THE BREAKFAST SHIFT started at six forty-five but I punched in at seven on a lucky day. It was still dark outside, no matter what time of year. The crew was always waiting in their early morning attitudes.
“You look like you’ve been screwing all night,” said Rambo, leaning against the register in his military pants, ready to start all his bullshit for the week.
“Smile,” said Dino every morning, deep-frying bacon for the fifty BLTs he’d make at lunch.
“Come pick out my numbers,” said Joe the cook. He was in the kitchen adding sugar to everything because Herbie, the boss, was so cheap he didn’t want Joe putting eggs in the meatloaf or using spices. Finally Joe just gave up on flavor and added sugar instead.
Herbie’s customers were living proof that you are where you eat. The breakfast club wasn’t too fascinating except for the couple having an affair. They snuck in a few minutes together before work every day, the guy coming in first, staring nervously at his coffee. Then the lady came. Her hair was done up like Loretta Lynn and she always ordered American cheese on a toasted English and a glass of water with a straw. They’d hold hands across the table and say things like, “Did you see Mel Tormé on Night Court last night?” Then she’d get in on his side of the booth and I’d leave them alone until seven-thirty, when she went off to work at the phone company across the street.
Every day was the same day. It started with breakfast, which is always simple. Most people want “two over easy whiskey down” or else “scrambled two all the way.” You always have to ask them what kind of toast. Then they leave you a quarter because they think breakfast doesn’t merit the same tipping scale as other meals. I’d like to remind them that a token still costs a dollar no matter what time you get on the train.
Herbie’s mother came in at eleven carrying shopping bags full of discount paper towels, or honey cake left over from her daughter-in-law’s party. Herbie could sell it for a dollar a slice. Joe called her “Greased Lightning” because she moved slowly but still managed to steal waitresses’ tips right off the tables. If you caught her in the act, she might give it back, but Momma was one of those bosses who hated to see the employees eat because she saw her money going into their mouths. She hated to pay them or see them get tips because somehow that money should have been hers. Her son was the same way, cheap. Herbie claimed that spring started March 1st. That’s when he turned off the heat, which drove a lot of customers over to the Texas-style chili parlor next door.
The lunch rush was a blur where I went so fast I’d forget I was alive and would dream movement instead, swinging my hips back and forth around the tables. This was the most fun because of the challenge and speed and the whole crew teaming up together, feeling closer. So it was always a letdown when the place emptied out at two o’clock, because that was it, money-wise, and the rest of the afternoon was going to be a sit-around bore.
By three o’clock the workers got to eat, which meant sneaking around whenever Momma or Herbie would turn the other way and popping something in your mouth. Technically we could have egg salad or French fries, but Joe would pretend he was slicing corned beef for a Reuben and leave a whole bunch on the slicer for us to grab. Then Dino would forget to put away the fresh fruit salad so we could all have a nice dessert. Only Rambo wouldn’t play along. He always threatened to turn us in but was too much of a coward. Rambo spent the entire day leaning against the register showing off his tattoos or talking about the latest issue of Soldier of Fortune magazine and how he wished he could have gone over to Lebanon or Grenada instead of being stuck back here in the reserves.
Work was so much the same every day and business was so slow that I had nothing to do but read newspapers and after that stare out the window. That’s when I would think about sad things. I couldn’t help it. So I started drinking with Joe behind the grill. I guess I just needed to sleep for a couple of weeks but I had to go to work instead, so drinking was some kind of compromise between the two. I knew enough, though, to keep in control of things or else the customers looked at you funny, which makes you feel paranoid and pathetic.
In the old days, I would come home from the restaurant and Delores would be there.
“Hi, baby, I missed you so much,” she’d say.
I’d put my nose into her neck and say, “Mmmm, you smell great.”
“You don’t,” she’d laugh, that strange Delores way of mocking and loving at the same time. “You smell like eggs and grease.” Then she’d kiss me on the face and slap my ass, being silly and mean and cute.
Even after I took a shower, I never smelled as good as she did. I had to settle for being a nicer person and what the hell does that mean?