Ghosts of Koa

Not Ravens

Not Ravens

“Ma’am, please. If you could just—”

“Wait, I said!” The woman snapped, the decibel of her voice rattling the glasses on the tabletop.

Zeika gritted her teeth and jammed her pad and pen into the front pocket of her apron. She turned her head away, and blew a long string of hot air out of her mouth. If she had to look at this chick any longer, things were going to get unpleasant.

Mackey, another waiter on the clock, walked by. He was balancing a tall steaming stack of flapjacks, fresh from the kitchen. Usually, this would have distracted Zeika, but today was a no-go. Not even the heavenly scent of chocolate chip pancakes could overcome the sickening odor that emanated from the thin, oily woman sitting in the third booth. Because if anything in the world smelled like bitch incarnate, she was definitely it.

Lady Veronica Webb, or “Croni Roni” as Zeika and Mackey had dubbed her, had a head that hung forward, a chin like an old titty, and bushy white hair that stuck up in odd places. She looked very much like a tattered vulture that was way past its prime, and today, she was at it again, making Zeika’s life miserable for the 27th time. 

Roni gripped her menu with bright red talons, examining it with a manic eye as she changed her order yet again. Zeika had had to apologize to the staff every time she returned another dish, and now, the line cooks and servers were glaring mobbishly at her table. Other customers, neglected because of the fickle woman, had also noticed the scene and had ceased their conversations to flag her down.

“Excuse me!” One old man hollered. “Do you mind if I have my check, please? I’ve been waiting forever!”

Zeika glanced at him, nodded, and started moving towards the register.

“I’m not through ordering yet,” Roni said, her eyes burning. “Do you need me to get your manager? Or should I just dock your tip now?”

Easy, girl.

The mention of the money calmed the fire in Zeika’s gaze as her inner voice reminded her that the rent was due tonight. Roni smiled with satisfaction, taking a few moments to savor the struggle in Zeika’s face before she turned back to her menu.

She tapped her long, scarlet nails against the booth table top, swishing her lips from side to side as though making a life decision. Across from her, her ten-year old daughter stared out of the window, munching on the pancakes that Zeika had just set down. On the side of the daughter, Roni’s husband shrunk into the booth corner, picking at his half-eaten sausage.

Zeika acknowledged the apology with a level glare, but it didn’t make her feel any better. The other customers were now frowning and grumbling, somehow thinking that the hold up was her fault.

“This,” Roni pointed at the picture on the menu.

Finally! 

Zeika smiled and said, “So, the bourbon steak with baby portabello?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Without even asking how she wanted the meat cooked, or if she preferred potatoes or French fries, Zeika stormed away. In a few seconds, she returned, balancing the tray on her right hand. Usually it would never take such a short time to make the Bourbon special, but apparently, their manager had asked the cooks to make one of everything on the menu, for the customer’s convenience.

As Zeika passed by other customers who were still waiting for their food, the diner exploded in an uproar of complaints. 

“This is ridiculous! This woman has received her seventh meal already and here I am still waiting for my first!”