Booth Service and a Cigarette: AU, Sanji POV, excludes some characters, please deal with this fact.
Prologue:
You may find a diner down in Georgia or
Carolina off the twenty by the Piggly Wiggly
in the county out of Waynsboro.
There is something to be said about this particular diner. We maybe in the middle of nowhere in some faceless town in South Carolina, but damn it if we aren't the only diner with a cook who went to culinary school. And he's running a diner. World can be a funny place like that, I guess.
And some would say I'm nothing but a "good old boy", all Southern-like and such. To tell the truth, I hate my accent and repress it to the best of my abilities, as well as any habit or behavior that might let on that I've never even been out of this town my entire life. Or, really, even out of this diner.
I meet plenty of people though. See, even though we're faceless, we're also a crossroads town where people stop off to get something to eat before they continue on their way. They leave like I wish I could sometimes. Not that I have it that badly. I work my night shifts at the diner and spend the rest of my time studying my way out of here. And soccer. Can't forget soccer.
I'm eighteen, at a crossroads myself. In three months, I will pack my books and my soccer gear and head to Johnson and Wales in Providence, Rhode Island, to get a step closer to a better culinary school. They're also taking me on soccer scholarship too. Not a bad deal.
June was winding down with the last of my classes when I want to say my last summer in Brice began. It seemed that any other time could have been better, but somehow, it began then.
I was again ejecting our resident misfit for misconduct. He certainly wasn't Hispanic, but that hadn't stopped his parents from naming him Zoro. Our 'misfit' was originally from Boston ( or as he said it, 'Bawstan' ) and attempted to personify punk as best he could. An anarchist with three Bowies strapped to his belt, Zoro made a point this year in dying his plain brown hair neon green. This coupled with his favorite color ( black ) and his combat boots made him a scary person indeed.
He was protesting loudly as I hauled him out by his wife-beater and trying to get to those knives. I planted a shined shoe up his ass and he stopped, grabbing himself. I snorted and left him on the curb. He never learned. It was the third time this week. Mr. Owner let him back in all the time because he figured I could handle him and Zoro did spend a lot of his money here. I snorted and went back to my spot behind the counter.
It's not like I don't owe a lot him, the owner, Zeff, which is an odd nickname by all counts. See, not many would want to take in a foster kid ( even for that kid to work like a dog ) who was partially blind. And I don't mean this by my hair. See, when I brush the hair aside, the blue eye with the film over it and scar on the eyebrow? The other one didn't escape unscathed either; it curls all funny. My parents and I got into a spectacular farming accident when I was little. They survived for a bit, but the inevitable happened.
I can still see shadows and shit out of that eye, but it bothers me, so I cover it up. Plus, it doesn't move, and what girl wants to see that when she's kissing a pretty face?
I think now that the set up was perfect, the whole idea of all converging when we were most ready for change. So, there were one soccer player, one anarchist, one ruined gymnast and a girl.