Secret Sauce

Since his shift at the diner had begun earlier this Friday afternoon, Peter could only go minutes at a time without glimpsing at the clock on the side wall of the kitchen. Stuck behind the grill for hours, he was growing fierce with impatience- not for the end of his soon-to-be long night of work, but for rush hour. He was waiting for a very important customer to arrive for dinner.

Tonight would be Peter’s best, and perhaps only, opportunity to carry out his scheme. There was no chance of requesting another delivery from Thomas; his pharmacist friend had already risked too much for this one favor. Peter also couldn’t allow his weeks of surveillance, preparation, and planning go to waste with nothing to show for it. He possessed the plot’s single necessary ingredient. He had convinced himself that his motive was virtuous. He just needed the customer to not stray from their habitual path, and the rest he would take care of.

6:30 on the dot, Andrew entered the diner, exactly when Peter expected he would. Walking beside him was a younger woman. Peter didn’t know who this woman was, but her presence as his date made him more irate than Andrew’s attendance usually did. Along with them was a married couple; Peter recognized the wife as a clerk from the same bank Andrew worked at. They were all courteously laughing, as though someone had just told a mildly-amusing joke- probably Andrew. Peter had never seen any of the others as Andrew’s restaurant guests before. He figured none of them knew Andrew’s true self, the way he was able to see him, behind the façade that the banker had created. 

Andrew escorted his group to a burgundy-colored booth on the far side of the restaurant and invited the unknown woman to take the window seat- exactly where Peter knew he would go. While the patron’s choice of dining location had no effect on his plan, seeing him conform to his routines gave Peter more confidence that his earlier surveillance efforts would pay off.

“Hey, John, watch the grill for a minute, will ya? I gotta take a piss.” Peter walked towards the back of the restaurant, leaving the cook on deep fryer duty to watch his post. Finding no one around, he slipped inside the employee break room. He found his bookbag and hunkered over it, lest someone catch him in the act. He zipped open a small pocket, reached inside, and pulled out the amber medicine bottle.

The bottle contained only the minimum volume required for the necessary dosage; if any of the clear liquid was spilled or wasted, Peter would take it as a sign that the plot should be aborted. He grabbed the plastic syringe from the pocket and removed its small red cap. In silence, he contemplated both items in his hands. After checking over his shoulder to find an empty hallway, he drew up the remainder of the toxic liquid into the syringe and replaced the cap. The empty amber bottle was placed back in his bookbag, and the syringe was delicately stowed in his pants pocket. Peter drew in a deep breath before returning to the kitchen.

There was little to cover by John during his short break; no new grill orders had come in. Looking into the dining room, Peter saw that the patrons by the window still had their menus in front of them. Each of them except Andrew were facing down, studying their options, not entirely decided. As Peter anticipated, Andrew had determined his order with little hesitation.

The grill cook finished frying the chicken sandwiches in front of him and scooped a serving of generously-salted fries into the plastic serving basket. “Order 62, 62,” he called out to the waitress as he placed the basket on the counter. With the grill momentarily empty, he leaned back and stretched, his exterior casualness betraying his inner anxiety.

“Hey, if you’ve got nothing to do, go grab some more fries and tots from the freezer,” John exhorted. Peter wordlessly complied.

In the frigid storage freezer, he busted open new boxes of far-from-fresh French fries and tater tots. He grabbed a trio of bags from each box. Behind him, the freezer door got itself stuck closed from the inside again, as it did so often. To open it, the workers had to ram the door with full force as they simultaneously pressed the release button on the side. His hands awkwardly grasping the packages of potato products, Peter slammed forward once, twice, then thrice before correctly timing the impact. He cursed at the obvious safety-code violation before returning to the food prep area.

Hung above the grill, there were two new paper slips of customer orders. Peter saw that the menus at his table of interest were now gone. He glanced at the first slip: double bacon cheeseburger, with the works. Another expectation confirmed; this was surely Andrew’s order. The next slip read: single bacon cheeseburger, with the works.

Wait, Peter thought. Andrew does order the double right? Not the single? Yes. He was sure of it. Acronym DBC, as he memorized it. DBC, DBC. ...But could it have been SBC, instead? Not likely. But was it possible? Peter’s questions and his newfound doubts started feeding one another.

He looked from the paper slips to the conversation transpiring at the window booth. His focus strayed from Andrew to the other three patrons, as though his intuition was trying to sense their dietary cravings. Which it could not. And in Peter’s overly-cautious mind, asking their waitress what each of those individuals ordered- something he never did and would have no good reason to now- surely would seem suspicious. He was back to relying solely on his memory.

His mind still racing towards a solution, Peter plopped three quarter-pound meat patties on the grill, triggering the signature sizzling of frozen beef.

More so than the preferred dinner times and seating arrangements, for weeks Peter had paid close attention to Andrew’s favorite meals to order, discovering the banker’s exclusive affinity for the classic burger and fries. It was always the double he ordered, wasn’t it? But what if it wasn’t, and he was tainting the sandwich of someone else in the quartet? He certainly had no issues with these strangers, other than their oblivious choice of company for dinner. Even the minutest possibility of causing harm to one of them gave Peter qualms of uneasiness.

The grill cook flipped the beef patties for the first time. One crackling splash of the burger grease caught him on the arm. “Fuck!” he exclaimed sharply.  Though he was used to it and barely registered the pain of these minor burns anymore, he still couldn’t stand them.

Angrily wiping away at his arm with his short sleeve, Peter’s thoughts carried on. No, he concluded. It was always the DBC, it still is the DBC, and it would always be the DBC. He blamed his conscience for exploiting the coincidence of the similar orders and for driving doubt and reconsideration into his mind. But there was never any question which meal would be presented to Andrew. Peter’s head was clear again, and he could continue with the plan. He gently felt at the outline of the syringe in his pocket.

A short while later, Peter flipped the three patties once more, the sizzle of the beef much less dramatic this time around. He dropped four lightly-oiled sesame seed hamburger buns into the toaster. He turned and peered over his shoulder. John had his back to the burger grill, his attention divided unequally between the sunken baskets in the deep fryer and the smartphone in his hand. Peter then looked to the opposite end of the kitchen. It was another busy Friday evening for everyone else, it seemed. The other cooks on duty were all preoccupied with prepping salads, chopping produce, stocking shelves. The dishwasher was also distracted, facing several tall stacks of dirty glasses and greasy baskets waiting to be cleaned. None of the workers would be able to witness or distract him, it seemed to Peter. He convinced himself this was a good thing, but he needed to peer once more into the dining room to get further reassurance.

Soon, the beef patties were flipped for the final time. Peter topped each with a slice of golden cheese while adding several strips of fatty bacon to the grill. On cue, the buns dropped down from the toaster, and it was time to start dressing the sandwiches.

The cook placed the buns, crowns above the heels, on the prep counter in front of him. He grabbed the faded red condiment bottle and squirted a spiral of tangy ketchup onto the top buns. From the equally-faded yellow bottle, he added splotches of mustard. Next, a smoky white bottle dispensed the mayo. To one of these burgers, there was still a fourth sauce to be added to this layer, but Peter hesitated. He paused briefly, then began working on the sandwiches’ bottom halves instead.

On each of the bare heels, he neatly situated crisp leaves of iceberg lettuce, which were then topped by two thick slices of tomatoes. Peter took additional care and time to orient the toppings in an aesthetic manner, something he rarely gave the extra effort for. As he worked, he again felt the outline in his pants pocket, which now seemed much bigger to him than he recalled.

At last, the bacon and the beef were finished cooking. To one of the orders, Peter placed a single patty on top of the veggies, followed by the bacon strips. To the other, a helping of two patties and the strips. A plethora of pickles made nests of green atop the meats, and the thinly-sliced rings of white onion completed the burgers as ordered. He grabbed the top half of the single-patty sandwich and flipped it upon the bottom with one smooth motion. The finished product was nestled into a plastic basket lined with checkerboard paper.

No more opportunities for distraction or procrastination presented themselves to Peter. He stared downward, blankly. He stared at the two halves of the double bacon cheeseburger, still separated. He just stared and pondered, all the while feeling the outline.

His eyes glanced upwards and back into the dining room. He surveyed the diners at the burgundy-colored booth. They were all smiling, engaged with their pleasant conversation, enjoying their time and company. Including Andrew.

The sight of Andrew having this delightful evening got Peter’s mind operating again, with intensified focus. Past memories of Andrew ensued.

Memories of Andrew.

Memories of Andrew at the bank.

Memories of Andrew first meeting Julie at the bank...

Memories of Andrew and Julie.

Memories of Julie…

Suddenly, the syringe found itself on the counter, Peter hovering over it as he had in the break room. He didn’t bother scanning the kitchen for watchful eyes as he picked it up. He removed its cap and nonchalantly tossed it into the trash bin. Slowly but deliberately, he oriented the syringe in his hand and guided it over the sauces on the burger’s crown.

His thumb moved over the syringe’s plunger, ready to press down.

Here, his tunnel vision ceased. Gazing at the clear liquid poison held in his hand, Peter recognized the finality of what this act would achieve. His thumb kept in place, not pushing forward, yet not retreating. Peter silently cursed at himself for another bout of indecision, for letting himself get bullied with cowardly doubt.

His internal conflict was climbing to an apex. Feeling his eyes becoming watery, he scowled to keep the tears from forming. His hand still wasn’t moving, but he couldn’t stay like this for much longer; a verdict needed to be made.

Still scowling, Peter allowed himself to look up and towards the window. Just once more, he said.

The scene hadn’t changed: he was still sitting there, gabbing away, surrounded by the woman and the couple. Nothing was going to change.

Peter looked back down. He noticed that his thumb had migrated upwards, by mere fractions of an inch. He closed his eyes, the moisture building around them becoming unignorable.

Peter thought. Of Andrew, here.

Of Julie, gone.

Peter’s eyes opened.

***

It was 8:00 before the party of four got up to leave. The table was littered with crumbs and soiled dinnerware. Loosely scattered fries were all the leftovers remaining. The group walked towards the front doors, less chatty but in good spirits following a satisfying meal.

Vacantly, Peter watched them exit from the kitchen, no longer caring if anyone noticed his fixed gaze. He hoped his decision wouldn’t haunt him, though he realized the futility of this hope.

When the foursome was out of sight, Peter turned to the new orders hung above the grill. A chicken sandwich. A plain kid’s hamburger. A double bacon cheeseburger, with the works.