downtimes

She chewed the top of her straw, then sucked up a sip of Diet Coke. Downtimes were a drag (she preferred to stay busy), except when Mr. Frey was around, inspecting the tables and the kitchen like some detective on one of those forensics shows.

“Sandy,” he called. “Something is sticky under here. Let’s hope it’s maple syrup.”

She set her soda down on the counter and grabbed a soapy rag from the tub, and approached the offending table. Mr. Frey pointed, his finger encircled by a heavy gold ring. Was she squidged out? No, she wasn’t. She was used to it. Plenty of other girls would be grossed out, were scared to get their hands dirty. But not Sandy. She wiped the goo with a hard-won resolve and then wiped it again. Syrup, she said to herself. Syrup.

When the table squeaked clean, Mr. Frey moved off to continue his examination in the kitchen. She tossed the rag back in the tub and resumed her straw chewing. Not as good as a cigarette, but at least it gave her something to do. She chewed till her teeth hurt. For a few days, she’d been strong, but a brutal arctic freeze had settled in, the days were dark, and she was damn tired. Weeks of double shifts were taking their toll. If she were busy all day maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, but the slow times were killer.

“Sandy,” Mr. Frey said, the kitchen door swinging shut behind him. “Come here a minute.” She walked with a switch, crossing the dining room to stand close to him and his expensive-looking knee-length wool overcoat. “This weather, this economy,” he shook his head, surveying the empty room. “I know it’s been slow.” He handed her something, tucking it gently between her fingers. “If you need more work, just say the word.”

“I’ll think on it,” she replied. Then tossed her sand-colored hair, adding, “And you should think on adding sushi to the menu. You know, dress this place up a little bit.”

“In my experience, dear, dressing up has never been as profitable as dressing down.” He gave her a smile, his eyes lingering on her abundant breasts, then he headed out the door, bells clinging, and down the handicap ramp to his black Cadillac, motor still running. In her hand was a crisp twenty-dollar bill, folded in quarters. She slipped it into her back pocket. When the Cadillac had pulled out of the parking lot, Sandy stepped into the kitchen.

“So, I’m gonna run out for a minute.”

Bev gave her a stern look, maternal and disapproving. “You best not be smoking.”

“I’m not!” she swore. “I have to get to the Kmart. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“What is it this time?” Bev was the no-nonsense head cook. Despite thirty years between them, she numbered among Sandy’s best friends.

“I told you,” Sandy said. “I have a TV on layaway.”

Bev, who was finishing up the dinner rush prep, wiped her hands on her apron. Sandy expected her to lay in about paying down her student loan, but all she said was, “Put on a fresh pot before you go.”
Then the bells on the front door clanged. The TV would have to wait.

“Seat yourself,” Sandy said to a young woman with a small child waiting just inside the door. She trailed them to a booth and placed two menus on the table. “Cold out there today, huh?”

“Pancakes!” the little girl said from somewhere inside the purple scarf bundled around her head.

“Sorry, honey,” Sandy replied. “We stop serving breakfast at one o’clock.” She glanced at the clock on the wall; it was a quarter after two.

“But,” the mother said, “Mr. Frey said we could come for pancakes any time.” Up close, Sandy could see that she was just a girl herself. Nineteen, maybe twenty, with a four-year-old in tow. And if she knew Mr. Frey…

“Let me ask the cook.” She gave the child a wink.

In the kitchen, she asked Bev, “Mind whipping up some pancakes?”

“Pancakes?!” Bev was indignant, like she’d just been asked to slaughter a kitten, dip it in batter, and fry it up. “The griddle’s already clean. Can’t do it.”

“Bev,” Sandy cooed. “It’s one of Frey’s girls. She’s got a little kid and the kid wants pancakes.”

“God damn it,” Bev said. “I don’t care who it is. I said no.” Bev was hardened from twenty-five years’ active duty, serving on the front lines of the school cafeteria. She’d been to hell and back, she’d seen it all, and she knew when to take an order and when to go AWOL.

“Come on,” Sandy tried again. “I’ll clean the griddle up after.”

“Like hell you will.”

“Bev.”

“No.”

“Be-ev.”

She was built sturdy, short and squat, and with her hands on her hips, staring you down, she could be scarier than a Kubrick drill sergeant. But Sandy knew beneath her armor she was all soft and lumpy inside, and little kids, no matter how monstrous they were, well, they still had to eat. She turned her back to Sandy and fired up the griddle, then peered over her shoulder and said, “Where’s my coffee?”

Sandy brought the news back to the table, where the mother had just finished detangling the child from her puffy pink jacket. “And what’ll you have?”

“Just coffee for me,” the mother said. Her face was preternaturally pale, her eyes were sunken into gray pockets, and the rest of her was indistinguishable beneath a frumpy worn-out coat.

While the coffee was brewing, Sandy asked Bev to make it a tall stack, with bacon and hash browns on the side. Then she fixed up two glasses of orange juice and brought them to the table. She expected the mother to pick up the juice and gulp it eagerly but she didn’t touch it, and instead gazed over at the coffeepot, slowly percolating. “Coffee’ll be another minute,” Sandy said.

When it was ready, she poured a mug for Bev, adding one packet of Equal, just the way she liked. Then she brought another mug to the mother and poured it. “Bottomless cup,” she heard herself say, but the mother hardly noticed, as she watched the little girl coloring with nubs of crayon on the back of the paper placemat. A few minutes later, she brought out all the food. But the woman seemed embarrassed, agitated.

“I don’t think we need all that,” she said plainly.

“Nonsense,” Sandy said, putting on her perfect perky waitress act. She stepped away from the table, as the girl dumped syrup all over everything. Sandy resumed her perch at the counter, chewing on her soda straw, and spied the woman plucking a piece of bacon off her daughter’s plate. She even sipped at the juice.

Later, Sandy brought out the bill, charging them for a short stack and a cup of coffee, barely four dollars. The woman, only a few years younger than her, looked up at her with kind eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

“Is Mr. Frey good to you all down the way?” Sandy asked.

“Better than others I know,” she said. “But I’d rather be in here.”

“This ain’t much…”

“For her.” She tilted her head at the girl. Sandy looked at the child’s small face, hoped she’d grow up better than her mother, better than her, hoped she’d get away from this hardscrabble town a hundred miles from nowhere. A flash of gold and green stole her thoughts then, as Sandy saw the mother’s hands. Her fingernails were impossibly long, perfectly polished with a detailed design at the tips.

Did they make her angry? Probably they should have. Probably someone else wouldn’t have even noticed. But she did, and it made her sort of sad, sort of what-the-fuckish, who had money for manicures but not enough for food?

She stood dumbly for a minute, then the mother gathered up the child, helped her into her jacket and wound the scarf around her neck, slipped her hands into her mittens, then threw on her own coat. She deposited four single dollar bills onto the table and fished the loose change from her pocketbook. They left, bells clanking in their wake. She’d tipped a mere twenty-two cents.

Sandy sighed, got herself a new straw to chew on. Mr. Frey made it seem like the answer to all her problems. After all, the diner did not afford him that Cadillac, the strip club did. She’d thought about it. Just do what she was doing here, but without her top on and for better tips. These double shifts were really getting to her. Maybe she’d be better off working nights at the club. She felt tired beyond her years.

Bev, who had finished scraping down the griddle for the second time that day, came out front and asked, “Manny here yet?” It was three o’clock and her shift was ending, but she couldn’t leave until Manny the night cook arrived. He showed up at ten after, and Bev took off. Sandy knew that as soon as she got home, she’d start cooking supper for her husband and her daughter who had moved in with her three children. A lot of mouths to feed. And Bev would feed them all.

Before the dinner crowd trickled in, Sandy grabbed her coat and stepped outside into the frigid wind, the snow piled in clumps, and lit up. Not because she had to, not even really because she wanted to, but because that’s just how it was. She needed a day off, a day to stay at home, to lie in bed, to watch movies all day. One day to recharge. Forty more dollars she owed on the television. One week’s worth of cigarettes. But it was just so hard. All of it.