by Thom Whalen
* * *
Tuesday was my day off and Wednesday was Randal’s, so I didn’t see him again until Thursday morning.
Wednesdays were bad days at Elsa’s Grill. Mrs. Everett cooked and I assisted. She had owned the place for as long as most of us could remember so she was the most experienced cook in the place. In principle. In practice, though I’d only been working for ten days, I was already a better short-order cook than Mrs. Everett would ever be. I wasn’t great, but she was terrible.
She wore her apron full – bib hanging from her neck and hem halfway down her shins – not folded down into the efficient flap that hung from Randal’s and my waists.
Her biggest failing was that she could cook only one order at a time. Everything on one order had to be plated and set out for the waitress before she would throw the next one on the grill.
When she cooked, she stood in front of the grill, one arm stretched out to the right, holding the spatula at the ready, and the other arm stretched out to the left, leaning on the counter to steady herself while she stared fixedly at the food.
She did that to block anyone else from getting close to the grill and start the next order and confusing her. She had learned, long ago, that if she didn’t Bogart the grill, any other cook in the kitchen was going to barge in and take over. Even a cook who’d been working there for only a couple of weeks.
Cooking with her was nothing like cooking with Randal. Lunches were mostly burgers so when orders piled up, Randal would scan ahead to make sure that we needed at least a dozen burgers, as many as would fit on the left side of the grill, and then use the right third to cook omelets, grilled cheese, liver and onions, or whatever else was required to complete the orders. We only worried about counting the patties that we cooked when the rush abated and we got down to the last few orders on the wheel.
I once saw Mrs. Everett ask Randal which patties were going to be used for which orders. He looked at her like she was insane, grunted something that probably would have been rude if it were intelligible, and turned back to his work.
For the most part, she knew better than to try to stand between Randal and the grill. He would have reacted badly and she didn’t want to get hurt.
Me, though? Different story altogether. I was the new guy so she told me to get out of her way and let her cook. She considered me expendable and, despite what Randal said, could fire me on the spot any time she wanted. I needed to keep the job to pay for college so I got out of her way.
Every time an order was called, I hoped that it would be chicken, a dog, chili, or a sandwich because then I could move some food. Mrs. Everett couldn’t block my access to the deep fryer, steamer, bain marie, or sandwich counter when she kept herself steadfastly stationed at the grill.
Wednesday lunches were light. Most of our customers were regulars who knew better than to come to Elsa’s on Randal’s day off. Thus, on those days, the ratio of tourists to townsfolk rose sharply and that suited us. We didn’t care if a tourist never came back because nobody spent more than three days visiting Wemsley. They stayed just long enough to get a fishing license and fill their quota, before moving along to somewhere more exciting. That being anywhere from Ottawa to Buffalo.
But the tourists did get nasty when they had to wait for more than an hour to get a grilled cheese sandwich and fries. Some of the words they used, I’d never before heard in that context. Not when I was only eighteen and had yet to set foot on a college campus.
Gwen took Wednesdays off so the new girl was working lunch with the relief waitress, Julie. Either of them could have kept pace with Mrs. Everett on the grill but they needed each other for moral support when the customers began yelling insults; and for backup when the customers looked like they might get violent.
This gave me my first chance to have an actual conversation with the new girl. When I saw her go on break after lunch, I told Mrs. Everett that I was taking mine. I didn’t make a deal about it being at the same time as one of the waitresses and Mrs. Everett either didn’t mind or didn’t notice. Either way, I was golden.
The new girl’s name was Katie. Though we had been working together for a few days, we had never been introduced. When I followed her out the back door, I said, “Hey, Katie. I’m Phil.”
She nodded. “I know.”
We all took our breaks at a picnic table that was stuck out of sight on the far side of the restaurant from the front door. There was enough overhang to give us shade on sunny days and to keep us from getting wet when it rained. I guess in the winter, when it was cold, the staff would eat inside at the prep table but I only worked during the summer when it was warm enough to sit outside.
Katie was eating a chicken breast and fries that I’d cooked to order for her. I had a Ruben sandwich. Randal never ate what the customers ate, but the rest of us did.
“How’s the chicken?” I asked.
“It’s okay,” she said.
It was just like every other piece of chicken that I’d deep-fried in the last week. I wanted to be able to tell her that I’d done something special for her, but there’s nothing that you can do with pre-breaded chicken pieces except put them in the fryer for the right amount of time. Any less time and the center is uncooked; any more time and the outside is burned. Either way and Gwen would give me hell when the customer complained. We didn’t use timers; we knew when it was cooked by the sound of the sizzle in the fryer. It didn’t take long to learn how to keep Gwen off my back. She gave me plenty of incentive.
“Good,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say so I said nothing for a couple of minutes.
“Are you really a virgin?” she asked.
I shrugged. “That’s what they say.” As I spoke the words, I thought that I couldn’t have said anything that sounded more lame.
But she laughed. “I never thought of virginity as a matter of public opinion.”
“I never thought of it as a matter for public discussion,” I countered.
“Gwen’s something else, isn’t she?” Katie said.
“Yeah.”
“She sure likes to give you a hard time.”
“She’s probably afraid to give Randal a hard time so that leaves me.”
“I think she likes Randal.”
That took me aback. I couldn’t imagine anyone liking Randal. Respecting him, for sure. Being curious about him, yes. Hanging around to see what he was going to do next, certainly. But actually liking him? Not so much. But, I couldn’t imagine Gwen liking anyone either, so maybe they were a match. “Randal’s a strange dude,” I said.
“He’s like a cowboy,” she said. “Like Clint Eastwood. Quiet and dangerous.”
I looked at her and wished that I were quiet and dangerous. I wasn’t sure how to do that but I was pretty certain that it didn’t involve talking a lot, so I squinted my eyes and nodded slowly, like Clint would do. I wished that I had a serape and a little cigar in my mouth.
I kept squinting at her for a minute, but she looked at me like I was strange so I stopped.
It’s hard to project a Clint Eastwood image when you’re mostly Woody Allen inside. Maybe I could compromise and be Dustin Hoffman. I looked vaguely like him and girls go for puppy dog guys. And in four years, I was going to be a graduate.
“I’m going to Columbia in September,” I said.
“That’s cool.”
I glowed.
“I bet it’s easy to get grass there. Cocaine, too.”
“No easier than anywhere else, I’d guess.”
“It’s got to be easier down there. That’s where they make it.”
“In Columbia?”
“In a lot of places in South America.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not going to Columbia, the country. I’m starting at Columbia University.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed.
“I’m going to major in math.” Dustin Hoffman was a mathematician in Straw Dogs. Mathematicians could be tough. I tried to look grim and tough for a m
inute.
She turned her attention back to her chicken breast.
“Do you have plans for the fall?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I’m going to be a dental hygienist. They make a lot of money, you know.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “Where are you going to study?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I understood. Late acceptance. “Where have you applied?”
“No where yet. I have to look into that.”
Real late acceptance. “It might be a little late to apply for a program for the fall,” I said. “I guess you’re thinking about starting in the second semester.”
“Can I do that?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to discourage her by telling her that I thought that doubtful. “But there’s always next year for sure.”
“Sure.” She looked at the restaurant. “I guess I could work here for the winter.”
“That’s right. You could save money for when you go to school.”
“Right.” She kept looking at the restaurant. “I’m not sure how long I want to work here, though. I’d rather be a dental hygienist than a waitress.”
“Waitresses can make good money.” I thought about all the tips that she and Gwen didn’t share with the cooks.
“But being a waitress isn’t as classy as a dental hygienist.”
There was no right answer to that, so I squinted my eyes and nodded slowly.
“I better get back to work,” she said. “I got to start earning money for dental hygiene school.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”
She looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
“For Columbia,” I said.
She squinted her eyes and nodded slowly. When she did that, she looked more like Clint than I did.
When I went back inside, I was pretty sure that I was no closer to curing my unfortunate condition of virginity than I had been before I tried chatting Katie up. Maybe I was even further away.
