Sunday, June 3, 2012
Five Sentence Fiction: Orange (a slice of life)
Two forty seven in the afternoon, the restaurant’s waiting to fill with the after-school rush, so Jeremy takes advantage of the lull to call his buddy Dave and puff an illegal smoke in the back of the kitchen. Illegal smokes man, they’re the best kind.
“Granddad lives in Ithaca – he said I could stay with him for a while if things got too bad here, and I’d say wearing a paper hat all day, asking surly teens if they want extra packets of ketchup, certainly qualifies as bad…oh hey dude, gotta go.”
The bell on the door rings non-stop as the already greasy, young customers stream in for burgers and rite of passage mischief-making; Jeremy saunters up to the front counter, walking through the doorway’s long strings of plastic like entering a Vegas showroom.
Geez, of all the things I hate about this crappy job, those god-awful orange-crush countertops are what I hate most.