The Restaurant

From Average: The Restaurant

They come shuffling in by the dozens, day after day. They show up dragging their feet along, sloughing towards me, lifeless. They look like zombies, chili-dog zombies. The living dead. I can see the festering gelatinous mass of slimy hotdog sludge engorging their small intestines. Grease oozes from the membranes of their stomach and into their hearts. The buildup grows, clear and silent. They haven't keeled over yet, but they will soon. The sludge will get them someday. The shooting pain in their left arm. Their face goes numb. They take one last look at their loved ones staring blankly at them from across the table. It all goes black.
The fat man dumps out his tray and meanders towards the bathroom. I imagine half-digested food spewing forth from every orifice of his bloated body. The smell is unimaginable. They are nauseating factories of self-replicating waste.
The restaurant has huge long windows along three walls so I can see them coming from all sides. My stomach tightens. The worst part is that they all look the same. Same sagging faces, scowling, cold. Hateful. You don't even have to see the zombies to know whether they're coming in or not. You can tell by the models of cars they drive or by the bumper stickers on the back. You see them pull into the parking lot.
"Keep Your Rosaries Off My Ovaries." Health Food store.
"Bush/Cheney." Definitely. Get ready girls.
Jetta. "Health Food."
Late eighties model station wagon. Rusty. "Here we go."
Maybe the worst is the morning slew of workmen in their filthy overalls and Carharts. They show up ten minutes before we open stinking of gasoline and leave mud all over the floor. Despite the fact that they live in ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Michigan, they all have southern accents. Or maybe it's the one-handed businessmen in their J.C.Penny suits. I wonder if whoever is on the other end of their cell phone thinks it's rude to call someone when you're about to eat. Probably not. I watch them stuffing chili dogs down their throats, dripping orangish-brown grease on their napkin bibs. Little babies.
It wouldn't be so bad if I weren't completely positive that they despise me as much as I do them. Most of them won't look you in the eyes. It's like they're ashamed to be hungry. Maybe they're just aware of how pathetic their hunger is.
"How are you today?"
"Gimme…"
"Hello."
No response.
"Hi, what can I get for you today?"
"I want…"
So I just started hating them. It's the most depressing video game ever created. It's depressing because you can never advance to the next level. The villains come in. It's my job to smile and make their food and keep the line moving. Get them out of there. And the more come in the faster I have to go. Then every once in a while I'll get a boss, a real prick who decides to throw a stick into the spokes. It's the real picky ones that piss me off the most.
"I want a Greek salad, but I want two orders of gyro meat on it. Now they usually only charge me a dollar for that. And I'd like fries, well done. You know if they're not well done I'll just bring them back. You charge how much for fries? Well I don't remember it being that much last time."
Like this place is even worth it. So I don't say anything. I just keep making food.
I don't spit in the soup or anything like that. Me and the other girls complain a lot, but we never do anything about it. What would we do? The combination of nitrites and sodium alone will kill them a lot faster than any amount of spit ever could. Somehow we believe that our revenge will be sweet.
"When are you going to get the shake machine fixed? This is just ridiculous, it's been broken for over a year," they growl.
I look at poor Megan behind the register. Sixteen. I'm never on register. I prefer the protection of the fiberglass partition. Not for myself. For them. That partition is all that separates me from their sad reality. And they don't want me in their reality. They bark this shit at a sixteen year old girl. They get a tiny rush of adrenaline, their hearts flutter, groin muscles throb and flex. Their insides smirk. It's all the power they can muster. She responds with wide-eyed polite apologies. Something inside her quakes and then hardens. It's the hate. God, I'm too old to be working here. Still, there's that old cliché that "working a job like this makes you appreciate not having to do it forever." I don't buy it. It just makes you hate everyone. All the rude customers, and worse, the kids who probably will be working there forever. Well, not forever. But definitely for too long. We all feel sorry for ourselves, every one of us.
Working at the restaurant is just too painfully easy. Your mind starts to stagnate after a while. Your life outside of work starts to mean less because it's peppered by interactions with these sad fuckers. And you know you have to come back again tomorrow. Every now and again the owners will blow through like a whirlwind, shouting back and forth in Greek. You can sometimes make out an order to clean something or other. After a while you stop trying to guess what the hell they're talking about. Your coat permanently reeks of hot oil and onions. Pretty soon your apartment starts to smell like it, too. But then one day you just stop noticing. Day, after day, after day it's the same.
There are a few moments of consolation that we can count on. The cool smell of cucumbers, fresh coffee and the snowstorm, harsh and knawing outside. We are safe indoors. The slow nights when there's no one else around, and we can talk about other things. Real things. Every now and then the radio station will play something decent. In those moments we breathe deeply and seem to come alive again. Our days and nights are highlighted by outsiders who have been, or are where we are. There are some people who understand us, and we speak a different language. You can always spot these individuals because, for one thing, they are polite and grateful. Sometimes they will give themselves away outright, but most of the time a silent nod or a look is all that is needed. They are a kind reminder that we are beautiful, loved, and human.

Sarah

When I was Little I named all of my baby-dolls Sarah.
I have no recollection of where I first heard the name,
Or why I was so attached to it.
There was one Sarah that was small and pink.
Her head was like an infant, shriveled potato.
My hand slipped inside her nursing gown
And I brought her to life with the slightest
Movement of my fingers.
She could rub her eyes,
Turn her head from side to side
And press her face into my stomach.

Somehow she was lost
Or sold in a move.
It’s funny how
Guilt feels the same
No matter what your age.