A Little Something for Santa
By J.M. Snyder
There’s nothing worse than pulling down the graveyard shift at Sylvia’s Grill. By seven in the evening, the dinner crowd has thinned out. Maybe we get a few families in before nine for dessert or ice cream. But after that, it’s basically dead until the next morning, when workers from the rubber plant start to trickle in for breakfast.
During that long stretch from midnight to five it was just Chris and me, wiping down the tables or sweeping the floor, cleaning the grill, cutting veggies and meats to keep up our stock. The stoplight across the street went on the blink a little after ten p.m. We moved around the diner at a languid pace. The whole night stretched out before us, an indeterminable wait.
Chris, the night cook, was a full head shor
