Night Shift

“Monica! Monica, be a doll and bring out those burgers, will ya? Them people been waitin’ for them for damn too long,” Simon yelled from the kitchen as he put more burger patties onto the sizzling grill.

“It’s not like they’ll starve or something,” Monica replied from behind the counter, slightly annoyed while tapping a pint for an elder man with a salient moustache at the bar. “And don’t’ you call me that again, Simon, you damn well know I don’t like it.”

Simon chuckled but didn’t say anything, leaving her in doubt whether he realised that she actually meant it.

“Cheers, doll,” the moustache man she just served said before taking a healthy sip from his beer.

She was just about to snap at him when she remembered that Todd, her boss and the owner of the pub, had warned her that were he ever to see her in a row with a customer again that would be her finished – considering how many times that had already happened it was little surprising, really. Despite the indifference that she felt when thinking about leaving this place for good, Monica knew that she needed the job to get her through her degree. So instead of saying anything, she just took the ten-pound note that Mr Moustache gave her without insisting on change and, with a brief nod, signalled her gratitude for his generous tip before moving on to the next customer.

The place was packed and Monica cursed behind her breath – this was going to be a long and rough night, as Fridays tended to get at the pub. Generally, she wasn’t opposed to having lots of people around during her shift, not at all – it made work pass a lot quicker and at the end of the night, there were also more tips. But ever since good old Todd decided to reduce the number of staff per night shift for “economic reasons” it has become a fucking nightmare. Now, Monica was running around like crazy all night, taking orders, tapping beers on end and serving food and all for the same wage as before just so that the lazy bastard could exploit his employees to the fullest and maximise his profit – it was ridiculous.

Monica took the two plates that Simon asked her to bring out and felt that they were already cold, hoping that the two unlucky guests wouldn’t notice. Other than that, the burgers looked good; they were garnished with their famous homemade chips and tartar sauce and at that moment, she would have liked nothing better than to sit down and to have one of those burgers herself, maybe with a nice glass of wine. She sighed and moved across the bar area to deliver the order at the wooden tables and, much to her dismay, realised that the two plates were supposed to go to table 16, a table she had hoped to dodge all night. It was occupied by what looked like a classic vaudeville team, with an incredibly fat guy on the left whose arse cheeks were hanging over the edges of his chair and another fella on the right who was as thin as a toothpick. The lads started to look at her hungrier than at the food she was bringing.

“Awright darlin,” the chubby one slurred, looking her over from waist to chest and back, not once glimpsing at her face.

“Tell me, when is it you’re done here, love?” Mr Toothpick grinned through crooked teeth. “How about a wee ride after your shift, eh, what do you say?”

Monica forced a smile, put the plates down and didn’t say anything. Daft pricks, she thought as she made her way back behind the counter, certain that they were having a good look at her ass while greedily munching on their chips and sucking the grease from their fingers. For whatever reason, some people seemed to think that it was legitimate to treat a waitress like total shit after midnight, and Monica knew that it was time to do something about it.

It didn’t take long for her two favourite guests of the night, fatty and toothpick, to complain about their food. Considering that they had both eaten over half of their burger, Monica doubted that anything was the matter with Simon’s food and that they were just trying to get some more for free. Besides, they were both so smashed, she was certain that they couldn’t possibly distinguish if something tasted good or bad even if they wanted to.

“Listen, just bring us another burger love, will ya? I’m telling you, there’s something off with this one. It’s the meat I think, too underdone. Aye, that must be it,” fatty concluded with an assuring nod before downing the remains of his pint. “And bring us another pint while you’re at it.”

“So you’re telling me you had to eat over half of the burger to notice that the meat was underdone?” Monica asked, amused at the absurdity of it. She didn’t wait for a reply though and headed straight back to the kitchen with the plates. For the first time that night, she knew exactly what to do.

–

“Them fuckers say my burgers ain’t no good then, eh?” Simon asked bewildered, his trembling index finger pointing at the remains of the two plates. Monica knew that he took his work as a chef very seriously, as his bulk and massive belly unmistakably indicated, and it always seemed to hurt his pride when a menu was returned to the kitchen.

“Don’t you worry about that, Simon, I’ll take care of it,” Monica said, gently guiding him to the back entrance of the kitchen. “You go and have your smoke break. I got it,” she told him reassuringly.

Once Simon was out, Monica got straight to work and put two burger patties on the grill. Shortly after, the pleasant smell of sizzling meat filled the air, and she began to whistle Wind of Change, one of her favourite tunes. Then, she took out a tiny bowl to which she added a healthy amount of their tartar sauce and began to stir it with a spoon until it was nice and smooth. She watched her saliva slowly dribble from her bottom lip into the bowl and had a good look at the different liquids, tartar sauce and spittle, before dissolving any recognisable difference with a healthy stir. She was actually enjoying herself so much that she spit into the bowl a couple more times. Then she remembered one of the chapters of Welsh’s Trainspotting that she had to read for one of her literature seminars at uni – all of a sudden, her English studies didn’t seem as pointless as people always told her, even if its utility has so far been restricted to messing with other people and, now, new on the list, with other people’s food. Utility is all a matter of perspective, Monica always told herself. She swiftly flipped the patties over and made her way to the bathroom. As chance would have it, Monica was in the middle of a heavy period, and she quickly swapped tampons, wrapping the used one in a bit of toilet paper and taking it back with her into the kitchen. She squeezed the tampon out over the bowl and blended the newly added slimy threads with the tartar and the spittle until it was all one good-looking healthy sauce. May I present, our new homemade tartar sauce, exclusively for our special guests, Monica thought, rubbing her hands in anticipation.

After bringing out the food to fatty and crooked teeth, Monica couldn’t help but constantly have an eye on the two, obviously for different reasons than team vaudeville had in mind, who responded to her glimpses with lustful glances. Will they notice? How much will they eat before they do? She didn’t know, but she was eager to see and hoped that people did not notice how nervous she was. After all, this could get her in real trouble.

–

“Eh, doll, come on here for a second, will ya,” the bony one beckoned while fingering some chips.

That’s it. I’m screwed. Can I get in jail for this? With wobbly feet, Monica made her way over to table 16 and, for the first time, was anxious to hear what the two were about to say.

“Listen, be a good lass and bring us some more of that tartar sauce, will ya? And my regards to the kitchen,” he said.

“I told you Simon wouldn’t disappoint!” fatty roared with his mouth full, the poor chair underneath him squeaking dangerously.

Monica burst out laughing and the two joined in, not knowing what the laughter was all about.

She happily came back with the rest of her special sauce and watched them eat the lot, hoping that the chair would ultimately give way under the fat bastard’s weight. But even if it didn’t, smiling had suddenly become a lot easier.