#166: Maybe

It was the way she said it that pissed Peter off. Her voice was casual, nonchalant even. As if it were no big thing.

As if she was simply telling him to scrub the pots before the dishes.

To tell him, without remorse or explanation, that he was done after this shift was callous. She already had someone for next week’s shifts lined up.

Being a dish-pig wasn’t what he wanted to be, especially at this age, but he sucked up it. Grace had been demanding money and so he came to work each day just to fulfil his obligations of child support.

And now this young chef things she can just walk in, bark at him he was done and wasn’t to return. She flicked an envelope on the bench and told him to collect it once he’d finished up.

Peter flicked through and saw it contained everything they owed him.

He had about half-hour left of work. He was a man of honour, so he slipped on his yellow glove. The grime this woman bakes into the pot every time she cooks is a disgrace.

A laugh burst through the kitchen. Peter peered into the bar. Kaz was sitting with her girlfriend. She was probably telling her all about how she just fired the old loser.

He wanted to smash every single plate. Or better yet, he could frisbee them through the serving window, aiming them at her stunned face.

This was the problem with getting old. It is all too easy to think of the consequences. Cops, lawyers, fines, and Grace’s disappointment in him.

Peter carefully turned off the fridges. The delivery for the week had been prepped and readied. Thousands of dollars sat in these two glass vaults. And even more in the freezers, in the storeroom.

They’ll think it was him, but very hard to prove. And it won’t be discovered for three days.

Peter returned to the last pots.

On his way out, he thanked Kaz for the opportunities of working here, and if there were any shifts available, he’d happily work.

She was stunned and smiled, saying maybe, maybe.