Part Two: Cake

Many of life's greatest lessons can be learned from the food industry. For example, one cannot bring their gun to work. Nor can one wear it while waiting on tables if they want any customers at all. And without your gun, it is not advisable to yell "For the last time, we're out of turkey! Now piss off!" towards your guests. Especially if your guests are tattoo and leather clad, harley-riding bikers.

Secondly, being "smart" is no longer a compliment. And adding faster than the cash register is renamed "waitress suicide." But, most importantly, never use science as an excuse. Exhibit A:

My Manager: Why did he send back the cheesecake?

Me: He's allergic to the nuts in the crust.

My Manager: And why is he allergic to the crust?

Me: Prabbably a genetic mutation of his DNA.

My Manager: ...Are you getting smart with me?

And, of course, what would a life-lesson be without a punishment to drive your humiliation home? Cleanup duty, aka waterboarding for waitresses, is born!

Today, though not for the first time, I find myself subjected to just such torture. Yet, instead of the usual plunger and rubber gloves, I find myself sporting a chisel and goggles. My minimum-wage mission: to remove the vast expanse of chewing gum graciously stuck to the bottom of the tables by our diner patrons.

"Eeek!" The current piece of gum I've been chiseling at has just popped off viciously, heading straight for me. I can't help but feel a bit pathetic as it bounces off my safety goggles. So that's what those were for...

"What? What is it? Did you find another rat?" I look up to see my heinous manager standing next to me.

"No. It was a ... piece of gum." I mutter, feeling my cheeks turn a bit red as I begin chiseling at a new piece.

"Oh...Well you've got a table to get to."

I motion to the gum menagerie in front of me "Um, I kindof know that."

"No. You've got customers." She pionts a long, bony finger over the table and my heart stops.

There was only one person I knew that sat crouched like that.

"We have cinnamon sugar, right?"

"What? Yes. Now go take their orders."

I knew I was being stupid: I had heard his broadcast, I had known he was here. But it was the fact that he was right here that scared the shit out of me. I mean, last time, I'd seen him, I'd thrown a donut in his face!

But now the moment had come for us to meet again.

Cautiously, I slid my handsinto my apron, reaching for the bottle hidden deep inside.

"And no pill popping!"

I reached instead for my pen, adding a small "Damn."

"Can't say that language is appreciated."

"What?" Slightly embarrassed that I had been audible, I look up from my order pad to place the owner of the voice.

"I don't appreciate your language." He's shifted slightly to better face me, but he remains as always, hunched over.

A sudden anger rushes to my chest, one I know wasn't there before.

"Well captain-asshole-of-politically-correct-town, I'm not here for 'appreciation'. If I was, I'd be working at Hooters. Now you can order, or get off my ass, 'cause I've got a whole hell of a lot of gum to scrape!"

An almost-smile plays at the corners of his mouth "What happened to 'the customer is always right'?"

"It got edited to 'don't piss me off, or I'll spit in your food'."

"And what about 'be nice or no tip'?"

I lowered my face inches from his, taking the challenge "I. Don't. Do. Nice."

"Really?" I could feel him getting closer, the smell of his breath so sickeningly sweet I could hardly stand it "Because I don't think it would take that much to sweeten you up." He leaned in closer still, until my vision blurred and my heart pounded and as much as I thought I wanted to, I couldn't pull away.

I felt his hand reach for mine, passing something into it. Something small. Something made of paper. Something rather hard in its center...A wave of recognition passed over me, and every emotion I had been feeling took one definite form: anger. He had handed me a sugar packet. He had remembered.

"Why you cocky-ass son-of-a-bitch!" My limbs took on a mind of their own, my arm flying through the air, aimed directly at his face. But no slap came. Instead, I found his iron grip around my wrist.

"Now I'd like two slices of chocolate cake. And I'd like you not to spit in them. If you can manage that, you'll still receive a tip." Letting my hand go, he calmly pulled out from his pocket, his wallet. And out of his wallet, a hundred dollar bill.

I tried my best to smile, though I'm positive it looked like I had just smelled cow shit. "Right away."

But when I returned, there was no hundred dollar bill, and no L. Only a phone number and a note scribbled in his untidy, cramped handwriting.

We need to talk. L

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A.N.: So I originally thought this would be a threeshot, but I'm thinking more like fourshot. (I know they're not really genres, but I made it up and you understand what I mean, so be happy.) I was really surprised by the reaction to my stupid little story so I'll be posting more often than I usually do. So thanks to my reviewers, you are the reason I keep this going! And those who haven't reviewed, What're you waiting for? The little blue button down there is calling your name!

-M.C. Wilde