And then there was Christine. The new waitress, blond, Italian, clean and self-possessed. I remember when I first saw her in the stockroom, checking her hair in the dirty mirror over the sink. She winked at me in reflection as I passed and I wished my jeans fit better.
“Who are you?”
“Christine.” she said, smoothing her black half-apron.
“Danny,” I held out my hand. “Danny Loeb.”
“I’m the new waitress.”. She took her hand back and rested her weight on one hip. I saw that one front tooth crossed slightly over the other. It made me feel better somehow.
“I’m the cook. Have you ever worked in a restaurant before?”
“Oh yes. In Rochester, I..”
The doors burst open and Bill charged into the stockroom.
“Danny,” he shouts, “there are customers waiting. We need french fries.” He lost his breath and took a drag off his cigarette. I looked at Christine and shrugged. Bill saw her. “Uh, uh, uh.”
“Uh, Christine, go out front and tell Marcie to show you around.”
I hooked a bag of fries and headed for customer country.