Purest Fiction: Bus Girl
She missed interaction: bouncing ideas between creative minds. Her agent and publisher agreed to forward messages, but she hadn’t stayed anywhere for more than a week all spring.
The author shuddered, remembering a book signing in Phoenix.
“Hello. I came down here to find warm weather, and I’ve found you too.”
As she jotted her signature into a paperback of her third novel, a deep voice made her glance away from the copy. Looming behind the woman who wanted the autograph was the largest man she’d ever seen. His hands were the size of catcher’s mitts, and he wore glasses cobbled together with duct tape. When the woman snatched her copy and left, he stepped closer to the table.
“Do you remember where you stopped editing my work?”
“Not you!” she had whispered and fled. Her pursuers consistently found ways to make her life tense. They filled her mailboxes, real and virtual, with threats. She was a fugitive seeking anonymity, but hair color and plastic surgery weren’t options. Her publisher would demand another jacket photo.
The dryer timer buzzed, an annoying blat guaranteed to spur customers out of any nightmare. She bounced out of the chair and staggered as her left calf cramped. The author clutched her hot laundry in both arms and spun toward the counter. Her first shift in the restaurant began in seven minutes.
“Hey, there’s a point in your favor, you’re prompt.” O’Connor punctuated his gruff compliment by slapping a full pound of bacon on the griddle.
The author nodded and tied the apron strings behind her back. When the waiter shouldered through the swinging doors to refill his coffee carafe, every booth and table the writer saw was full. What possessed her to think working in a restaurant was safe?
“Bus girl, clean up at the salad bar!
Mavis’ penetrating voice forced her to take a deep breath and shove the work cart into the restaurant. When she reached the salad bar, there was a fine mess. She scraped a mixture of baked beans, green Jell-O, and beets from the carpet with the dropped plate, then applied a liberal amount of spot cleaner from the spray bottle on her cart.
The author straightened and began to pick loose olives, cherry tomatoes, and bits of chopped egg from the ice in the buffet with her gloved hands. Hungry patrons simply grunted, reached around her, and continued to fill their plates.
Reassured of her invisibility, she breathed more calmly and scanned the seating area to locate the first table most likely to need busing. One in the west corner was a possibility, and she shoved the cart against the east wall and waited there. The author moved through the restaurant, gathering dirty dishes, emptying ashtrays, and swabbing down vacant tables. Though she watched the customers, and chose some as new characters, she limited her eye contact to the babies in high chairs who were too young to talk.
“Bus girl…”
Purest Fiction is a short story with twelve parts. Stay tuned for Purest Fiction: She Could Write Here.
Read more of my published short stories here.
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Krystine Kercher
Heidi Kortman