Run Like Hell!

Run! Run! Run!

The hot plates were burning my arms as I carried two stacked in my left arm and held one in my right hand.

The smell of cooking meat hit my nostrils. Was that food I smelled or was it me being slowly cooked by the burning crockery? God, I hope it wasn’t me I thought.

Run! Run! Run!

I dropped my plates off at table thirty and ran back to the kitchen to pick up another stack of three plates to take to the same table.

Standing in line by the kitchen – plates of food were spitting out like ticker tape during trading hours on Wall Street out of the Kitchen serving window.

There were screams in Spanish, obscenities, and loud loud clatter of cutlery and plates being thrown about emanating out of the fiery hell.

Ding! Ding! rang the kitchen bell alerting us that hot food was ready to be picked up.

“Charles, order up!” said Chef.

“Can you at least give me a napkin to carry this stuff – my arms are starting to show grill marks?” 

“No, we’re outa linen – and stop whining like a pussy and get this shit outa heah before the cheese n’ taco chips get stale and cold!”

I took a deep breath, grabbed my plates, stacked two of them in my left arm, and grabbed the third with my right hand, and ran back to my table.

Run! Run! Run!

It was a Thursday night at my restaurant, “Cucaracha!” Seating had started about four pm – It was now ten thirty pm and I hadn’t stopped running for six and a half hours since the initial seating.  

I was hauling ass because I needed to make some good tip money. Plus score some points with management and get approved for a Friday night shift that was pending owner approval.

Pink Floyd’s song “Run Like Hell!” was pulsing in my skull. The refrain “Run! Run! Run!” seemed to mirror the hellish conditions of my job that evening.

My body was soaked with perspiration, my breath was coming out in gasps, and my white shirt was starting to resemble a table cloth after a drunken wedding party.

The restaurant served over four hundred people at one sitting and the noise from the kitchen and patrons was deafening.

Imagine a continuous roar from a rock concert and you’d get the idea of how hard it was to think, let alone understand your customer’s questions about the food.

DING! DING!

“Charles! Charles! Get your ass over here. Natalie just sprained her ankle – she can’t serve her tables. Take these plates to table twenty-nine – Now!”

“But, I…”

“I said NOW! MOVE!” the Chef screamed at me as spittle from his mouth hit my face like warm rain.

I grabbed another stack of three plates, ran to table twenty-nine, dropped the plates off, and went back and grabbed two more.

Run! Run! Run!

“Who hath thiths table? Who hath thiths thection?” I was asked by a man who resembled a swarthy Munchkin from The Wizard of Oz. 

It was “Ralph,” one of the owners of “Cucaracha!” 

Ralph liked to wear a lot of gold jewelry, black clothes that fit him like an Indian mendicant, pointy scarlet Aladdin shoes, fishnet t-shirts. He also favored Virginia Slims Menthol cigarettes which he smoked out of long black cigarette holder.

“Uh Hi Ralph…uh that’s my table in that section,” I stuttered.

“Ah, Hello Chawlsth…” He lisped, taking a drag on his cigarette holder. “Thoth people over there are…” Personal Fwends” of mine…make thure you give them excewent servith, ” he waved his hand languidly over at a table in my section.

I looked at over at the table Ralph had indicated and saw four very buff hirsute men wearing more chains and black leather than the Village People.

“Yes, Ralph.”

“Therth a good boy,  don’t leth me down, ” he waved his arm as if dismissing me from his lofty presence.

DING! DING!  rang the bell from the kitchen.

Goddamit! I hated the sound of that bell.

But at the moment, it gave me a good excuse to go back to the kitchen and get away from the cloud of Aramis and the stale cigarette smoke that surrounded Ralph like an aura. 

Running back to the kitchen a string of obscenities burst through the serving window.

“Yes, Chef?” 

Chef stuck his head out the window and said “Jesus just about cut his thumb off with a knife…there’s blood all the place – so I gotta shut the kitchen down for twenty minutes and sterilize everything. Okay?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Also, take these plates to Natalie’s tables. I’m gonna tell the Hostess to shut her station down.

“But Chef, Ralph wants me to…”

“MOVE!”

I grabbed two hot plates off the counter and ran to one of Natalie’s tables. I dropped those off then went back and grabbed another two and ran back to her section.

After dropping off those plates, I then went and then took the order from the scary looking Dudes in leather and chains –  who spent the whole time groping me with their eyes as I wrote down their selections.

By the time I punched in my order for the “Village People,” my arms were pink from the hot plates, my feet were aching and I felt like I needed a shower.

Meanwhile, some drunks were throwing up at back tables after consuming too many margaritas – causing Luis, the busboy, to grab a mop and try to clean the mess up. 

The restaurant was starting to smell like a Tequila distillery and a vomitorium. Patrons at neighboring tables began to loudly complain about the stench – or followed suit of the offending tables – by barfing into the aisles causing Luis to almost have a nervous breakdown.

As the evening rush wore down I was dropping checks and side-stepping pools of vomit. My shoes made crunchy sounds as I stepped on dropped tortilla chips and broken glassware.

It was just past two am when the last of our patrons staggered away from their tables and out of the restaurant. The staff let out a collective sigh of relief – because an empty restaurant meant we were finally closed.

While cleaning my tables and setting up for the next day – I abruptly became aware of a strong smell of cigarette smoke and Aramis near me.

“Ahh Chawlsth, I just wanted to thank you foh giving excewent servith to my fwends. They were vewee, vewee happy with you,” said Ralph.

“Thanks, Ralph, it was my… uh pleasure.”

“By the way,” said Ralph taking a long drag on his cigarette holder and blowing out a long stream of smoke “Even though your wather new heah, I am appwoving your wequest to work Fwiday nights…make thure you don’t fwuck up and dithappoint me. We havth vewee high standards heah at “Cucaracha!” Understood?”

“Yes, Ralph. Thank you, sir.”

“Therth a good boy, ” he said giving my bicep a hard squeeze,  before walking away.

I should have been thrilled about getting the approval for Friday’s.  Servers made over two hundred bucks in tips on a typical busy weekend night. 

But for some reason – I wasn’t happy. 

That’s when I realized – compared to a Friday dinner service – TONIGHT HAD BEEN SLOW NIGHT AT THE RESTAURANT!

And with that last thought – a cold wave of fear hit me like a tidal wave washing away any hint of sanity and satisfaction.

About this Story

This story was based on some of my experiences as a server in New York City in the 1980’s. “Run Like Hell!” was first published in the 2020 Indie Author’s Short Story Anthology. October 16, 2020.