill him,” offers hairspray queen. “Jenn’s dad doesn’t let anybody get the better of him.”

The fight moves out of sight inside the garage and we return to our jobs. The deep fryer timer bleats and I jog to turn it off and pull out the basket of crispy chicken wings. The back door bangs and Bob, the dinner-shift cook, ties on an apron.

“Where’s Steve?” he looks into the walk-in.

“Getting gas.” I only half-lie.

“He’d better have prepped the salmon for tonight’s special,” Bob mutters.

Twenty minutes later I do a final wipe-down of my station and pull off my apron. Driving home, I meet the ambulance at Scarff Road, siren screaming.

# # # #

As I pull into the parking lot the next morning, I see that the gas station, which normally opens at 6 am, is closed.

That’s unusual. I go into the café and hairspray queen wears an actual expression on her face – one of silent shock. I shrug and push open the kitchen door. I hear the humming before I even spot Mary, the weekday cook, on all fours, scrubbing the tiles under the pop syrup canisters.

“Morning, Mary,” I say to the brown polyester legs. “Why are you working today?”

“Oh, hey,” Mary replies, wringing out her cloth. “Bob called me in, said Steve’s in the hospital in the city.”

Uh-oh.

“Did he say why?”

“Something about a gunshot.”

I drop my apron.

“Steve was shot?”

“”Fraid so,” chirps Mary, returning the syrup canisters to their places. She continues, talking more to herself than to me: “Who’d do such a thing?”

I call the gas station. No answer. I call Shannon at home. No answer. I call Shannon’s dad’s place and she picks up.

“Ohmigawd!” she wails into my ear. “They were just scrapping, like, no different from any fight at the pub. I went back into the office to ring in a customer when I heard this bang…” she gulps. “It sounded like a gun. I couldn’t believe it. I ran out to the garage…” she sobs, “and he just lay there. Steve. Jenn’s dad was still pointing the gun. I screamed…”

“Oh, Shan, oh, Shan.”

“… And I ran to the phone and called 9-1-1 and I just couldn’t believe it….”

“Where’s Jenn?”

“In the clinic.” Shannon blows her nose. “Under observation…. Her dad’s in the city, charged with manslaughter, I heard.”

“Oh, Shanny,” my head spins, trying to take this all in. “I’ll be right over.”

I hang up the phone on the third try, I’m shaking so bad. I find Mary in the walk-in, wiping the walls.

“I’ve gotta go. Shannon and Jenn need me.”

“Okay,” chirps Mary. “Today’ll be a slow one, I predict.”

I place my hands on the steering wheel and stare at the cows grazing in the field across the street. Yesterday this was an ideal, slow-paced summer holiday, bed-and-breakfast destination. Yesterday the ice machine couldn’t keep up, and we ran out of vinegar.

I coax the engine into life and slip the car into reverse.

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iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
Wed, 02-13-2002 - 2:01pm

Wow! I guess not...(m)


I know we write fiction, but is this anything close to the truth?

Good character descriptions (names alone say it all sometimes, don't they?) And good feel of a small town.

They say that "Art imitates life" and some of the best stories are those retold in fiction.

Thanks for sharing, eyewrite... Good day! kat

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Wed, 02-13-2002 - 2:59pm

Not to give too much away...


This is fiction based on snippets of facts collected over several years and boiled up with different people and different places. I mean, there had been a teen pregnancy and a steamed dad wanted the kid shipped off to delinquent camp in one part of my life, but the parties involved didn't work at the gas station and there was no shootout that I know of.

The details about dishwashing and the hot kitchen were well-researched, heh heh. Oh the trauma, lol. The most excitement I ever had in the dish pit was when the cook got called away to fight a fire in some barn (community volunteer fire department!) and I had to run the grill and deep fryer. Oh and the time some kids set fire to the bin of flattened cardboard boxes out back.

Maybe I shoulda tried the space piece, lol.

Thanks for reading, Eyewrite

Avatar for jadetigerroses
iVillage Member
Registered: 07-01-2003
Wed, 02-13-2002 - 3:08pm

Oh My... That was great. I am glad that not all days go like that. WTG :) *nt*


Have a mystical day,

Jade

Please Pray and Support O

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Wed, 02-13-2002 - 3:42pm

Thanks, Jade. Let's hope not, hey. (nt)


iVillage Member
Registered: 03-25-2003
Wed, 02-13-2002 - 10:28pm

Good one, eyewrite (m)


First, let me say if you get inspired with a space mission story, feel free to post it :-).

This was some day, and it’s a good thing it was mostly fictional. I liked all your characters and especially liked the nicknames such as “hairspray queen” and the “brown polyester legs.” You set up an excellent picture of the businesses and I had a clear image of the restaurant, gas station, etc. I was wondering how hold Steve and the Jenn were? Just curious really, knowing it would not make or break your story.

Thanks for the great story!

Mac

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Thu, 02-14-2002 - 7:02pm

Liked the nicknames too, gripping read eyewrite. nt


Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Fri, 02-15-2002 - 1:20am

Thanks Mac. Hmmm, the ages...


would be that Jenn was about 14 or 15 and Steve was 17 or so I think. I'm glad you could picture the businesses and the nicknamed characters.

Clearly I'm not eloquent this evening so I'll stop right about here. Not sure that I'll feel like blasting off in the near future.

Thanks for your comments, Mac and thanks for reading.

Eyewrite

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Fri, 02-15-2002 - 1:21am

Thanks, Heather. Gripping, really? (nt)


Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Sat, 02-16-2002 - 10:07pm

Hey, Eyewrite!...(m)


...how'd you like working in the restaurant business? I enjoyed reading this story because it brought a lot of memories back for me. My parents owned one when I was a kid and we all put in long, hard hours. Such fun. LOL.

I did notice that some of your sentences were a little rough, but I was so caught up in this that I figured you'd catch them in your rewrite. (If you want specific, just let me know.) And about posting a second exercise, that's okay, just give the others time, maybe a week, to post theirs. And of course for the CL's to get caught up, meaning me.

Good read, Sammi

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-19-2003
Tue, 02-19-2002 - 12:29pm

Wonderful story eyewrite.(m)


I love the way you described the town, the restaurant and the different people there and at the filling station. And you set up the shooting so well, that when we see the ambulance go by, we're sure we know what has happened.

Keep up the good work. I really loved this.

And yes, you can do one on the space station (or was it the shuttle?).

Linda

cl-ozarker

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway

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