By: Todd Mercer

We had a genuine Chef running the kitchen, but she got angry and walked out. Now I’m stuck peeling plastic off trays of Lunchables and restacking the heavily processed morsels of meat and cheese on to our charcuterie boards. Business considerations include that the pack costs $2.50 at the grocery store, but when I send it to a table with the board as value added it costs $14.95.

This is my third week working the back of the house here at Condiment’s’. Originally, I bussed tables. Then they threw me in the Dish Pit. From there, Prep. I was on my second day of breaking down huge boxes of broccoli into tiny baggies of single servings. Not to brag but I had that down cold. Then the Chef left.

Now, I’m the Chef, my first ever actual cooking job. Why not start at the top? Right? I didn’t know jack-squat, acknowledged. So I asked everyone else what the Chef did for every dish. Not kidding—I had no idea.

The Health Department must’ve heard that we were particularly vulnerable. They sent a pair of white-gloved Inspectors over to find fault and disapprove and tell me about something called “standard practices.” They didn’t order us to shut down, but the list of concerns to address was voluminous as a CVS receipt. The part of me already hating being in charge hoped I would be let go for these lapses, but the owners really needed me or basically any warm body with a pulse. Every area eatery was historically understaffed.

The owners of Condiment’s’ literally told me they have too much going on in their lives to expend focus on the restaurant. They empowered me to make a lot of decisions, which I didn’t ask them to do. Zach is big into snowboarding and Janelle’s hobby is overseas vacations. They neglected to tell me why they started the restaurant or what their vision is. Very possible that there’s no vision.

My instinct told me to keep pushing those restacked Lunchables and smile as much as I possibly can. My gut said to keep pumping chicken nuggets through the fryer and glad-hand the customers maniacally if ever I’m caught up on orders.

Zach and Janelle want me here whenever the restaurant is open. “Own it!” Zach stressed repeatedly, over the phone. I get giddy thinking about the paychecks, though apparently it takes at least 6-8 weeks to set up direct deposit, so nothing ‘til then. So Zach told me. Had to borrow gas money from my neighbor to get here, but sooner or later I’ll be rolling in cash. Well, not sooner.

At the peak of the Friday dinner rush, an interloping customer leaned over the pass uninvited. He had questions about our sign outside, the name of the restaurant. At dinner rush. Yeah.

“Hey, man,” he said, “I think your apostrophe is broken.”

I mumbled random whatevers. It was loud in there and I had a full flat-top going.

He shifted, this witty man. He asked, “Are you Condiment? If not, is that the owner? Could you get me Condiment on the phone?”

This guy who cracked himself up prepared for creating trouble with several Miller High Lifes, the day’s sale beer. That alone made me lose respect. What’s wrong with this world, that so many quality craft beers exist, yet huge numbers of people continue to love watery American lagers? Exhibit A: Miller High Life. It was difficult to remind myself that the customer is always right, etc. It grieved me to give this shoehorn enough leeway to be a douche in.

Thankfully our new dishwasher averted a crisis by guiding the guy back to his seat.

I had around thirty tables’ tickets lined up on the rail, whereas we only have twenty-four tables in-house altogether. That kind of night. I fantasized about those easy early shifts, bussing tables without a care. Wish I’d known then how sweet I had it. Hindsight thing.

After half an hour passed, I was only about ten tables behind, practically groovin’, and felt cautiously positive about the improvement. My mood was recovering.

Then I heard, “You can’t put an apostrophe both before and after the possessive “s.”

When that guy sued me later in Civil Court, he claimed I cold-cocked him with a spatula. And hey, maybe I did. Who can say? Can he identify the spatula? For a hot minute I felt very distant, distinctly dissociated from my body. I do remember that the mockery stopped.

The dishwasher was so sure that I was going to be fired that he began watching videos on his phone in the Dish Pit about How to Be a Line Cook. He saw that I saw what he was doing. He shrugged and said, “No offense, bro-migo.” In his mind he was already the boss. A kind and patient boss, but successful.

Weirdly I felt a calmness I hadn’t experienced since my first promotion. The customer called the police. You know it.

The police called Zach, but he was boarding down an epic mountainside, so they called Janelle. Janelle called me (from Belize), not to fire me, but to assure me that incidents like tonight’s go with the territory. “Part and parcel,” she said. “Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

Zach also called minutes later (from the lodge in Colorado) and civilly yet firmly busted me back down to Busser. Which was more than fine with me. I don’t think he realized that there were no Cooks left on the schedule who knew how to Cook.

People like him don’t get caught in the angsty trap of details.

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Todd Mercer’s short collection, Ingenue, was a winner of the Celery City contest. His digital chapbook, Life-wish Maintenance is available free at Right Hand Pointing. Recent work appears in The Lake, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and the Michigan Barfs Poetry Anthology.