Mother’s Day Grinch

I slide up to the bar at Café American. I just finished a ten hour shift. The Bistro had a lousy night – twenty customers total. But it was still a hard day. I need a drink. “The usual?” the bartender asks me, holding up a frosted martini glass. “Not tonight,” I...

The First Line of Defense

Melinda’s our new hostess. She’s in her early twenties and trying to pick up a little extra cash. I feel bad for her. There are easier ways. Drug dealing and prostitution come readily to mind. Oh well. “So how are things?” I ask her. “Oh, everyone here’s really nice,”...

Costs

“Is all your pasta homemade?” my customer, an obvious foodie type, asks. “No sir,” I reply truthfully, “Some, not all.” “What’s homemade?” the man asks with a trace of exasperation, “I only eat homemade pasta.” I want to tell my customer he’s been infected with...

Business is My Trouble

The Bistro’s phone rings. I glare at it. I should pick it up by the third ring but I don’t. I hate the phone today. I’m at the end of my workweek and my reservoir of patience is depleted. If I have to deal with one more socially maladjusted misfit I’ll be forced to...