Page 6 of Fated to the Gargoyle

The punch clock by the door takes the old paper cards with the hole-punched dates, the ones I haven’t touched since my first job. I clock in and walk back out to the kitchen.

The dishwasher is losing.

Water is everywhere, suds are on the floor, and a plate balanced on the edge of the rack sits one bad breath away from the tile. The kid running the station is gangly, anxious, and barely old enough to be here, and the panic coming off him is one I remember wearing my own first week.

“Hey.” I lean against the wall where he can see me. “I’m Treasure. I’m the new closer.”

He looks up, startled, and drops the plate.

It shatters with maximum noise and minimum damage. Ceramic skips across the tile.

“Dammit!” Andy explodes from somewhere behind me, and then he’s through the kitchen door, already red in the face.

The kid drops to his knees before Andy even finishes and gathers pieces with his bare hands.

“I am so sorry,” the kid says to the floor.

“Damn, I miss Marcus.” Andy scrubs a hand through his hair. “Four years, that man never dropped a single plate. You’ve been here six days and I should be charging you rent on the broken ones.”

“Who’s Marcus?” I ask.

Mostly I want Andy’s attention off that kid. The rest is plain nosiness.

The cook turns from the grill, tall enough that his head almost brushes the ductwork, a smear of sauce in his beard. His smile comes slow and easy.

“Lamar.” He reaches a fist toward me over the service window and I bump it, his grip firm and warm. “Nice to meet you, Treasure.”

“Nice to meet you too, Lamar.”

“Marcus was our dishwasher. Best one this diner ever had, and Andy’s never gonna shut up about it.” He glances at Andy. “But he got picked up by a shifter last year. Nyra. Hasn’t worked a shift here since.”

I smirk. “Lucky Marcus.”

Lamar’s laugh rolls up out of his chest, and he goes back to his steak.

Andy throws both hands up and stomps out of the kitchen. He mutters about plates and shifters all the way back to the register.

I crouch down to help the kid pick up the pieces. “You’re gonna be fine,” I tell him, low enough that Andy doesn’t catch any of it secondhand. “What’s your name?”

He swipes the back of his hand under his nose and doesn’t look up. “Devon.”

“Okay, Devon. Breathe. The dishes aren’t going anywhere. Just slow down.”

I pick up the bigger pieces of ceramic with him, slow so he can match me, and his hands steady. I rest my hand on his shoulder, then stand up and let him handle his own mess.

I take the floor, and the rhythm comes back as soon as the order pad hits my hand. The corner-booth family wants two pancake specials and chicken strips with extra ranch for the kid, and I’ve run it back to Lamar before they finish the menu conversation. The truckers at the end of the counter order one regular coffee, one decaf with three sugars, and a stack of pancakes to split. The woman with the paperback asks me what’s good tonight, and I tell her Lamar’s meatloaf is the move. She closes her menu without another question.

By the middle of the shift I know the menu, the register, and which counter stool has the loose screw. Lamar calls out tickets in a warm voice that carries, and I pick them up one-handed with two plates balanced on the other arm. Every time I bring him something new it’s “Thank you, Treasure.” Never just thanks.

I don’t let myself smile about it until my back is turned.

Devon breaks two more plates, and Andy yells about it from the back office, then goes quiet in inventory. He comes back out while I’m clearing the truckers’ spot and stops dead at the quarter sitting next to the empty coffee cup.

“That man didn’t tip you.” He jabs a finger at the seat.

“Sir, it happens.” I wipe down the seat and keep my eyes on the vinyl.

“It doesn’t happen in my diner.” He’s working himself up again.