February exercise: Not Just an Ordina...

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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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Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Tue, 02-19-2002 - 12:42pm

Thanks, Linda (nt)


Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Tue, 02-19-2002 - 12:47pm

Thanks, Sammi. I found that working...


in a restaurant meant for years I watched other waitresses and kitchen staff when I was eating out, saying "hey, they did that better then we did" or "at the cafe we always had four pots of coffee ready on Saturday mornings". Lol. Oh the heat and the slime of food grease that sticks to your pores...

If you had a moment, I'd love to see your comments about my rough sentences. Sometimes what I find rough and what other people do differs widely! Maybe you could email me here?

Thanks for reading, Eyewrite

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