The Queen
The fact that Becky is the assistant manager at the second
largest restaurant in town is overshadowed by the fact that it is a Dairy
Queen. Her tenure there has been marred
by altercations with customers, rudeness, and an overall lack of hygiene. It is obvious to most that her attendance,
rather than her attentiveness, is the driving force in her promotion from
cashier. Some might not consider six
months a long engagement in any other industry; in Food Service it is, in fact,
an eternity.
The angry customer’s bony finger jabs at Becky like a
rapier. Her dissatisfaction with her
Steak Fingers, while obvious, seems misplaced to most patrons of The Queen. They all silently agree that Becky cannot be
held to account for the quality of a product that comes to them frozen, has the
nutritional content of greasy cardboard, and is certainly not made of any
naturally occurring substance.
“These fingers are disgusting!” The final two syllables of her shout fall
into oblivion so that the “g” rattles off the metallic napkin dispensers. Her pronunciation of the word “fangers”
causes Becky to smile and giggle.
“Listen here, missy.
I am never coming back here, I am writing a letter to your manager, and
I will tell all my friends about this.”
“Again, ma’am, I am sorry for the quality of your Steak
Finger Basket. I’d be happy to comp you
another meal,” Becky replies in an uncharacteristically calm manner.
“I don’t want your food.
A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be workin’ here anyway. You must feel like a Grade ‘A’ loser!”
Becky hisses a perfunctory “Yes,
ma’am” through clenched teeth. The
string of verbiage that follows is much more indicative of her usual demeanor.
“Becky, we have talked about your attitude way too often for
someone only been here six months ”
Mr. Harding, the corpulent and balding manager, sits behind
his comically small desk, peering at Becky over a substantial nose that
supports drug store reading glasses.
“She was rude, and there’s nothing I can do about the stupid
chicken fingers-“
“Steak fingers.”
“-steak fangers anyway. So rather than afford her the courtesy that a
normal human deserves, I gave her what she deserved.”
Exasperated, Harding continued. “Becky do you really think that anyone, no matter how awful, deserves to
be called a…what was it again?”
“A back-fat toting inbred harpy.”
“Good Lord, girl. You
read too much.” Another deep sigh, one
that spoke volumes of not only Harding’s job, but his life, his home, and the
unyielding, nagging thought that if only he’d caught that touchdown pass back
in high school…
“I guess you should just fire me.”
