The first of a short story in three parts. A dramedy for mature readers.

“In a post-COVID world, a naive & lonely nineteen-year-old waitress crosses paths with a middle-aged, misanthropic line-cook.”

The following is dedicated to two special ladies – neither I introduced myself properly to, but from what I assumed formed the basis of the character of Cassidy; and to my wonderful wife, for whom if I ever were to leave, or her leave I, this story would stand as prognostication.

i

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

Arthur heard what she said, and the tremble behind it, “What did you say?”

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

“I don’t like people.” He intended that as a period and went back to work, but since he bothered to reply, it was an invitation.

“You can say ‘hi’.”

“Hi, huh?”

“Yeah. You know, saying hi probably takes less than a second. We have been here all night together.”

“Okay, thanks.” He went back to scrubbing the inside of one of the fryers.

It was after-hours one regular Saturday night in November. Arthur & Cassidy were scheduled the closing shift: they had both done it before, just not together yet. Cassidy saw it as an opportunity to get to know Arthur better, but, as was his norm now, all Arthur wanted to do was fight back his discomfort with stoicism, finish the job, and go home. He was bone-tired, and attacking a hard, crunchy bit of caked-on residue with a steel wool brush. He still had two more fryers to clean, and he had ten minutes until their scheduled shift ended at 10PM. These things were shit: no wonder management had to keep replacing them.

Cassidy had more-or-less finished everything in the dining room and was sweeping up in the vestibule, slowly and cautiously approaching the kitchen as she completed the spots before it. There were only the two of them left in the building, and she had the keys to lock up. Faintly, on the worn-out, twenty-year-old Phillips stereo that sat perched high on a shelf in the vestibule played the soft reverberations of Top-40 radio.

“…That’s it?”

“What else do you want me to say, Cassidy? I’m trying to scrub this shit off the fryer. I’m busy.”

“You know, just some soap and water would do the trick.”

“…Really?“

“Hey, if you want to stay here all night to win the war on dirt & grime, be my guest. But I’d like to go home at some point, and I’m all done, so…”

“Did you do the bathrooms yet?”

“Yes I did the bathrooms. I told you I was done. You don’t think I don’t want to go home, too?”

“You want to clean this too? Be my guest.” He rudely threw the brush down and stepped back, handing the reigns to her. She filled a red bucket with soapy water from the sink, took a rag, and wiped the spot. Even when hunched over, she still towered almost a foot above him. The crud began to break up, leaving the scratched surface from the wool brush underneath, “Okay, okay, okay, thank you so much.”

“See? You don’t have to be so rough with everything.”

“Listen, if you’re done, why don’t you go dust off the stereo speakers so I can actually hear something back here.”

“I would, if we had any dusters.”

“Then, I don’t know, go find the step-ladder and wipe off the little shelf it sits on. Oh wait, you don’t need that.”

“Har-dee-har-har.”

“I can be bratty, too.”

“Who’s being bratty?”

“You! You’re bratty. You’re a bratty girl.”

“…Is that some porn thing?” She was having fun with him, now.

“Whatever. Do whatever you want to do. That’s what you do anyway.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just leave me alone, okay?”

“No, what did you said?”

“I said you kids are going to do whatever it is you’re going to do anyway, so who gives a shit what I tell you, hm? You’re probably not even listening.”

“What’s this all about, Arthur?” It was the first time he had ever heard her say his name out-loud.

“Nothing!”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Fine, it’s you. You and all the other dumb White girls that get hired. Okay? You’re a bunch of entitled snowflakes who don’t know anything about putting in a real day’s work. Tell me I’m wrong! You all have your fucking hacks online to make shit easier for yourselves, while guys like me get shit on, even though I’m breaking my fucking back. It’s bullshit and I’m fucking sick of it.”

“Is that why you haven’t been talking to me? Because you think I’m a bad co-worker? Listen buddy, you don’t even know me. We’ve said more to each other tonight than we have in the whole three months we’ve been working together. You don’t say hi, you don’t look at me, you ignore me when I talk to you over the counter…”

[cont’d]