“She’s hot. What about her?” Josh is standing behind the counter with me at Chips in the Corner, probably the worst summer job ever. Each time somebody walks past, he rates them.
“Shut up, Josh. I’m not having this conversation.” He’s at my elbow. “Aren’t you supposed to be on fryer?”
“Frying what? For who?” Josh shrugs a lanky shoulder at the general nothingness surrounding our shop. Chips in the Corner is the worst afterthought of a restaurant in Ocean Breeze, an outdoor food court “close enough” to the beach where all the restaurants sound vaguely like bands you’ve never heard of. Chips lives up to its name by being, literally, in the farthest darkest corner of the shopping center. Most of our traffic is for the public bathrooms next door.
“What about him?” Josh points to a dark-haired kid next to the trashcans. “I’m definitely not into dudes, but he’s pretty cute, right?” Trashy guy flexes to remove a piece of toilet paper from his shoe. “Looks like he works out,” Josh nudges me. “Oops. Incoming!”
It’s a customer: a middle-aged man in a bucket hat.
“Can I get a fish and chips and a coke and a…”
“We don’t serve fish,” I inform him, with a smile. “Or coke. Only chips.”
“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Can I just get a chips?”
“Absolutely, sir. Coming right up. Thank you so much!” I’m still smiling hopefully at the empty tip jar as he leaves. Nothing.
Josh is at my elbow again. “I was talking to that guy, Doug, at the meat skewer place. He says you can make good tips at Lil Pieces of Meat if you flirt with the old ladies.”
“Is that right?” I squint at Josh trying to imagine him in spandex khaki shorts and a tight polo. “Somehow, I’m not feeling that uniform for you. Are you trying to leave me here?”
“No,” says Josh, solemnly.
Boring minutes pass. Josh leans on the counter.
I say, “Lonesome Cow.”
Josh perks up, “The vegan place? Definitely country. No question. What about that new mystery-themed Greek restaurant?”
“Murder Pita? Hardcore death metal. Totally.”
“Totally,” Josh agrees. “Scone Cold?”
“Um… classic rock. Maybe hair band.”
“Hmm. Yes.” Josh contemplates the bakery across the way.
My eyes drift to the pasta restaurant. It and the sushi place are always packed. I hear a squawk coming from a white-haired woman with red lipstick, stumbling across the food court. “Why is that old lady taking an urn into Chopsticks and Cigarettes?”
“Oh her,” says Josh. “I saw her at Fire on the Moon this morning.”
I raise my eyebrows in mock horror. “A little early for artisanal cocktails, don’t you think?”
“Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!” A woman is in front of me with two screaming preschoolers. One kid presses his sticky face against the empty tip jar and licks.
The woman is taking a deep breath. “I would like three bags of chips. And two boxes of juice.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s not that kind of chips.”
She is staring at me blankly. The other kid has started removing napkins from the dispenser and tossing them into the air.
“We sell french fries. Chips are french fries.” I point to my apron to clarify. The logo is English pub themed. The tagline says Just fries!
The woman is vibrating. “Well, that’s misleading. Does your manager know you’re doing this?”
“Um. Yes, ma’am?” I point to my apron.
She closes her eyes. Kid number one appears to be peeing on the floor.
She leans in. “Can I at least get a beer?”
“It’s literally just fries.” I hold my smile.
********
“That did not go well,” Josh chimes in after I’ve cleaned the counter. The somewhat sanitized tip jar is back in a prominent spot.
“Mhm.” I’m watching the pasta staff. Their line is halfway across the food court. Anastasia is so beautiful, I think. I look like me, in a greasy apron.
“You have to be 18 to work at Sex Pasta,” Josh reminds me, unnecessarily, as if that’s all that’s keeping me from it.
“I know Josh.” They’re barely family food court friendly. The logo is a woman bound with noodles; her legs crossed into an x. “I don’t think I could figure out how to tie that uniform everywhere, anyway…”
Another customer interrupts: “What kind of chip sauces do you have?”
“We have ketchup, mayo, malt vinegar, this… brown sauce… um.”
“What about salsa? Like for the corn chips?”
“Dude. No.”
********
Boring minutes later, things at Chopsticks and Cigarettes have escalated. I watch the white-haired woman dump her urn into an ashtray from the sushi/cigarette bar. She’s talking to people at neighboring tables. I can hear her across the food court. “My Henry was a beautiful man! He was the best lover I ever had. The best lover!” she insists loudly. “Better than my second husband…”
I laugh, “Are you hearing this?”
Josh is looking at me funny when I turn around. “Bea, what are we?”
I’m distracted by the old woman. “I told you. Chips has to be, like, pop.”
The woman picks up her empty urn, waving a lit cigarette. “This was our place! Me and Henry. Here for one last celebratory lunch!”
I reconsider. “Maybe a boyband. The worst of the worst.”
“Uh. Yeah…” says Josh. “Chips.”
The woman is clutching her urn, zigzagging towards the exit. Staff is clearing tables, dumping ashtrays. And the woman forgot her ashes. Wait. Shit. She forgot her ashes. Henry!
“Josh! That crazy woman forgot her ashes. The ones from the urn. She put them in an ashtray!”
Without a word, Josh hops the counter, sprints to the table, and snatches up the ashtray. I see him tap the woman on the shoulder, and I hear the woman scream as she hugs him.
Josh turns around and smiles at me, red lipstick all over his cheeks.
When I smile back, my stomach does a little flip.
Oh, I wonder. What are we?
Words and photo © Jaime Greenberg, 2022
