What Waiters Wait For [FICTION]

“I’m Jim and I will be your waiter,” the tall lanky teenager smiles down at us in a familiar way.

I smile back, exchanging a look with my best friend Mona as he flashes that winning smile her way. She waits for his attention to waver back to me before offering me a shrug. He continues to smile at us.

“Okay, ladies, do you know what you want? The hamburgers here aren’t as good as they are at the Looney Lounge.” He references another local restaurant that we frequent.

My eyes widen. I look across the table to see that my best friend just had the same realization I did. She nods at him, drawing my attention to the fact that he has turned his attention to me again.

“What do you recommend, Jim?” I pause “…if not the burger.”

“I think you’d enjoy the buffalo chicken salad,” he points to it on the menu.

“That does look good.”

“Me next.” Mona says holding out her menu.

He gives her face a quick scan before pointing to her menu, “You would probably enjoy the tuna salad croissant.”

“Sounds good. Let’s give it a try.” She says.

“Very good, ladies. I’ll be back with your waters in a second.”

He turns away and Mona gives me a look, biting her lip until she is sure he is out of earshot. “Did he just wink at you?”

“I think so.”

“And he used to be our waiter at the Looney Lounge?”

“I think he wanted to make sure we remembered that.”

“Why do you think that is?” She grinned and gave me a suggestive look, complete with eyebrows waggling up and down.

“I don’t think that’s it. He’s a child.”

“Well, put your rattle away, so you don’t catch his eye.” She laughed, even though I had no idea what she meant by that.

I glanced down to make sure I wasn’t having any wardrobe malfunctions. Everything important remained hidden from the world. “What are you talking about?”

“I have no idea. You have something that child likes.”

I open my mouth to issue a retort but our drinks arrive. The waiter barely glances at us, hurrying to the next table to take their order. As the restaurant fills up, he barely has time to check on us. Somehow, our drinks never run dry and he always happens to walk by right as we need anything, including the check.

“What’s this?” Mona peers down at the bottom of the receipt.

I take it from her and peruse the tiny script at the bottom of the receipt. 

‘So glad I can still be your waiter, ladies. Just wanted you to know that your tips alone paid for all my books last semester, even the ones I read for fun. Keep being awesome! ~Jim’

“Well, no wonder he loves us so much.” Mona says.

“I guess it wasn’t my rattle after all,” I laugh.

“Nope. Just your jingle.”

~How many times do you have to come to a restaurant before you become the waiter’s favorite? I think it is a lot, but I can’t remember back to eating in a restaurant. It seems so far away at the time I am writing this. Hopefully, by the time this goes live we are able to enjoy each other’s company in person again. Even antisocial hobbit hermits sometimes miss being around other people.~

Presidential Bombshell [FICTION]

Sweaty palms grip the my podium as my opponent steps to the podium to my left. The guidance counselor assured me that serving as the president of my class would give my transcripts that extra nudge to catch the eye of college recruiters, so here I sit waiting for my chance to convince the sophomore class that I should represent them in our junior year. I really don’t want the gig. My nervousness stems from the antics of my opponent. Inspired by one too many political campaigns, he announced to the whole school that he will be dropping a bombshell during the first debate—a bombshell about me. I have no idea what it could be, so I have a feeling he has made up something truly unthinkable, but will it be believable?

The principal opens the debate with brief introductions of the candidates. She reads the bios we submitted when we chose to run for office and adds our GPAs for extra measure. I have a feeling that information would only matter if the teachers were voting. But even the teachers don’t look interested. They continue to look blankly into space, wishing for this to be over. Or waiting for the promised bit of gossip?

Even I am beginning to lose interest in the answers and banter that my opponent and I exchange as we try to convince anyone who is still listening that one of us is more worthy to be president than the other. Then it happens. My opponent’s nose wrinkles as he offers me a half smile. He clears his throat and leans into the podium so his lips hover inches from the microphone.

“I know you all just want us to finish up, so you can be anywhere but here.” He pauses to watch every head in the room nod in agreement. “I also know that making the decision on who will be the class president seems like one that means nothing, but it does mean something. And that is why I have to tell you the truth about my opponent. She doesn’t even want to be your president. She roots for the Indians.”

The room erupts in howls of disapproval. The Indians have been our school’s rival since time immemorial. Even though I know his statement to be false, I dislike myself quite a bit at this moment, too. I clear my throat and tap the microphone. No one can hear my assertions of innocent and school spirit over the vitriol spewed forth so freely. 

Guess who reported for duty as the president of the junior class the next year?

~~Lies hurt, friends. Lies hurt.~~

Tax Time Troubles [FICTION]

“What is this rap, rap, rapping on my door.” I channel Edgar Allen Poe as I throw the door wide. “Oh.” I pause, looking at the thin, rumpled man standing on the threshold.”

“Not who you expected?” He smiles wanly at me, extending his hand for me to shake. “My name is Edgar Dunes. I have been assigned to audit your taxes by the IRS.”

“But I…”

He holds up a hand to stop my protests. “This is a painless process as long as you cooperate.” His eyes survey my tiny home, unkempt lawn, and decades old automobile as he fumbles in his pocket producing an official looking card with his picture. “This is my ID and this is for you.” He hands me a piece of paper.

I see his beady eyes peering over my shoulder as I briefly digest the contents of the single sheet of paper. As I realize he really works for the Internal Revenue Service and has been sent here in an official capacity, memories of filling out my last tax form flood me with shame. I knew I would end up owing the government last year, so I fudged a few numbers to keep me just under the point where I would need to pay. At least, I didn’t try to get a refund I didn’t deserve.

By this point, Mr. Dunes has moved from looking around to sniffing the air. At first he tries to be subtle about it, taking a little sniff and then trying to keep his face from reacting. I lean down to make sure I put on deodorant. The smell of baby powder reassures me. Then he lifts his nose and takes another big inhale. Finally aware that I am watching him, he stops sniffing and fixes me with a stern glare.

“As you can see that paper assures me the right to go over your financial records to make sure the government gets their due from all your hard work.” 

“I am sure everything is in order,” I smile back at him, trying to figure out how best to bribe him so this all goes away, but I don’t have any money. He has already seen that.

“Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“Do we need to look or is there some other way we can resolve this?” I try to offer him a seductive smile. 

He doesn’t seem to notice, he is looking toward my kitchen now. “Do you have something in your oven?”

“Yes, I do,” I lower my voice in a way I hope is sexy and alluring.

He leans in and pats my hand, “I really would like to help you.”

“Oh?” I smile and steel myself for what I think is coming since his face is now inches from mine.

“Your house smells like my mother’s banana bread.” He leans back and looks longingly toward my 

kitchen again.

Until that moment, I had completely forgotten what I had in my oven. I lose all pretense of seduction as I respond, “I used my mother’s recipe.”

“I haven’t found any that compares to mother’s.” He pauses to mull something over, slipping a paper that looks like a copy of my last text return from his messenger bag to peer at the numbers. “How about I help you amend your tax return, so you can pay the bare minimum in reparations while I try a piece of your banana bread and see how it compares to my mother.”

“Bare minimum?” I ask, hopefully.

“Yes. It looks like you just messed up a couple of calculations. It would be a pity to fine you for a simple mistake.”

I open the door and usher him in. “That sounds perfect. Let me get you a slice of bread while you get started.”

He giggles and rubs his hands together happily as he sits down at the kitchen table and begins pulling papers and pens from his bag.

~On a side note, I have had at least three people tell me my banana bread is the best they have ever had, so I probably could get out of paying taxes with the right auditor.~