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“I NEED POOOOOO!” Spider-Man wriggled. Flushed cheeks and a tight frown screamed, Now!
I can’t take kids to the loo! Can I? Eyes sweeping over father of the year, still glued to his phone, Ben pointed to the far side of the restaurant. “The restrooms are—”
“He can’t go on his own!” The tween rolled her eyes and dropped her phone on her unopened menu. “I’ll take him!” Shooting daggers at Ben and her dad, she slouched her way out of the booth, grabbing her squirmy baby brother under his arms.
With Spider-Man and his older sister gone, their dad’s mind elsewhere, the seven-year-old slowly slipped—first his chest, then his head—out of view, disappearing under the table. ‘Elsa’, all big blue eyes and button nose, hid behind her dad’s right arm and peeked at Ben.
“Um, sir…” Ben bit his cheek as one of his co-workers launched into “New York, New York” a few tables away. Fighting her vocals, he shouted in the quietest way possible. “I think your son is under the tab—”
“Hold on, Gene!” Furrowing his brow, the father acknowledged Ben for the first time, pointing at his own ears. “I can’t hear…look, it’s my divorce lawyer. Could you just—?” Without waiting for Ben’s answer, he vacated the booth and pushed past servers and customers until he reached the diner’s vestibule.
Right. Ben exhaled heavily and set down the dirty plates, crouching down to join the boy under the table. Padding over lost straws, forgotten fries, and dirty lemon wedges, Ben spotted something shiny. He reached out to grab it as a small swinging sneaker clunked him in the temple. “Oww!” Cheers, Elsa.
“Ben?” The scuffed shoes of Stavros stood pigeon-toed in the aisle.
The little boy scooted out into the light. “He took my toy!”
You little shit! Climbing out, a blush rose on Ben’s cheeks as his stomach let out a protracted growl. He stood up, his hands sticky and the knees of his black trousers gray with dust and crumbs.
The manager frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Finding this.” Ben handed the kid his toy and glanced at the princess sitting alone at the table, drumming a chicken wing bone against the ketchup bottle then lifting it towards her mouth… “No, don’t—”
“Where’s Dad?” The tween pushed past with Spider-Man in tow.
“I’m here.” The father grinned. “Let’s get some nachos.” Prying the chicken bone from Elsa’s grip, he picked up a menu and flipped through, stopping to read the kids options to her. Spider-Man fought over his dad’s phone with fidget spinner kid and the tween lolled her head against the booth, looking like she wished it would swallow her up.
Stavros shouted in Ben’s ear, “You’ve been on the floor—wash your hands before picking up orders, okay?”
Yeah, I know, mate—I wasn’t born yesterday. Ben pursed his lips and reclaimed the dirty plates, avoiding any eye contact with…
“Hold your horses, sonny!”
Pain in the arse at table six—for fuck’s sake, what now?
“Get them to sing something good.” Sauce-stained fingers crept up her straw as she slurped her soda refill. “Like ‘Memory’ from Cats.”
A tight smile crossed his face. “Sorry, we don’t take requests.”
“What do you do?” She pounded the empty glass on the table. “It certainly isn’t your job!”
If I wasn’t broke, I’d tell her where to stick her request.
She rose to her feet and pushed past, her weary hubby offering a withering smile.
Ben collected the check and their cash. No tip. Fuckers. He frowned, stuffing the coins and bills into his waist apron then stormed off to the garbage bin, hidden away behind a half wall. No one’s watching, right? He pinched a few fries, stuffing them in his mouth—the first food he’d eaten in almost twelve hours. Ahh, so good! Chewing quickly, he grabbed a few more and scraped the rest into the trash before visiting the restroom to wash his hands.
Okay, what’s next? He took the family’s order and waited for another server to finish on the computer touchscreen. Hugging his snarling stomach, he watched co-workers rapping a tune from Hamilton atop the narrow catwalk snaking between booths. So cool!
“All yours, Ben.”
“Cheers.” Punching in his employee code, the tip of his tongue slid across his lips, his brain struggling to concentrate. Two co-workers chatted behind him, snickering about menu items they would never eat. Ben smirked, reminding himself never to try the pot pie.
Twenty minutes later, his orders were ready. Sirloin steak for the dad, mac ’n’ cheese sliders for Spidey, nachos for fidget spinner kid…
In two trips, he delivered the family’s meals. “Careful, plates are hot.” He set down their dishes with an oven mitt and a relieved smile. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Hold on.” Clenching his jaw, the father wiggled his index finger for Ben to lean in. “I told you I was vegetarian. I ordered the lentil soup and gluten-free chopped salad. I can’t eat that!” He shoved away the sizzling steak. “What’s wrong with you?” The entitled snark accompanying his sneer suggested he’d have no problem reporting Ben’s error to Stavros.
