The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.
Becky helped me learn the ropes in the first hour. I had never worked in a restaurant setting before so certain things were not immediately obvious. Don’t touch food with your bare hands. Wash your hands constantly. Don’t scratch or touch yourself, especially your face.
Other things were more obvious. Smile and give pleasant greetings. Make sure to keep certain things stocked. If you see someone in the other store or need to go to the bathroom, let the other person know. If you see someone waiting at the other store, tell them that someone will be right with them.
Just as Becky was finishing up the protocol for refunds, a customer stepped up to the counter. I checked the wooden clock above the soda machine. It read 12:23. Lunch had started.
Becky gave me a nod and I stepped forward. I gave her a smile and without meaning to, my tone elevated a pitch or two higher.
“Welcome,” I said. “How can I help you?”
She was an elderly lady with large glasses. The lenses magnifying her eyes. Along with her hunch and sparse white hair, she had the appearance of a goblin. I didn’t say that of course because many would find that rude. Most people don’t appreciate being compared to goblins, ghouls, and especially trolls.
However, She did have a nice smile. She looked up at me with a kindness that reminded me of a comfortable, cozy home with upholstered chairs, tea, knitting set off to the side, and maybe a John Grisham novel.
“What exactly do you serve here?” she asked. Her voice had a slight gravel tone, from years of use. It was calm, however. Again, comforting.
“We serve grilled cheese, ma’am,” I said.
“Oh, that sounds nice. How much?”
“4.99.”
“Oh my. For a grilled cheese?”
“Yes Ma’am”
“Well, as long as it is good.”
She took a while to take out her cash but I didn’t mind. It was only noon and I still had 5 hours to kill. She counted her bills, one by one. Then, she took out a coin purse, her hands shaking as her brittle fingers unlatched the metal clips. She counted out each coin, picked them all up, then poured them into my hands.
“Thank you so much,” I said. Again, how the hell was that high-pitched tone coming from my throat.
I counted the money. Perfect change. I dropped them into the register.
“You can take a seat,” Becky said. “We will bring it all out to you.”
“Thank you so much, dear.”
As the old lady went into the eatery, taking each step slowly and gingerly, Becky took the order slip (again a sticky note) and took it to the kitchen. She placed it on the counter and yelled,
“Classic, straight up,” she said.
Dick hobbled out of the back, where he already had a loaf of bread and a container of sliced cheese in his hands.
“God damn it,” he said. “Here we go.”
Even, in the diviest of kitchens, I had always imagined a certain level of elegance when it comes to cooking. I am reminded of the open kitchens that certain breakfast diners have. The chefs are exposed to the customers through a hole in the wall. Their sweat glistens among the smoke that rises from the black stovetop. They have a tired, casual way of carrying themselves, flipping eggs, pancakes, and omelets. It might come off as relaxed or even lazy, but really it is a tired, mechanical practice.
Dick did not have this grace. He ripped apart bags of bread as a child ripped apart presents on Christmas. He slapped the sandwiches together like a soldier reloaded a rifle. Each movement was distinct and tactile. The sounds he made with the knife and spatula against the cutting board and sandwich press were like the magazine slapping against gun-metal.
And he cursed. Alot. Old Town was an old mill that was repurposed into a mall. Even with renovations, there were signs that the place wasn’t really designed for its current purpose. One of these signs was that the walls of the kitchen did not completely enclose around themselves. The walls started on the ground but did not touch the ceiling. The Ceiling went up about eight or nine feet but hung there, like a gated fence separating countries rather than an honest to god wall separating rooms.
Becky and I looked at each other. She gave me a look as we heard his angry grunts with the occasional word that we could make out. She gave me a crooked smile. Luckily the lady was old. Her hearing was probably shot. She was focused on some paintings that were hanging on the walls.
When Dick was done, he came out of the other entries in the back of the kitchen. This door led directly into the eatery. He walked up to the old lady.
“Here you are, hon,” he said.
“Thank you, dear,” she said. She looked down at the plate. “Oh, can I get some extra napkins?”
“Go get it yourself!”
As I watched from the cash register, I didn’t know if I should have laughed or not. I looked at Becky for permission. She gave me a shrug.
The lady was obviously taken aback. A silence hung in the air. Then, it was broken by Dick letting out a hearty laugh.
“I’m just joking, hon. Let me get that for ya.”
I watched him return to the kitchen. I think my jaw was still hanging limp when I saw a couple walk up to the counter.
I got myself together and started taking their order. Then, a man in a suit came up. Becky took out her sticky-note pad from her apron pocket and went up to him with a greeting. Then, a family came up into the line. By the time I finished taking the couple’s order, two more people joined the line and I saw someone walk into the chocolate shop.
The lunch rush had officially started.
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3. First Day pt.1
Danger Wonka 