In Training

by Jan Matthews

“See that guy?” The senior waitress, Rhonda, pointed through the circle of glass in the swinging door between kitchen and dining room. A lone man, balding and age-spotted, occupied a table in a room filled with faded Victoriana and the winter sun. “He stays here four times during the year, alone. He eats the same thing every time. Eggs Benedict. Bring him two sweet rolls and decaff. You're new, so he won't trust you. Bring a steak knife with the eggs. Bring a separate plate of kale.”

“To eat?” Genevieve asked, thinking of the tough crunchy stuff between her own teeth.

“Yeah, the whole plate. Gross, huh?”

“And a knife for poached eggs?”

Laughter erupted in the kitchen behind them, and Rhonda smirked, drawing out the moment.

“Yeah,” she said. “So he can kill you if you get his order wrong.”

“Shut up, he's a nice guy,” the red-haired waitress, Sandy, said. “Don't listen to them, Genevieve, they're just trying to scare you.”

The breakfast cook, sweating in front of the grill, surrounded by boiling pots, said, “just don't make him mad, new girl.”

The prep cook shouted, “don't marry him and make him mad!”

Sandy shouted louder: “They can't prove anything!”

Rhonda glanced out the window to make sure their guest hadn't heard them. Genevieve looked, too, and saw him reading the paper, the knife in question resting across the remaining egg as he chewed kale.

“Shut up, you guys. Come here, you,” Rhonda pulled her away from the door with a gleam in her eyes. Genevieve couldn't help but follow. They stood by the salad prep littered with dissected cantaloupe, diced tomato, onion, and cucumber.

“Listen. He's been coming here for years. Always alone. Last year there was an article in the Herald about him. His wife disappeared. He came home one day, and she was gone. The front door lock was busted, some jewelry and television taken, some blood in the bathroom.” She lowered her voice, “it was hers.”

“No body,” the prep cook said, waving her knife for effect, “no crime.”

Rhonda said, “They always suspect the one closest to the victim.”

Genevieve tugged on her long brown braid nervously.

“Ya gotta have motive,” the salad prep said. “It's not like he can get her life insurance, not until they find her.”

“See? You guys stink. You want him to be a killer. Big deal. He's a nice old man.” The red-head said, filling the toaster with pale bread.

Genevieve said, “Maybe she has dementia and wandered away. My grandma did that for years before she died.”

“And their house got robbed at the same time,” somebody behind her snickered.

“That would be sad, “Rhonda said. “What if she was terminal, like a mercy killing?”

“There would be medical records,” the salad prep popped a head of lettuce onto the sideboard and ripped out its middle. “Dr. Kevorkian he's not.”

The door between kitchen and dining room suddenly swung open, then fell back, and they heard a grunt as the heavy wood landed on an arm with a rattle of plates.

“Heeere's Johnny,” the breakfast cook bared his teeth in a grimace worthy of Jack Nicholson.

Rhonda swore and waved her arms at the door, “it's him.”

“He can't come back here. Stop him, Genevieve,” Sandy waitress said. “Jesuz, never mind. Hey, Mr. W.,” she suddenly sing-songed as the door started to open again. “Hey, Mr. W, you've got to give it a kick, (if he slips and sues us…) Gee, are you looking for a job, we've got plenty of work here for you,” She helped him through the door, taking the plates expertly as he blushed, patting his arm once she had unloaded the plates into the dishpit. She glared at the kitchen staff in general and nobody spoke, but the work had effectively ceased. She talked him back out through the kitchen, held the heavy, double-hinged door as he smiled and apologized, and they stayed out in the dining room while bits of conversation floated back towards the kitchen.

“Boy, he's an old man,” the dish washer said. He scraped and loaded the plates Sandy had left for him.

Genevieve said, “What should I do?”

Rhonda smirked, “Bring him the check.”