Done Burger

by Camille Oster

  Done Burger

  By Camille Oster

  Copyright 2015 Camille Oster

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Camille Oster – Author

  www.camilleoster.com

  http://www.facebook.com/pages/Camille-Oster/489718877729579

  @Camille_Oster

  Camille.osternz@gmail.com

  * * *

  Chapter 1:

  * * *

  Somewhere, anywhere, does it matter?

  "I don't care about your bi-polar diagnosis, or broken down car, your grandma's hospitalization or any other reason you don't show up. I'm not your friend; I don't care about your problems. If you work here, you show up, otherwise you don't," Julian, the manager at this branch of Coast Burger said, a kind of ironic name considering we weren’t anywhere near the coast. In fact, the only time I've ever seen the ocean was that time when my family had taken a trip to Disneyland when I was twelve.

  The uniform shoved into my arms looked like death. It was actually worse than I'd hoped, even if I'd seen other people wearing this blue monstrosity. Who designed this shit and what was their agenda? To make people feel even worse about having a crap job. The material was cheap and the cut was atrocious. There was just no way of making that look good.

  "You have to tie back your hair, or I can give you a hairnet."

  "No," I said in a rush. "Tied back is fine." Working here was social death enough without a friggin hairnet.

  "So, I guess I better show you around, Pepper.”

  I smiled, feeling the bitterness of this latest triumph in my life. No, I didn't get the job at the cool part of retail, where girls looked hot and were totally snobby, instead I ended up here. But jobs were hard to come by—actually, not super difficult if you were happy with no pay. This one actually paid okay, which made it a sought after place, even if I felt like I'd just sold my soul.

  Julian obviously worked from this tiny little office with a mirrored window so he can watch what we do without us knowing. He squeezed past me. He wasn't ugly, but not attractive either, just non-descript tall, slim and older, with neat brown hair. He looked like he didn't know what a trend was, let alone the current one. He would definitely not have been much of an entity in high school, but that was probably some time ago. Maybe this was revenge, getting to boss around a bunch of kids. "Matilda here will show you the ropes. She knows everything about making and selling a burger. Obviously you need to get to know the menu, and most important of all, show up."

  We stopped next to a strawberry blond girl, who turned to us, smiling. "I'm Matilda," she said holding out her hand. I reshuffled the uniform in my arm and shook the girl's hand, which was awkwardly cold to the touch. "Pepper Minnow." As far as I knew, Matilda hadn't gone to my high school. Or maybe she had; it wasn't like Matilda stood out, wearing no makeup and eighth grade hair. I'm not exactly a superficial snob, but you had to make some effort. With Matilda, it was like she'd given up before even starting.

  "Okay, so this is Riley and Wyatt," Julian said, walking further into the back where two guys stood by the grill, squeezing spatulas on burger patties. I knew them. Don't know where from, not that it mattered. I watched one of them flip a patty. I guessed they actually did that; it wasn't just in the movies. "They're degenerates who should be wearing aprons, but they're not. Which means scuttle off and put some on."

  With a dirty look at Julian, they walked toward the back. Obviously Julian wasn't the cool boss everyone liked, which was a shame.

  "Brian's in the back somewhere; he prefers to stay there. And this is Ella," he said, pointing to a cute, dark-haired girl with pink lipstick, who was mopping the floor. "There's Deseree on the drive thru and Melissa on the register."

  "She quit," one of the boys said, coming back with a blue apron hanging over his shoulders.

  “Okay, you’re on the register. This way. Oh, and don’t graze; it never ends well. There’s storage—dry, cold and freezer,” Julian said, pointing at random doors. “And this is the breakroom. Any questions?”

  *

  Customers give you this pitying up and down look, like 'you couldn't do better than this?' You got used to it. The register wasn't hard, just find the tiny picture that represented the thing they ordered and press it. It only got hard with the people couldn't have this and that, and oh, could you do this instead? Try not to give dirty look, take money, provide change, repeat.

  Matilda, on the other hand, was a robot. She smiled at every customer and treated each order as if a celebrity was giving her their number. And she did nothing else, spoke to no one, unless I asked her a question, when she would turn to me and say, "Sure, you can do that. Regulations say…" She could quote everything in the handbook she had handed me showing the only and optimal way of doing things, which really were sometimes far from the optimal.

  "I'm taking my break," I said and walked out the back, grabbed my bag and continued out to the little sitting area near the large, green trash container, meadow green in some vain attempt to make it look natural when it was anything but. It stunk, but it was the only place you were allowed to smoke. I sat down on a dilapidated office chair, obviously rescued from some trash pile in the sea of parking spaces this place was surrounded by.

  Rustling through my bag, I pulled out the pack of cigarettes, my tame version of rebellion, and lit one up. The nicotine hit my system, along with the perverse pleasure of the whole thing. Actually, I hated smoking, the stink sticking to your clothes and the nasty aftertaste in your mouth, but I still did it as a 'fuck you' to everyone who told me not to.

  The door burst open. "Smoker, huh?" the stockier of the two fry cooks said, Riley, I think his name was, the blue apron now spread across his front. It really wasn't a masculine look. "Can I have one?"

  "Sure," I said, hoping he wasn't the kind to make a habit out of asking, because I was not a charity. I pulled out the pack and gave him one, and he took it, waiting for me to hand over the lighter as well, which I actually did more grudgingly than the cigarette itself.

  "I hope your new working experience is turning out as fulfilling as you hoped," he said, a lazy smile crossing his lips. He had a good smile going for him, if nothing else.

  I didn't say anything; there really wasn't a way to respond to such a sarcasm-laden statement. I just took a drag of my cigarette and flicked the ash down on the ground.

  "Uniform doesn't really go with your hair, does it?" he continued, leaning back on the wooden fence.

  Okay, he was definitely calling me out on something, but I wasn't entirely sure what. "Don't you worry about my hair," I said and he leaned his head back, studying me. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but it wasn't entirely in my character, at least not when first meeting someone. He obviously started off acquaintances going on the offensive. So far, there was definitely something douchy about him. Instead I let my eyes do the speaking for me.

  A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and I actually felt like punching his face in. Obviously, Riley felt it was his place to get all judgy. Well here's judgy for you: you have shit hair and you're kind of ugly. Unfortunately, I was too polite to say it. He wasn't outright ugly, but I could definitely talk myself into seeing him that way.

  Instead, I brought my phone out and decided to pretend he wasn't there, scrolling through my social media feeds to again be assaulted by how fantastic other people lives were. I certainly wasn't going to post a pic showing how happy I was with my fabulous new job, hanging out with the other rejects, like the one who just snorted and thr
ew the cigarette I gave him in the smoke can.

  Fuck off then, I said in my head as he walked past. What the hell was his problem? I dismissed any thought of him out of my head; there were always crazy people around, but he had succeeded in putting me in a bad mood, so well done.

  Finishing my cigarette, I stubbed it out and sat back, crossing my arms. The sky was turning pink above as the sun was setting, giving me an ominous feeling. Apparently the dark brought out the loonies, Wyatt had said before—just great.

  * * *

  Chapter 2:

  * * *

  With a sigh, I stared at the nondescript back door to the restaurant. My beat-up old Honda was parked in the back, half my wardrobe in the back seat. I had been meaning to clean it out, but I just hadn't got around to it. Plus my too small wardrobe at home was full, of stuff I never wore. I really should clean that out too.

  I stared at the door some more. Was I ready for another day of this? The dinner rush was starting soon and it would be madness for a little while. At least the time went by quickly during those periods as opposed to the slower evenings. My shift was four to midnight, and half of it was manic busy and the other half was slow, but even later, even at midnight, when we were closing, there was a steady stream of customers and they got drunker as the night went on.

  Someone was wolf whistling in the parking lot, but the fence kept me from seeing what was going on. Was my car even safe in this parking lot? Then again, what thief would want to tackle the crap I kept in my car?

  There were people that hung out in the parking lot. Talk about being hard up for places to go, but so it was, I guessed—can't get into bars, too old for any of the kiddy stuff. Malls were too passé. This was the period in between that society seemed to have no answer for.

  After another second, I punched in the code and yanked the door open, making my way into the bathroom to change and to wash my hands. Like hell would I go to work wearing this damn uniform. I did have some pride. Alright, it had received quite a beating lately, but I wasn't ready to go out in my pajamas or this fugly uniform.

  I punched in and made my way through to the front, where some of the dayshift workers were doing their thing, waiting for reinforcements. The shifts overlapped over the dinner rush, which was necessary.

  A line was already forming, women in office clothes, picking up dinner for the family, men in utility overalls, their bellies pressing into the counter. A few days working here and I could barely tolerate the smell, let alone understand why anyone would eat here, but people did, night after night. Old people, girls with strollers, school kids. They all came. Myself, I'm probably never going to eat another burger ever.

  Matilda was already there, smiling away. People liked her line. Matilda was fast and no one had time to wait for anything these days. I honestly tried my best to keep up, but I still had trouble with the little pictures on the register, which slowed me down to the annoyed sighs of customers. The trainee badge on my shirt cut me little slack.

  Deseree and Mia had both turned up. They weren't friendly, but they weren't awful either. Mia tended to file her nails during breaks, and Deseree, who was older, was always on the phone, organizing the kids with her husband in a kind of brutal, dictatorial way.

  Both Mia and Deseree got up when I sat down, but I didn't see any passing looks signifying they were blanking the intruder to the table. They just didn't care. I pulled out the chicken salad I'd bought at the supermarket on the way here and tore open the plastic bag of dressing. Working here made me much more conscious of what I ate and I'd developed a distinct craving for food that didn't stink of grease.

  Matilda sat down at the table and placed a purple lunchbox neatly in front of her. She unclicked it and pulled out two perfectly packaged sandwiches, an apple and a small carton of milk. A lunchbox not last seen since the fifth grade, but it was clear she prepared her own dinner, or maybe her mom did it. It was just strange.

  "So what do you do outside of here?" I asked, trying to make conversation. Matilda was the person I'd talked to the most, but I knew nothing about her.

  She gave me a blank look like she didn't know what I was talking about. "What normal people do—laundry, cleaning, shopping, sleeping." Normal routine stuff wasn't what I meant, but she continued eating her sandwich. End of conversation.

  "Okay," I said, obviously to myself. I finished my salad in silence, wondering if I should check my phone, but social media had become hostile territory this summer, because my life was like Matilda's and everyone else's was exciting. At least there was someone who seemed to have a more boring life than mine. Not that it was much comfort if I had to compare myself to clueless Matilda.

  *

  The people who came in late tended to stay, eat in the restaurant and hang out. Mostly kids, but also what looked like co-workers hanging after work. Cops came in sometimes, and groups from the supermarket on the other side of the parking lot. Girls in tight jeans and too much makeup, guys with pants around their thighs, but still, brand names clothes. Even two transsexuals in sequence. Every kind of person seemed to come through here. This whole thing wasn’t something I'd expected when I took the job, this snapshot of society.

  There was nothing to do but to watch them sometimes, this representation of life in the community. My life was normally too insular for such a broad view. It was actually an interesting place for people watching.

  My register stopped sliding out and with an embarrassed look at a customer, a man with red hair in a ponytail and ‘Radish Plumbing’ written on his chest, I desperately tried to pry it open. "I'm sorry, I have to move this order to another register," I finally had to say.

  Matilda smiled what I had decided was a truly creepy smile, and took over. I continued trying to pry the thing open and determined this was an issue for the manager to deal with.

  I moved back, past Riley, who I hadn't spoken to since his little whatever-the-fuck-it-was interrogation out the back. He was a dick in my book and I had no interest in talking to him.

  "Might not want to go in there," Wyatt said. "Ella's asking for a raise."

  You can go ask for raises? This was new. Then he started simulating a blow job with his hand and tongue in his cheek. My mouth dropped. They couldn't be serious.

  "She does every night," he said with a laugh. Riley was looking on without much of an expression, which only confirmed it.

  The manager was doing the dirty with one of the staff. That was revolting. I wasn't sure if I felt sick to my stomach or absurdly amused. Both were fighting inside me. Truthfully, I hadn't expected Julian to be sexual with anyone, let alone a junior at work. The dog.

  "Julian fucks everyone," Wyatt said, returning his attention to the grill. "He even fucked Deseree, and she's married with kids."

  A renewed something washed over me. This seemed too outlandish to be true. Julian, the tall and lanky, was apparently the Casanova of the outfit.

  "Probably get you too if you're not careful."

  "Like hell," I said. Not something that would ever happen. I would rather quit if it came down to it. Worry made me frown. Why did something shady have to be happening? Weren't things hard enough?

  Now I didn't know what to do. I certainly wasn't going to walk over and knock on his door. I didn't even want to wait, have to go in there and experience sex smell in that tiny office. I shivered. Stuff the register. Matilda would have to take care of orders until it was fixed. There was always the other register at the very end, which we rarely used. If there was a surge of customers, I would have to tackle it, but infuriatingly, its little pictures were different from my register and it would take forever.

  Instead, I decided to mop the main restaurant and I pushed furious strokes over the beige tiles, watching the water get grimier. Anger coursed through my veins and then Ella returned, newly applied lipstick on her lips.

  "This should not be happening," I said bitterly. "You should report him."

  "Who?" she said, her eyes wide with interest.

>   "Julian."

  "Why would I report Julian?"

  Suddenly my confidence deflated. Maybe the guys had been playing a trick on me. I closed my eyes. Of course they would. "The guys told me you and Julian were, you know," I said meaningfully.

  Ella soothed her long, dark brown hair. "Oh we were. Julian's like my fuck buddy. Why would I report him?"

  "Because he's your manager."

  "Consenting adults thing. You shouldn't get all up in other people's business."

  I just stared at her and she walked away humming as she picked up a tray someone had left behind. Feminist outrage flared through my mind, but then maybe she was right. If she was willing and happy, who was I to judge? But really, Julian? No accounting for taste as my grandma used to say. Obviously not on Julian's part because Ella was hot—perfect body, silky long hair. She wouldn't look out of place in a music video. Not sure what the hell she saw in Julian. No, something wasn't adding up. As far as I had thought, Julian was just this average loser, but maybe being manager made him king of the hill here, and for some, maybe for Ella, that meant something. Fucked up, was all I could say.

  * * *

  Chapter 3:

  * * *

  It was a dead, boring night and the restaurant only had a few people in it, including the bag lady who parked up her shopping cart outside the door. Sometimes she sat here for hours. I felt sorry for her, even offered her a free pie, but she declined. Matilda wasn't happy about it; I could see her disapproving look, not that I cared. If you couldn't have sympathy for someone like the bag lady, you had sympathy for no one.

  "What you doing this weekend?" Ella asked, walking over and leaning on her broom handle.