It was a Salal lunch rush and Jerry, a caffeinated, newly anointed prep cook, sweated profusely. Eight order tickets hung over him fluttering in a wind caused by the crew’s frantic movement. 

Bill stood on the other side of the pass-through, still as the egret Jerry had seen the other day. He studied his order book.

“Bill, can you get this order?” Jerry called. His super quesadilla with all the extras wilted under the heat lamp. 

Bill didn’t even look up.

“Bill! Pick up! Now!”

 Bill sailed around the pass through and shoved Jerry. Jerry stumbled backwards, then righted himself and rocketed back into Bill’s face. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Bill’s eyes smoldered. “What are you going to do about it?” 

Henry pushed the two of them apart. “Guys, we got lunches to serve.” 

The two separated. Bill shoved his order book into his back pocket and grabbed the lunch order. 

Jerry never did like Bill. He was such a galoof. He drank beer, hardly talked, always wore a baseball cap. Yet he was dating the restaurant’s accountant, a Stanford graduate. How was that possible?

If it had come to blows, Bill would have wasted him. What the hell had he been thinking?

The next day during his breakfast shift as waiter, Jerry put on William Ackerman’s acoustic guitar music then slipped out back to the ice machine. When he returned, Led Zeppelin blared. 

He launched into Henry. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I’m playing good music, not that sissy crap.” 

“That’s not what the customers want. They want something relaxing. It’s not Friday night.”

“They like hard rock. Anyway, I’ve worked here longer. I’ve got seniority.” 

“Screw you.”

“What did you say?”

“Screw you.”

“Why don’t you just leave. You’re not one of us.”

“At least turn it down a notch.”

Jerry wanted to kick the shit out of somebody.