by Inman Majors
“I have some bad news,” she said, placing the basket as close to the edge as she dared. She was hoping for a head start before the live rounds flew in earnest.
“I told you, Rex,” the mother said, nodding at her husband. “They screwed up our order.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Penelope. “Believe it or not, we actually ran out of steak sandwiches.”
“How in God’s name does a steakhouse run out of steak sandwiches?” asked the woman.
“Actually there were three left, but I accidentally spilled those.”
The woman smirked at her husband now. This admission had won her a point from an earlier discussion, likely about the quality of their server. But why had she admitted her mistake? Actually she knew why. She was constitutionally incapable of not owning up to her miscues. It was a weird pathology of hers. Damn her pathologies. They were always getting in the way.
“You spilled them?”
“Yes. And I’m sorry. Let me talk to the manager about comping your lunch.”
“We ain’t got no lunch to comp,” said the father, and this got a wry chuckle from the table.
Penelope could see his point.
“I really am sorry for the trouble,” she said.
“Honey, why don’t you just run along and get us that manager,” said the mother. “Our team bus is due to leave in ten minutes, and we’re the only ones here who haven’t been fed. We’re starving.”
“I’ll go get him now,” said Penelope.
She turned and strode to the kitchen, feeling as if things had gone better than expected. One peanut hit the back of her head, but it was only a glancing blow. Several others flew wide of the mark. Penelope found these wayward shots surprising, but assumed low blood sugar was beginning to affect their marksmanship.
The door to Marty’s office was open and Barbo was nowhere to be seen. Penelope breathed a sigh of relief and hurried in, only to find Barbo sitting in the manager’s chair, the rolling one with side-arms, and Marty on the uncomfortable plastic one where servers had to sit when they were checking out. A bad sign. In the background “Country Boy Party” was coming to its close.
Well, Sunday comes and they’re off to church
Monday comes and they’re bound for work
But right now let the good times roll
Cause it’s Friday night—Hell Yeah!
and the beer is cold!
Penelope had always found this stanza a little touching, the way the cooks would shout out the Hell Yeah part, even when it was Friday night and they were still at work and not attending some awesome raucous field party that kicked the shit out of anything the big city had to offer. But she couldn’t dwell on that, for Marty was now bestowing his infamous disapproving stare.
“There you are,” he said, his lips pursed and trying to look older than his twenty-six years by way of knitted brows. His attempts at establishing Coonskins order via the stare down were legendary comic fodder for the staff.
“Marty, A-9 wants to talk to you.”
“That can wait,” said Marty, grimacing and speaking in a weird husky whisper, like a television detective.
Penelope felt like she was looking at a cross-eyed, slightly bald baby bird. Marty wasn’t actually cross-eyed, but such was the effect of the laboring brows.
“No, it can’t, Marty,” said Penelope. “We ran out of steak sandwiches and then I spilled the last three and these people are pissed and hungry. They have to board a bus in like ten minutes and everyone else in their group is finished eating. Can I just ask the kitchen to throw five full sirloins on right now? I’ll pay for them out of my pocket if I have to. They’ve been firing peanuts at me for the last twenty minutes.”
“We don’t allow peanut throwing at Coonskins,” said Marty. “Shells should be discarded on the floor, either in the aisle or under the table. I can’t imagine they actually threw peanuts at you. That sounds far-fetched. People don’t just waste peanuts.”
“Well, they did waste peanuts, a lot of them, by throwing them at me, but who cares? Will you please go talk to them? They look like they really need some red meat. They look hungry as shit.”
“See,” said Barbo. “You heard profanity right there. Right in front of the manager. I told you she had a gutter mouth.”
“I seriously have to go,” Penelope said.
“Your customers can wait,” said Marty. “Barbo here says you cursed her and also that you took one of her tables.”
Penelope had a number of thoughts running through her head at once, all of them jumbled and irritating. First off, Marty was the f-bomb king. End of story. As for the pilfered table issue, she could blame Carrie for the initial confusion, but that would just get her in trouble, and she was already in the doghouse for a number of hosting offenses. Right now, Carrie likely had her hand on the smallest and most delectable onion ring on a saucer, or was licking a curious finger recently plunged into the choicest meringue of a key lime pie. Everyone knew about Carrie’s car payments. So that line of defense was out.
“Yes, I said something like, damn it to hell, Barbo after I spilled those sandwiches. I’m sorry about that. I really am. But I didn’t steal anyone’s table. Those guys just got up and moved on their own.”
“Yeah, after you talked to them,” said Barbo, drumming her fingers like the older cop who only weighed in when the younger one got off course in his interrogation. But Marty jumped in now, voice huskier than ever: “Is that true, Penelope?”
“That I talked to them? Yes. I said they weren’t in my section and then they moved.”
“I told you, Marty,” said Barbo.
“Listen,” said Penelope, “I can’t stand here all day talking about this. Barbo, I’m sorry I cursed at you. I didn’t steal that table. And Marty, are you going to talk to A-9 or not?”
“Not till we settle this,” said Marty, glancing once at Barbo to show he wasn’t giving in too easily.
“I’ve got to get these softball people a basket of fries or something to tide them over. I think the mom wants to fight me as it is.”
“Stop being dramatic,” said Marty.
“I’m the one being dramatic? Are you kidding me?”
She found that her heart was beating fast, and a decision had to be made. Barbo and Marty were exchanging eyebrows, gray and skeptical meeting blond and confused somewhere in the middle distance of Marty’s office. Actually, their gazes seemed to touch just over the filing cabinet where Marty kept the forms used when he had to write-up someone for a disciplinary matter. Penelope saw how this was going to shake out now and smiled despite herself.
“I’m going to have to write you up,” said Marty. “You’ve admitted your offense. You leave me no choice.”
“Okay. Do what you have to do. I’m going to get some food for those softball people before they turn cannibalistic.”
“No, you’ll wait right here.”
But Penelope was gone. Two baskets of fries and a massive fried onion meant for sharing had just come up in the window and Penelope grabbed these posthaste.
“I have to have these,” she said. “I’m sorry. Apologize to whoever I swiped them from.”
“Sure, P,” said Ray. “Just take them. For those steak sandwich people?”
“Yeah. And go ahead and throw five sirloins on for them, medium-well. I need those on the fly. Microwave them if you have to.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks,” said Penelope. Then she headed out the door, wondering if the write-up would cost her the night shift she’d been counting on. She’d never been written up before and didn’t know the protocol. And what if Marty made her pay for the sirloins? Was it possible she could lose money by working? That she could be further away from getting her own place than she was just three hours before?
Yes, it was definitely possible.
10
Penelope charged toward the softball family, sure of foot and feigning good cheer, the baskets of fried vegetables as the lamest of peace off
erings. Before she even arrived, the mother called out: “And what is that?”
“Just some appetizers. On the house.”
“No. I mean that big pile of something.”
Penelope set the baskets of fries down first. Then, realizing what the woman was pointing at, she said: “Oh, this is our Funion Platter.”
“Your what platter?”
Penelope hated to repeat the name. In normal situations it made her laugh anytime someone ordered it. Riblets had the same effect. But she soldiered on: “Funion Platter. It’s like a huge onion ring that everyone can share.”
She smiled as she said this, to show she didn’t find the woman’s tin ear for wordplay off-putting. In the meantime, the woman had grabbed the basket before Penelope could set it down and said to the table in a harsh voice that showed what she thought of puns in lieu of ordered entrees: “Anyone want a funion ring?”
“What I want is the steak sandwich I ordered thirty minutes ago,” the father said.
Penelope noticed he had pulled his baseball cap extra low, as if trying to squeeze thoughts of food out of his mind before passing out. Or maybe to suppress burgeoning homicidal impulses. His beard looked thicker as well, though maybe it just shone a bit more from peanut oil that had been transferred from hand to face during his turmoil.
“What I want is the manager,” said the mother as both girls rolled their eyes beneath the bills of their caps and the son snuck a peanut under the table. “The manager. Like right damn now.”
“I’ve ordered five full sirloins,” said Penelope. “They’re going to be comped.”
The woman waved toward the parking lot, where several team members and parents were milling around the bus and patting their stomachs in a satisfied way. Penelope wished they wouldn’t do that. They seemed to be rubbing it in to the disappointed five-top in front of her.
The woman said: “We ain’t got time for steaks, free or otherwise. We’re about to load up. Is this the manager here?”
“Yes, I’m the manager,” Marty said, appearing at Penelope’s hip. “How can I help you folks?”
She and Marty were standing side by side one moment, and then, through some subtle maneuvering that he’d likely picked up from Barbo, Penelope found that he’d edged in front and she was out in the aisle. In her peripheral vision, she noted Cobb Salad lifting his tea glass up and down as if it were a dumbbell, and beside him the family with the sundaes, standing and flapping their tab at her. These were weeds extraordinaire.
“We’ve been here forty-five minutes and never got our food,” the mother said. “And that woman there is the worst waitress I’ve ever seen.”
Penelope shuffled her feet, fighting an urge to defend herself. Everyone knew she was the best Coonskins had to offer. Cobb Salad had tried out several servers before landing on her, simply because she was the fastest and the most efficient at keeping him hydrated and full of croutons and extra radishes or whatever his salad obsession of the day was. Worst waitress? That was a joke.
Marty turned briefly to give her the same sad-boy brow he had a month before when she declined to meet for a quick brew after work. Then he was back facing the table.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “And I’m sorry about the confusion with the steak sandwiches. But what can I do now to make y’all feel better about your Coonskins experience? Your lunch will be comped. And I can get something out of the kitchen to go in about five minutes. Five full-sized steaks are on the grill right now with your name on them.”
Cobb Salad was standing up now and doing a sarcastic little dance number with his empty glass. Several tables were gawking at him and seemed to find his antics amusing. She glanced away and found herself staring at a framed poster on the wall that signaled the start of Barbo’s section. It depicted a wood carving that had once appeared on a tree in Kentucky:
D. Boon CillEd A. BAr
on tree in the YEAR 1760
Penelope felt this to be a bad omen.
“Well, what about that waitress?” the mother said, pointing at Penelope.
“I don’t understand you,” Marty replied.
“What. About. That. Waitress. The one who screwed up our order. Probably intentionally. I swear to God, she’s the worst waitress I’ve ever had in my life.”
A loud clatter came from the kitchen and Marty jerked in that direction. As soon as his head was turned, a flying legume popped Penelope flush on the cheek. It was the first shot she’d taken that actually hurt. That sucker had been thrown with real heat. She looked to Marty, hoping he’d seen the peanut projectile, but he’d missed it. He was now gawping at her, in full eyebrow mode, trying to divine her potential for order sabotage. That, or he was stalling for time. Marty was used to confrontations in the kitchen with his underlings, not out here in the open restaurant frontier.
Reflexively, Penelope put up a hand to rub the spot where she’d been struck. It really did smart. It was the boy who threw it, she knew, but everyone at the softball table was smiling. The accurate volley had been well received. He might make a pitcher after all. Penelope was not even looking at Marty and his nervous caterpillar brows, but at the woman who’d just called her the worst server she’d ever had. That claim was beyond the pale and Penelope brooded on it considerably.
As she brooded, Derrick, the waiter whose night shift she was supposed to have, walked toward a table just being seated. Penelope saw a hand reach into the basket of peanuts Derrick held. The hand looked far away from her, disembodied, but she knew on some level that it was her own. The boy who had flung the stinging peanut had an unusual expression now, perhaps because Derrick had stopped in his tracks to see what was about to happen. Perhaps because of the way Penelope, with a fresh, full nut in her hand, was sizing him up. Whichever the case, his recent pleased smile had vamoosed to parts unknown and been replaced with a look both quizzical and expectant.
In her day, Penelope had been a pretty good softball player, a shortstop with a good arm. She raised that arm now, sized up the target before her, and fired a volley as hard as she could just as the boy was about to duck.
Too late. The peanut had connected with a satisfying pop on the boy’s nose. The mother had just opened her mouth, no doubt to push for Penelope’s immediate termination, when Penelope walked to within a foot of her scowling face. One of the computer games Theo played would shout, Game On! whenever a new round was about to begin, and that was the phrase going through her head as she leaned down and popped the softball mother smartly in the forehead from approximately six inches away. Game On! she thought as she grabbed the basket from Derrick and flung the entire contents into the startled faces of the softball family. Game On! Game On!
She felt sure everyone at the table had taken at least one direct hit, but she didn’t have the luxury to fully assess the damage before she was tackled to the ground by the irate softball mother.
Using a quick reversal, not unlike something she used to pull on Timmy Newton before kissing him back in fourth grade, she soon found herself sitting atop the woman. She used her knees to pin the woman’s arms, and as the woman screamed in fury about suing her ass off, she scooped all the stray shells she could find from the floor. Using a rapid-fire motion, like someone feeding an infielder in a game of pepper, she methodically bipped the angry woman in the face from close range. The words that came out of her mouth were ones she’d never before spoken: “Say Uncle.”
“Kiss my ass, you crazy bitch.”
This was not the correct response, so Penelope groped around for more ammo, scraping the peanut-dust-covered floor with both hands as the woman struggled mightily to get free. Penelope found it surprising that the family didn’t intervene. In fact, unless she misread the round, galvanized faces that looked down at her, they seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the bout. The father had even pushed his cap up to get a better view.
Penelope looked at the gaping, appreciative onlookers and said: “The tower of power, too sweet to be sour, ohhh yeah!”
“Yes, the Macho Man,” Penelope said, nodding at the father and thinking how impressed Timmy Newton would be if he could see her now. She was totally dominating.
But now Marty, Derrick, Ray and two other cooks were peeling her off the still struggling woman. Back on her feet the softball mom took one wild swing, and then Penelope was marched away by Ray and Derrick before anything else could happen. In the swinging door to the kitchen, she and Barbo passed going in opposite directions. Barbo held Funion platters in both hands.
Ray said: “That was awesome. You kicked her ass.”
Penelope nodded. She had indeed. She was shaking now, and her legs felt suddenly boneless, and her laughter had begun to sound a little like crying. Someone shouted take her to the office and sit her down, and this request was obliged.
Someone brought her water and when Marty came in, she was herself again, though her heart was still beating swiftly. The recent episode seemed distant as a dream. Her brain was clearing when Marty spoke: “I have to fire you.”
“I know.”
“We might get sued,” said Marty.
“I doubt it,” said Penelope. “She started it. And I wasn’t lying about the peanuts. They were throwing them at me even before their food was late. They were just assholes, Marty. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
She realized it was odd to be comforting the man who’d just fired her, but she could tell Marty was worried for his own job. He had yet to sit at his rolling chair, as he always did when conducting serious business, and couldn’t really look Penelope in the eye. From where she sat, she could see the write-up for the incident with Barbo on his desk. Her full name had been written in Marty’s deliberate block style, and some offense, from a list of infractions, had been circled below it. Looking closer, she saw that two items had actually been circled, and below that Marty had added a few follow-up notes. She knew these forms were to provide proof for firing someone with cause and wondered just how often Coonskins got sued. Peanut allergies might just be the tip of the iceberg.