Ruby Slippers 2

“Fire! Twenty-four, twelve, fourteen, please!” Miranda called over the kitchen din of clanging pans, slamming doors, and clattering dishes.

“Twenty-four. Twelve. Fourteen. Thank you, Midnight,” Eddie echoed, shuffling the tickets in the window. “Keep firing in multiples and I’ll shove this sizzle plate right up your ass. Thank you. Pick up on seventeen.”

“Yes, chef.” She grabbed the hot plates from the window and wiped the edges with a damp towel. “Seventeen walking,” she hollered as she kicked out the door.

It was eight thirty on a Saturday night and people were stacked up at the bar. Gina moved like greased lightening up and down the length of the marble counter, smiling wide. The entire house was full, and people were waiting for tables. For a broke-ass waitress it should have been a gift from the gods.

But Miranda eyed her station, cursing the stupid hostess, the cranky chef and the fates that had stranded her in the middle of this chaos. Too much to do, too many people, and a crap sense of timing had her sinking father down into the weeds. No matter where she went or what she got done, it wasn’t quite enough, and she just kept running. Twenty four needed more wine. Twelve needed more water. Fourteen needed to be crumbed. Four-top going down on thirteen, entrees to be cleared on fifteen. Had anyone even been to twenty three yet? Wait, was that her table?

Miranda determinedly wove her way to table seventeen, a four-top crammed into a corner. She squeezed her generous butt around the guests and between the wall, lamenting that pint of Ben and Jerry’s she had eaten last night as she laid the last plate down. She turned to make her escape when the old lady stopped her with a wrinkled hand.

“Bring me a Cabernet,” she commanded rudely.

No! No! Miranda screamed in her head. There’s no time! In fifth gear, trotting through the dining room at a forbidden near-run, Miranda fetched the wine, did a hurricane run through of her station, and waylaid Andie at the service station.

“Is twenty three yours or mine?” Miranda asked.

“Yours.”

“Ugh! I am so in the weeds and that ditz of a hostess keeps triple seating me!”

“Need some help?”

“You could take table thirteen.”

“Fat chance. Anything else?”

“Will you see if twenty four and twelve are up?”

“You got it.”

Andie rolled out of service and swung into the kitchen, emerging mere seconds later with wide eyes and an armful of food. “Def-con one, Midnight. You’d better hightail it in there,” she hissed.

Damn. Miranda no more passed through the door before Eddie was hurling abuse at her with the deadly aim of a knife-thrower.

“What the fuck, Midnight? You think this steak is just going to sit here and wait for you to show up? That Medium perfect just waits in time for you to stroll you lazy ass in here at will? Don’t think you’re bringing it back for a re-cook either! Its your fucking fault if its fucked up and you’ll fucking tap dance your way out of it or pay for it yourself! Now get this shit out of my window and onto the table before I come out there and throw it at you! And I mean fucking now!”

“Yes, chef.”

“Don’t ‘yes, chef’ me. I know what that means in waitress speak. Get the fuck out of here. And you’d better be back in thirty seconds for fourteen.”

Miranda hustled out of the kitchen, tears stinging the back of her eyes. She would not cry. She would not cry. She would not cry. As the doors swished behind her, she started to cry. Damn.

“I hate this job.”

With full hands and a plate burning the inside of her wrist, she snot-sniffled her way into control. She pulled the tears back with a titan effort. There wasn’t time to cry. Miranda brazened up a bright smile from the crack of her ass and crossed the bustling room. With an effort born from years of service, she managed to deliver the food, and even a pretend laugh at the guest’s little joke before returning to the scene of the crime.

Eddie said nothing as she gathered the plates from the hot window. He didn’t even look at her when she burnt her finger on a nuclear hot plate, jumping with a soft curse. He just slammed the oven door with his foot and crashed some pans to the burners. But his eyes. Oh, Lord, those eyes…

Worrying her lip between her teeth, she left the kitchen and delivered the food. Without even looking at her other tables, she rushed into the hidden service area and sat on a glass rack, head cradled in her hands.

“Doesn’t seem to me that you’ve got time for that,” Cindy murmured, flipping through her cheques at the POS.

“God, I don’t care. I need to get it together and I just can’t manage to.”

Cindy patted her shoulder before peering around the wall. “Nothing out there you can’t handle. Need something?”

“A shotgun. You to take thirteen.”

“Nice try.” Cindy laughed. “Its just food, Midnight. He’ll forget about it in an hour. Now get up and hop to.”

Miranda levered herself to her feet. She took an exaggerated breath. “There’s beer at the end of this,” she murmured to herself with false brightness and a fake smile. She braced herself and approached table thirteen.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” she began smoothly. “It’s been a real madhouse.”

“Is that where you’ve been?” joked a fat man in the corner.

Ha. Ha.

“Shut up, George,” his dyed-blonde wife snapped, flashing up a hand adorned with a diamond the size of pigeon egg. “Bring me a Manhattan. And none of that fancy bourbon. Just the well. Two cherries.”

Miranda cringed.

“Aren’t you going to write this down?” she asked. “Its not just my drink you have to remember. There are four of us here, and we’d prefer you got it right the first time.”

Miranda just blinked. But she dutifully pulled out her pad and pen and pretended to make notes.

“Manhattan. Well. Two Cherries. And you, sir?” she asked the older gentleman sitting across from she who shall be known as Das UberBitch.

“He will ‘ave a martini. Vodka twist. Very cold,” his wife answered with a faint, annoyed French accent. “As will I.” Her eyes glittered with possessiveness.

As if.

“And I believe the ot’er gentleman will ‘ave Scotch. Neat. N’est pas, George?” she asked with a raised brow. He merely nodded, the idiot.

“Certainly. Thank you, ma’am.”

“Lets see if you can manage to bring them before ‘ell freezes over.” And then she waved a hand dismissively, gold bangles clanking, attention already turned to her menu.

Miranda inhaled deeply before turning away. Somehow, it still surprised her when people were this blatantly mean. She should be used it by now, she knew that. Some people were just jerks, she realized that, too. And, her carefully cultivated indifference should be kicking in right about now. Tonight, though, it just wasn’t happening.

For some reason, a reason she would never be able to explain, perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was foreshadowing, perhaps it was the demons dancing in the moonlight, who the fuck knew….but this woman, this bitch, this one moment, made the slumbering hellion within her arise in full, golden glory. Hello there, old friend...

Said bitch blathered on, blithely unconcerned.

“What a stupid girl,” she complained en francais to her companions. “A waitress. And a bad one at that. Her mother must be mortified.”

“She is only a waitress, Paulette,” replied her diamond-burdened friend. “Maybe that’s just the best she can do. Its not like she was smart enough to get a better job.”

“Ah, well, that is no excuse for mediocrity.”

Not even a full step away from the table, Miranda twitched beneath the outrage, and the hellion spread its dragon’s wings. Oh, dear god, how she wanted, with every unreasonable fibre of her being, to make this particular woman suffer.

Maliciously, she changed direction away from the bar and went back into her station. She spent a full five minutes there, tending to everybody else’s needs and ignoring the rude stares from thirteen completely. She put everything to rights with a graciousness that effectively hid the roiling disgust that churned through every vein in her body.

Then, and only then, did she head to the bar.

Gina strolled over. Her blue eyes were bright with interest as she quickly poured drinks and made change, keeping her attention rooted firmly on her friend at the end of the bar.

“I don’t like the set of your eyes, Midnight,” she said calmly, watching Miranda ring up the ticket.

“I think I’m going to dump every ounce of these drinks into that bitch’s lap. I think then I am going to spit on her, wrestle her to the ground and beat her with my Doc Martens. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself, Gina.”

Gina pulled a face, and raised her brows. “That’s probably not such a good idea, sister.”

“No. No, its not. But I really don’t care right now.”

“Of course you care.” She replied over the clatter of shaking vodka and ice. “What’d she do?”

“She called me an idiot. In French. Right in front of me. Said I was too stupid to get a better job.”

“Mm. Don’t you speak French?” She poured the drink into a chilled glass with style.

“Of course I speak French.”

“And aren’t you, like, a genius or something?”

“That’s what the tests say.”

“And the best you can think of is to dump the drinks in her lap? C’mon, champ. Where’s my WonderTwat?”

That split Miranda’s lips into a reluctant smile. “I hate it when you call me that.”

“You love it. Don’t pretend.” She reached over the bar door to pat her friend’s shoulder. “Now go over there and make me proud.”

Miranda laughed, and the demon temper beneath her skin subsided only to be replaced with its far-worse compatriot, demon mischief. She was smarter than that. And she knew a little secret. Which was this: There is only one true idiom in the service industry.

Don’t screw with the last person who handles your food.