009 Susan at work sorts kitchen then fired. 1195

Getting from the diner to the restaurant where I work has taken much longer than I hoped. Despite driving as fast as I could, it's taken at least half an hour to get here. I pull into my dedicated parking spot at the back of the restaurant right next to the dumpster. I open the door in a hurry and bang the edge of it into this rusting hunk of junk.

Shit. I check the damage to my car door. Go slow Susan, stop rushing, you're here now. Rushing only causes mistakes. Words of advice I normally give to my daughter when I see her not paying attention to what she's doing. If you go slow, you'll do everything properly, once. Easier said than done. It's not until I push open the staff entrance door to the restaurant that I realise that in my haste I haven't locked my car. Double shit. I need to start taking my own advice. 

In an effort to calm myself I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I'm about to go back to my car to lock it, when I hear, 'About time! Get your ass in here!'

I cringe then sheepishly turn to see Patrick sneering at me from the end of the hallway. He motions urgently for me to come to the kitchen. Patrick is overweight, not as obscenely fat as Mads, he's one of those men who has over eaten at every meal by about twenty percent his entire life and the pounds have added up over the years. I have never seen Patrick consume what I would call a normal sized meal. His skin also has a faint yellow hue to it. I'm no doctor, but I've seen the amount he drinks and I'm sure his 'glow' is from a faulty liver.  

'They're backed up like hell. You're needed in here now!'

'I need to get changed,' I call back.

'No one gives a shit what you're wearing. Get in here right now.'

I give a shit what I'm wearing. My sweater was given to me by my late grandmother, the woman who raised me. It's very important to me. Like the AA ring, this sweater's value to me is far beyond that of the cost of its creation. Patrick gives me a look that could kill. I give in, and remove my sweater as I hurry down the hallway to the kitchen. 

The moment I enter the hot-box I scan this overly familiar environment, analysing everything. I might not be good at many things in life, but the one thing I can do is run a kitchen efficiently. 

I'm greeted by an angry wall of silence from my two co-workers. Christoph, my su-chef, is currently managing orders and is running the main hotplate, grill, oven and flames. The expression on his face says he is on the verge of quitting. 

A pot of water for boiling pasta overflows onto the hotplate causing a micro mushroom cloud of vapour to rise like a miniature atomic bomb, which in a way is a fitting analogy for the state of this kitchen. Christoph casts me a desperate look, the safe-for-work interpretation of which reads: Help, now! The NSFW interpretation reads: Thank fuck you're here, we're all screwed!  

Tammy, who is only seventeen years old and whose duties never extend beyond washing dishes and helping chop vegetables is currently doing a terrible job of trying to organise the deep fryer orders. Not normally a challenging task, but when you're backed up and unnecessarily stressed by your employer, mistakes get made, as they presently are.

Another quote from my business studies night school class springs to mind - Preparation is key for successful execution in all business scenarios. With that in mind I look over all the backed up orders, formulating the most efficient approach to getting this kitchen back on track. I group the orders by their main meal component. There are currently nine steaks needed, four different pasta dishes, two fish, and five burgers. A quick glance at the grill tells me we need another four steaks on there. I rectify this with my right hand, while I check those already cooking with my left. Fortunately I've worked kitchens long enough to be able to tell how well a steak is cooked by look and touch alone. I remove those ready to be served, sliding them onto a drain-tray under a hot-lamp to await their plates and sides. 

I check the oven where I find two fish, a quick poke with a bamboo skewer tells me they're about two minutes away from being ready. A quick glance at the burger patties on the hot plate tells me they could use a flip. I reach for the spatula but find that it's not where it always is when I'm running this kitchen. No time to waste, I flip the patties with my bare fingers. The molten fat burns a little, but nothing I can't handle, and definitely not anywhere near as bad as I've been burned before. My forearms and fingers are a tapestry of year old burn scars. 

'Drop what you're doing and prep plates and sides for every main.' I say to Christoph who is only too happy to relinquish control of this runaway kitchen and follow orders. 

'You okay over there Tammy?' I call across the divide. 

'Other than having no idea what I'm doing, yeah, I'm doing great.' Is her typically sarcastic reply. I can tell also from the look on her face that she's on the verge of mutiny.

'Tartare goes with the calamari, not BBQ sauce,' I remind her as I remove the last of the steaks that are ready from the grill and put them on the plates Christoph has started to prepare.

'Setup the buns for the burgers Christoph.' I direct, as I pull the fish from the oven then dress them on their plates.

Christoph follows my orders like clockwork and in a very short time we have three-quarters of the mains setup and away along with a vast majority of the starters. The stress visibly fades from my co-workers faces. The orders are still rolling in, but we're no longer behind. Tammy's starters are beginning to look presentable enough that I can stop micro managing her and focus solely on mains and sides.

Patrick comes to the pass, waiting for the next set of mains to go out. He look my way sternly, evidently still highly annoyed with me. I flash him a small smile, trying to melt his ice facade a little, but in return he says, 'I don't know what you're smiling at, when you're done with this shift, you haven't got a job.'

That hits like a veritable punch to the gut. I need this job, I need it to survive. It is next to impossible to get any kind of employment when you're a convicted felon. And if I ever want to stand a chance in hell of having regular visitation rights with my daughter I need steady employment.