Ode to the Oddities Chapter 2

Alena's daily life at work because everyone in the work force is a moron

              Chapter 2

I blast through the diner doors with a full-body huff, like I’m exhaling my entire will to live in one breath, and at least thirteen people whip their heads up. It’s like walking into a flock of pigeons. They all freeze mid�"chew or mid�"sip, eyes on me like I’m the entertainment.

“Oh, mind your own business,” I mutter, water sloshing in my shoes with every step. I shake my foot, and a single droplet flicks off and hits the floor with a pathetic plink. Great. My life has sound effects now.

I drag myself to the whiteboard, grab the marker with the enthusiasm of someone about to sign their own arrest warrant, clock myself in, then sling my satchel on the coat hook like I’m trying to hang the corpse of my last brain cell. Apron. Nametag. Boom. Armor on.

“Where the f**k have you been, Rue?” Logan’s voice pierces the back of my skull.

I spin around, already annoyed, and am immediately confronted by a mop of curls that looks like a woodland creature made its home in his hair… and then got evicted. His emerald-green eyes blink at me with the judgment of a disappointed camp counselor.

“Oh, do not call me that,” I sigh dramatically, rolling my eyes as I tie the apron straps around my waist. The apron is still damp from last night’s wash cycle, and I swear it slaps against my thigh like a passive-aggressive fish.

Logan watches me for a solid thirty seconds, eyes widening and narrowing as if he’s running a diagnostic test to determine which level of yelling will penetrate my thick skull. He finally goes for round two.

“You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago,” he says, voice flat, gaze fixed on me struggling with the neck straps like they’re some kind of booby trap set by a vengeful god.

“Ohhh, please,” I say, waving him off like an annoying fly. “It was only fifteen minutes, Logan. Jonah over there clocked in twenty minutes ago, and he was supposed to be opening staff. It is�"” I jab a waterlogged thumb at Jonah, who is currently pretending to clean a table with the energy of a sloth on sedatives�" “9:42.”

Jonah does not hear a single word of our bickering. He’s too busy performing a covert pastry heist�"eyes darting side to side like a guilty raccoon�"before snatching a danish from the display case. He shoves it halfway into his mouth and scurries off like a man fleeing a crime scene, crumbs trailing behind him like sad evidence.

“Oh? And how do you know that?” Logan asks, sliding into a pose so obnoxiously perfect it makes my soul itch. He leans against the doorway like he’s trying to seduce the concept of architecture�"one arm braced above his head, one ankle crossed over the other, smirk polished to a shine.

I swear I can hear the imaginary wind machine.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe I read the clock-in sheet that says he checked in at nine seventeen,” I mutter through gritted teeth, the way someone mutters when they’re trying not to commit a felony. My apron straps twist again, mocking me. They hate me. I know they do. This has to be the fifth time they’ve double-crossed me.

“You seem to need some help there, Alena,” Logan says, voice sliding right into my spine like warm honey.

Before I can protest�"before I can even whip around and tell him to go sanitize his personality�"he’s already behind me. His fingers brush the back of my neck as he works the knot loose and reties it, and suddenly the air feels thick enough to chew. I hold my breath without meaning to.

Ten quiet seconds pass. Just the soft rasp of fabric. My heartbeat doing cardio for absolutely no reason.

“Done,” he says finally, with a low laugh that ripples straight down my ribs.

“Yeah, yeah. Here you go again, gallantly rescuing the poor helpless maiden,” I sigh, slipping my green cap onto my head and pretending it doesn’t immediately mess up the front pieces of my hair. My scalp prickles where his fingers were. Annoying. Very annoying. For reasons I refuse to unpack.

He gives me that look�"the one where his emerald eyes hang on me half a second too long�"and then reaches out to pat my head like I’m some kind of small woodland creature. My hair fluffs upward in betrayal. Then he’s already sauntering off toward the sink, whistling like he’s pleased with himself.

“What were you and Hulky Dish Boy doing?” Lily asks, appearing beside me holding a plate smeared in toast crumbs and eggs like evidence in a breakfast-related crime.

Her eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes me fear what rumors she’s already invented.

“He was assisting me with my collars. That is all, Lil’s.” I march to the wall dispenser like a soldier heading into battle and drown my hands in sanitizer. The cold gel hits my palms and I scrub between my fingers with the dramatic intensity of a surgeon preparing to crack open someone’s chest. Lily raises an eyebrow all the way into next week.

I flip her off lightly with a sanitized hand�"very hygienic of me�"grab a notepad and clipboard from the drawer, and inhale sharply like I’m about to face an entire day’s worth of chaos. And germy old people.

And unfortunately…I am.

The half-door swings behind me with that annoying little clack it always makes, like it’s tattling on me for existing. The dining area stretches out in front of me�"bright lights, humming conversations, forks scraping plates, the faint smell of syrup clinging to the air like a needy ex. My shoes squeak on the tile as I scan the room.

And there he is.

Table six. Young guy. Hood up. Phone lighting up his face like he’s telling ghost stories to himself. I walk over, rap my fingers on the table�"tap tap tap�"and when that doesn’t break his spell, I snap right in front of his nose.

He jolts like I hit his soul with a taser. Eyes widen, posture straightens, phone goes face-down real fast. Good. I’m not fighting a touchscreen for dominance today.

“Here is a menu. Don’t take more than fifteen minutes, alright?” I say as I slide it toward him like a dealer in a bad casino.

He stares at it. Not reads. Stares. For a solid ten seconds. Then he flips the page like he’s contemplating the meaning of life, breakfast edition.

Finally: “Could I get number fifteen and some coffee with one sugar cube?”

His voice is clear but soft, like he’s afraid I’m going to bite him.

“Yeah, sure. Anything else?” I click my pen�"snap�"and lock eyes with him like I’m trying to see if there’s anything alive behind them.

He blinks. “No, that is all for now.”

“Cool.” Clipboard under my arm, I spin on my heel and push back into the kitchen.

“Boy at table six wants the omelet with bell peppers, buttered toast, and black coffee with one sugar cube. No more.” I announce like I'm reading a very dull prophecy.

Jonah looks up at me with the expression of a man who has been forcibly resurrected against his will.

“Got it,” he mumbles, already shuffling toward the stove like a zombie chef. I swear I can hear his joints protesting.

While he cooks, I pinball around the dining room�"taking three more orders: pancakes with eggs, a pancake with fries (don’t ask, I stopped judging), and something drowned in syrup.

Back in the kitchen, Jonah calls, “Order for table six,” with the emotional range of a damp towel.

I grab the plates�"heat blooming through the ceramic, coffee sloshing dangerously close to disaster�"and mutter a “thanks,” even though he absolutely does not deserve the energy it takes to say it.

When I head back out, the guy at table six watches me approach like I’m part of some live nature documentary. I can practically hear the narrator: “And here we have the wild waitress, delivering sustenance to the confused male of the species.”

“Here is your food and coffee, sir,” I say, setting everything down with practiced precision.

It takes about five full seconds for his brain to reboot, eyes flickering to the plate like he’s trying to remember how eating works. Then finally�"finally�"he smiles and nods and drags the dish toward himself.

Good. One functioning customer. I’ll put that in the win column.

“Anything else you need, or can I go take a hike?” I rub my temples like I’m massaging away the warning bells blaring in my brain.

He swallows, then stares at me like he’s buffering�"thirty whole seconds of pure, unblinking, “please-don’t-hate-me” horror movie stare.

“Maybe… your number?”

Number. He wants my number.

I raise an eyebrow so hard I feel it in my hairline. “Sorry, kid, you are like… seventeen at most.”

“Eighteen, actually.” He grins, as if he just delivered the punchline to a joke only he understands�"as if flirting with someone almost twice his age is a normal Wednesday morning activity.

“My guy, listen. You are eighteen and I am twenty-six. Do you not see the problem here?” I plant a hand on my hip and tilt my head, because nothing says ‘serious conversation’ like a dramatic lean.

“So?”

I blink. Slowly. Deliberately. Is this b*****d serious right now?

“My guy,” I exhale through my nose because a laugh would be dangerous, “while I was graduating high school and moving on to college, you were�"” I glance down at his hands like they might give me more clues�"“sucking your thumb in sixth grade.”

He blinks. I nearly snort. A rogue laugh escapes anyway.

“Age is just a number,” he says with a shrug so casual it’s infuriating, like he’s announcing the weather.

You have got to be kidding me.

“Yeah, and you know what else is a number? Nine-one-one for harassment. How about you get back to counting blocks and leave me alone?” I jab a finger toward his plate, trying to make it sting with the precision of a surgeon�"or at least a fed-up server.

“I like you. You’re feisty,” he says, grinning like I just complimented him on his homework.

“Oh, f**k off,” I snap, curling my lip like I just tasted something bitter. Then I sprint-walk away, full-on escape mode.

I blast through the half-door and inhale as if the kitchen air can wash the absurdity off me before collapsing into the most uncomfortable chair I can find. It groans in sympathy�"or judgment, I’m not sure.

“You good?” Logan asks from the sink, casually washing dishes like the last ten minutes didn’t exist, while I rub my temples as if that’s a legitimate form of therapy.

“Some kid at table six thinks everyone is available nowadays,” I mutter, a chuckle escaping despite myself. My eyes snap to my phone. “How the hell is it already ten thirty-four?”

“Well, Rue, time flies when you’re trying to make money around here,” Logan says, like that explains everything.

“I think what he’s really trying to say,” Gordie pipes up from under the sink, head poking out like a disgruntled mole, “is that the workforce of the city is sucking the life out of you and making you lose track of time.”

“What are you doing under there?”

“The sink leaked again. Trying to keep the floor from turning into a swimming pool,” Gordie says, pointing at a pipe surrounded by a sad little puddle.

“Got it,” I say, letting out a long breath, eyes rolling up to the ceiling as I silently contemplate every questionable life choice that led me here.

Eventually, I haul myself out of the chair and march back toward the kid’s table like a general approaching enemy lines.

“Alright, kiddo, that’ll be twelve bucks.”

He doesn’t even flinch. He digs into his pocket and hands me a twenty.

“That, my friend, is eight extra dollars,” I say, counting it like a mathematician who’s been personally insulted.

He smiles like I just handed him the crown of the world. “It’s a tip. Nice scenery, y’know?”

I inhale sharply through my nose because some things in life just cannot be processed without a proper mental recalibration.

“Just get out of here,” I sigh, waving vaguely toward the door. He grabs his bag and strolls out through the double doors, still grinning like he just won some invisible contest.

“God… just why?” I groan, rubbing my forehead.

It’s not like this happens every day�"but close enough. Same old, same old: weird people, weirder orders, and conversations so bizarre they make anyone within a ten-foot radius do a slow double-take. Welcome to the glamorous life of a waitress, for anyone curious.

I shake my head and let a small laugh escape, because honestly? The whole interaction was absurd enough to be comic relief. Then I head back toward the kitchen, bracing myself for whatever chaos is bubbling in there.

I push through the half-door and immediately catch Lily and Logan mid-debate about�"what else�"her cat and her electric bill.

“Are you serious right now, Lil’s!?” Logan gasps like she just told him she kicked a puppy. He sets down the sponge with all the gravitas of someone performing a dramatic monologue.

“It was either pay to have my lights on or make sure Milo eats this month!” Lily throws her hands up, eyes wide. “I had to make a decision!”

“What the hell is going on in here?” I mutter, dragging a chair from the corner and collapsing into it with a flourish, chin in my palm. Somewhere, my sanity sighs and hides under the counter.

“Lily sold my collector’s edition Beanie Baby so her cat could have premium food!” Logan shouts, eyes wide like it’s a national emergency and someone just declared war on plush toys.

“For the record,” Lily snaps, arms crossed like a general issuing a final order, “he needs his nutrients. And Stewie will live a very comfortable life with Mila now.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, blinking at them like maybe I missed a memo on why stuffed animals are now a hot-button issue. “You two are arguing about a cat and a Beanie Baby?”

“Stewie was not just a toy, Alena�"he was my child!” Logan declares, pressing a hand to his heart like he’s auditioning for a daytime soap opera.

“Wrench!” Gordie shouts from under the sink, the single most mundane yet urgent interruption imaginable.

“Jesus Christ,” I sigh, reaching into the toolbox for the metal hunk and tossing it down to him like it’s a lifeline.

“Thanks,” he mutters, disappearing back under the sink.

“Anyway,” Lily huffs, “it was just a toy, Logan.”

“Lil’ sis,” he says, pointing a sudsy finger at her like a Jedi delivering a prophecy, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Stewie was family!”

I inhale through my nose and stare at them both, somewhere between disbelief and silent laughter, fully aware that no amount of logic will save me from witnessing this ridiculous domestic battlefield.

He goes back to scrubbing dishes like a man personally wronged by the universe, each swipe a silent cry against the injustice of existence. Lily immediately snatches the sponge from his hands with the efficiency of a cat burglar.

“If you want him back, Mila only lives ten minutes away from the condo on 5th,” she says, squeezing half the soap bottle onto the sponge in one dramatic squirt, then hands it back to him. Suds fly like tiny foamy missiles.

I lean against the counter, trying not to laugh as the chaos unfolds. “Y’know,” I say, voice deadpan, “for a guy who mourns a stuffed raccoon like it’s family, you really scrub with passion.”

“Mila will not take my son away from me again!” Logan cries, fist stabbing the air like he’s declaring war on the universe itself.

I raise a brow. “Wait�"again?”

He turns to me, eyes wide, chin raised like a man who’s stared too long into the abyss. “It has been nigh on too long since I have perceived my poor little Dogie!”

Lily groans, rubbing her temples as if her brain might spontaneously evaporate. “I gave his dog a Beanie Baby to Aunt Cindy so she could start her own collection. I thought it’d be a nice start!”

Logan stares at her in mock horror, mouth a perfect “O.” “And I have lost five more children since then!”

That’s it�"I can’t hold it in. Laughter bursts from me, uncontrollable, tears threatening to escape. “You two need therapy. Preferably separate sessions,” I manage between giggles, wiping a rogue tear from my eye.

I clap Logan on the back, careful not to knock any suds into my hair. “Come on, tragic dad, save the rest of your emotional meltdown for after the lunch rush.”

He glares at me, but makes the executive decision not to argue. I can’t help but smirk.

Snatching my notepad, I shove through the swinging door and spot a family of five settling into a booth. I grin like a predator sizing up prey.

“Money, money, here I come,” I mutter under my breath, eyes darting between the menu and the family. “Let’s see who cries first�"me or the kids.”

The kitchen hums with chaos behind me: suds, shouting, soap-slinging, and Logan’s theatrical mourning, all perfectly in rhythm with the beat of a lunch rush that refuses to be boring. And somehow, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Author's Note

Let me know if any changes are to be made with grammar, or just personal preferences!
I would also love if everyone left a comment telling me they read it so I could thank everyone!

Reviews

[LH Weiss]

There is a lot, and I mean a LOT of imagery. Very vivid. It’s interesting to me how, at the end of the chapter, Alena admits that she likes working in such a noisy, chaotic environment, surrounded by creeps and folks she generally dislikes. It was very unexpected.
Overall, this chapter gives the reader a lot of idea into who Alena is. Nice job.