A full section. 32 faces looking for him, all wanting
something. But he isn’t on the floor, scrambling to regain control of his
section. Instead he stands on the line while the Chef berates him because a
dish he served wasn’t cooked right.
He apologizes like he’s been trained and walks out of the
kitchen. His busser is slow tonight, and nothing he can say will inspire a shift
in gears. He’s in the weeds. The manager sits at the bar, watching the sinking
ship as if from the bridge of the titanic. Except Cpt. Smith never sipped on gin and tonics.
A long night over, he walks with 9%. Fucking Asians, fucking
Germans, fucking everybody. It’s 103° at a quarter past midnight. This
fucking town.
Then home. He peeks in to see his boy. Sleeping. Breathing. Healthy.
Safe. And the job, the desert, all seem to disappear. Until tomorrow.
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