Backtracker

Chapter 10-1-1

Chapter 10“Hey, Dave, we need bakes," said Billy, dropping a metal tray on the counter of the fry cook station. "You got any done yet?"

Nodding, Dave swabbed sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Yeah," he answered breathlessly. "I just have to take them out of the oven."

"Well, hurry up," Billy told him briskly. "I need seven right now." Swamped with work in the middle of the hectic supper hour at the steakhouse, the zany and gregarious guy was now all business, focused and intense. The elfin grin which usually lit his face had been replaced by a rigid, determined expression.

"They're on the way," muttered Dave as Billy strode purposefully back to the broiler. Snatching the huge, padded mittens from the counter, Dave thrust his hands into them and tugged open the door of the top oven. There were two ovens stacked beside the fry station, and four racks of potatoes were baking in each of them.

Swinging the oven door wide, Dave pulled one of the racks out a little ways and held it there with one mitt; with the other, he squeezed several of the foil-wrapped potatoes and found that they were soft enough to be served. Dragging the rack from the oven with both mitts, he lowered it to the metal counter of the fry station.

Jerking open one of the long drawers under the counter, Dave dumped the potatoes from the rack into it. Dropping the rack on its side onto the floor, Dave slid it out of the way into the narrow space between the fry station and the ovens.

Two more racks of potatoes were also done, and Dave deposited those in the drawer as well, then shut the oven door. Flinging the mitts from his hands, he then grabbed potatoes from the bin and arranged them in a layer on the tray that Billy had given him; when the first layer was done, he plucked a knife from the counter and slit the foil and skin of each of the baked potatoes, or "bakes" as the crew called them. Once the meal assemblers got hold of the potatoes, they could just push the ends of each one inward and the steaming white contents would flower out through the slits.

After piling and slitting two more layers of potatoes, Dave hurried over and placed the tray on the metal lip along the front of the broiler. As soon as the tray touched down, Billy yanked bakes from it and slapped them onto platters which already held steaks.

"Party of seven!" he hollered, spinning around with four platters in his hands, turning so quickly that he barely missed colliding with a passing waitress. Depositing the platters on the yellow plastic trays at the assemblers' station, he turned and snatched three more platters from the lip of the broiler. "Get these out fast as you can," he instructed the two girls working as assemblers. "They're late enough as it is." Chucking the three platters onto one of the huge trays, he swung back to the broiler and snapped his tongs from the lip, resumed flipping steaks.

Hustling back over to the fry station, Dave jerked a wire basket from the vat of bubbling grease there. As the hot, dark grease drained from the basket, he let out a sigh of relief; he'd almost forgotten about the two breaded fish filets he'd been cooking, but he'd gotten them out of the fryer in the nick of time. Though the filets were just a shade too brown, they hadn't burned, and he could still serve them.

As he pulled the fish from the basket with a pair of metal tongs, then dropped the filets onto platters, he heard one of the assemblers shouting at him. Her voice was strident, her tone sharp enough to make him wince.

"Dave!" she blurted. "We're out of rolls again! We need rolls!"

"All right, all right," he answered, popping potatoes from the drawer onto the platters of fish. "You'll have them in a minute."

"We need them now!" blasted the assembler, her voice quavering between anger and desperation. "I've got a party of four that wants their meals, and they've been asking me about them every five minutes, and I don't have any rolls!"

"All right, I said!" hollered Dave, rushing over to fling the fish dinners onto one of the assemblers' yellow trays. "Gimme' a minute, okay?"

"I don't have a minute!" she snarled. "These people're getting pissed!"

"I'm sure they can wait one more minute," he huffed, jumping back to the fry station, grabbing a bag of rolls and a metal tray from the counter.

"You don't have to deal with these people!" she griped. "I'm the one they b***h at when they don't get their dinners fast enough!"

Grimly, Dave ripped open the bag of rolls and plunked them onto the tray. He had to fight to restrain his temper as the assembler continued to bark at him; his whole day so far had been terrible, and he was in no mood to take any guff.

The hectic steakhouse shift was just the latest of the day's difficulties, unfortunately. First he'd awakened that morning with a severe hangover, the result of his heavy drinking with Billy and Larry the night before. As if the pain of the hangover hadn't been bad enough, Dave had slept so late that he'd missed his first class at Orchard College...and he'd missed half his second class, too. On top of all that, his statistics professor had given a surprise quiz...a quiz covering material that Dave had planned to study the night before, but which he'd ended up not even skimming. After botching the quiz, he'd learned that final projects for his Auditing class would be due in two days; the deadline had been moved up a full week...and since he'd barely begun his project, he had no idea how he could finish it in time. The rest of his classes had been similarly disastrous.

All in all, it had been a lousy day. Dave had hoped that work would go smoothly, but the entire shift at Wild West had been awful. At this point, with the rush in full gear and the assembler in a rage, he just wanted to go home.

"Oh my God!" yapped the assembler. "You don't even have any rolls in the oven? What the hell've you been doing all afternoon?"

"Hey!" hurled Dave, shooting around to glare at her. "I said you'll get your damn rolls, so shut the hell up!"

The force of his anger surprised her, made her back off just a bit. "If you're just puttin' them in now," she growled, "I won't get them for another ten minutes!"

"So tell the people they'll just have to wait!" cracked Dave, swinging open the top oven. "Take them their meals and tell them the rolls will be out in a minute!"

"Easy for you to say," jabbed the assembler.

"Three dozen!" shouted Dave, throwing the rack of rolls into the oven, then tearing open another bag. "I'm putting in three dozen, okay? You'll have enough rolls to last the rest of the night!"

"Asshole!" hissed the assembler, but then she quit harassing him. As Dave loaded up trays of rolls, he heard her smacking platters around, venting her hostility on the innocent dinners. He heard her drop something metallic on the floor, and then she cursed and clomped off into the dining room.

Though he felt some small relief when the assembler departed, Dave was still riled, and he too started slamming things around. Fuming and flushed, he pitched another tray of rolls into the oven, then ripped open another bag and dumped its contents on the counter. When a third tray was full of rolls, he swept it into the oven and heaved the door shut. Scowling, grinding his teeth, he hunched and brooded, felt a great pressure building in his gut. Looking over his shoulder, he saw customers waiting in line, heads bobbing above the partition separating them from the cooking area; scanning the length of the partition, he saw that there was no end in sight, no end to the crowd clogging the steakhouse.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he snapped his head around to see Billy standing beside him.

"Hey, man," Billy said soberly, a look of friendly concern on his face. "Take it easy, all right?"

"Yeah, yeah," sighed Dave, shaking his head.

"Don't get so excited, okay?" advised Billy. "You're gettin' way too uptight, y'know?"

Dave released a long breath, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, I know," he admitted, placing his hands on the counter, letting his head sag forward. "I'm just having a really bad day, and this is starting to get to me."

"Hey, you'll have this," said Billy, patting Dave on the back. "Life sucks and then you die, right? Just get through it, okay?"

"Okay," Dave said halfheartedly.

"I mean it," Billy said laughingly. "Hang in there, bud."

"Okay," snorted Dave, actually managing a small grin.

"Okay then," said Billy. "Now get your ass movin' and get me some more bakes, man."

For an instant, Billy flashed his mischievous grin in all its brilliance, his lean, merry face looking for all the world like that of a leprechaun. Then, he again whacked Dave on the back and returned to the broiler, spinning his tongs on one finger like a gunslinger twirling his six-shooter.

A bit calmer after his friend's encouraging words, Dave resumed his work. Again pulling on the heavy mitts, he opened the top oven and slid out the lowermost rack of rolls. Though they were still quite pale, at least they were shaded with light brown, so they were passable. Removing the tray from the oven, he carried it to the assemblers' station, then opened a drawer there and heaved the rolls into it. Just as he did so, Cindy Stasko, the girl who had pestered him about the rolls, came back from the dining room; without saying a word, she hustled to the drawer and started yanking out handfuls of the rolls, throwing them into plastic baskets for the customers.

Glad that he'd pacified Cindy, at least for the moment, Dave headed back to the fry station.

At that point, just as he was girding himself to weather the rest of the rush, he felt another hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Mr. Wyland, the executive manager.

"Um, Dave?" said Mr. Wyland, an unreadable expression on his round face. "Do you have a minute?"

"Well, not really," Dave said tentatively. "I'm kind of busy right now."

"Well, I need to talk to you for a minute. What if I got someone to cover your station?" Though Fred Wyland was only in his late thirties, his hair was silver. Aside from the color of his hair, he really didn't look old; he was short and slightly pudgy, though he didn't have a great belly like Mr. Martin, and his general appearance was that of a man in his thirties. The silver hair seemed odd, unnatural, as if the premature lightening had been triggered by some terrible, secret experience in Mr. Wyland's past.

"Who can you get to cover for me?" asked Dave, wondering what was so urgent that Mr. Wyland couldn't wait to tell him about it. "Everybody's tied up, aren't they?"

"I'll bring Mitch out of the dishroom," said the manager, absentmindedly scratching his left earlobe. "You've got things pretty well caught-up, don't you?"

"Well, not really," shrugged Dave. "I'm kind'a backed-up, actually."

"Hm," said Mr. Wyland, glancing at the fry station. "I see." For an instant, the boss looked around the cooking area, apparently considering whether it would be wise to substitute Mitch for Dave. Finally, he nodded decisively and returned his gaze to Dave. "I'll only be keeping you a minute or two," he declared. "How about if you go tell Mitch to come out, and then meet me in the office?"

"All right," said Dave. "I'll be in in a minute, Mr. Wyland."

"Um, good," approved the boss. "Thanks." With that, he turned his back to Dave and headed down the line, pausing only for a second to peep over Billy's shoulder at the broiler.

Baffled by the mysterious summons, Dave grabbed a rag and quickly swabbed the greasy counter of the fry station. He wiped his hands, which were also greasy, and searched his mind for a clue to the reason for Mr. Wyland's impromptu meeting. It was certainly unusual for a manager to call an employee into the office during a hectic supper rush, when all able bodies were needed to handle the influx of customers.