My first real shift started at five-thirty in the afternoon. I was five-minutes early, Anthony hadn't arrived, and one of the staff told me to sit down and wait. I pulled out my laptop and started writing. A quarter-of-an-hour later, Anthony streamed in the front door.
"Up the back."
I sat down opposite him. He began with a rant about using a laptop during his time; he wasn't paying me to sit around and do fuck-all. Once again I was silent; I just nodded, smouldering inside.
The other staff were a roll of the dice. Chris was a sturdy New-Zealander with a cheeky smile. Andrew was a Chinese design-student who had been working at this place for five-years, and I sensed that he had absorbed some of Anthony's personality traits. That wasn't a good thing.
Santos was a runty little fellow from Nepal with a protruding jaw and kind eyes. He never said much, but the twinkle in his eyes spoke of someone who had seen a lot and knew what it meant.
I plugged away. I kept quiet and made sure the customers were happy. I moved back and forth, like a pendulum, up steps and down steps; rare or well-done, red or white? Polishing knives at one point, a great crash came from the coffee machine in front of me. Fifty clean, white saucers lat shattered on the floor. Andrew looked down at them forlornly.
"Shit. I'm in trouble."
I helped him clean up, forgot about them and continued as usual. Towards the end of the night, after closing the doors and piling up chairs and tables, I grabbed my laptop bag and prepared to leave. Stepping outside, I heard Andrew tell Anthony about the plates. It sounded like he knew what was coming; there was a chill in his voice, as cold as the air that greeted me outside.
