Hello dear readers,

It’s been a while since I put a story on this blog–so I thought I’d give you a treat. This is one of the stories I plan to include in my next book, a collection of short stories.

Enjoy!

Kathy Joyce Glascott

  War Is Declared

It was Friday night, the first night of her new job waitressing at Murphy’s Bar and Grille, and Sandy was nervous.

Entering the bar, she quickly joined the staff sitting around a table in the back dining room.  Tom, the bartender and manager, introduced her to everyone.

“Sandy’s going to be helping out on weekends as a waitress,” he said, nodding toward her. “So, this is the setup. You and Peggy work the dining room at your assigned tables. Peggy’s going to give you the fifty-cent tour, and show you how it’s done. Right, Peggy?”

Peggy looked Sandy up and down. “If you say so. It ain’t exactly rocket science. You take orders and bring food, and make sure you get the money.”

Ignoring his ace waitress’ cavalier attitude Tom continued, “I’ll show you how to order at the bar. Okay?”

Sandy nodded, wiping her sweaty palms on her pant leg.

“Don’t worry; it doesn’t get too busy until around six. And the rush ends by eight-thirty,” Tom said.

Peggy smiled smugly. “C’mon, green horn. Let’s get started.”

The restaurant soon filled up, and Sandy found herself rushing from bar to kitchen to dining room and back again. She thought that she had the routine down, but every time she went to pick up an order, Peggy beat her to the platters of food, insisting they were for one of her tables. Soon Sandy’s customers were complaining that they were waiting too long to be served. She apologized over and over again and finally resorted to offering free desserts and extra refills on the drinks to quiet their complaints of being slighted.

Meanwhile, Peggy sailed around the room like a queen visiting her subjects, flirting with the men, planting a baby pink lip-sticky kiss on the older men’s bald heads.

Tom called from the bar, “Sandy, here’s your order for number five.”

When she started to reach for the drink, Tom leaned forward and narrowing his eyes, said, “You’re embarrassing us, girl. All I hear are complaints. Maybe this job is too hard for the likes of you.”

Sandy’s shoulders slumped. The pace was so hectic; she didn’t have a moment to catch her breath.

“And how many free desserts have you served? You’re paying for them, you know.”

Suddenly Peggy charged up and began to load the beers and soft drinks onto her tray.

“O-h-h-h, no, you don’t,” Sandy said firmly. “This isn’t your order.”

“Try and stop me,” Peggy answered, flipping her straw-like bleached blond hair.

Sandy elbowed Peggy out of the way, quickly picked up her order, and delivered it to the waiting couple. The wife, a bulky woman who wore knit pants and a sweatshirt with Buffalo Sabers emblazoned on it, scowled and said. “Finally! We could a died of thirst waitin’ for you.”

Sandy wanted to snap at the woman—and her husband who wore a baseball cap with the Buffalo Bills logo. Instead she bit her lip.

“Sorry ma’am, I’m new and I’m just learning.”

“Well, next time we’re askin’ for Peggy. At least she can get the food out before midnight.”

The woman shifted her bulk on the chair. Sandy saw Peggy scurry across the room with yet another tray laden with food.

“Oh shit,” she snapped.  The woman looked startled.

“What did you say, miss?”

“She’s got my orders again!” Sandy said angrily, as her tray fell to the floor. It clattered. Everyone in the small dining room sat at attention.

“You witch, give me those!” Sandy shouted as she lunged toward Peggy.

“Help someone! She’s gone crazy!” Peggy screamed frantically.

Sandy grabbed at the tray Peggy held in front of her like a shield.  She yanked the tray toward her, and the plates started to slide toward the floor. Peggy righted it, and pulled hard in her direction. Sandy countered with a solid tug. The plates clattered and filets of fried fish the size of a baseball mitt became airborne. Both women watched, mouths agape, as the fish spiraled toward them. They ducked, sending the large tray clattering to the floor while cole slaw, macaroni salad, French fries, rye bread and butter rained down on the nearby tables.

The patrons screamed and covered their heads with their hands. A few of the women held up overstuffed purses like umbrellas.

Other diners sat with their forks frozen in mid air.

Tom emerged from the bar, his face scarlet. Sandy thought she saw a pulse throbbing on his temple.

“What the hell are you two doing? Pick up that mess. And serve these customers.” Tom’s voice was filled with rage.

No one breathed in the silent room.

Hours later, after the frenetic rhythm of the dining room calmed down, Tom cornered Sandy and Peggy in the service area of the bar. A few of the regulars were seated on high stools, drinking beers and badgering each other.

“Listen you two. The only reason I didn’t throw your sorry asses out of here earlier is because it’s hard to find help.

Peggy sneered. “You ever think of paying better?”

Tom glared. “Another night like this and you’re both out on the street. Think about it, ladies—there’s only one other job where you get take-home pay the day you work…is that what you want to do? Everyone can be replaced.” He strode away.

Peggy leaned forward and, with her face inches from Sandy’s growled, “I can make your life pretty miserable.  And if you think tonight was bad …well, I’ve been known to send other waitresses home crying for their mommies.”

Sandy wondered if working at Murphy’s would be worth the hand-to-hand combat in the war Peggy had just declared. Fingering the tips she had earned that night in her pocket, she imagined the money piling up, paying for new clothes, and maybe a car.  She raised her water bottle as if as if proposing a toast.

“Don’t worry, Peggy. I’ll be back and ready for combat tomorrow. Cheers!”