All We Had by Annie Weatherwax Page B

step in our direction.
    â€œArlene here.” She introduced herself with one big shake of the hand for each of us. “Mel told me to expect you.”
    A long hard life was embedded in the fine netting of wrinkles that traversed Arlene’s face. A scribble of wiry orange hair buzzed about her head. Her eyebrows were penciled in to match. Her forehead sloped directly into the wedge of her nose. Her cheekbones, high and chiseled, were streaked with burnt-orange rouge and her fingernails were bright red. Tall, thin, and all angles, shewas like a piece of furniture refinished and stained to look more expensive than it was.
    â€œI’m the head waitress around here. If you got something to ask, I’m the one with the answers.” She pointed and shook her thumb at herself. “And just so you know, I run a tight ship, so you girls better be prepared to work hard.” She stood there and glared, baring her teeth just enough to scare us. But then her face softened. “Ah-ha, ha, ha . . . I got ya!” She tossed her head, exposing her missing back molars. “The last thing we do around here is work hard!” she howled. “You should have seen the look on your faces!” Her laughter abruptly became wheezing and the wheezing turned into a phlegmy cough and before long she was doubled over.
    Then, suddenly, she stood erect. Her smile was gone and her face was bright red. Her forehead glistened with sweat and her hair looked as if it was on fire.
    â€œShe’s having a hot flash!” Peter Pam declared. “Stand back!” As if she was saving us from a car accident, she threw her arm up and rammed us up against the counter. Arlene narrowly missed us as she stormed by and flung herself into the walk-in refrigerator.
    â€œThank God I’m not there yet,” Peter Pam sighed.

    That first day was a Sunday. The breakfast rush after church was about to begin. I stood at the sink in the ready position like I was waiting for a tennis ball to be served.
    Washing dishes was my specialty. I’d worked this job before—at taco joints and Chinese restaurants back in California. I looked older than my age and I’d hustled for work every chanceI got. A good dishwasher, I knew, was always hard to find. My policy was that no dish would sit in my sink for more than a second before it got washed, dried, and put away. And all my pots and pans were always spotless.
    Mel was greasing up the grill. He wore his baseball cap backwards. tiny’s was stitched in an arc over the bill. When he left the kitchen to pump gas, he’d take his apron off and rotate the cap forward. I’d seem him do that twice already.
    â€œHey,” he said behind me, “I almost forgot . . .” He pulled out an identical cap from his back pocket, punched it open, and curled up the bill. “Here,” he tossed it to me. “It’s an extra. I found it in my office.”
    â€œThanks.” I started to put it on.
    â€œIt goes backwards,” he instructed, “and loosen up your shoulders.” He rotated his own to show me. I twisted my cap, took a deep breath, and let my shoulders drop.
    â€œThat’s it,” he said.
    A hand reached through the service window and slapped down the first order. Mel sprang into action. He shoved his glasses on, picked up the order, read it, took his glasses off, and swung them behind him on their string. He clipped the order to the bar above the counter and never referred to it again. He cooked up some home fries, grilled a pound of bacon, cracked a bunch of eggs, and made three complicated omelets faster than any cook I’d ever seen. Once in a while he tossed his spatula up in the air. Catching it by the handle, he’d sling it on the grill like he was playing a set of drums.
    He finished the order and tossed the last plate down on the counter. “Order up!” he yelled with operatic bravado. Nobody heard him, so