Author's Note: Oh how I wish I were better at humorous fics, I love them so much! Anyway, here's an attempt, just a little drabble about something I always thought was funny in that movie. Actually there may be a sequel, now that I think about it, if anyone actually finds this funny. Because this topic amuses me to no end. Enjoy!
Pavel Chekov sat alone at a table in a small diner. It was one of those touristy places in downtown San Francisco, the kind with kitsch all over the walls and pictures on the menus. Chekov didn't really feel like being choosy this afternoon though; he was due aboard the Enterprise again that evening, and not having a very luxurious budget he had wandered into the first cheap restaurant he could find.
The young Russian sat on a padded metal chair with his face buried in the menu. He was starving. He hadn't eaten anything in two hours, which for a seventeen year old boy was unacceptable. His stomach gurgled, and he didn't even bother to look up at the waitress when she came and asked him what he'd like.
Still staring at the mouth-watering pictures on the menu, Chekov ordered a chicken sandwich with fries and a chocolate milkshake.
He waited for what seemed like ages for his food to come. Tapping his foot on the ground and drumming his fingers, he tried to think about anything besides the gnawing hunger.
Finally the wafting smell of sustenance greeted him, and he whirled around with pure delight on his face to thank the waitress.
She looked familiar, but he couldn't quite tell. She was looking at him with that same, "Don't I know you?" stare, and to Chekov's dismay she had stopped her approach towards him.
"Are you...that Russian whiz kid?" She asked slowly, with a slight frown on her face.
Chekov momentarily forgot his hunger, and felt a tinge of pride. Clearly his reputation was getting around.
"Yes mam, that is me," he said with a broad smile.
The waitress gave a small, "I see," before turning slightly to her left and dumping Chekov's delicious lunch into the nearest incinerator. The smell of roasted chicken filled Chekov's nostrils and he might have cried. He stared in horror at the unprovoked act of utter cruelty. Then he looked back up at the waitress, a heart-wrenching expression on his young face.
"You don't remember me, eh? Moving too fast to notice?" She demanded, her hands on her hips now.
Chekov opened his mouth in mortified confusion, shaking his head very slowly.
"My name is Ellen," she said loudly, pointing viciously to her name tag that indeed read "Ellen" in red letters. "I used to be the beaming specialist on a ship called the Enterprise, heard of it?" The whole restaurant was staring at her now, and Chekov was bright red with embarrassment.
"Until one day some KID comes flying outta no where, shoves me out of the way and saves the fucking day!" Chekov sunk down in his chair, not knowing what to do. This woman was clearly a lunatic. And he was still so hungry.
"Now I can't go anywhere near Star Fleet without getting LAUGHED at, so here I am! Once queen beamstress of the gem of the fleet, now just ELLEN THE WAITRESS," she screamed.
She stood panting after her outburst, and the entire diner was silent. Chekov, still utterly unsure of what to do, stood up shakily. Not breaking eye contact with Ellen, he took out his wallet and placed a few dollar bills on the table.
"Is...is this ok?" He asked very quietly, pushing the money ever so slightly towards her.
With an inhuman snarl, Ellen grabbed Chekov by his bouncy curls and shoved him out the door of the diner. She slammed it violently behind him, leaving the young ensign utterly confused on the front steps.
He didn't understand. He'd tipped 30%, he was under the impression that was a lot in America.