“If she hates this place so much, why does she keep coming in here?” Carol threw her towel against the stainless-steel backsplash.
“Just to make your life miserable, I guess,” the short-order cook mumbled. He eye-balled his last order on the shoulder-high counter in front of him. The overhead infrareds were long burned out, so those eggs were getting colder by the minute.
He knew when she was like this that plates were not going to move very fast. Whatever the well-dressed woman at table twelve had said to her this time had punched a hole in whatever motivation she may have brought to her pre-dawn shift this morning.
“She doesn’t hate this place. She just hates you.” Amy, a younger member of the wait staff mocked with her precocious little smile. That one just started three months ago, Carol thought, and she’s already cocky enough to talk that way to me? I’m old enough to be her mother!
Carol Neely had been working at the Morning Stop Diner going on twelve — no, wait — thirteen years now. She started just after her husband abandoned her and her seven-year-old son and headed west for places unknown. Her older sister and, ironically, her husband’s sister had helped her get through it. At least as well as she had gotten through it.
She had settled into a satisfactory existence. They lived in a small duplex in a mostly nice part of town. She should say she lived there, as her son, now twenty, had recently moved in with his girlfriend on the other side of the city. He had turned out to be a gifted mechanic and the girlfriend was studying computer security or some such at a local technical college. With various side hustles, they were making more together than she was after thirteen years. Carol tried to be happy for them.
“Neely, that order of grits ain’t gonna walk to table six!” the manager broke through Carol’s dark thoughts. A moment later, the stoneware saucer and bowl were in her hand and out the swinging door.
***
Her shift proceeded with its usual petty pace. There were a couple good tips, including a rather large bill folded into one of those gospel tracts that reminded her of the Sunday School lesson papers of her youth.
Together, the tips almost made up for this morning’s overdressed witch with the pissy attitude. People like that sometimes made her wonder: are they were always like that, or do they just save it up to share with certain people — like their waitress or their nurse or their housekeeper. Someone subservient, in their eyes at least.
Her thoughts turned teasingly evil. Little do those types of people realize what power the ‘subservient’ ones have in their lives. One accidental — or not so accidental — move and their lives could suddenly be, well, not so pleasant.
***
The next morning came much too soon. With rain this time. A bad-hair day was the least of Carol’s concerns. Her tires were bald and her windshield wipers were long overdue for a change. But that had usually been her husband’s or, lately, her son’s job. And those two were nowhere around.
So, she hoped that no large splashes would hit her during her oh-dark-thirty drive to work.
This morning she was not so lucky. She had just crossed Melrose Street, where new sewer lines were being installed, and some major puddles and pools had developed between the temporary patching. This, coupled with one over-confident, high-beamed SUV heading her way, resulted in a blinding cascade hitting her just as the street curved. The yellow warning arrow sign attached to the light pole was temporarily obliterated by the torrent and — a moment later — permanently obliterated by the front end of her Ford.
At least the airbags worked. She was stunned by the impact of the exploding beanbag of whiteness, but bent glasses were her only casualty.
As her mind cleared it flashed in her memory that her low-life ex-husband had also let the insurance lapse. Another payback for her years of faithfulness.
***
After calling a tow and a ride-share, she finally arrived almost ninety minutes late for her shift. Thankfully, her usual hard-nosed manager wasn’t in that morning. She hung her dripping raincoat in her small locker behind the walk-in and pulled on her apron and cap. As she walked back out through the kitchen, the cook called over.
“Hey, Carol, your favorite customer just walked in.”
“That’s just what I need this morning.”
“Thought you’d like to know.” A dozen eggs turned their sunny sides to the grill as Carol grabbed her carbon-paper pad and a fistful of pens.
***
The woman sat with her phone open as Carol approached from the rear with a hot carafe of fresh-brew. Carol stood, waiting just a second more than usual to see how long it would take her customer to acknowledge her presence. Or should she say existence. As Carol looked down at the top of the woman’s head, visions began to form of what she would really like to do with the pot of scalding brown liquid in her hand.
“Good morning. Would you like to see a menu or are you ready to order?”
“You know I don’t need to see a menu to know what kind of excuse for a breakfast I’m going to get in this place.”
“Well, then, why— ” She stopped in mid-sentence to let her blood pressure drop a point or two. She reframed the intent of her question. “Then why don’t I just get your order into the kitchen so you can be on your way.” She forced a mandatory smile after flipping and filling the cup in front of her. She had noticed — but ignored — the tall white cup with the green mermaid logo and cardboard sleeve sitting at her elbow.
***
As Carol retreated to the kitchen, her customer looked dully forward through the thinly brightening front window. Despite the humidity from the earlier rain, her hair was neatly set. Her nails were also freshly manicured and painted to match her lips. She looked back down at her phone as another text vibrated through.
… and you couldn’t find the time in your busy schedule…
Another oh-so-subtle comment about why she wouldn’t come to visit her mother in her ‘time of need.’
… Julie and Meribeth stopped by just to say hi and see how I was doing…
Her sisters were always there for mom. But apparently she was just too busy with her career to care about the woman who had given birth to her. And on. And on.
Her mother lived in an assisted-living center about an hour and a half from her. But the distance was not the issue. At least not the miles of distance. It didn’t take a psychologist to see that she, the middle daughter, had never—and would never—live up to her mother’s expectations.
She had not married the right man, successful as he was. She didn’t live in the right neighborhood. She didn’t belong to the right club. Probably even her car was wrong, although she doubted her mother knew what she drove.
And don’t even mention her wardrobe and hairstyle.
Her order arrived. She washed it down with her store-bought coffee and headed for the door, leaving behind a carefully computed ten-percent tip on her AmEx card receipt.
***
The night crew team leader stopped by the owner’s office to report that the roach problem was getting worse. The head waitress, walking past the open door, overheard the conversation. “Frieda Terol ran out the door two days ago, leaving her order behind.” Frieda was a longtime customer and lived just around the corner.
The owner put down his nearly cold morning coffee. Knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer, he reached into the top drawer of the old steel desk. In the front pencil tray sat the card from an exterminator that had cold-called him two weeks ago.
The owner had inherited the diner and the family had not always been fastidious in the external maintenance. Foundation cracks were rampant, the trash areas were not well designed or cleaned. Insects were taking full advantage. Running the kitchen was a chore enough for anyone. Then there was payroll, health department paperwork, city taxes, not to mention trash and increasingly frequent graffiti. The neighborhood was not exactly experiencing gentrification.
Yeah, we can be over the beginning of next week. Say, Tuesday afternoon?
“Thanks, I’ll be looking for you.” The owner hung up the phone and headed for the freezer to rotate stock.
***
It would be a killer closing the diner for three days, but the law required it when pesticides were in use. The pest-control company promised they’d be done and completely cleared out by Friday. The owner hoped they were right. The staff hoped they were right. Most of them lived paycheck to paycheck. Carol certainly did.
She tried her best to make good use of the unexpected days off. Besides the usual picking up, she tried to do a little deeper cleaning around the house. She even had a few minutes to attack the weeds that had nearly conquered her front flower bed. She thought back to the days when she could do real gardening. She was so proud then.
No matter what her ex-husband’s shortcomings, at least he was a good man in the yard. He kept up with the mowing, spraying, fertilizing, edging. One year he had even thrown out his back with a rented core aeration machine.
Now it was apparent from the curb that the home was occupied by an over-worked divorcee.
***
It was finally time to go back to work. Carol’s arches were just starting to feel normal, but she knew it wouldn’t last. As the staff filed in, it was like a family reunion — admittedly a very dysfunctional family.
“Hey, where’d you go on your vacation?” was the repeated joke, old after the second telling. The grills were fired up. The juice machines refilled. The coffee pots rinsed of their sanitizer solution.
The owner was pleased at how well the exterminators had cleared away any sign of their visit. It wouldn’t have been too great for their reputation if it was obvious why they had closed.
When all was in order, the assistant manager gave him a small nod. The owner then walked, somewhat ceremoniously, to the front door, key-ring in hand. There was actually a line waiting outside. Gee, he should have put up a banner, he thought with a wry grin.
***
Carol checked her cellphone one last time before slipping it into her jacket pocket in her locker. The manager on duty this morning was the stickler for no phones while on duty. She couldn’t count how many emergency calls from her son’s school she had missed in years past because of that rule.
As she was about to swing the little locker door closed, she noticed a brown bottle of insecticide left standing on the floor in the corner, against the leg of one of the rinsing sinks. Her first thought was that the company her boss had hired was not quite as thorough with their cleanup as he thought. Her second thought was that of a homemaker, constantly in pickup mode. Her third thought was a more wicked one. Strangely, as thoughts do, the second and third intertwined. She glanced back over her shoulder to assure herself she was alone. Then she wandered nonchalantly over and moved the bottle slightly with her toe. It seemed about half full. She glanced around again, stooped quickly and hooked two fingers around the neck of the bottle. Then, she picked it up. The housekeeper in her would have found the nearest trash can. But she was not a housekeeper, at least not here, not now. Instead, with one swift move she swung the container deftly into her still-open locker, pushed it to the back behind her purse and a box of tissues, and firmly clicked the metal door closed.
The housekeeper in her re-emerged as she stepped to the nearby porcelain basin to wash — and even sanitize — her hands. She wheeled and reached for her pad and a towel and was on her way to face the front lines.
Throughout the rest of her shift she felt slightly embarrassed, as if she was carrying a secret, and a very dangerous one at that. It wasn’t until she had returned home, had kicked off her white orthopedic shoes, and was enjoying an adult beverage, did those thoughts begin to recede. Then it wasn’t until bedtime that she could identify the feeling that had hovered just outside her consciousness. She suddenly equated it to years ago, when her husband was still in the house and had come home with a new gun. In a rare moment of transparency, he had confided in her that it gave him a new feeling of strength, of freedom even.
She didn’t know why that memory had arisen from the murky depths, but it turned slowly in her mind like some crystal pendant from a rearview mirror. Then she faded into sleep.
***
You have the power now, the voice in her head assured her. She has no control over you. You can get back at her. She didn’t know what day it was, but it was quite obvious where she was. And who was there with her. It was the witch in designer hair and nails.
“Your menu says fresh-squeezed. It tastes more like some powdered leftover from the Apollo program.” She held out her glass. “Get me some tomato juice!”
Carol cupped her hand over the top rim of the glass in un-waiterly fashion and swept away the unwanted glass of juice that she herself had squeezed only five minutes earlier due to the kitchen crew being overloaded with a large business breakfast meeting in the side room.
She marched off in blind rage toward the swinging doors. The next thing she know, she was behind the kitchen. She was still holding the glass, cupped under her palm like some strange prosthesis. She rested it and her attached hand on the sideboard of the sink. Her eyes gazed unseeing at an old labor-law poster on the wall between her and the small bank of lockers. Her locker was the last in the row. The pink of her raincoat peeked through the steel grating.
Then the flash. Her eyes focused. She looked around. She could hear the hum of activity from up front, but back here it was temporarily quiet, deserted She walked determinedly over to her locker, spun the combination, and reach to the back.
A quick rinse of the remaining OJ, a dribble of the brown liquid, then a quick walk to the front juice machine for a replacement fill of the tangy red tomato mixture. Any unusual taste should be totally covered by the strong vegetable aftertaste, she thought blithely as she stepped, smiling, back through the swinging doors.
***
Carol quickly returned from the front after delivering her special cocktail to her oh-so-gracious friend. She knew she was falling behind with her tables. After thirteen years, she and the cook had developed an ability to communicate unconsciously when orders were piling up. No need for those silly chrome bells here.
She hoisted a tray of morning fare for the table in the front window. Let’s see if our Miss Fashionista could balance two orders of French toast — with bacon and sausage, two corned-beef hash skillets, and three huevos rancheros, all hot enough to burn your palm right through the tray … and still keep a smile on your face!
###
It seemed only seconds later, throughout the dining room, the typical morning murmur become a louder tone of questioning concern. People were up from their seats, looking around, nosing over the tops of booths, noisily searching for the cause of the commotion. Then, above the human din, she heard the approaching wail of a siren and flashing lights appeared from a distance through the front plate-glass windows.
She rushed to the front and discovered for herself the source of the disturbance. Her favorite customer lay sprawled on the floor next to her booth, her taupe-and-lilac linen suit spattered with tomato juice. The sound of the siren grew in intensity, then broke into repeated bursts of sound, rattling her eardrums. She rolled to the left, flailing her arm, finally making contact.
***
Her alarm clock crashed to the floor, the cracked face indicating this was not the first impact of this sort. She sat up on the side of bed. Her forehead and armpits were soaked. Her heart slowly returned to its normal pace as she concentrated on her breathing. The room slowly became recognizable. She still did not know what day it was, but she instinctively reached for her work clothes, not her sloppy clothes. She headed for the shower.
***
It wasn’t Monday, but her mind acted the part. In fact, worse than a Monday, she felt as if drugged, hungover. Nothing truly fit together. Fellow employee’s words of greeting made no sense. She tucked a stray hair, smiled a delayed, timid smile, and continued on her way. She was the new student-intern all over again. She stumbled through her set up, forgetting her locker combination, her apron on inside-out. Her mind told her to snap to, but her body was noncompliant. After a few minutes absented in the women’s bathroom stall, the fog began to fade.
“You gonna be in there all day, Carol?” her name spoken with youthful derision. Amy, the junior waitress, touched up her lips at the mirror.
“I … I’ll be right out.”
“Did you hear your favorite customer’s dead?” she asked, as if announcing a baseball score.
Before Carol could react, the door swung and clicked shut. Carol was alone again, the fog suddenly whipped into a cyclone.
She did not stop to wash. Barely re-buttoned, she reached the back room to see another of her co-workers gathering her pad, washcloth, and tray. Carol was mumbling to herself. Where is she … what … I wasn’t here … I didn’t do any … I didn’t …
Her fellow waitresses gave way as she surged past, head down, linebacker-style, heading for the dining room. She marched to the front, nearly knocking down a busboy on a return run with a black bin of dirty dishes. He heard her continued murmuring … I wasn’t here … I didn’t do anything …
She slowed as she approached the table usually occupied by her prize customer. It was empty. She stumbled slightly forward, then stopped, not knowing what she expected to see — the lady crumpled under the table? Laid out on the fake-leather bench like a cadaver, a lily in her crossed hands?
But there was nothing there. Another busboy returned with four fresh set-ups for the table. Carol stood, glued to the floor, dully watching him go about this business. Then she asked him slowly, “Where is … where is the … the … the woman who usually sits here?”
The young man looked up at her, quizzically at first, then with recognition. “Amy said she killed herself. She heard it from someone in her building. Apparently she was some society hotshot. Worked with animal rights or wildlife conservation or something like that. Sleeping pills and booze, I think she said.”
Carol stood staring down at the tabletop, the salt and pepper shakers and jelly rack placed neatly in the center.
The usual dining room clash and clatter seemed far away.
“Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment: But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause … shall be in danger of hell fire. – Matthew 5:22
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