Cutting it Close

For the first time in a long time, you wake up before your alarm.  There’s a serene calm about the early morning that isn’t often appreciated what, with the alarms and daily routines.  You often drift through it in a haze, your heavy eyelids flutter as they attempt to ease the transition from dark to light.  As you lay in bed staring up at the blurry outline of childhood posters, you think about what the day is going to bring.  Work mostly, a full day of walking around serving hungry patrons who don’t care if they can’t remember their order, but they’re pretty sure you got it wrong.  Then, after the sweet sensation of telling your final customer that your shift is ending, you’ll march to the back, enter your employee ID and clock out.  You haven’t lived a very long life, but you know that the closest thing to pure joy is the sentiment of clocking out as another clocks in.

An ear piercing screech startles you awake, your hand shooting out instinctively in search of your phone.  There’s a loud thud as it crash lands, missing the pile of dirty laundry and careening into the hardwood floor of your room.  You follow close behind, rolling your protesting body out of the warm cocoon of blankets and duvets.  As you stumble through the dark hallway your foot narrowly misses a box full of forgotten knick knacks and doo dads from your past.  Your mother dropped them off somewhere between a day or two weeks ago after she and your father had finished one of their famous impromptu cleaning sessions.  An annoying tick at the back of your brain begins to itch as you remember a forgotten to-do list.  With a practiced response, the list is pushed back into the recesses of a mental closet, destined to sit and collect dust with other projects you’ve deemed less important.  

Another alarm goes off, the digital siren echoing through your empty house.  You rush through your morning routine, painfully aware of the passing time.  Breakfast will be a poorly ratioed bowl of cereal, the excess milk acting as a substitute for the proper cup you normally have.  Despite the rush, you take the time to check your mail.  You forgot to check it yesterday and your painfully small mailbox is almost overflowing with flyers.  The colourful pages are easy to sift through, most of them going directly into the recycling bin.  A dark purple envelope catches your eye.  

Again, despite the lack of time, you hesitate before opening the envelope.  While you tear it open your eyes flutter across a similar envelope partially hidden under a growing pile of irrelevant papers.  There is no need to fully read the letter, its message a rearranged version of its predecessor.  An invitation to a company wide hunting trip, the RSVP deadline tonight.  You shove both envelope and letter into your back pocket and head out the door, your fingers mechanically pressing the correct configuration of buttons that command the lock.  There isn’t a lot of time left, your job is waiting.

Your watch reads 09:13 

People find comfort in repetition.  You remember one of your professors mentioned that in a lecture once and now you find it nearly impossible to ignore it when you see it.  Your coworkers run the same routes through the restaurant, always finding a way back to their predetermined path.  Your supervisor, whether she realizes or not, incorrectly punches commands into the POS system before correctly inputting the proper command.  Returning guests tend to lean towards familiar menu items.  

When the door chimes you’re already there, the correct amount of menus in hand as you ask the customers how many are in their party.  You lead them through the restaurant, expertly weaving through the tables until you arrive at an appropriately empty one.  With this newest addition, your section is full and a sense of serenity washes over you.  

“Excuse me?”

You turn and smile at the woman sitting alone at a table for two.  You recognize her as a regular, usually accompanied by her sister.  “Yes, how may I help you?”

“I’m ready to order.”

“Of course, an apple pie with a coffee? One milk one cream?”

A look of surprise mixed with a subtle hint of embarrassment appears on her face.  “Am I that predictable?”

You shrug as you write her order down.  “You’ve been here a lot this past summer.”

She laughs.  “Please, don’t remind me.  Three weeks in and my summer body is already at its limits.”

“Well, if you don’t mind me saying, that man over at the table by the window hasn’t seemed to notice, or doesn’t care.”  You nearly frown as the words tumble out of your mouth, such casual conversation doesn’t come easily.  However, happy guests give tips and flattery leads to happy.  

The woman looks to where you’ve gestured and looks the man up and down before turning back to face you.  She self-consciously tucks a stray hair behind her ear and looks down at her table.  

You smile and tell her that you’ll be back with her coffee.  Even with your back to her, you can sense that she has turned back to the man by the window, trying to gain his attention through quick glimpses.  A soft crunch from your back pocket draws your attention away from the waiting food under the heating lamps.  You reach around your body, your fingertips lightly brushing against the envelope.  After putting the woman’s order into the system you walk towards the lockers in the backroom, the envelope already in your hand ready to be stored.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting something in my locker,” You reply.  One of your coworkers stands beside you, putting something of hers in another locker.  “You seem to be doing the same.”

“You’re hilarious,” She remarks sarcastically.  “I meant with that woman you just took an order from.”

The two of you walk back into the main area as you think of a clever way to dodge her question.  “Why?  Is she still trying to be subtle about her staring?”

Your coworker, Michelle, looks over.  “Um, yes?  How did you know?”

“A few weeks ago she came in with her sister and I overheard them discussing a particularly attractive man sitting on the patio.  Both of them stole quick glances throughout their meal until the man left.”

“And you remembered all of that?”

“I’m observant.”

“Being observant leads to deciding to try and set her up with a random man?”

You shrug.  “If it means I’ll get a good tip from both of them, why not?  I have to go, there are orders waiting to be delivered.”

In a not so subtle retreat, you rush over to collect the waiting meals.  With what can most likely be attributed to luck, or for those more lenient with mythical beliefs fate, one of the meals belongs to the man by the window.  Out of the corner of your eye, you see the woman following you as a predetermined path takes you past.  

“Your meal, sorry for the wait.”

The man doesn’t reply right away, his phone held up to his ear suggesting you’re interrupting a phone call.  After a quick goodbye, the phone is set down next to his car keys on the table.  The phone is replaced by cutlery and the man looks up excitedly.  

“Thank you.”

You nod in return and walk back towards the back area.  A quick glance tells you that the woman’s coffee was delivered.  In an almost impulsive decision, you stop yourself from walking past the table.  

“How is everything?”

The woman smiles and insists that the coffee is fine.  “Do you know him?”

You look over at the man then back to her.  “Not personally, no.”

“But-” She pushes.  

“But, I know he’s a regular here.  He likes the seat by the window and almost always eats alone,” You hesitate before continuing.  You’ve already decided that you’ll tell her everything you know about the man, but she can’t know that.  On top of that, suspense always adds a nice spice.  “He drives a Mercedes and most likely has money.  Where he gets it from, I’m not sure.”

“That’s what you’re unsure about?” She chuckles, taking a sip from her coffee.  

“Yes?”

“How often does he come here that you’ve gathered all of this information?”

You frown and think back.  There are distinct memories of the man as far back as six or eight weeks, so that’s what you tell her.

“You remember that far back?”

Again, you shrug.  “I’m observant.  He also likes to talk with the servers.”

You excuse yourself and finish your journey to the back.  There’s a clock above the dishwashing area, a brooding reminder of the time spent.  Or lost.  In this instance, it is a reminder of how much time you have left to do your job.  

For the next hour and a half, you swiftly waltz along the floor taking food and drink to their consumers.  You cash tables out and have them replaced with fresh bodies.  You keep an eye on your more longterm guests, making sure that they’re comfortable.  An annoyed look from one of your supervisors tells you that they disapprove of the slow turnover in your section but you ignore her.  If the guests feel rushed, they won’t enjoy themselves as much, they’ll become quicker to act in a hostile fashion.  A more relaxed guest is a happier guest.  

Somewhere, a watch chimes, signalling the hour.

With a newly discovered energy, you swiftly make your final rounds.  All of your tables ask for their cheques and you happily oblige.  You’re surprised to see that the woman with her apple pie hasn’t made her way towards the man at the window.  When asked why, she tells you that after careful consideration, window shopping seemed better suited.  You smile at her pun and rip her receipt from the machine.  She thanks you and asks if it’s okay for her to stay at the table until she’s finished with her drink.  Another smile, this time accompanied by a nod of affirmation.  Soon after, you tear your final receipt across the metal teeth of the debit machine, ready to clock out.  You give an appreciative nod to the woman as you pass her by one last time.  

The clock above the dishwashing area stares menacingly at you as it watches your closing routine.  Count your cash, count your receipts, count your tip.  All arbitrary to you, the numbers not something you usually care enough about.  As your supervisor seemingly takes her time doing a final count of everything you are thinking about the purple envelope waiting in your locker.  You can see its message, having read it multiple times while on your break.  

Hunting and Camping

Will you be attending?

It’s your last chance to let us know!

RSVP by tonight at 2100 hours.

“You’re all good to go, see you tomorrow.”  Your supervisor drones.  

“I’m actually gone for two weeks, my time off was approved last week.”  You reply, politely rushing out of the office.  

“Oh, okay.  See you in two weeks then.”

You wave your goodbye, your hand already in the locker grasping for the purple envelope.  As quickly as possible you change your shoes and put your jacket on.  Then, without so much as a goodbye, you leave through the back door, heading towards the parking lot.  In the rapidly fading sunlight, you can see your car and beside it, a sleek silver Mercedes.  You approach your car, the lights flickering as you unlock the trunk.  

Your watch reads 19:49.  

The door to the trunk pops up and with your spare hand, you push it open the rest of the way.  Your camping gear sits in a disorganized array, something that you fix in a hasty fluster.  

Your watch reads 19:55.

The lights of the Mercedes beside you flicker, its owner a steadily growing figure coming towards you.  Silently you close your trunk, do up the last few buttons on your ink-black jacket and melt into the night.  

Your watch reads 20:50.  

The parking lot lights cast small pools below them,  a silhouette shimmers as it walks just along their borders.  Your breaths are coming out in short static bursts from exhaustion and possibly nerves.  You called in your RSVP minutes ago, painfully aware of the looming deadline.  The sound of heels click-clacking against cement grows louder, the silhouette begins forming into a figure.  Before you can see their face you turn your attention to the trunk of your car.  With a push of a button, it has popped open once more, revealing its load for the figure beside you.  

You take a step back, allowing her to inspect the contents.  She expertly sifts through your equipment before opening the bag next to it.  Satisfied, she steps back and closes the trunk.  

“You’re cutting it close.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t make it a habit.”

“Of course.”

She looks you over and notices you looking at the white plastic bag at her feet.  Swiftly, she bends over to pick it up.  

“I couldn’t help myself,” She sighs, shaking the bag so its contents rattle.  “The apple pie is just too good.”  The woman turns to look at the silver car beside her and shakes her head with disappointment.  “Such a waste of a beautiful car.”  

“See you at the campgrounds,” She says over her shoulder as she walks away.  “Don’t be late.”

“Yes ma’am.”  You reply.  

You watch her walk away until she gets into her own car.  Her taillights fade as she drives away, leaving you with an empty car and a full trunk.  An alarm beeps in the night.  

Your watch reads 21:00.