Anthony was a straight-down-the-line kind of guy. He spoke with an earnest monotone, the sentences being driven out in stacatto streams, more rhythm than melody. I found myself answering in a similar tone, shooting back my own version. I felt like a telegram.
The whole deal was simple enough; make coffee, serve cake and sandwiches, wipe the tables. I could make coffee in my sleep. I stirred sugar into my cup, creme swirling with froth and forming a fluffy spiral.
The joint looked straight out of middle-America, large booths where people can really dig themselves into a corner and chat over food and drink. Black-and-white prints lined the walls, and the bustle of the kitchen swept out into the dining area with the aroma of melted cheese and tomato sauce. I liked it.
Tony took down my details, scrawling an abbreviated life story onto a yellow pad. He swore like a sailor, the coarse words flowing out, like coffee beans through a grinder; bitter and comfortably familiar.
Lodged in the middle of the Cross, twenty-four seven...I can do that. Only, this time, I would be serving rather than buying. Now all I had to do was actually get the job...
