"Out of Season"
Part 20
By Sister Rose
Standard disclaimers apply
AN: A quick clarification: Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote the line "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds." I didn't, but thanks for thinking I'm that clever! And now on to the story.
Ryan Atwood was sweating in the kitchen at Nina's. His head was encased in a white cotton food-service bonnet that caught all the sweat from his scalp and waxed it back into his buzzed hair. His buzzed hair that he wouldn't be growing out no matter what Summer said.
Damp gray perspiration circles adorned his T-shirt, and grease and flour dotted his apron. He wielded his long-bladed metal spatula with the ease of long practice, scrambling eggs on one corner of the grill and sauteing mushrooms and onions on another. His eyes were on the tuna melt at top right. It needed at least 30 more seconds, giving him just enough time to flip the short stack of pancakes someone had ordered at 11 at night.
Pancakes at 11. It couldn't be Seth. Seth was with Summer. They were at the IMAX, watching sharks, which was something Ryan couldn't think about while he was busy cooking, thank goodness. And he could go with them some other time.
Ryan scooped up the tuna melt on his spatula, whisked it onto a plate he had pregarnished with parsley, a pickle spear and potato chips, then traded his long-bladed spatula for a long-bladed knife. He sliced the sandwich into triangles and stabbed each section with a yellow plastic-feathered toothpick. He slammed the loaded plate on the pass-through, slapped the bell and yelled "Margie. Order up," before grabbing his spatula and giving the eggs another stir.
Short-order cooking was all about timing, and Ryan had his down. He didn't even have time to think about how he would be at the movies with Seth and Summer if Murphy hadn't called in sick.
Called in hungover was more like it, Ryan thought. But Ryan could use the money. Eight more hours of pay would help. Sixteen would be better but Murphy's hangovers -- er, illnesses -- usually cleared up in a day. Then Ryan could spend more time with sweet, whining Summer. He felt a grin grow across his face, thinking about how she would gripe about how the sharks were totally lame and how the popcorn had been stale and how Seth had forced her to share an enormous tub and she wouldn't be able to eat for a week. She wouldn't mention the self-inflicted cheeseburger. It would all be Seth's fault. Ryan would give her a foot rub and then they would have sex. It was going to be a great night. His grin grew.
An overworked waitress hand hit the metal ticket carousel and shoved a new order sloppily under the springs, pulling Ryan back to his job. He spun the carousel around and read the ticket before digging in the cold bin and coming up with a plastic-wrapped hamburger patty. He unwrapped it and slapped it on the grill with one hand and reached overhead with the other for the salt and pepper shakers. He dosed the patty and put the shakers back in their place, just as the smoke and sizzle of the meat hit his nostrils. Ryan's spatula slid under the pancakes and one by one dropped them onto a hot plate. He grabbed his knife and twisted a knob of butter -- OK, medium-quality margarine -- on top of the stack.
"Two points," Ryan said under his breath as he tossed the crumpled plastic wrap from the hamburger patty successfully toward the trash can. He shook his head as a spare sweat droplet oozed past his cotton bonnet and down into the corner of his eye.
Another plate on the pass-through. Another bang on the bell. Another bellow of "Order up." Maybe he couldn't dance, but boy, could he ever grill.
He scooped the eggs onto his spatula and from there onto a waiting parslied plate, put the mushrooms and onions on the side and sprinkled the whole plate with cheese. Up on the pass-through; bang on the bell; "order up."
The hamburger was the only item left on Ryan's grill. Ryan flipped the patty, topped it with a slice of American cheese and a giant slab of onion and stepped back from the grill to breathe for a minute.He sucked in just enough air to get a whiff of his own sweat and blew that breath back out. Then he pulled a hamburger bun from the rack behind him and rolled the halves across the butterer. He dropped the bread into the toaster. While he waited for the halves to slide through, he grabbed a plate and loaded it with potato chips and a pickle spear from the cold bin.
He stuck a gloved hand into the ever-present parsley tub and shook loose a sprig for the edge of the plate. He didn't know why every plate had to have parsley, but Joyce had insisted. She said it was some sort of rule for diners and the omission of parsley could lead to banning from the International Organization of Professional Greasy Spoons. Ryan had laughed, but Joyce hadn't, so he still didn't know whether it was a joke.
Ryan pulled the bun halves from the toaster, added the cooked patty and put the whole thing on the plate. When Margie answered the bell, he stopped her.
"Would you ask Joyce if I can take a break?" he said.
"Sure, Atwood," she said, grabbing the plate with her usual wink and swish.
Ryan wondered whether Margie even knew she was doing it, or whether she had been working as a waitress so long that the flirting was like walking, just part of what she was.
He looked at the spatula in his plastic-gloved hand and watched it automatically scraping the grill without Ryan's conscious participation. He decided to think about other things, like the mess around his work area. Ryan put down the spatula and started rubbing a wet sponge across the grease splatters on the counter.
"Hey, Atwood," Margie said, peeking a curly head through the pass-through. "You're clear to take 10."
"Thanks," Ryan said.
He put the sponge back in its disinfectant bath and took off his gloves, tossing them in the open-mouthed blue rubber trash can as he went by. He moved through the kitchen, peeling off his greasy apron and hanging it on a hook by the back door. The food-service bonnet followed. Out the door into the alley and Ryan was free at last. Or free for 10 minutes. Ten precious minutes. He glanced at his watch. Mark.
He didn't cheat Joyce. Not when she had been so good to him, giving him a job fresh out of juvie, with only his scarred face, fresh GED and earnest begging to recommend him as a dishwasher. And then later she had trusted him when he said he could learn how to cook.
Ryan's days in construction had always been numbered, but he thought maybe he could stay in Newport and work for Joyce. She had said she would give him enough shifts to fill out a week. The money wouldn't be as good, but he could still make ends meet. He wouldn't be able to send money to other people, but he could make the rent on his room, and he could still see Summer. Ryan started doing some numbers in his head as he walked down the alley.
At Nina's, like most California establishments, smokers had been banished to the great outdoors. Ryan had given up smoking during his state-sponsored 18-month cold-turkey program, but he still liked to hang out near the addicts, suck up some cheap secondhand smoke and remember what it was like to be part of the tobacco brethren.
He squatted against the wall, still doing math in his head, around the corner from the diner's smoking customers, listening to the gossip about people he didn't know. It was cheaper than television and often more entertaining.
Tonight's dish-fest appeared to focus on someone named Holly and her pool boy. Ryan wondered whether it was Summer's friend Holly. All the Newport people seemed to know one another. Of course, about half of them were named Holly or Britney, so it was hard to be sure.
"Yeah, she thought they were so sneaky," one man said. "But Britney said when she went over for a Newpsie planning meeting, there was a service truck out front. She finally found Holly out by the poolhouse, get this, with her shirt buttoned wrong."
"Did Britney see the doer of the deed?" a second voice said.
"Naw, he must have been hiding his naked trash ass inside the poolhouse, because Holly wouldn't let Britney go in there," the first voice said.
"Holly has always been a tramp," the second man said. "Remember when she was chasing Luke right in front of Marissa, then Marissa killed herself?"
"Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised to see Holly as the body shots girl in a Chino bar," a third man said. "She's almost as skanky as Julie Cooper."
The men laughed.
"Nobody's that big a ho," the second man said. "But I don't know who Holly thinks she's going to marry when the judge kicks off. I mean, would you want a piece of that ass now?"
"After it's been screwing the help?" the first man said. "Like hell. You can catch diseases that way. Hey, speaking of that, have you heard who Summer Roberts is fucking these days?"
"She's been running around with Seth Cohen, but she's obviously his beard," the second man said. "No chance of diseases there."
"Word," the first man said. "Chip is still pretty bummed that Summer dumped him. He thinks she's screwing some construction worker with no education and dirt in his fingernails."
"No way," the second man said. "Her dad would go into orbit. Cut her off. Throw her out of the house."
"I heard it was a guy she met at college," the third voice said. "Some English major."
"No way," the second man said again. "That's as bad as dating Seth Cohen. Who would want to go out with her after that?"
"Don't be so hasty, my good man," the first man said. "At least we know she's an easy lay."
They laughed again. Ryan heard the noise of a shoe rubbing out the ash on a cigarette.
"You ready to go inside?" the first man said.
"Yeah," the third man said. "I want some cobbler."
More shoe rubbing. Ryan sat in the dark, unseen, unmoving. His breaths grew more shallow and then deepened again. He closed his eyes, watching the dark inside his head, then opened them. He checked his watch. Time to get off his nasty trash ass and serve those customers their cobbler.