kitchen.
“Cassie,” Larry began as I approached on the opposite side of the counter, “this is our old friend David Armstrong. David, this is your new co-worker, Cassie Jacobs.”
I nodded at him and we shook hands. His felt dusty. I realized it was flour. He went back to fixing his coffee the way he liked it.
“Sue mentioned that you started Wednesday. How are you doing so far?”
“I’m okay. I haven’t worked a weekend shift yet. Does it get really busy?”
“Sometimes, but it never gets as busy as the early mornings after we leave. You’re lucky to get this shift. They just expect you to keep the place clean while you finish doughnuts and fill the cases for the morning crew. A child could handle the trickle of customers.”
“That’s pretty much what Laura told me. What nights do you work?”
“Friday, Saturday, Monday and Tuesday. You?”
“Not sure. This is only my third night.”
I could see Sue frowning at me from the rear of the kitchen, so I excused myself and joined her. She was in a hurry to leave, so I clocked in and listened as she gave me instructions for the night. I was nonplussed when I saw the length of the finishing list for that night: not dozens, but hundreds upon hundreds of doughnuts, in every variety we sold. I mentally squared my shoulders as I wished her goodnight. It was naïve to assume this job would present no challenges.
I returned to the front so I could wait on Larry and Debra, to find that David had already served them.
“That was very nice of you,” I told him. “Thank you.”
“Just helping out ’til you get your footing,” he replied. “Did Sue give you the list?”
“Yes,” I said. “It seems … quite long.”
“It is. Friday and Saturday night productions are the biggest of the week. I suggest you get your big cleaning chores out of the way early. In about two hours, doughnuts will start pouring out of that fryer.” Upon serving up that visual image, he took his coffee and returned to the kitchen.
I turned to the Stones. “He’s very businesslike, isn’t he?”
“I think you’ll find,” said Larry, “that David takes all his responsibilities seriously.”
I took his advice and was as ready as I could be when the freshly fried doughnuts were ready. Armored in hairnet and apron, I frosted, filled, and dusted them. Occasionally, I trotted out front to sell some doughnuts or make a fresh pot of coffee. My night slowly passed in a blizzard of sugar and a mist of hot shortening. At four, David drained his coffee cup and shrugged into his coat.
“You appear to have everything under control,” he told me, digging out his keys. “You’re doing well, for a newbie.” He flashed me a friendly, crooked smile. Surprised, I returned it. He was so silent and preoccupied I was beginning to think he was surly.
“I’ll see you tonight. It’s been nice meeting you and working with you.”
“You, too.” He left.
Saturday night was a copy of Friday night, except that David began to talk to me whenever I was in the kitchen. It wasn’t a conversation as much as it was a narrative. He told stories about other doughnut shops—he learned his skills in high school—other bosses, and the Air Force. He had served as a communications specialist—which meant, he explained, a switchboard operator with a high security clearance—and had been discharged with the rank of Sergeant. By the time he finished his production and was ready to go home, I knew that he was not only good at working with dough, he was comfortable working with electronic equipment, wiring and almost any kind of machinery.
“Do you think you might want a career as a technician or mechanic?” I asked him as he was getting ready to leave. “You seem to be good at that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I am,” he agreed without a trace of arrogance. “I’m thinking about those areas, and I’ll make up my mind sooner or later. I know I don’t want to make doughnuts for the rest of my
“Cassie,” Larry began as I approached on the opposite side of the counter, “this is our old friend David Armstrong. David, this is your new co-worker, Cassie Jacobs.”
I nodded at him and we shook hands. His felt dusty. I realized it was flour. He went back to fixing his coffee the way he liked it.
“Sue mentioned that you started Wednesday. How are you doing so far?”
“I’m okay. I haven’t worked a weekend shift yet. Does it get really busy?”
“Sometimes, but it never gets as busy as the early mornings after we leave. You’re lucky to get this shift. They just expect you to keep the place clean while you finish doughnuts and fill the cases for the morning crew. A child could handle the trickle of customers.”
“That’s pretty much what Laura told me. What nights do you work?”
“Friday, Saturday, Monday and Tuesday. You?”
“Not sure. This is only my third night.”
I could see Sue frowning at me from the rear of the kitchen, so I excused myself and joined her. She was in a hurry to leave, so I clocked in and listened as she gave me instructions for the night. I was nonplussed when I saw the length of the finishing list for that night: not dozens, but hundreds upon hundreds of doughnuts, in every variety we sold. I mentally squared my shoulders as I wished her goodnight. It was naïve to assume this job would present no challenges.
I returned to the front so I could wait on Larry and Debra, to find that David had already served them.
“That was very nice of you,” I told him. “Thank you.”
“Just helping out ’til you get your footing,” he replied. “Did Sue give you the list?”
“Yes,” I said. “It seems … quite long.”
“It is. Friday and Saturday night productions are the biggest of the week. I suggest you get your big cleaning chores out of the way early. In about two hours, doughnuts will start pouring out of that fryer.” Upon serving up that visual image, he took his coffee and returned to the kitchen.
I turned to the Stones. “He’s very businesslike, isn’t he?”
“I think you’ll find,” said Larry, “that David takes all his responsibilities seriously.”
I took his advice and was as ready as I could be when the freshly fried doughnuts were ready. Armored in hairnet and apron, I frosted, filled, and dusted them. Occasionally, I trotted out front to sell some doughnuts or make a fresh pot of coffee. My night slowly passed in a blizzard of sugar and a mist of hot shortening. At four, David drained his coffee cup and shrugged into his coat.
“You appear to have everything under control,” he told me, digging out his keys. “You’re doing well, for a newbie.” He flashed me a friendly, crooked smile. Surprised, I returned it. He was so silent and preoccupied I was beginning to think he was surly.
“I’ll see you tonight. It’s been nice meeting you and working with you.”
“You, too.” He left.
Saturday night was a copy of Friday night, except that David began to talk to me whenever I was in the kitchen. It wasn’t a conversation as much as it was a narrative. He told stories about other doughnut shops—he learned his skills in high school—other bosses, and the Air Force. He had served as a communications specialist—which meant, he explained, a switchboard operator with a high security clearance—and had been discharged with the rank of Sergeant. By the time he finished his production and was ready to go home, I knew that he was not only good at working with dough, he was comfortable working with electronic equipment, wiring and almost any kind of machinery.
“Do you think you might want a career as a technician or mechanic?” I asked him as he was getting ready to leave. “You seem to be good at that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I am,” he agreed without a trace of arrogance. “I’m thinking about those areas, and I’ll make up my mind sooner or later. I know I don’t want to make doughnuts for the rest of my
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