Word Vomit

response to a writing prompt i found online

They don’t pay me enough to do this job. Standing around waiting for people finish spilling s**t all over the table. Can someone  please explain to me how on its short journey from the plate to your mouth, how the hell can whatever you’re eating end up on the other diner’s chair? Or on the candelabra? Do forks and spoons have minds of their own? Hey, come to think of it that would probably be pretty awesome.

“Move your a*s fucknuts! Table 3 isn’t going to bus itself!”

S**t! I almost pissed myself.  The razor in my hand hit the mirror hard, messing up my lines. I quickly straightened them and pulled a rolled dollar bill out of my pocket. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.  My whole body buzzed. I stuffed the hand mirror in the pocket of my apron and walked out of the bathroom. I stopped in the kitchen and picked up one of the ugly brown tubs and made my way out onto the floor. The lights are kept low because it’s supposed to be romantic. It’s not. It’s a blur of throbbing apricot blobs. Focus. Shaking my head I make my way to the disgusting table. It’s covered in napkins that should be declared biohazards. Salad dressing is mixed in with ketchup and what I’m going to assume is butter for the sake of my sanity. Did that fork just wave at me? I clear away the rest of the mountain of nastiness and wipe the table down with a damp cloth. As soon as I’m finished Thandie walks a woman over and seats her at the now clean table.

“Move it grease monkey!”

She says it under her breath so the woman in the cocktail dress that’s a size too small can’t hear her.  I study Thandie. Her red hair is pulled back and her brown eyes are framed by eyelashes that I’m sure are fake. Would she be upset if I tugged on them just to see? Her nose is turned up like she smells something foul. Obviously she forgot about our hookup in the handicap stall in the ladies room. Her nose wasn’t turned up then. I move away from the table with only a parting glance back at the table. The woman...a blonde with blue eyes is gesturing to the wine menu.  Fantastic. If she get’s shitfaced there will be more for me to clean up.

I’ve cleaned two more tables and the blonde woman is still alone. She’s on her second glass of wine. Her white poodle is sitting on the table in front of her waiting expectantly. Wasn’t there a sign that says no pets allowed in here? She reaches inside of it and pulls out a compact.  She keeps makeup in her dog?

“Derek! Earth to Derek! Either you’re gay or you’re high. That is the only way I can justify you staring at that lady’s purse so hard.”

I turn to find George staring at me. He’s the only friend I have in this place. A f*****g French restaurant in Nowheresville Ohio, who are we kidding? George has me by the chin and trying to look into my eyes. I avoid his gaze.

“F**k man, not here. Anywhere but here. Keep this up and your greasy a*s is going to get canned.”

Why does everyone think I’m greasy? I took a shower today…yesterday…the day before… Whatever. I take my full tub into the kitchen and hand it to Louis the dish guy. I grab a new one and head back into the fray. The dining room is full of suburbanites trying to get away from their kids and middle management jobs. A******s. My hands are itchy. I feel cold. Maybe I could sneak another line really quick. S**t. George is staring at me. I clean more putrid tables. When I look back at table three I see the blonde has been joined by a man.  He’s not fat but I figure he will be in a few years. He’s managed to find one of the few fried things on the menu. He’s starting to gray and has a bald spit. It’s like an eye and it’s winking at me. I put down the brown tub and slide into the bathroom while George’s back is turned. Two lines. That’ll do me. Sniff. Sniff. Back to work.

Blondie is pissed. She’s holding the knife in a death grip. She has pasta. She doesn’t need a knife. I can’t hear what they’re saying. It’s a blur of hand movements and facial contortions. Her dog is moving across the table. The eye in the back of his head is winking again. When she launches her fourth or fifth glass of wine across the table it happens in slow motion. Dude got a face full. I think he yells “B***h!” It’s a safe assumption. She picks up her dog and stalks out of the restaurant. Baldy throws down his silverware and stalks after the woman.

“Hey space cadet! I don’t pay you to stand around.  Do your f*****g job!”

Back to table 3 I go. With the exception of the wine it’s not that hard a cleanup.  Red drops peppered the table. Weird. I felt warm liquid dripping down my mouth. I put the tub down and touch my nose. Wine…no…blood. Damnit! Back to the bathroom I go.

Author's Note

Enjoy the random

Reviews

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

enjoying the random profusely~ a slice of the American pie gone all bloody beautiful in all its glorious dysfunction~ excellent descriptives~ you brought the writing alive with scent, sound, and movement~

[Str8jacket]

Okay, so favorite line: “Move your a*s fucknuts! Table 3 isn’t going to bus itself!” And I think that's because "fucknuts" is slowly becoming my new favorite word. I love Derek and his hallucinations. The imagery made me feel like I was experiencing it with him. I also loved his commentary, almost as much as yours. But none of this is helpful in the way that a review should be...hmmm....I think it definitely fit the prompt. Your descriptions were good in this piece, you're getting better with detail. Yay you!! The length actually wasn't too long, I thought it was just right. It conveyed a clear scene and clear thoughts. GOOD JOB TWIN!! :)