The Last Shift
I feel as if the best stories start in the depths of hell, so let’s begin here: the night I’m fired from Denny’s. It’s an early Saturday morning, specifically 3:04 a.m., when I get fired by the one and only Big Chris.
I’ve been working here for quite a while, or at least what feels like awhile. Over the past four years I’ve served during the night shifts. I usually come in around ten or eleven and work ’til God knows when; by that point I’ve reached zombie mode and not even coffee can do enough to save me. I’m stuck working with these guys each night, along with the various characters of customers finding their way in and out.
One of the guys I work with is Manny, our dishwasher. He’s not too old, in about his mid-thirties, unusually short with a thick, murky mustache that covers his upper lip. Manny’s the type of guy who distracts you from every waking task you have but never lets you realize this. I’ll come in to drop off some plates and before I know it, I’m telling him stories about how a sea turtle attacked me on my last family vacation or how my girlfriend once sold a taxidermy chicken for a thousand dollars. In two minutes, he knows everything from my second cousin’s birthday to my little sister’s favorite cereal.
Because of this, our manager lets him play music on a speaker in the back, but this almost makes things worse. Now when I walk in, Manny’s there singing into the bottom of a glass cup, serenading me with either Tupac or Eminem. We’ve had more dinnerware break in the last month than in the past two years. I love the guy, but it’s starting to become a bit much at times.
The next guy I work with is Craig, our cook. Craig is the cool grandpa everybody wishes they had, even if you don’t want to admit it. And even if you have a cool grandpa, you still want Craig to be yours. His puppy-brown eyes and wrinkled skin just add to his whole persona. He’s always greeting me with “huns” and “sweeties” which I normally vomit at the sound of, but because it was Craig, they were always accepted. He is the sweetest guy anyone could ever meet, it’s just too bad he can’t work for shit.
Craig is one of those horrifyingly terrible workers but has been around far too long to fire. Instead you keep them on the job hoping one day they’ll improve, but never do and somehow, they even manage to get worse. Now don’t get me wrong, Craig is an amazing chef, but he messes up nearly every single order, every single night. Which wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but I’m the one losing tips because of it. For example, one day I had an order for eggs over easy, lightly crisp bacon, and some buttered toast. I got scrambled eggs, burnt bacon, and the poor man didn’t even remember the toast. The bacon was so burnt it looked like the bottom of a fire pit after the fire. It’s not like he can’t hear me right, because he repeats each order back to me perfectly correct. At this point I’ve started telling him the opposite of what I need with the hopes that I’ll get lucky and get exactly what I need.
The next is our other waiter, Eric. Now there’s nothing too wrong with Eric; he’s a great worker, gets his shit done. But at the same time everything is wrong with Eric. He’s your basic wannabe frat boy. The kind of guy that wears khaki shorts in negative degree winters. The kind of guy that still talks about whatever sport he was semi okay at in high school (it’s lacrosse, in case you were wondering). The kind of guy that still feels the need to show off every single one of his Fortnite wins in order to proclaim his masculinity to others.
The first time I met the guy was the time I caught him stealing tips from one of my tables. I marched right over to him and this is how the conversation went down:
“Oh hey, you must be that new girl, yeah? Lacey?” He licked his thin, colorless lips while looking me up and down as if I wasn’t just standing there.
“And you must be the one that steals everyone’s tips, yeah? Shithead?”
“Only the cute ones.” He winked and I felt myself about to vomit.
“All right, well, hand them over.” I motioned with my hands for him to cough up the couple of dollars.
“Only if you hang out with me on Saturday.”
“As much as I would love that, I actually have a girlfriend.”
“Oh, well, that’s perfect for me actually. I’ll come hang out with you both and then return the money.” He shoved the bills deep into his pockets.
“Rigghht.” I looked around for customers before kneeing him in the stomach. He fell over much faster and much more dramatically than I presumed he would. I bent down next to him and retrieved not only my dollars, but probably some of his as well.
That’s basically how it went and not much has changed. Most of our current conversations still include him trying to “hang out” or begging me to bring my girlfriend to work sometime. He still tries to steal my tips. After each table leaves I run back before the little shit beats me to it.
But now we’re definitely at the last and least of them all, my manager, Big Chris. Everyone always wants to know why “big”? Sure, it’s kind of a weight thing. He looks like the blueberry girl in the Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory, but that isn’t exactly why we call him that. It’s probably because he’s the man in charge and while he is supposed to be helping us through the night, instead he does a big nothing.
Before I get into it, before I talk about the countless scenarios and stories about him, I would like you to imagine every single bad boss or manager you’ve ever had to deal with. Now, I would like you to imagine all of those people as one. That¾that is who Big Chris is.
He’s the type of manager to sit in his office watching Netflix, which is bullshit because we’re all out here busting our butts to get everything done and he has the audacity to occupy himself with nothing. At the same time though, when he does come out to “help,” all it really is, is him yelling and complaining to us about stuff we are already working on. He ruins our whole system by bossing us around with stuff he’s just too lazy to do himself.
The beginning of the most terrible shift of my life starts out pretty normal, maybe even good. We are all in back, in the dish room with Manny jamming out to “Lose Yourself,” singing about Mom’s spaghetti. Whenever we aren’t busy, we always find time like this to slack off. It’s this harmless fun that keeps most of us from hating our jobs. Manny is standing on a bus tub in front of the dish line. Craig and I are his two background singers on his sides. Eric throws dollar bills at us while cheering and whistling.
Not even a minute later Big Chris stomps into the dish room. We all stop immediately as if we are playing a scary game of freeze dance. Manny drops yet another glass right before Big Chris starts his terror.
“This isn’t some fun house we’re running here, get back to work or I’ll find ya more to do!”
Everyone rushes out like sheep scattering from a wolf. I see Manny behind me picking up pieces of glass while getting the same lecture he has gotten so many times before. I make my way around taking orders and cleaning tables. I begin cleaning sections and Big Chris yells at me for doing that wrong. He’d probably yell at me for walking wrong if he really wanted to. That’s when I can feel it. That’s how I know it’s going to be the worst and my last night at this Denny’s.
An older couple walks in and I quickly make my way to greet them before Big Chris has one more thing to yell at me about. The couple looks like the trucker type, probably here on their lunch break. They both wear black leather vests with baseball caps.
“Hey folks, how are you doing tonight?” I put on the fakest Disneyland smile I can manage.
“Oh, you know,” the woman with long, noodle hair sighs. I nod sympathetically before turning my back to lead them to their table. Now before I can explain this next monstrosity, I must provide context of what this specific Denny’s looks like. The layout is almost like a perfect rectangular “H.” The middle cross is where the kitchen is located and below that is the host stand and entrance (where we are currently). In the two bottom legs and the top right leg is where all the seating areas exist. The top left, the bathrooms. Now, I seat them at a table over in the lower left part of the “H” and as soon as I start to walk away, I hear the woman yell, “Um, miss?” I turn back around flashing them a smile.
“Yes?”
“Can we please have a booth, they’re better for my back.”
“Of course.” I move them two tables down in a booth. I proceed back to the kitchen when I hear her again.
“Oh, miss?”
“Yes?” My smile is fading.
“This is too close to other people. I want to be able to hear what I’m saying if you don’t mind.” I glance around the restaurant to see only three other vacant tables. I almost roll my eyes, but instead nod and lead us all over to the bottom right of the “H.” Once I select a booth and place both plastic menus on the table the woman wags her finger at me and points to the upper back part of the restaurant, usually reserved for parties. I dread bringing them over there, but I do.
“All right, it’ll be right here for ya. It might be a moment until I get over here for you just because my other tables are on the other side.” I explain politely.
“Oh my gosh, that’s so stupid.” The woman moans and the man with her clenches his teeth at me in a way that says he’s sorry. Big Chris eyes me to get back to my other tables and I scurry over to them like a little mouse.
And that’s when I see her seated in my section.
Pickle Lady.
Now this lady is the kind that servers will sit in any section but their own, and because Eric is the only other server on, of course I get stuck with her. Basically, this woman is never satisfied with any amount of pickles we give her and yet here she is, back again.
“Hi ma’am, how are you tonight?” I click my pen. She smells like hot dog water and the smell already starts to seep into the rest of the restaurant. Customers look around in question of what and where the odor is coming from.
“Just great.” She flips through the menu, even though she gets the same thing every time.
“Just the cheeseburger for ya?”
“And extra pickles,” she smiles extra bright so I can see the yellow of her teeth.
“Of course.”
When I ring in the order to Craig, I look him dead in the eyes and say, “Craig, I love you, but I swear to God if you fuck up this order, I will have to murder you.” He laughs at me, but for a moment I don’t feel like I’m joking with him. In fact, I feel as if my whole life depends on if this man puts twenty-seven pickles on this damn burger.
“I’m serious, Craig,” I place my finger down on our small expo line to show I mean business. It’s messy and full of crumbs, the man can never keep a clean area in that kitchen.
I then head over to my third and only other table (thank God) and for a change they are actually really sweet. It’s an adorable young couple with their daughter that looks about six or seven years old. Why are they here so late? Maybe they’re on vacation or something. All that matters to me is the fact that they are the only table that doesn’t make me want to kill myself. I’ve already gotten their food out, easy orders, nothing complicated like fucking Pickle Lady over here. Serving them is the most therapeutic and simple task of my shift.
In my spare second, I check my phone to see cute little texts from Lillian. She knows my job is shit and does so much to at least put me in a better mood. Already picked up your faves for tonight. Don’t worry about the rest of rent, I got us covered. Just don’t die at work, I need your warm cuddles :). I smile at the thought of getting home to her. It makes getting through shifts a lot easier knowing I have the most amazing person to see afterward.
I pass Eric and he nods toward the kitchen to let me know my food is up. I pass one of his tables which is occupied by two girls that are so drunk I wouldn’t be surprised if they stood up on the table and started singing “A Thousand Miles” by Vanessa Carlton.
“Hey girl!” The one with pink glitter eyeshadow shouts to me. They both wave me over and I cautiously make my way to them, afraid they might smother me with hugs. The girl without makeup has teal-blue hair and begins touching my straight blonde hair, saying how she wished they had some like it.
“Your skin is just so clear!” Pink Glitter nearly yells.
“And her green eyes are so radiant!” Blue Hair joins in.
“Also, we just see how hard you’re working,” she slurs on every single word. “And we wanted to give you something special.” She hands me something like one does in order to get into a fancy restaurant even though they don’t have a reservation. Pink Glitter nods and mouths what I think is the word “enjoy.” I thank them and continue my way to the kitchen. I look down into my hand to see a Starbucks gift card, but it’s so faded I can barely make out it’s prominent logo. Love that.
Eric runs up to me as if he has something important to say, but I should have known it was just going to be some Eric bullshit.
“So, you like my table twenty-eight?” He winks at both girls and they giggle in enjoyment.
“Maybe, if that means you’ll find someone and finally leave me alone.” I sigh.
“Never, you always come first, Lace.” He smirks. We’ve been working for so long I can’t tell if he’s serious anymore or just likes fucking with me. Probably both.
“Craig says your food is up for Crazy Pickle. I yelled at him to make sure it’s the exact amount because even I don’t wish that woman upon anyone.”
“Thanks.” I nod. Once I arrive at the kitchen Craig is already waiting for me.
“Hey hun, I fixed those orders for ya, sorry about that.” He smiles his sweet and adoring smile. I almost melt, but then remember I have tables to get to. I bring the trucker couple their food and they seem surprisingly okay, maybe even happy. I head over to Pickle Lady in hopes for the same. Her burger is so covered in pickles that I can’t even see the patty. It’s just bread, pickles, and more bread. I cross my fingers, hoping it’s enough to please her.
“Here ya go, ma’am.” I set the plate on the table and clench my teeth waiting for her approval. I watch as she pulls off the top bun and inspects the sandwich like a detective on the scene of a crime. She rolls her eyes as far back into her head as she can and lets out a long, dramatic sigh.
That’s when it begins.
“I am a good Christian woman. I don’t deserve this. All I ask for is a burger with exactly twenty-seven pickles and you idiots can’t even do that. Do you see my issue?”
Big Chris hears the yelling and immediately comes out to the incident. If only it were him coming to save me. He pushes me to the side and puts his hand over his chest to show he sympathizes with the customer. They both look over and start bitching me out as if I’m the crazy one that asked for twenty-seven pickles on a fucking burger. Big Chris fixes the burger and brings me to the back to have a “talk.” He sprays me with saliva while repeating the “customer is always right” phrase. I honestly never understood that bullshit quote because, like, if the customer punched me in the face, would they really still be right? Well according to Big Chris they probably would be. He begins threatening to fire me, which he does often, but never actually does. He’s always bluffing just to seem like he has power, saying stuff like “one more thing and it’s over.”
After a little while most things have calmed down, and the only table I have left to cash out is that sweet little family. The wife has gone to the bathroom and I go to pick up the check from the husband. I bring it to the register and cash it out, but on the tip line where an amount of money should be listed is “call me baby” with a number attached to the end of it. I stare at it in disbelief. I’ve had guys write some pretty nasty things on my checks before, but never a guy with a wife anddaughter, let alone while they are both here with him.
“Eric,” I shout across the entire restaurant not caring, just wanting to know how to handle this. He jumps up from stacking glassware and comes over to me.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” I shove over the check. He lets out a laugh that sounds like a chainsaw. I give him my best angry mom look and the laughing stops.
“Okay, okay, sorry. I would maybe go to the wife because, like, she deserves to know her husband is a piece of shit.” I nod and go back over to the table before my doubts stop me from confronting the situation.
“Excuse me miss, I think there might be a problem with the tip.” I reach down to show her the bill. Her eyes grow wide in disgust as she turns to her husband who seems to have no idea what she would be upset about. That’s when she turns back to me.
“Why are you making moves on my husband?” She raises an eyebrow. I can actually feel the muscles in my jaw drop.
“He wrote that to me,” I point out.
“Well maybe if you weren’t so flirtatious during dinner, he wouldn’t be giving his number to you.”
“I wasn’t flirting and even if I was, it wouldn’t be to him because I have a girlfriend.” I feel my voice rising. I’m so fucking confused. She stands to size me up and I can’t even believe what she says next.
“Ohhh, so you’re trying to make moves on me then?”
“What?! No?” I see Eric in the corner of my eye, bent down and laughing at the whole situation and maybe if I weren’t directly in it, I would be laughing too. Because seriously, how does this shit always happen to me? The daughter looks totally unfazed, as if this kind of thing happens often. The wife then puts both of her scrawny arms up as if she’s ready to box me, but I’m positive this woman has never fought anyone in her life. Like the Hot Cheeto with fake nails type. All talk, no walk. Big Chris is already booming his way over to intervene. He puts on his fakest nice voice and addresses the wife.
“Hello miss, what seems to be the situation here?”
“Your server here keeps trying to put moves on my husband and me. And then, she threatened to fight me.” She sounds like she genuinely believes what she’s saying. He turns to me, hands on his hips, and this time I can’t help but slip.
“Oh my fucking God. I did not. I promise.” I feel tears filling my eyes, but I’m not sad.
“Lacey, you already know what we talked about earlier, the customer is always right.”
“But I really didn’t do anything like that I swear,” I try.
“That’s it. I told you one more time and it’s over. Lacey, you’re fired. Get your stuff and get out.”
This time he isn’t bluffing.
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Victoria Barney is a Creative Writing Student at Columbia College Chicago. She has been an editor for Hair Trigger and is always looking for new experiences within the writing world. Additional information can be found at https://nerdfightertori.wixsite.com/mysite.