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Instead, he
pulled the latex gloves out of his back pocket and snapped them on one at a time.

*****

Chapter
6

Sometimes, Dave Heinrich hated working at the Wild West Steakhouse.

Usually, he
didn
'
t
mind it much, especially if he was
cooking. In cooking, at least
, there was some skill required, and a degree of satisfaction; when Dave could juggle dozens of steaks on a flaming broiler, make sure that they were all done right, and get them to the customers on time, he felt as if
he'd
accomplished something at the end of a shift. Cooking was cleaner work than most jobs at the steakhouse, also less physically demanding. On the limited scale of prestige at the restaurant, cooks held a high position, second only to the managers. Best of all, cooks could sneak snacks easily and often, snatch a hunk of steak from the broiler when no one was looking.

Usually, Dave worked as a cook, and he
didn
'
t
mind it. Now and then, though, he got stuck in a shift as busboy or dishwasher, and that altered his outlook; when he was busing tables or laboring in the dishroom, Dave truly hated working at the Wild West Steakhouse.

Today, he hated working at the Wild West Steakhouse.
He'd
strolled in at three o
'
clock in the afternoon, fresh from classes at Orchard College, ready for his scheduled shift at the broiler...and Mr. Martin, the manager on duty, had sent him back to the dishroom. Two people had called in sick, Mr. Martin had explained, and no one else could fill in, so Dave would have to wash dishes and Mr. Martin would cook. Naturally, Dave would have preferred if
he
had been allowed to cook and
Mr. Martin
would have gone to the dishroom...but Dave was outranked and
didn
'
t
have any say in the matter.

And so, cursing Mr. Martin and the absentees for ruining his day, Dave had shuffled grumpily back to the dishroom. Ducking into the tiny locker room,
he'd
slipped out of his sweatshirt and blue jeans and donned the Wild West uniform, a pair of chocolate
-
brown trousers and a button
-
down shirt with vertical stripes of chocolate
-
brown, orange, and white. Pitching his belongings into a locker,
he'd
then punched his timecard at the clock, committing himself to at least five
-
and
-
a
-
half hours of highly unpleasant activity.

His shift in the dishroom turned out to be just as miserable as
he'd
expected. Standing at the metal counter at one end of the dishwashing machine, he received loaded
bus pans
as they were delivered from the dining room. Dropping the black plastic
bus pans
on the counter, he then had to sort through them, plunge his hands into the mounds of slop to fish out dishes. Though
he'd
done this for years, especially when
he'd
first started at the steakhouse, Dave still hated running his hands through
bus pan
slop;
he'd
learned to accept it as part of the job, but
he'd
never gotten used to it.

Seeking platters and cups and silverware, Dave dug through heaps of half
-
chewed food, discarded bones, and dressing
-
drenched salad. He sifted through pudding and potato skins and cole slaw, filthy napkins and cigarette butts, wads of gristle and unidentifiable substances.
He had
to comb the slop thoroughly, as much as he disliked it; if he just cursorily checked it, he might miss a fork or spoon, and one of the managers might catch it during an impromptu garbage inspection.

After pulling all the dishes and silverware from a
bus pan
, Dave dumped the remaining slop into the waist
-
high plastic trash barrel behind him. He sprayed out
the
bus pan
with a
wall
-
mounted metal hose, then dropped the clean tub on a shelf so the busboy could grab it when he delivered his next load. With that done, Dave arranged the dirty dishes on green plastic racks and shoved them into the dishwasher, a boxy contraption with sides of dented sheet metal. The machine pulled the racks through, scalding them with hot water, finally pushing them out onto a metal runway.

Usually, a second person was posted in the dishroom, assigned to the end of the runway to deal with the clean dishes; since it was a Monday, however, and Mondays were typically slow, Dave was on his own this time. After shoving a few racks through the machine,
he had
to hustle to the other side of the apparatus and attack the steaming items, yanking everything from the racks and sorting it for delivery. Salad plates and bowls were stacked on a long cart, as were the brown plastic roll baskets; the rectangular, metal entree platters were loaded onto a smaller cart, dropped upside
-
down into deep channels on two sides of the cube
-
shaped vehicle. Coffee mugs were arranged on trays and the amber beverage cups were overturned and fit together into high columns. Silverware was a nuisance: it came through the machine jumbled on a flat rack, and the knives, forks, and spoons had to be sorted into white plastic receptacles. There were trays, too, laminated fiberboard trays which the customers used to carry cups and napkins and silverware to their tables; the trays were deposited in the dishroom in huge piles, and once they were cleaned, were restacked in identical, unwieldy mounds.

When Dave had washed and sorted so many dishes that he
didn
'
t
have room for more, or when
he had
time between
bus pans
, or when the cooks or managers told him that they were out of something, he distributed what
he'd
cleaned. Wheeling the carts from the dishroom through a swinging door, he worked his way along what was known as
"
the line,
"
the area where food was prepared and customers processed. On one side of the line were the broiler and oven and deep fryer, and the meal assembly stations; on the other side was a walkway through which customers passed with their trays, viewing the food preparation from behind a four
-
foot
-
high partition. At the start of the line, Dave muscled the heavy stacks of trays into troughs, then slipped the containers of silverware into a metal rack above the trays. Next he deposited the towers of cups by the soda machine, the coffee mugs by the coffee pot warmers. He left the cartload of entree platters at the broiler, then removed the empty cart. Roll baskets were given to the assemblers, the girls who tossed meat and potatoes and side orders together to form dinners. Finally, salad bowls and plates were stacked in a bin near the cash register, within easy reach of passing customers.

When Dave finished the distribution process, he returned to the dishroom, where three or four slop
-
filled
bus pans
always awaited him. It was a frustrating cycle: wash dishes, distribute them, wash more, distribute them, wash more, etcetera. Dave could never get ahead, never feel any sense of completion, because the dirty dishes kept coming. As unpleasant as the work was, for the first hour
-
and
-
a
-
half of this day
'
s shift, things went smoothly for Dave; he labored at a rapid, steady pace and never fell far behind in his
bus pan
-
sorting, dishwashing, or deliveries. At four
-
thirty, though, the steakhouse went crazy. Unexpectedly, a huge swarm of customers overran the place, poured in all at once. It
shouldn
'
t
have happened, because Mondays were never very hectic and there were no coupons in the newspaper
that
might have drawn such a throng; nevertheless, the rush struck suddenly, and Dave was soon working at a breakneck pace.

Full
bus pans
surrounded him so quickly that they seemed to appear out of thin air; as soon as he finished unloading one pan, two more took its place. The assemblers and waitresses and manager kept darting into the dishroom, shouting for cups or silverware or platters. Dave moved as fast as he could, emptying
bus pans
and shoving racks of dishes through the machine, stacking and delivering items before they were even dry, and still it
wasn
'
t
fast enough. He dashed from one end of the dishroom to the other, then ran out to the line and back, then did it all again, racing and flapping in a frenzied and fruitless overdrive. With each moment, he fell further and further behind, grew more harried and frantic.

Then, all
hell broke loose. A bus
arrived.

Sixty senior citizens descended on the Wild West Steakhouse like a silver
-
haired invasion force. They had come from Gorman, fifty miles away, to attend a Rosary Rally in Confluence; heading home after the Catholic event, they had decided to stop for dinner in suburban Highland, and
of
course
they had selected this steakhouse for their meal. Wild West always drew a considerable number of senior citizens, mainly because of the restaurant
'
s ten percent discount for anyone over the age of sixty
-
five.

Like a flock of birds dropping onto a field, the busload of senior citizens engulfed the steakhouse. In a mere five minutes, Dave
'
s situation went from maddeningly hectic to completely out of control. The busboy started hauling back two pans at a time, one load of muck and dishes stacked atop the other. Waitresses sprinted in to dump piles of plates and silverware on the counter, not even bothering to deliver the stuff in
bus pans
. There
weren
'
t
enough cleared tables in the dining room, so Dave also had to run out with a
bus pan
and gather dishes.

Fifteen minutes into the rush, just as Dave was about ready to quit his job, a
door swung open, and Mr. Martin
the manager
blew into the dishroom. He was wide
-
eyed and sweating, his hair plastered to his skull, the armpits of his white shirt soaked and darkened.

"
Hey Dave
!
"
he called, scuffing over the floor tiles, waving for someone to follow him.
"
Good news! I brought you some help!
"

Expecting to see one of his fellow employees stroll through the door, Dave was surprised to see a stranger enter the dishroom. The guy was about six feet tall, with light brown hair clipped in a
crew
-
cut
.
He had
a closely
-
trimmed mustache and goatee, and wore blue jeans and a black
T
-
shirt with no sleeves. He looked as if he were in his mid
-
to
-
late 40
'
s, and his build was average except for his arms, which were thickly muscled.

"
This is Larry Smith,
"
said Martin.
"
He needs a job, and we need some help, so I hired him. Just tell him what he has to do, and get this place caught up.
"

"
What
?
"
blurted Dave, gaping in disbelief.

"
Just get caught up,
"
ordered Martin.
"
Larry worked in a restaurant before, so I
'
m sure he
'
ll catch on quick.
"

"
I don
'
t have
time
to
train
someone,
"
protested Dave, spreading his arms wide.
"
Just
look
at this place.
"

"
Do it
!
"
barked the manager, jabbing a stubby index finger at Dave.
"
I
'
m not gonna
'
stand here and
argue
with you! Just do it!
"
Glaring, the boss leaned forcefully forward, his blue paisley tie swinging away from his prodigious belly.

Realizing that there was no chance of reasoning with the tyrant, Dave shook his head with disgust. Without saying another word, he snatched a
bus pan
from the counter and started digging through slop once more.