Storymania - Flyby Of The Insect-O-Cuter by Jack M Brown

Flyby Of The Insect-O-Cuter
Jack M Brown

1 - Hector hates his job

My hands are white. White with fear…peace…overworking…whatever. I look like a skeleton. They’ve soaked in this frothy water for hours and hours - I can’t remember when I started. But still the plates keep coming, those dirty bastards of plates; messing up the water, putting little bits of everything into their rinse, then on the rack and into the dishwasher. Don’t know what the hell happens in the ‘Gargler’, always wondered what actually happens to the plates and cutlery; fierce water crisscrossing in the metal box. All I know is that you shouldn’t put the bowls face up or it collects all the water - that’s a bad thing since it’s boiling hot when you need to empty it. Many a time have I been caught out and I’ve had my hands scorched.

I’m so tired, so very tired. I have to rest my elbows on the edge of the sink, my back arching further - I reckon it’s stuck in that position; they’ll never straighten me out. How long have I been working now? The ice in my water has all melted and now it’s warm - that’s how long, too long. Looking at my hands again, they’re like those of an old man, wrinkled up like tissue paper flowers, but without the colour, it’s like the blood has dripped out of me into the water of the sink, down into the plughole, never seen again. I dare not complain - you don’t want to. Well, you’d like to, but the owners are the kind of people you don’t want to annoy because they’re so nice - that’s how dangerous this place is. Before you know it, they’ve got you on split shifts and six-till-close at the weekends. It kills, it burns. The washing up liquid says ‘concentrated’ on the side - the green slime is nasty stuff and I don’t wear gloves. My hands are going to fall off and I’ll be cleaning the plates with my wrists.

"New here right?"

"Yep, where do I start?"

"Right! I’ll give you the grand tour, lad. I’m Vincent, but call me ‘Vinny’, all right? That sad bastard in the water’s Hector. Didn’t catch your name...?"

"Noah."

"Like the Ark! Haha! Right, teacups and saucers go down ‘ere, cutlery ‘ere on top. Over here, follow me, over here’s all your bowls and small saucers - this is dessert central. Over ‘ere, by the salads, goes the small plates, and on the left, the deep bowls. Up ‘ere goes all the odd looking bowls, so you’ve got these round ones, brown ones and the odd stuff. You put the larger plates and not-so-deep bowls ‘ere by the hot counter. Every so often, these cook fellas will shout out ‘Dirties please!’ and that means their bucket is full of shit, practically, so one of us has to go get it. Big metal trays go by the cooks, all odd looking utensils like spatulas and huge fuck-off knives go here in this bucket by the salad guys. Chopping trays slide in here, colour coded. Right, let’s get you started - you’ll be doing the cutlery, those little pots go in a blue bucket on top of the salads place by the way, you’ll see it easy."

"Righto." Noah skipped off, eager to find the blue bucket.

"How’s it goin’, Hector?"

"Buggery."

"How long you been goin’? How many hours?"

"Twelve non-stop. I came in early to start on what I left last night."

"C’mon, Hector," said Vinny, patting my back, "that’s gotta be illegal or something. Have you had any breaks? Twenty minutes every six hours remember."

"That’d be forty minutes away - the washing up would have piled to the ceiling if I’d taken that much off."

"Vinny," called Noah, "where do they go again?"

"Alright, I’ll show ya," replied Vinny, obediently, marching round to the salads.

Don’t know why I continue with this job, I really don’t. It’s not close to home, I work long hours for a pittance, it’s disgusting and I get back-ache every time I work, slung over the sink or carrying towers of heavy plates to their specific spots, each time glancing over the map in my mind of where everything lives, the map that’s stuck there and will never go away. I work so much, I seem to dream of working there some more - it’s something to do and I’m getting paid for it. Well, I’m still sure there are inconsistencies in my pay, but I hate asking, so if I do a few more hours, I get what I was expecting in the first place. The owners are just too nice, you see. Brian and Patty. The husband, a giant who likes to be called ‘The Captain’, who hugs his employees at every opportunity, and the woman, the unbelievably friendly wife, who’s smile is stuck to her face even when she’s shouting.

"Where do these plates go again?"

"C’mon, I’ll show ya."

A crackle from the Insect-o-cuter up on the wall - must have been a big one that time. Intermittently it goes on all day, but I never get to see it happen - I’m too slow to catch it, too busy.

Here they come, those waiters. Carrying more and more plates for me, pushing their way to where I work so they can scrape the leftovers into the bin. They were probably told that their job was that too, scraping all of the half-eaten stuff into the black bag, and annoyed by this, they have to shove their way into my face so that I can see that they’re doing it. Those waiters think they’re the best, but us KPs know that they’re job is easy as hell. I couldn’t see any of them wading through the sludge at the bottom of the dirties box for spoons. I don’t like saying bad things about them too much though, cos’ one of them’s a good looker. Dopey as hell though, isn’t that always the way? Sings along to shat songs, laughs at nearly everything. To a person like me? She wouldn’t give a flying fuck about what would happen to me, so all I can do is glance out of the corner of my eye, make the occasional remark. They may hate our job, but we love their job, and I shall forever aspire to the enjoyment that they get from their easy job. All we can do is laugh at ourselves.

2 - Jessie hates everyone

Those KPs think they’ve got the easy life. All they’ve got to do is get the plates clean, dried and put in their right spots. Us? The job of a waiter is almost a science in comparison. I’m got to memorize what’s in the salads and specials, converse with the customers, operate the till, make sense of all the orders and it goes on. I’ll scrape this plate of half eaten egg and chips into the bin with a sneer on my face, tilted to one side, make sure boring old Hector can see me put it in there. Oh yes, we have to scrape the leftovers into the bin bag as well. That was one job that I didn’t like the sound of when I heard it - it’s the KPs job to get their hands dirty - we should only bring them the plates. Vinny, he’s a loudmouth, goes on and on like a Duracell battery with jokes and wisecracks. Thinks, because he wears glasses, that no one would dare punch him. I’d dare to punch him. Think I can see those tonsils at the back of his mouth with the way he laughs, looking like he wants to put his entire mouth round a horse’s head. Another new KP also, tall, hate the look of him too.

"Desserts away please!" shouts short stack Erik. He wears glasses too - thinks he looks smart in that crappy white outfit of his. In fact, it makes him look even more stupid.

Table thirty two - through the swinging door, letting the patrons see the belly of the restaurant, round a bend and on the right.

"Here you are," I say, without compassion, damn I hate this place so much. "Can I get you anything else?"

It’s an old couple, both well dressed. The man turns towards me, stretching his arm to rest on the back of the chair so that he can look at me. Was that a pass? Can never tell with these old bids. Greasy white hair on top of an ancient face, his eyes squinting. A tentacle of a tongue rubs his bottom lip and he opens and shuts his eyes slowly - the dirty old bastard. "Yes, please. My wife and I would very much like to have a cup of tea each, if that’s not too much trouble."

"No, not at all," I reply turning. Suddenly, four fingers, I counted one, two, three, four, four fingers ran across my right cheek. I dare not turn to make a scene, but I hear the couple mutter ‘What a lovely girl’ and I leave as quickly as I can, back into the kitchen.

Heavy breathing, my chest rising and lowering, but I won’t tell anyone. I’ll get my revenge when I spit my guts out into their cups of bloody tea! Put the water on for boil and I wait, watching that Hector slung over the sink, scrubbing away at a leftover that’s set up home. I can never tell what he’s thinking, and I hate him for it. Here come Ask and Olive, closely followed by Doug, my co-workers for the night, through the bar and into the kitchen. I hate all of them too, for different reasons.

"Yeah, I came in at about two o’clock and I couldn’t remember where I’d been - I must have been so drunk!" Ask’s nice in her own way. She’s pretty with a good figure, not that it attracts me. But she’s one of the more dopey people - it’s that giggle, it makes me want to scream and throttle her. So what if she got drunk? She doesn’t seem to realise that getting drunk show’s your lack of control and then forgetting an entire section of the night means you’ve wasted some of your life already. Is it just me?! She sings along to complete crap as well. Let’s face it, pop music is crap, thus making most of the population crap. And Ask is in this well-defined population - someone who likes to go to nightclubs and foam parties, instead of going to gigs and popping down the pub.

Olive’s a different story though. I moan a lot in my mind, but she moans a lot outside - she will show how pissed off she can be at every chance she can get. She’s fat too, and ain’t the prettiest girl I know. Well, not fat, chubby. Probably turn out like a hippo when she’s older. Funny thing is, customers keep making fun of what she looks like too, which is a right laugh - she goes off crying, wailing, it’s a riot. Nothing you can really do about it when all of the customers feel the same way. Brian and Patty threw a couple out once for doing that, but since the insult-hurling continues, they just can’t be bothered, trying to make up for it with hugs and smiles.

Finally there’s Doug. Now he’s probably the most annoying of the lot cos’ he’s the most boring. He’s got this monotone voice that you really hate listening to, and a personality that’ll bring up things in conversation that have no linkage to what one would have been talking about beforehand. There must be something in that curly haired head of his that sets off a randomiser of thoughts and information when he’s talking to someone. One minute he could be talking about a book, the next something reminded him of a song, which reminded him of an advert he saw back in the late eighties. The trouble is he’s too nice. He can make friends with a snap of the fingers - given that after a while, they’ll grow bored of him like I have. This is going to be a problem in later life when he could get so picked on and taken advantage of, it’s gonna be silly.

All three of them walk past me without saying hello, or letting me in on the conversation. I still hate them all. The water’s boiled and I make the cups of tea. When no one’s looking, I cough up as much as I can and spit into both of them. The old lady had done nothing, but just being associated with this dirty old man made her guilty of being a dirty old woman. Through the swinging door and back to table thirty two and I give them the cups of tea. I watch as they drink, they smile, I smile.

3 - Everyone hates Eric

Where the hell is that big spoon?! Those damn KPs must have lost it again. "Banister, have you seen the big spoon?"

"How the hell should I know? Salads away! Have you looked in the bucket?"

"I’m looking in the blasted bucket!"

"Then I can’t help you, mate."

Banister wasn’t that old but he was dastardly fat. Big bones, most likely. There he goes again, grabbing a handful of heavily salted chips and stuffing them into the tomato ketchup that he’s nicked from one of the waiters.

"Banister, have you taken my tomato ketchup again?" asks Olive, popping her head round the corner, staring at him through the counter with piercing eyes.

"No I haven’t," replies Banister, his mouth half full with soggy chips. "Now, take these salads away, table forty six. You found that spoon yet Erik?"

"No!"

"Go ask the KPs then, they must be washing it up."

I’m shaking my head. Okay, breathe deeply, inhale, exhale. I mustn’t get worked up, it’s only a spoon. That Banister is really lazy - wouldn’t help me find that spoon if his life depended on it, and if I had the nerve, his life would depend on it - I’d poke one of those large knives into his ribs a couple of times, see if that got him moving, if not, a stab. Oh, what am I thinking? Each time I want to confront someone, it’s never with words, it’s with weapons. Moving round the counter, those two waiters, Ask and Doug are chatting by the fridge, blocking the way. I’m pretty sure they don’t like me, especially that Ask. I’m short, fat and wear glasses. I’m not cool, I’m not hip - that’s all she cares for, I’m sure. She’s good looking, so she can’t like me - she detests me. When I’m not looking, she makes a face, grimacing. Doug at least respects me, I think so anyway. Everyone seems to get on with him, but I recognise that he’s a boring person. From my appearance, people might think I’m boring - I’m a monster wanting to get out. No, not a monster, I’m something special, a dark horse. Anyway, the spoon.

"Excuse me," I say, already trying to get past.

"Yes, sorry," replies Doug. I know he hates me really. "Would you like some lemonade? There’s some in the fridge."

"No thankyou," I say quickly, trying to get away, not even looking at that blank face of his. I have a quick skim over the piles of washing up to be done and rummage through the dirty cutlery - nowhere to be seen. "Is there a large spoon going through the dishwasher?"

"Can’t say I saw one, Erik," replies Vinny. He detests me, you know. He opens the dishwasher when the green light comes on, letting out clouds of steam that escape to the ceiling. Just plates in there, no spoon.

"Right," I say quietly, under my breath. Don’t want to be a nuisance, keep that smile plastered to my face. I go back round to the salad counter, as quickly as I can but not running, and I’m pretty sure no one noticed me, no one glanced up to see me, care that I was there. No one. Banister has fallen asleep, his head resting on his right arm on the counter, his lips wobbling as he breathes, his left hand stretched over to the tipped-over bowl of chips, the thumb in the bowl of tomato ketchup. Lazy git. I dream of grabbing one of the large knives, jumping onto the counter, pushing over the pile of plates sending them crashing to the floor, screaming widely, shouting obscenities, cursing and promising to everyone in the kitchen that I’ll stab and slice them up and feed them to the customers - and then failure, Banister who wasn’t listening walks behind me, looks up to see the knife, frightened, he waves his arms wildly, trips over himself - a hand slaps into my right leg and I lose balance, and I dive head first into the ground and I die, my neck and face, twisted and broken. Instead I stand at my post, chopping up lettuce and cucumbers, making a salad for hungry belly waiting at one of the tables through the mysterious swinging door, a door I never pass through - I don’t know what’s on the other side, all those people, all those eyes, they all hate me, I know it.

"Are you ready to rock?!" Through the door from the bar comes Hugo, the loudmouth. On his head is one of my metal bowls and in each hand is a large spoon - one of them being the spoon I was looking for. He slams each spoon repetitively into his helmet to cause a racket. After ten seconds of metal-on-metal, "Thank you, thank you." He’s woken Banister, who’s back at the chips. Hugo chucks the two spoons at me and I clutch them close, wanting to batter his face with them. "How’s it going boys? Miss me?"

"It was great till you came in!" called Gunther-Rudolf from behind the hot-food counter. "Keep it down, ya?"

"Shut up you Krout!"

4 - Gunther-Rudolf loves his meat-tenderiser

Be careful, Gunther, be careful. I run my hand over ze side of ze blade of ze meat cleaver beside me, my fingers over ze cutting edge, then round to ze handle. Beside zat is my favourite, my meat-tenderiser, my hammer, my precious hammer. All ze vay from Germany you know? A Munich hammer. Let my other hand run over my large moustache, then down my long hair, to calm me.

Zat Hugo is, how do you say? An asshole. Makes fun of me at any opportunity, but zat shall not be for much longer - I shall show him ze hammer, I shall tenderise his face - no more smiling for him. It is an art, tenderising meat, an art. Bring out ze board, slap ze meat onto it. Smell ze meat, you must smell ze meat - get close, sniff, see if it needs to be hit hard or softly. Pick up ze hammer, run your hand along it, bring it up to your eye, examine it, how delicate a veapon, zen you strike the meat hard, pound it till it bleeds. Then you scrape it up off ze board, bite it, make sure it is done, zen you cook. You must bite ze meat, ze raw meat, it is very important in making sure that it is good to go, if you know what I mean.

It is very hot next to ze cookers, it makes one sveat a lot. On my first days, you know, I thought I vould collapse from ze heat, it is zat hot. You never really get used to it, but thankfully it is vell paid.

"Avay please!" I shout to one of ze idle vaiters. They just stand by ze fridge talking vhile ve vork hard.

I vork vith two others, Harold and Francis. Harold is perhaps ze most ugly man I have ever had ze misfortune to look upon. He is perhaps fifty years old, with ze teeth of a ninety year old, sticking and pointing out in all ze directions, you know? He doesn’t talk much either, and because he doesn’t talk much, I don’t have to say too much to him either, which is a good thing. He rides a motorbike like me, probably got zat face from a crash sometime, seriously he is putrid. Francis is not much better. She resembles ze rat in her face and stance. She is crabby in personality, annoyed all ze time. Ze job is stressful, I know, but even when she just starts or has just finished, she moans and moans about everything.

"Why aren’t there any bloody plates left? Eh?! Dirties away! Those KPs must be going slow tonight if we’ve run out of plates already!"

One of ze KPs comes from round ze far corner. I do not recognise him, must be new. He places a new box down and pushes ze full one with his foot back to vhere he vorks.

"At least he was quick this time," she continues, "because the other night, I called out several times and no one came. I had to go right round there and shout it into one of their ears - you just can’t get the service these days, these younguns, they just don’t listen to you."

"You’re right," I reply, getting back to ze meat.

"And another thing, they think they’ve got all the time in the world being young - think they’ve got the best job, that they can go as slow as they like, that we revolve around them. I tell you, they revolve around us, and we tell them how fast they should go. I mean, whatcha gonna do? You’ve got to keep them working, keep them at it. One day I went round there for some saucers and they were just standing about doing nothing, nothing! How lazy that is. All of the minutes that they’re just standing doing nothing should be recorded and deducted from their pay, I tell you. That’s what I’d do if I were running the place!"

I silence ze hag. "Vould you like a drink? I’ll go get one from ze bar."

"Orange juice, cheers Gunther."

"Anything Harold?" He shakes his head and I walk away, straight towards ze door through to ze bar. There’s hardly anybody in ze restaurant now, it is getting late. I stand at the bar, and wait for Jeff to come up to me.

"Alright, Gunther, what can I get you?"

"A coke and an orange juice, thankyou. How’s ze business?"

"Goin’ slow tonight so it’s not too bad, same for you, I guess."

"Busy earlier, but it’s quiet now."

"Oi!" It’s Lovely, she’s spotted us talking, thinks she owns ze place. "Stop that chatter and get back to work, both of you!"

5 - Lovely loves her job

Boy, people would think that there’s a rowdy mob cooking the food and washing the plates in the kitchen if the cook was seen talking to the bar staff! I’ll have none of it, not while I’m in charge, not when Brian and Patty aren’t here. I’ll make sure I run a tight crew, one working to the best of its ability to the best efficiency. No slacking when I’m in charge, no sir. That told those two. Gunther’s definitely scared of me, but I haven’t broken that Jeff yet. He thinks he’s too damn cool, too suave. I’ll show him - he’ll step out of line and I’ll break him like a twig, and he’ll start blubbering, crying like a little girl.

Ah, a customer. I walk back to the till and put on my best smile. "And what can I do for you?" A man in his thirties, but he takes no notice of me and keeps looking up at the specials board.

"Are there mushrooms in the lasagne?"

"Yes."

"Can’t have that then, I’m allergic to them. How about the fish pie?"

"No, there aren’t any mushrooms in that."

"I’m not talking about mushrooms! Why would there be mushrooms in fish pie? I was going to ask if it’s any good, but now your silly comment has made me lose my appetite on such a dish. How tall is the deluxe burger?"

"It’s twelve ounces."

"That’s the weight, how high is it?"

"Why?"

"So I can estimate whether I can pick it up and eat it."

"I’m not sure, five centimetres?"

"I’m sorry, I work in inches."

"Four inches?"

"Four inches is more like ten centimetres."

"I thought you didn’t work in centimetres."

"Yes, but at least I know the conversion rate. No, I don’t think I’ll be having the deluxe burger. I’ll have the Shepard’s pie instead, table eleven. Here’s the correct change, table eleven, remember."

"Thankyou."

What a bastard - how dare he talk to me like that! I am the queen of this castle and everybody bows down to me. I will not have customers talk to me like that! Next time he does anything, I’ll punch him on the face, I will, right on the noggin!

Calm yourself, Lovely, you love your job, this is the greatest job because you are in control. I won’t let the customers let me down, I’m on an all time high with my bubbly personality, bubbly hair and bubbly laugh - that’s why I’m loved by everyone. Who’s better than me? Not anyone I can see right now nor anyone I know or have known - no one is better than me. I’ve got the figure, the face, the strength of will, I’ve got it all, and it’s better than anyone else - I’m the Queen!

"A slice of apple pie, please, for table thirty five." An older man than before with loveable blue eyes.

"That’s two pound twenty, please. Thankyou, it’ll arrive shortly."

Queen I tell you, with the power over everyone in that kitchen, everyone behind the bar, everyone in this room, dethroned only when Brian and Patty return. I grab the orders and take them into the kitchen, stabbing them onto the side of the cooks’ counter. "Less talk Francis, more work."

"Yes miss."

See how she ran into her hole after I told her off? There’s the power, you see?

"Wake up Banister!" He falls over from the shock of my yell and I smile, staring at his fallen fat body on the floor. I continue back to the bar but on the left I see Hector, half of his torso in the sink. Vinny runs up to him.

"Hector?! Hector?!" shouts Vinny, taking him out of the water and laying him on the ground - he puts two fingers to his neck to find a pulse - nothing. "He’s dead! He worked so long he collapsed of exhaustion!" Ask screams and then Jessie follows - and they hold each other.

"Bloody hell! Not tonight! Not tonight!" I yell, enraged. I march back behind the bar to the till. An old lady has been waiting.

"What was that scream? Is everything alright?"

"Someone just died in the kitchen."

"Oh my goodness!"

"No need to worry, he was only a KP. Now, can I take your order?"