The enormity of the line at Diner 101 was not unusual on this humid Saturday morning. Danny and the rest of the chefs were up since 4 a.m., prepping for the weekend rush; whisking runny eggs, chopping beefy potatoes, defrosting meats, and filling the coffee machine — extra filters ready to go.
A piping hot plate slid onto the service window. Frickin’ finally! That omelette better not have cheese in it or I’m going to kill my waitress. Danny looked at the slight blonde teen in the baggy t-shirt, sipping her coffee from the table without her hands. She wasn’t looking at him, but he heard the complaint…somehow.
“No cheese, you got it.” he answered with a dismissive tone. “Oh — thank you!” she said, shooting Danny a look of surprise. “No, thank your waitress.” he blurted out. The blonde’s gray-blue eyes grew big as she slowly nodded in response.
What the -? Danny ripped the penned order taped to the top cabinet and tossed it into the bin. “Order ready for table 2!” he bellowed over the stifling buzz of chatter.
In lightning speed, one of the what’s-their-name waitresses snatched up the order, U-turning back to the sticky floor to deliver a vegetable omelette, a side of extra homefries and the French toast special to the wide-eyed blonde and her hung-over side kick.
Hangry, thought Danny. He could just guess what their night entailed. The old Irish Pub was bumping during tourist season, batches of under-age college students eager to down green jello shots and dance to the Cape Cod Slackers, a popular bar band on the penninsula.
Now wielding a hot tray of seasoned hash browns over cook station 2, Danny was inebreated by voices. Sound was not cutting in and out with each swing of the kitchen door; open to close to open with every waitress shuffle. No, the voices were constant, loud, and raw. Chaos ensued.
Danny heard voices that were far too honest for pre-coffee behavior; complaints of long wait times and cold toast, or the damp smell from the restaurant vents. Dropping the hasbbrowns into the frier, Danny covered his hands over his sweaty ears, shielding his over-stimulated mind from all of the distraction.
Paralyzed by the continued stream of voices rolling over last’s nights regrets, planning their day ahead, cursing at someone with spite, and gossiping about the neighbor’s poor choices in attire, Danny stood in the vocal madness of what? The kitchen staff? The guests? Where the hell was all this erupting from?
“Danny! What the hell are ya doin’? Order is up for table 16 and the toast isn’t buttered and jammed, yet.” cocked Sam, head chef and huge pain-in-the-ass.
“On it, Chef!” he replied with the respect he so desperately wanted from his peers, grabbing the toasts from the toaster and heading over to Cook station 4 to butter.
Snap out of it, D. With each grace of the knife to butter, he focused on his breathing, and with each slower exhale, the voices slowed down, untangled and became more clear. That’s when he heard it. The one voice in his head that would change everything. It was coming from outside where they threw out the trash:
That’s the last of it. I buried you like you deserve. I hope you rot in the ground like this piece of shit diner.
Danny dropped his knife in the butter, the container rolling off the table and onto the floor, spattering as he looked towards the back exit door. The door slowly shut behind the outline of a hooded figure and Danny saw a sharp, glistening object in the hand sliding into a denim pocket.
It was the voice that would twist the knife into an old town wound, revealing a secret that would haunt the resident community for over a decade to come.
Danny knelt slowly to pick up the kitchenware and butter tub, only yet to understand the true gift born to him over night, and the revelations he’d make to uncover the owner of the mysterious voice behind the exit door.
“Order up for table 4!” yelled Sam.
And so the voices continue.
