You weren’t exactly picky about jobs these days. Not when your bank account kept dipping closer and closer to zero, and the stack of unpaid bills on your nightstand was beginning to resemble a skyscraper. Rent was due, your fridge held nothing but a bottle of ketchup and a lemon, and you were down to your last clean T-shirt. So when you saw the flyer pinned to the corkboard outside the laundromat, “Help Wanted: Dishwasher at Five Gals Diner. Apply Inside”. Without hesitation you tore off the little tab with the phone number and dialed before you even got back to your car.
The voice that answered was soft and friendly. “Come in today. Between three and five,” she said. “Ask for Margo.”
You showed up twenty minutes early.
Five Gals Diner sat nestled on the outskirts of town, a squat retro building with pink neon trim and a faded mural of five cartoon women on the side wall. Each of them was rotund, cheerful, and posed mid bite with some oversized piece of food.
Inside, the place smelled like syrup and grease and something sweet you couldn’t quite place. The kind of smell that clung to your clothes after a few minutes, the kind that lingered in your hair. It was dimly lit, filled with red vinyl booths, and the hum of a jukebox quietly playing oldies. A waitress waddled by you, tray in hand, balancing a tower of milkshakes and three massive cheeseburgers with practiced ease. You blinked. She had to be about three hundred pounds at the least.
“Can I help you, hon?” came a voice from behind the counter. A massive figure emerged both tall, wide, and wearing a grease stained apron that looked painted on. Her thick arms were folded over her belly, and she had a messy blonde bun on top of her head. “You here for the dish gig?”
“That’s me.” She gave you a look, her eyes pausing on your flat stomach and narrow frame. You were 5’10, average build, maybe a little on the skinny side. “Huh. Well, you’re a twig, but we’ll make do.”
She led you into the back, past the kitchen where enormous pots of mac and cheese bubbled and deep fryers hissed like angry snakes. Every worker you passed looked… big. One of the cooks, a woman with cheeks like rising dough, was eating a corndog while flipping pancakes. Another woman, seated in the break area, munched absentmindedly on a cupcake. No one seemed to notice you, but everyone was eating.
“This place gets busy,” Margo said over her shoulder as she led you to the sink area. “You wash, dry, and stack. No breaks till you’ve cleared a round. Got it?”
You nodded. The job was simple. It paid. You didn’t ask questions.
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