Third August entry- songfic!
Cherie reached into the dryer and pulled out her uniform. She examined the front of it, checking for traces of the iced tea she had spilled on it last night. Nothing stained like iced tea, and it had left a few, tiny sepia colored spots, but those were only visible from a couple of inches away. No one was going to be looking at her that closely. Thank God for small favors.
She still had fifteen minutes to get ready, but she took her time with her makeup. If Steve bitched at her for being late she could point out that he wasn’t paying her for those few minutes, and she had done most of the prep work last night, anyway. She paused in the kitchen, looking at the dishes Billy had left in the sink, the empty milk carton he had left on the counter. There was probably a dirty shirt of his on the back of the couch, too. She paused, twisting the thin gold ring she wore, wondering if she should tidy up before she left, but she was already late. Billy would have to take care of things when he got home.
“You’re late, babe.” Steve Cote, general manager, called all of his wait staff ‘babe’.
“Only by about half a minute, Steve,” Cherie dimpled. “Besides, I did most of the prep work last night.”
“Well, then, you can scrub table bases in the back section.” Denny’s was always busy, it being just off the highway, and just above the weigh station. Steve’s tyranny was just one of the hazards of the job.
Cherie punched in and grabbed a bucket of soapy water and a rag from the gleaming kitchen. It would be quick work to wash those table bases; Steve may be a bastard, but his restaurant was spotless- nothing ever got so dirty it needed a hard scrubbing. That done, she checked the salt and pepper shakers, the sugar bowls, stocked the coffee, and filled the syrup pitchers. The back section was now open for business.
Dinner was busy that night; the weigh station had been open, and Cherie’s section had filled up with truckers loitering around, waiting for it to close. So she ran around with umpteen pots of coffee, serving up burgers and club sandwiches and pie, chatting and flirting half-heartedly, waiting for them to leave so she could clean up and go.
Round about 8:30 the truckers cleared out; Cherie raced around her section, busing tables, filling salts and peppers and sugar bowls. She tidied up the waitress station, stocked the coffee, and filled the syrup pitchers. She punched out, grabbed the small bag she’d brought in with her, and dashed into the ladies room to change. When she came out, Mike was there waiting for her.
“Hey,” Mike smiled, “you’re looking fine tonight.”
“Hey, Mike, you’re looking pretty fine, yourself.” God, he was pretty as the devil.
“You ready?”
“Yup. Lets blow on out of this town.”
“Excellent. You still sure this is O.K.? You’ve taken care of everything at home?”
Cherie took a deep breath, and thought about the dirty dishes in her sink, the laundry in the bathroom. The close, hot apartment that smelled like last night’s dinner and old cigarette smoke. She thought of Billy, how he always had engine grease under his nails. How he’d fall asleep on the couch, surrounded by empty beer cans, the TV on all night. She thought of the note on the counter, with her cheap gold band resting on it. There was no turning round.
“Yeah, sure. I’ve got all my stuff in the car.”
“Great!” Mike smiled his beautiful smile.
Cherie took his hand, and they walked away from her broke down, unraveled life.
This story is how I imagined the first verse of this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TXSklbFBpU would play out. I just saw Slaid Cleaves at an outdoor concert last night; he was sublime, and I came home and wrote this.
She still had fifteen minutes to get ready, but she took her time with her makeup. If Steve bitched at her for being late she could point out that he wasn’t paying her for those few minutes, and she had done most of the prep work last night, anyway. She paused in the kitchen, looking at the dishes Billy had left in the sink, the empty milk carton he had left on the counter. There was probably a dirty shirt of his on the back of the couch, too. She paused, twisting the thin gold ring she wore, wondering if she should tidy up before she left, but she was already late. Billy would have to take care of things when he got home.
“You’re late, babe.” Steve Cote, general manager, called all of his wait staff ‘babe’.
“Only by about half a minute, Steve,” Cherie dimpled. “Besides, I did most of the prep work last night.”
“Well, then, you can scrub table bases in the back section.” Denny’s was always busy, it being just off the highway, and just above the weigh station. Steve’s tyranny was just one of the hazards of the job.
Cherie punched in and grabbed a bucket of soapy water and a rag from the gleaming kitchen. It would be quick work to wash those table bases; Steve may be a bastard, but his restaurant was spotless- nothing ever got so dirty it needed a hard scrubbing. That done, she checked the salt and pepper shakers, the sugar bowls, stocked the coffee, and filled the syrup pitchers. The back section was now open for business.
Dinner was busy that night; the weigh station had been open, and Cherie’s section had filled up with truckers loitering around, waiting for it to close. So she ran around with umpteen pots of coffee, serving up burgers and club sandwiches and pie, chatting and flirting half-heartedly, waiting for them to leave so she could clean up and go.
Round about 8:30 the truckers cleared out; Cherie raced around her section, busing tables, filling salts and peppers and sugar bowls. She tidied up the waitress station, stocked the coffee, and filled the syrup pitchers. She punched out, grabbed the small bag she’d brought in with her, and dashed into the ladies room to change. When she came out, Mike was there waiting for her.
“Hey,” Mike smiled, “you’re looking fine tonight.”
“Hey, Mike, you’re looking pretty fine, yourself.” God, he was pretty as the devil.
“You ready?”
“Yup. Lets blow on out of this town.”
“Excellent. You still sure this is O.K.? You’ve taken care of everything at home?”
Cherie took a deep breath, and thought about the dirty dishes in her sink, the laundry in the bathroom. The close, hot apartment that smelled like last night’s dinner and old cigarette smoke. She thought of Billy, how he always had engine grease under his nails. How he’d fall asleep on the couch, surrounded by empty beer cans, the TV on all night. She thought of the note on the counter, with her cheap gold band resting on it. There was no turning round.
“Yeah, sure. I’ve got all my stuff in the car.”
“Great!” Mike smiled his beautiful smile.
Cherie took his hand, and they walked away from her broke down, unraveled life.
This story is how I imagined the first verse of this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TXSklbFBpU would play out. I just saw Slaid Cleaves at an outdoor concert last night; he was sublime, and I came home and wrote this.