Change Your Spoons
"Change your spoons. Fill your holes. Take your temperatures," was the refrain. The refrain! Always the same (and spoken at a walk-by). Whenever the line broke, the manager (one of four managers; the four being: general, service, line, and chef ... at all times, two of the four were always in-store) ... she would tell Field to, "Change your spoons. Fill your holes. Take your temperatures."
All four of the managers were female. And they all had names that ended in "y" ... Field wasn't sure what to make of that.
The mouse stared blankly at the beets. Beets. Who ate beets? Who could stand beets? Beets should be illegal to eat. Or even sell. Or anything. Bloody beets. In the red, red juice that spilled out of the bowls and onto the table. Sticky, syrupy mess. The beet spoon needed to be changed. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, it always did. Change the beet spoon. Reach under the heat lamp to change the spoon and burn your paw in the process. Like the time he'd scarred his paw (which had collapsed under the weight of a plate, paw going down into a 180 degree pan of gravy ... the pain ... the burns) ... like the time ... he shuddered. Almost cried at the remembrance. Almost cried for so many reasons. About so many things.
But he couldn't. Not in front of other furs. Not at work. Couldn't cry.
He had to hold it back. Which, he felt, must be damaging him in some way ... that kind of emotional suppression.
And the macaroni spoon! Always. Always change that one, too. But other than that, the spoons were fine. It was always the same: beet and macaroni spoons ... change them. Other spoons ... hold the handles in your paw and PRETEND like you were gonna change them, but don't really do it. And no one would ever know. As long as you LOOKED busy, they (the managers) were happy. Idle paws and all that.
Unless upper-middle-management came in (the furs in suits who ran it all). When they came in, NO ONE was happy. Regardless. And they never said when they would come. They just strolled in and made false conversation. Making the fur on the back of your neck stand up. Making your wanna hold your tail and curl away. And they were always these big wolves and cats and such. Never rodents.
Anyway, the beets ...
Down with beets. But macaroni?
Field LOVED macaroni. Oh, my gosh. He ate it EVERY day. On his lunch break, he had it, and ... say what you wanted about this place, but ... best. Macaroni. Ever. Oh, my gosh (was his thought) ... as he eyed it. The macaroni, at this moment, was in very good condition. It was in a good state. However ... and the key word was "however" ... by the time Field's lunch break rolled round, the macaroni might be all ... worn, as it were, from being on the line so long. The noodles might be soggy, and ... all that. Might be dried out. It might not be at his best. UNLESS ... the fill fur put a new pan in. Put a new pan in. Put a new ...
But that was a gamble, at best.
But, yes, the macaroni cheese was unparalleled.
Field had the same thing for lunch every day: macaroni cheese, carrots/peas/a kind of potato, a small tossed salad, strawberries/pineapple ... and a wheat roll. And a glass of milk. Today, it would be peas. And pineapple. For there were no strawberries, and he needed something green, so carrots were out.
The mouse got half-off his meals for being an employee. Which, deep down, miffed him. It should be ENTIRELY off. Because, on his lunch-break, he was paying his own work! Every day! At lunch, he was GIVING them back small parts of his check ... because, well, he kind of NEEDED to eat. They held a monopoly on his stomach.
He sighed.
Field, having changed the spoons, "filled the holes." The term for ... leveling out the food to make it look all even. You didn't want any gaps, for instance, in the green bean pan. If all the green beans were shifted toward one side of the pan, apparently ... this was bad. Apparently. Apparently, appearances were everything. The green beans had bacon stuff mixed in. Meat in the green beans. Whoever heard of this? Field had already been hesitant about green beans ... you know, before-paw, but the addition of meat in the green beans had just put him off the idea entirely. Had forced him to start liking peas. And broccoli. Though he never ate the regular broccoli. Just broccoli casserole.
Food services, at least, had helped the mouse's diet. He ate well. But was still very slender, too thin for his height. He needed more protein, but he couldn't bring himself to eat meat ... though maybe some poultry now and then. Maybe he'd have a chicken tender today. Maybe.
When one worked around food, was around food ALL the time, one put too much thought into what one would be eating for his next meal. Surprisingly, though, being around this food ... didn't cause Field to eat more. If anything, he ate less. He ate his one meal during lunch-break, and ... nothing for the rest of his day. Woke and had a glass of orange juice for breakfast. He'd lost four pounds in the last month. Maybe it was because he was on his foot-paws all day. Maybe it was because he was a mouse. Was a fierce burner of energy. Via anxiety. Or maybe it was because he was an on-and off again (currently off, and fervently praying to stay that way) anorexic.
Regardless, Field's employment in a restaurant ... was ironic on SO many levels. To the point of being fitting.
It was currently lunch-time. The "regulars" were filtering through. The furs who came here every day on their work-breaks. For lunch. And the elderly furs who came to the cafeteria (many of them twice a day).
This restaurant was in Carmel, Indiana. Carmel was rich. Hamilton County, Indiana, was one of the richest counties in America. But Field didn't live in Hamilton County (though they all assumed he did; they all assumed he was one of them). He lived in Boone County, twenty miles away. He lived on a dairy farm. He'd grown up on food stamps. He'd struggled. He'd lived a proud, quiet ... and very rural life. And had gotten the job here ... through his cousins (who owned the chain).
Regardless, the mouse felt like a TOTAL outsider here. And to work in a town as wealthy as this ... and to have to serve all the furs who lived there. To cater, basically, to their whims, to deal with the wants, wants, wants ... of the furs here ...
Coming from the background he did, it made the mouse's cheeks burn beneath his fur. A certain (hidden) humiliation, maybe. Or something. He didn't know.
He was being unfair. A lot of the furs here were nice. And Carmel was a safe, impressive place to work and visit, and ...
... but, compared to where he was from, to where he went home every night ... this was night and day. It was like Carmel was in a protective bubble. Where appearances were streamlined. Where the problems of the day amounted to "where shall we eat for lunch" ...
Field shoved these thoughts aside. Feeling he was over-thinking it. Feeling ...
... flushed, huffing (please be one-thirty, please be one-thirty ... one-thirty was his lunch-break) ... the mouse reached for a plate. Looked up. Behind the line, he could do this. Separated from the customers (whom he likened to cranky predators). Separated by this line, and seeing them through steam and hanging heat lamps, the mouse could do this. He could do it. Because of this barrier. But when they put him out on the floor ... to serve coffee and tea. Oh, when they did that, the mouse felt like prey in open air. Open noon. Felt like a rodent at a falcon convention. But, anyway, Field reached for the white plate (a vegetable plate), and asked, "Any vegetables today?" Gosh, he sounded like a broken record. How many times had he said this?
"Hmm ... " The fur who'd ordered the vegetable plate ... mulled. Mulled. Why was he mulling? There were seven furs in line. Pretty soon it would be a single line, a double line, and ... who-knew-what.
Field, inwardly, urged, "Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry ... "
"Well, I just don't know," the customer laughed.
Oh, the jocularity! He didn't KNOW! Why was this funny? Why was the customer chuckling at his own indecisiveness? How could one consciously decide to go to a restaurant ... and have NO idea what he or she wished to eat there? How was that possible?
Field was not amused. Simply bit his lip and looked to the beets, suggesting, "Beets."
"Do they have sugar? Are they Harvard or pickled beets?"
"Harvard beets," said Field. He should be committed just for KNOWING that there were different kinds of beets. What were beets? Were beets even a VEGETABLE ... ? Did they grow from seeds? Or did they rain down from the sky at night, like alien pods?
"No," said the fur, waving his paw. He was a fox. "No, too much sugar."
Field was grinding his mousey molars. Letting out a breath.
"No corn today?" the fox asked.
Field shook his head. "No. No corn."
"Hmm ... "
Oh, my gosh. There were now TWELVE furs in line. This was pandemonium.
"Well, I guess I'll take," said the customer, staring at the carrots. Staring at the carrots.
Field went for the carrots.
"Butter beans," said the customer, STILL staring at the carrots.
Field cursed inwardly. Having to move several paces to his right ... to reach the butter beans (which, oh, by the way ... Mister Fox customer ... they're called LIMA BEANS), wondering if they did that on purpose. If the customers stared at one food and said another ... just to sort of, you know, keep him on his toes. If they all conspired to screw with his mind. And he was a mouse, after all. Wasn't too difficult to mess with Field.
"I get one more?"
"Two more," said Field. The vegetable plate came with three vegetables.
"Hmm ... "
Field made a sad whimper-squeak sound ... from the back of his throat. Tempted to look at the clock, but not even DARING. No. No, when you worked in a job like this, you NEVER looked at the clock. It was the ultimate trap. Cause it would be the same damn time ... every time you looked. It would be, like, 6:23 or ... 1:19 ... every time. Never failed. No. No! Don't look at the clock!
"Well, I'll take potatoes."
And, though Field was entirely certain the customer was referring to the mashed potatoes, the mouse, wanting to one-up the customer for faking him out, replied, "Mashed, parsley, or O'Brien?" For, yes, there were THREE varieties of potatoes on the serving line.
The customer looked irate. As if knowing the mouse knew what he wanted. As if knowing Field was being difficult (in that cute, mousey way of his). "Mashed," said the customer. "No gravy."
Field put potatoes onto the plate. Put the gravy ...
"I said NO gravy."
Dammit! Field took in a breath through his twitching, sniffing nose. Okay, okay ... oh, he HATED that. He wanted to yell at the customer, in forceful fashion, that, "Look, I would NOT put gravy on your potatoes unless you ASKED me to, so when I HEAR the word GRAVY, I don't hear the 'no' that comes before it. I just hear the word gravy. I don't put gravy on your potatoes unless you say gravy, so when you say the word gravy ... if you don't want gravy, don't say ANYTHING! PLEASE!" He wanted to say this, but ... did not. Instead, he went, quietly, to fetch another plate. Redoing the plate, feeling worn, whispering the final chorus of, "What else?" Adding, in case the customer didn't understand this, "You get one more."
"Greens."
"Spinach?"
"Greens."
"It's spinach," said Field. It was spinach every day. It was always spinach. Field had been working here for a year and a half, every day, and every day ... it was spinach. It was never greens. It was never kale. It was ALWAYS spinach. And this customer ... this fox, he'd been here before! He was in here at least three times a week! So, why, in heaven's name ... did he ask for greens when ... there were NO greens? It made no logical sense!
"Well," said the customer, sighing, as if he were being coerced into something he objected to. "I guess I'll have to have the greens."
Field handed the customer his plate, reaching for a ...
"I ORDERED greens," said the customer, saying greens ... despite the fact that the mouse had just told him, point-blank, that it was spinach. Was the fox in such denial, such delusion ... that he was going to order spinach and PRETEND it was greens? Did he want greens that badly? What the hell were greens, anyway?
Field, instead of taking the bait, instead of replying with a flustered, "I'm putting it in a bowl." Instead, he smartly held up the small side-dish. Quietly displaying it for a few seconds. Reached for the tongs in the spinach. Held the spinach up, draining every drip and drop (beating the customer to the surefire punch of "drain it") ... and he set the bowl on the line. Nodding. Looking away, to the next customer, sighing, asking, "Any vegetables today?"
It was like this all the time.
Sundays were the worst. Sundays? The busiest day. And ... oh, the mouse hated it. He'd always been a very spiritual mouse. WAS, still, a spiritual mouse. Now more than ever. And ... it bothered him to have to work on Sundays. Especially since, upon taking the job, he'd asked to "not work Sundays," and yet they scheduled him for Sundays, knowing he needed the job, and knowing he was too modest and shy to complain about anything. Oh, he would complain inwardly. He would vent as he was doing now. But Field was not a bad mouse. Field was not a crazy mouse. Well ... okay, so he wasn't a BAD mouse. But ...
Field didn't like to believe that he was a push-over. But, truth be told, the mouse wasn't much of a fighter. He'd been raised Quaker, after all. He was rather a pacifist. Very gentle. Very shy and wide-eyed. Outside of work, he was TOTALLY different. He was a starry-eyed dreamer. He was sweet, innocent (despite all the darkness he'd survived). He was lively outside of work. But here, at work ... in this building, as soon as he clocked in at 11 AM every day ... he felt like a machine. His emotions bled away. Replaced by a dry irateness. A dry sense of business. Of time. Of ... oily things.
Field at work ... was not the real Field. It was the Field whose soul was being slowly eaten away ... working in a tedious, repetitive, crowded environment simply so he could buy food. So he could pay bills. So he could get back into school. So he could ... not have his family lament at how "lazy" he was. How he "never did anything." He worked forty-five hours a week. He was going back to school in the fall. What MORE did they wish him to do? Lazy? How DARE they call him lazy ...
Field sighed. Closing his eyes (but only for a moment). He was tired. He was a writer. He loved to write, but he could only do so ... after work. By the time he got home (getting off at 8 PM, and living over half an hour away, way out in a farm on the countryside) ... by the time he got home, it was nearing 9, and he was up 'til 1 AM ... writing. Thinking. Reflecting. And he woke at 7:30, and ... recovered. Steeled himself to do it all over again.
Work should be more. It should ... be more than this. He wished ...
He looked at it, though, trying to be positive, like ... like, well ... it was an experience. It forced him to deal with furs on a daily basis. Forced him to grow. Gave him a perspective on life he might not otherwise have. Gave him motivation to improve. It all had a reason. Everything had a purpose. And ...
All things told, the mouse had an amazing capacity ... for productivity. And for self-awareness. And for ... everything. The mouse was bright. The mouse was talented. The mouse wished to glow. But he couldn't do that here.
And it wasn't that it was BAD. But it was work, just work, and ... he felt like it was just a place-holder for something else. For his next step. Which was months away. And ...
... the mouse was tired. So tired. Was tired of standing all day behind a steam-table for only 6 dollars an hour. And he thought to himself that he was being ungrateful. He was grateful to have a job. And it wasn't that bad. He was blowing this ALL out of proportion. It wasn't bad at all. A lot of furs had a LOT less than Field had.
The mouse felt ashamed for being so difficult.
Except Field was wracked with social anxiety problems. With emotional issues. With ... things that made this SO much more difficult ... than it was for "normal" furs. Who knew. He didn't know. This was just so hard for him to do. He had to talk himself through it ... to get through this. Every day, it took so much energy to do this ... leaving his creative energy drained. In dire need of rest. Leaving his body weary.
He, in his mind, to pass the numbing hours ... he prayed. He talked to God. He humbly prayed, and he ... speculated on new stories to write when he got home. He dreamed of the future. Of love. Of romance. He replayed Innocence Mission songs in his head. Pairing them with spiritual, poignant images. He would think of Hoosier things. He would ...
He just sighed. Daydreaming. Listening to the Hispanic furs speak in Spanish on the line (Field liked them, and had picked up their language by listening to them ... learning it more successfully than he'd been able to do in classrooms back in high school), and listening to the manager subsequently scolding them for speaking Spanish in front of the customers, and ...
Field sighed again. He had to get out of here. But first, he'd have to ...
"Change your spoons. Fill your holes. Check your temperatures."
He nodded dully. Right on time.