still in business, and we’re still getting paid. I didn’t come in today to play babysitter. Now let’s get these desserts out and get this place squared away.”
As halftime speeches go, this one doesn’t inspire much of a response. Ty wanders back behind the hot plate, Rich tagging after him. Eddie and Leron turn away and silently unload the bus tubs and rack the dishes at their regular pace.
“You knew something like that was going to happen,” Jacquie says in the break room.
“What?” Manny says, though he knows what she’s going to say. He hired Fredo (as he hired Leron), seeing in him the ghost of his younger self—another lost New Britain kid at the bus stop, going nowhere. He gave Fredo a chance, and no matter what, he’ll never consider that a mistake. He wants to believe that with another cook— someone with more patience and less of a temper—Fredo would have made it, but he’s never worked with a cook like that. Honestly, a cook like that probably doesn’t exist. The only person who would put up with Fredo’s slowness is Manny himself.
“I’m surprised he came in,” Jacquie says.
“I’m surprised anyone came in,” Manny says. “I’m surprised I came in.”
“Why do you have to go and make a joke about it? I don’t know if you know this, but a lot of us only came in because of you.”
“Like you.”
“Yes like me. You think I came in because I got nothing better to do? Yeah, right, I’m here for the big money. Jesus, Manny, think for once.”
She blasts him and walks away, something she has practice at, just as he has practice at turning her words over, trying to see what they really mean, and then holding that meaning at a distance, since everything between them is tentative and temporary, like the fine print on the menu says, subject to change without notice.
Roz swings in shouldering a tray of lipstick-smudged wine glasses and peeled beer bottles and gives him a sympatheticfrown commonly reserved for toddlers, pouting with her bottom lip out. “Uh-oh. Looks like there’s trouble in paradise.”
“This is paradise?” Manny asks.
“Could be if you play your cards right.”
She says it in passing, and is well into the kitchen when he lets out a single uncensored laugh, shaking his head at her ability to tease him as much as the ridiculous idea that he ever had cards to play.
Out front, the kid is leaving. Nicolette’s boxed Mom’s leftovers in a styrofoam clamshell and returned her credit card, said her good-byes and fled for the break room. Only now, with her Visa safe in her wallet, does the mother slide the comment card into the hinged leather folder, setting it beside the tea light. Manny lurks at the main wait station, watching them file past the grandmothers, who turn as one to remark on the boy, the only child in the whole place. Manny resists the urge to go over and placate the woman further—not hard, considering the kid is jumping around her legs like a hyper poodle.
Now they’ve stopped. One of the grandmothers wants to offer the kid something from her purse—a piece of hard candy, just what he needs.
“Keep moving,” Manny murmurs to himself.
The mother’s politely declining—no, thank you, we couldn’t possibly—when the kid puts a hand to his mouth as if to cover a burp, bends at the waist and gushes all over her boots. A big butterscotch-colored flood, with chunks. And he’s not done. The gagging is audible over Kenny Loggins, making one side of the retirement party turn in their chairs.
“Get him outside,” Manny quietly urges, but the mother and her friend are trying to comfort the boy, not manhandle him to the door, and with their help he empties himself onto the carpet while the grandmothers gawk at one another, scandalized.
“Can someone please get him a glass of water?” the mother shouts, stuck in the puddle, since borrowing one of the grandmothers’ is out of the question.
Manny has a pitcher right there at the station,
As halftime speeches go, this one doesn’t inspire much of a response. Ty wanders back behind the hot plate, Rich tagging after him. Eddie and Leron turn away and silently unload the bus tubs and rack the dishes at their regular pace.
“You knew something like that was going to happen,” Jacquie says in the break room.
“What?” Manny says, though he knows what she’s going to say. He hired Fredo (as he hired Leron), seeing in him the ghost of his younger self—another lost New Britain kid at the bus stop, going nowhere. He gave Fredo a chance, and no matter what, he’ll never consider that a mistake. He wants to believe that with another cook— someone with more patience and less of a temper—Fredo would have made it, but he’s never worked with a cook like that. Honestly, a cook like that probably doesn’t exist. The only person who would put up with Fredo’s slowness is Manny himself.
“I’m surprised he came in,” Jacquie says.
“I’m surprised anyone came in,” Manny says. “I’m surprised I came in.”
“Why do you have to go and make a joke about it? I don’t know if you know this, but a lot of us only came in because of you.”
“Like you.”
“Yes like me. You think I came in because I got nothing better to do? Yeah, right, I’m here for the big money. Jesus, Manny, think for once.”
She blasts him and walks away, something she has practice at, just as he has practice at turning her words over, trying to see what they really mean, and then holding that meaning at a distance, since everything between them is tentative and temporary, like the fine print on the menu says, subject to change without notice.
Roz swings in shouldering a tray of lipstick-smudged wine glasses and peeled beer bottles and gives him a sympatheticfrown commonly reserved for toddlers, pouting with her bottom lip out. “Uh-oh. Looks like there’s trouble in paradise.”
“This is paradise?” Manny asks.
“Could be if you play your cards right.”
She says it in passing, and is well into the kitchen when he lets out a single uncensored laugh, shaking his head at her ability to tease him as much as the ridiculous idea that he ever had cards to play.
Out front, the kid is leaving. Nicolette’s boxed Mom’s leftovers in a styrofoam clamshell and returned her credit card, said her good-byes and fled for the break room. Only now, with her Visa safe in her wallet, does the mother slide the comment card into the hinged leather folder, setting it beside the tea light. Manny lurks at the main wait station, watching them file past the grandmothers, who turn as one to remark on the boy, the only child in the whole place. Manny resists the urge to go over and placate the woman further—not hard, considering the kid is jumping around her legs like a hyper poodle.
Now they’ve stopped. One of the grandmothers wants to offer the kid something from her purse—a piece of hard candy, just what he needs.
“Keep moving,” Manny murmurs to himself.
The mother’s politely declining—no, thank you, we couldn’t possibly—when the kid puts a hand to his mouth as if to cover a burp, bends at the waist and gushes all over her boots. A big butterscotch-colored flood, with chunks. And he’s not done. The gagging is audible over Kenny Loggins, making one side of the retirement party turn in their chairs.
“Get him outside,” Manny quietly urges, but the mother and her friend are trying to comfort the boy, not manhandle him to the door, and with their help he empties himself onto the carpet while the grandmothers gawk at one another, scandalized.
“Can someone please get him a glass of water?” the mother shouts, stuck in the puddle, since borrowing one of the grandmothers’ is out of the question.
Manny has a pitcher right there at the station,
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