Of course we’re out of salsa. The one day this year that we’re out of Moe’s super-spicy blend, has to be May 4th. Tomorrow marks our thirty-third celebration of Cinco de Mayo, and I’m left with a phone that won’t stop pinging and existential dread of dealing with some drunk idiot who’s expecting the supreme topping on their burrito. In a diner that’s widely known for its nationwide continuity of breakfast fare, I may point out.
As for the phone, it’s less of a painstaking reminder. Instead, it’s actually the only thing keeping me from losing my utter shit as I circulate my charcoal detoxifying face wash in the dimly lit mirror of my bathroom vanity. The bags under my eyes. Ugh. I could hear Dorothy Gale singing of a desolate place at the base of these units—somewhere over the rainbow indeed. But that rainbow’s farther than she thinks.
And the salsa? It’s gonna take a wizard’s miracle just to summon enough tomatoes in San Diego, a place where for all intents and purposes, takes Cinco de Mayo with more gust than the cyclone that ravaged the Wicked Witch of the West’s sister from Munchkinland. I glance over the screen of my phone as I let the coolness of a washcloth dab at my desolate pores.
I realize it’s currently 7:00 PM and the sender is relentlessly waiting on my promised Good Morning. But the truth is? The truth is I’m temporarily contending with a staffing crisis at Moe’s Diner, a 24-hour run operation that’s used to seeing my bright and chapped ass twelve hours earlier than now. But ever since my overnight manager clocked out for the last time, I’ve been summoned to pull double shifts—even if I’m salary and the corporation can get away with sucking the life force right out of me at every turn.
Corporate America can suck it.
As I pat dry my face with one hand, I scoop the device from my bathroom counter with the other, formulating my best response to someone who’s remained anonymous longer than I have been able to keep a living boyfriend in reality.
Hitting send never felt so remorseful. The truth is, I’m much more on par with my communicative style. I expect it out of everyone else, so I hold myself to the same standard. And when I fail to deliver, then it’s heftier than the three pounds of bacon grease my regular, Jerry, forces down his throat every morning at 8:00 AM in booth No. 4.
Speaking of bacon grease, the grill waits for no man. And with barely five minutes to spare, I hardly have enough time to down my usual cold-pressed juice in a bottle fortified with uber greens—kale, chard, cucumber, a touch of grapefruit, green tea, and a splash of ginger.
“For the road,” I mutter between clenched teeth, startling my feline guardian of order as I slam the fridge door shut. “I shall return sometime. Don’t wait up for me. God only knows how long I’ll be stuck in fluorescent hell.”
She stares blankly in my face. But I can honestly feel her pity. She’s the only one who seems to truly ‘get me’ when I’m stuck in a reality that’s lasted for far too many decades than I ever wished to survive.
“You know the drill. Ten o’ clock, and your next round of kibble drops to the aluminum bowls.”
Harriet knows I’m doing this to keep food on the table for her. If she were a human child, she’d be harder to keep satisfied. Thankfully, we—well—sort of speak the same language. I’d meow right back, but I know exactly how to keep the conversation flowing with fluency.
“Order’s up!” I hear from the confines of my closet-sized office. Denny smashes the bell underneath the heat lamp as if his life depends on it. Which it does. I sign his paychecks with the same oomph as every other employee on my staff. And he’s worth his salt, don’t get me wrong.
As for the anomaly stepping inside, causing the tinny over-door bell to ring its sweet melody throughout the dining room? It’s a sight worth saving in my memory forever, yet a bitter sting beneath my managerial skin because he’s been on a self-proclaimed vacation for this last week. Seven days longer than any of my other staff, who’ve all been kicking in extra foot-juice to cover Kirby’s absence under the greater disappearance of Andrew, the night manager I’m currently covering shifts for until I can find a replacement.
The young adult in a sunrise-orange polo waltzes through the dining room with a half-cocked smile and a black, woolen beanie covering his head. Suffice it to say, that’s a major health code violation if I’ve ever seen one. He steps inside the office, retrieving a black mid-cut apron, donning a shiny gold nametag with pink sparkles—Ken.
The thought occurs to me that I haven’t hired a person named Ken since Michael Jackson released his hit song, Thriller. Taking a hit of my juice, the aroma of dirt and salad wafts through my nostrils. Meanwhile a fractal of light beams from the glittery enhancement Kirby’s took the liberty of zhuzhing to his specifications, apparently. That’s not standard uniform code, either.
Anderson at the San Francisco corporate office would have my left asscheek if he knew I had waitstaff wearing wool beanies while slinging plates, let alone proudly flaunting a nametag which looks like Lisa Frank had a depressive meltdown. After a generous gulp of juice, I clear my throat to contend with his uniform violations. It’s my duty as the restaurant’s general manager to ensure every waitstaff and employee dress to the corporate code of aesthetics. And pink glitter? My God. That’s an affront to my very gristly nature.
“You do realize that someone serving plates of food cannot wear fabric head garments, right?” I grumble, noticing him flinch in the most appealing ways, exposing an abdomen that would make a 70’s underwear model green with envy.
He glances back into my stare, glazing with discernment and contention. “I’ve been wearing beanies at work since I started here two years ago,” he drones with a smirk. “It’s not for comfort, it’s medically necessary.”
Medically necessary to look like a futuristic JCPenney winter catalog model? Yeah right.
I clear my throat. “But—”
Before I can utter another word, Kirby pipes back up, interrupting me with a flicker of pity. “You see,” he says, removing the woolen noir headpiece from his scalp.
Underneath, my eyes glaze over his smooth scalp, reflecting a fresh sheen from my office lights overhead.
“I have this—err—thing I was born with,” Kirby claims, pointing to a sizable goose-egg which he claims is permanent. “All my life, I haven’t found a doctor who knows exactly what it is. But at least it’s not malignant or anything.”
My sight offers another once-over of his healthy physique, cooling the nerves from boiling under my skin.
That may just be the saddest goddamn thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Right then,” he interjects. “So, to keep from looking like a major weirdo, the corporate office has already approved me to wear head coverings as long as they’re elastic and can keep my scalp from suffering grease burns around the rogue strip of crackling bacon.”
Fair enough, I suppose. This isn’t a ten. But, that glitter. Mylanta!
My arm extends, pointing to his flashy nametag. “But the glittery nametag?” I question surreptitiously. “Nobody else in this joint has tainted their nametag. I must insist we make a new one that matches the standard uniform protocol.”
He sighs. “That’s okay,” my customers like it. “It earns me better tips.”
And it’s gonna earn me a reprimand next time Anderson decides to check in on the diner during an unexpected 3:00 AM restaurant audit.
“Meh,” I groan. “I suppose it’s not the end of the world. But, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You must get a lot of flack whenever your birthmark isn’t covered in public. That’s really a tragedy. But like you said, it’s not dangerous. So we’ll keep the beanie on if that makes you more comfortable.”
He nods. “It does. I just tell people I have really bad alopecia and they usually don’t bat an eye.”
Alopecia seems like a good cover. Too bad my own hairline’s missing a few strands and I can’t make the same excuse. Kirby waltzes back out into the kitchen, tying his apron around a tight waist that’d make a nun blush. Or at least, it’s not doing me and my desolate intimacy life any favors. But, for what it’s worth, I have this juice in its glass bottle, and a spreadsheet flickering on my computer monitor with April’s P&L report. And quite honestly, this is more important than having a meltdown over a smattering of glitter on a nametag.