Fork-n-Spoon

I don’t know, maybe it was the way the Help-Wanted sign hung in the window,
dangling from a single frayed bit of yellowed tape at one corner.
Like the sign was implying that they might need help, and I suppose,
from the outside looking in, that I might need a job.
So yeah I’ve washed dishes I tell the guy, and he hands me an apron.
It is 9 or so. Breakfast is in full swing. The residual is piled high in the sink plural.
I fill, scrub, and load.
The joint is standing room only.
The cooks appear to be on the mark. The wait-staff are hustling.
I am  just getting to where I can see the bottom, and this waitress comes up and starts wagging a spoon in my face.
She is real close. She was drinking Scotch last night close.
“We are outa spoons Toots,” she says.
“Toots?” I say.
“Whatever Toadie,” she says, “More spoons, pronto!”
“Spoons…gotcha,” I say.
She heels herself back into the fray, and I watch the flip-side of her stride.
Well sure, but Toadie? I figure she drug herself in from an all-nighter
five minutes late ten minutes ago.
Rough shape kiddo I figure, and pile on the spoons.

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