Margo handed you a damp apron, XXXL, clearly not meant for someone your size—and clapped a meaty hand on your back hard enough to make you stumble forward a step. “We’ll see how you hold up. Most don’t last the week.” She grinned, her cheeks dimpling like overfilled doughnuts.
Before you could respond, she turned and waddled away, calling out an order for “two double stacks, extra gravy” without breaking stride.
You got to work immediately.
The sink was deep, the water scalding, and the dishes came in faster than you could blink. Plates coated in grease, towers of syrup glued forks, mugs with inch-thick rings of cocoa sludge. Every time you thought you’d caught up, another cart would roll in, piled high with more. And always the smell, greasy, sugary, rich, it filled your lungs and made your stomach rumble.
At first, you ignored the hunger. You were used to skipping meals by now. But after a couple of hours, your head started to ache and your knees wobbled a bit. You paused to wipe your forehead on your sleeve when a soft clink caught your ear.
There was a plate of food waiting on the break table behind you.
“Newbie gets a sampler,” one of the line cooks called from the grill. She was plump, with cheeks rosy from the heat. “Margo’s orders. Eat up before you pass out.”
You hesitated. It was massive—a heaping mound of mashed potatoes drowning in butter, four strips of thick, crispy bacon, and a wedge of chocolate pie already starting to sweat from the heat. But your stomach growled louder than your pride, and before you knew it, you were sitting down, fork in hand.
The food was… heavenly.
You scarfed it down so fast you barely tasted it, but the warmth it brought to your stomach was like a balm. You felt better. Stronger. A little sluggish, maybe, but you brushed that off as exhaustion and got back to work.
You finished your shift around 11 pm, your arms sore and back aching, but Margo handed you an envelope with a wink. “You’ll feel it tomorrow, but you did alright, kid.”
You slept like the dead.