Now They Call Me Gunner

by Thom Whalen

  * * *

  By the end of the first week, I felt like an old hand. I’d cooked everything on the menu, including the liver and onions. I hardly ever burned a grilled cheese sandwich or forgot a hotdog in the steamer. I barely noticed the accumulation of grease on my face and the slickness of my hair at day’s end.

  No single task was difficult, but a lot happened at the same time and the situation changed from minute to minute so it was easy to lose track of one thing or another.

  When I did mess up, Gwen made certain that I understood and regretted my error. Her tongue was sharp and she took my shortcomings as a personal affront.

  Another waitress, Julie, served on Gwen’s days off and took half the tables on Friday and Saturday dinners. Those were the busiest nights of the week. Half the husbands in Wemsley, the half who still loved their wives, gave them a break from the stove and took the family to Elsa’s Grill. And that was when young swains treated their sweethearts to burgers and shakes – the most exciting food in town.

  On Friday and Saturday, Elsa’s was filled with love.

  I liked working with Julie. She neither terrified me nor raised my lust. She was a soft-spoken, middle-aged woman who mothered the customers and forgave the cooks’ failings. Meaning my failings; I could never identify any failing on the part of Randal. I’m sure he must have had a few that would have been obvious to an experienced chef, but as far as I was concerned, he was the world’s most perfect short order cook.

  Sunday night, after reconciling the day’s receipts and cashing out the waitress, Mrs. Everett called me into the office. I leaned the cotton-yarn mop against the counter and squelched across the floor.

  “You’ve been here for a week,” she said. “You’re doing all right. I’m going to keep you. How many days do you want?”

  “As many as you can give me.”

  “You can’t work seven days a week. Take Tuesdays off.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  That marked the end of my probation period and set my permanent schedule.

  I returned to the mop and began swabbing the front.

  As Mrs. Everett was leaving, I overheard her tell Randal, “We’ve got a new girl starting tomorrow. Don’t give her a hard time.”

  I didn’t hear what Randal said – maybe nothing, he didn’t always answer when spoken to – but I thought Mrs. Everett’s comment strange. I’d never heard Randal give either Gwen or Julie a hard time. He barely spoke to them.

  Maybe it was code for something beyond my experience.

  I wondered if the new girl would be working in the front or if we were getting more kitchen help.

  Then I wondered if Mrs. Everett had warned Randal not to give me a hard time, too. She should have warned Gwen.

  When Randal locked the front door, he looked at me in the dark and said, “You go to university?”

  “I’m going to start in September.”

  “You going to be a lawyer?”

  I was not surprised that Randal would think of lawyers when he thought about educated people. He looked like a guy who was familiar with the sharp end of the judicial system. I was sure that both prosecutors and public defenders were familiar with his grizzled face and sharp eyes. “I’m going to major in math,” I said.

  “Math? You mean like algebra?”

  “Sure.”

  “I dropped out of algebra once. After less than a month, I couldn’t take it any more. It all sounded like bullshit to me.”

  “A lot of people don’t like math.”

  “Is there a lot of money in math?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why are you wasting your time with it? Lawyers make a lot of money.”

  “I like it.”

  “You know anything about motorcycles?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad.” He sounded disappointed in me.

  Randal walked away into the darkness. I turned in the other direction. My family lived in the better part of town.