The Sunday Scaries
Volume 1, Number 35
Microfiction by Pat Harrigan
Content Warning: Language and Horror

In the Weeds

What’s that smell? Everything’s coming at her from all directions.
          Table 25 had been watered but she’d kept them waiting too long and they’re impatient.
          Chicken penne side Caesar, the shrimp, the kid has the mac and more breadsticks please. The kid, a boy she thinks, has shredded the previous breadsticks all over the carpet. She steps around it. Over to the POS. Everything she touches seems oily—surely that’s her imagination. The bell rings. Service! Table 26: The burger doesn’t look rare but maybe they’ll be okay with it. The bell rings. Service! 31, but that isn’t pesto, that’s bolognese, and the lady already made sure she knew she was a vegetarian. Back to the passthrough. Chef has spinach in his teeth. She has to wait till he’s done shouting:
          Three shrimp, plus two shrimp, plus two shrimp, no, three more, that’s eight shrimp all day. What?
          31 needs pesto.
          What is that?
          That’s a red sauce.
          Chef takes the pasta back and hands her the wedge salad for 17. Next to it is a plate of bacon figs.
          17, she asks.
          Yeah, yeah.
          Can I sell this?
          Yes! Filet up top!
          She serves 17. 16 waves her over. It’s the burger, of course. She takes it back to the passthrough. What’s that smell? Another round with chef. No more burgers. What? How is that possible? Could you check the walk-in? Do I look like I have the fucking time? So she has to go do it, of course.
          The cooler seems too warm, and the smell is worse in here. Look, right there, the burgers. She takes the tray. And someone’s tipped over a container of portobellos and there’s a heap of them on the mat. She’s already smooshed one before she saw them. The rest she kicks into a corner for now.
          No one is expediting anything. Dave the floor manager would normally do that, but he quit during service last night and dumped a tumbler of ice cubes into the deep fryer on his way out the door. It took forever to clean, it was lucky no one got scalded. She scrapes her shoe on the mat and takes the hamburgers to chef. Table 20, and 15’s order looks good. The kid opens his rubbery face and shovels in the mac and cheese. A wave of something passes over her. She’s dehydrated, gets herself a glass of water. Table 18? Who sat 18? When? 16, the fucking burger. It looks barely cooked at all. It’s got a funny smell. No, it’s fine. 18 looks like a couple of moon-men. Two guys, they could be twins. They’re the whitest people she’s ever seen. They could have squirmed out from under a rock. Her heart is beating faster. They’re very polite, like Mormons. Clams, two orders of clams. The bell rings. Service! 22 looks good. She checks on 15. The kid is biting his mother’s arm. Is that blood?
          There’s an argument in the kitchen: This order is wrong. It’s wrong! Table Two didn’t order thirty entrees. Table Thirty ordered two fucking entrees!
          That smell! Where’s it coming from? Someone taps her on the shoulder and she whirls around. It’s one of the moon-men. Can I help you? The restroom is over there. She goes back in the cooler to refill the clams. Someone’s cleaned up the mushrooms, I wonder who. The door won’t open. She sets the clams down and uses both hands. Nope. Huh. She tries again. She’s about to shout when something quivers overhead.
          She looks up.
          Something like a suction cup, splayed out against the top of the cooler door, attached to a long skinny pale tube that stretches back somewhere behind her. There’s a fingernail on it. She turns around.
          The kid from 15, crouched on a top shelf, its arms and legs stretched out, fingers and toes stretched even longer to press against the walls and ceiling and the door. The kid opens its mouth and bits of macaroni-mush fall to the floor. It opens wider, revealing mossy green teeth. Its breath smells like rotten onions.
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