I woke up. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was a beautiful day, a day for relaxing at the beach, getting a sun tan, flirting with the boys. A day just made for a lovely young thing like me. I mean, look at me, an eighteen year old, blonde, blue-eyed, buxom, beauty. Like the alliteration. Ha, I should have added brainy, as well. Still, I've said enough so you can gather the sort of mood I was in.
A stinking one. I was in a vile humour. I did not want to get up at five in the morning, no matter how lovely the day. I wanted to sleep. I did not want to go to work. I hate working in a Diner. I hate being a waitress. I hate having to be nice to customers. I hate the fact that I'm so poorly paid. I really, really, had to find another job. Maybe I should become a ditch-digger. I'm sure ditch-diggers didn't have to smile until their faces felt as though they were going to drop off. Nor did ditch-diggers have to get up at five and put on a stupid uniform and wear stupid, sensible, shoes. OK, they probably had to wear sensible boots but I kind of liked the idea of wearing boots.
Muttering to myself I got out of bed and got dressed. A button was missing on my nice sensible blouse and the other one was in the wash, so I had to sew a button on. I put on my nice sensible shoes and the nice sensible shoe-lace broke. I had to put in a new shoe-lace, didn't I?
A fast breakfast consisting of cereal and coffee. Why cereal? Because it's impossible to burn the stupid stuff and I didn't really have time to cook. Why not have a nicely cooked meal at the Diner? Because the cook won't cook breakfast for staff. If we want breakfast we have to buy it and then the cook would probably burn it. I swear that Cookie's cooking is worse than mine, and that is a dreadful condemnation, I assure you.
It's only half a mile from my place to the Diner. That's one of those really aggravating distances. Any further and I could ride a bike or drive. Any shorter and it's a leisurely amble. Half a mile is just that bit too far to want to walk and a bit too close to ride a bike. Anyway, I finished my breakfast and hoofed it to the Diner.
Shaping up to be a beautiful day, nothing. The sun was already hot and the day was going to be a scorcher. The only saving grace with the Diner was that it was air conditioned. Except it wasn't, it turned out. Cookie had arrived before me and the ham-handed oaf had managed to break the air conditioner. How can anyone break an air conditioner by turning it on? We couldn't even ring to have it serviced until after nine, by which time the Diner was going to be an oven.
Would you believe Cookie made a smart-aleck comment about how it's good not to use the air conditioner as it saves on greenhouse gases? I pointed out that his rotting corpse would also contribute to greenhouse gases and that was likely to occur very soon if he couldn't get it fixed.
The breakfast crowd started coming and I started waitressing like crazy. It may have been the hot weather but they seemed like a surly, bad-tempered bunch, ungrateful for the food, the coffee, the service, and the lack of air-conditioning. Not that I could blame them for not appreciating the food and the coffee. I have had the misfortune of trying it at times. I agreed with them about the lack of air-conditioning. I didn't see any reason whatsoever for them to complain about the service, because it was impeccable. A trifle slow, possibly, but that was Cookie's fault. I can't serve it if he doesn't cook it.
By nine the crowd had thinned out and Cookie had time to call the repairman. We were in luck. He was just leaving the depot and would make us his first call. Ten minutes later he was there.
"Geez," he said. "How'd you manage to break this? I've never heard of one of these bits breaking before. I don't have a spare. I'll have to send off for it. May take a couple of days. I'll get back to you."
He happily trotted off to his car, not even feeling the laser death glare I focused on his back, the insensitive clod. I swivelled my laser death glare to cover the cook and he retreated hastily into the kitchen. A good place for him. Maybe the heat in there will sweat off some of his lard.
For some reason, Tuesdays were dead in the Diner. We'd get the breakfast crowd, a greatly reduced lunch crowd, and I didn't give a damn how many there were for dinner as I wouldn't be there. The late shift could worry about that. Other days you'd get the odd sod dropping in for morning and afternoon tea, but for some reason never on a Tuesday.
Except today. Just after ten we had a truck roll up and the driver came strolling in. I wasn't expecting him and I was out the back trying to find a cool breeze without any luck. I heard the entrance bell ding and I turned to head on in and start waitressing. Before I could get to the counter the impatient oaf started ringing the counter bell. I promptly balked and took my time getting there.
"Yes?" I said, giving him a nasty look.
"Bit slow with the service, aren't you?" he griped.
"Sorry," I chirped insincerely. "Had to stop and wash my hands. Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know."
OK, so maybe I shouldn't have run my eyes over his overalls, but they were a little greasy. Probably had engine trouble and had to fix it himself.
He ordered some bacon and eggs with coffee and I called the order through to Cookie.
"Hold on," the truckie said. "Aren't you going to ask me how I like my bacon and eggs done?"
"Ah, no. Why would I? It doesn't really matter what you want. Cookie cooks them his way."
"Really? And what way is that?"
"Badly," I said with a happy smile.
"Sorry," I said when I put the bacon and eggs in front of him. He could work out for himself if I was apologising for dropping the plate that last inch or for the contents of the plate.
"Accidents happen," I assured him when I spilt his coffee. "It's the vibrations of those big trucks going past."
He actually ate the bacon and eggs and paid the bill. No tip, I noticed. Asshole. Then he asked if he could speak to the cook. With a bit of luck he'd punch Cookie on the nose for cooking up a meal that bad.
Cookie came out and the truckie gave him a dirty look.
"That meal was the worst cooked meal I've ever had," he snarled. "You have got to be the worst cook in the land."
"You're only saying that because you haven't tasted her cooking," Cookie said, nodding towards me.
"Hey," I interjected. "My cooking isn't that bad."
"It's worse," said Cookie. "At least I've never sent anyone to hospital."
"That wasn't my fault. Anyway, only two of the party got sick."
"True, but that was because everyone else looked at the food and backed away, making the sign of the cross. Hell, one woman was calling for an ambulance as soon as she saw her husband take a bite."
I gave him a nasty look and pointedly ignored him. Oaf. What would he know?
"To get back to your cooking and you as a cook," the truckie said, sticking to his guns. "Let's just say you're the worst cook in the land who actually foists what you've cooked onto people and call food."
"You're probably right when you put it that way," admitted Cookie. "I'm just filling in until they get a real cook."
"Don't bother on my account," said the truckie. "I will never eat at this Diner again. A choice between starving and eating here, I'll carry on starving. I'll probably live longer."
"A wise decision," agreed Cookie, not at all insulted.
"That feral waitress of yours is easily the leading contender for the rudest and most incompetent waitress of all time," Truckie states.
I resented that but I wasn't going to waste my breath trying to defend myself. I'd let Cookie do it.
"Geez, mate," said Cookie, "but when you're right, you're right. I'd have to go along with you on that one."
I evenly divided a sulphuric gimlet glare between the two comedians. It was such a nasty look that I was surprised that the pair of them didn't fall down writhing in agony. Actually, I was already surprised that the truckie wasn't already down, after eating that meal. He must have had a cast iron stomach.
"Why do you keep an idiot like that on?" asked Truckie.
"Not by choice?" Cookie told him. "She at least turns up for work."
