You step down from the bus into a tepid rain. It hisses and departs in a swirl of exhaust, leaving the raindrops to fall greasily on your skin. Reluctantly, you raise your eyes to the dilapidated building with its gray-green, peeling paint, the dimly lit windows, and the splintered stairs. A feeling of inchoate doom washes over you.
Every food-service job you’ve ever worked has been this way, though.
The nameless, ramshackle structure before you displays but one sign, half-legible in the enshrouding mists, reading Cthalamari. Bad when a restaurant can’t even spell its own specialty, but it’s not like you have a choice: compared to the economy of the New Orleans suburbs, the building is in great shape. For the thousandth time, you regret dropping out of school because everything was so stupid. You were lucky to be hired, and for a bit more than minimum wage at that.
Inside, the dingy dining room is still mostly empty. A sallow-faced waiter with a sullen expression and glassy eyes leans up against the bar. He jerks into motion. “One for dinner?” he grunts.
“No, I’m the new hire,” you say. “Is Rod here?”
The waiter’s mouth opens and closes several times, and a strange popping noise comes from deep in his throat. “Rod? No, he’s… in a meeting. In the back.” He looks you up and down. “You joining us, then? What did… Rod… hire you to do? Dishwashing or prep?” Then his eyes light up, and he smiles strangely. “Or are you the new host?”
You blink. You figured everyone would know you were hired to wash dishes. Prep would be hard, but if you could fake your way through it, you’d have job security: no one wants to fire a good prep guy. But then, you’ve never been allowed to work the front of the house. Hosting would be easy, and you might be able to get a position as waiter yourself. Maybe even this guy’s job? He looks greasy and lazy anyway. What do you say?
Do you…?
Tell the truth and say you’re here to wash dishes.
