I am Gideon: Chapter #11

My World Opens Up.

I’d been there a week and a half or so as Declivians figure it, when Azar came into the kitchen and said, “Three big cargo ships in at once. Interstellar carriers. I need you out front.”

I’d already been out front at least once, so the idea wasn’t all that scary, and our menu was limited to say the least, so I didn’t have to write anything down to take it to the cooks. I walked out into the main room expecting the usual pace, and just…froze.

It felt like the whole of “humanity” — and I use the term loosely — was spread out in front of me.

I saw more kinds of people in thirty seconds of shocked inertia than I’d seen my whole life.

“What do I do?” I squeaked.

The look on my face set Azar laughing. “Amazing, isn’t it?” he chortled. “Chances are they won’t hurt you.” I didn’t move. “They won’t hurt you. Get out there.”

“And do what?” I quavered. It still makes me laugh when I think about it. My knees felt like pudding, and I really thought I was going to pee the new-to-me trousers I’d bought with my first week’s wages. I was proud of those trousers.

“I’ll go ask them what they want to drink, and you find out what they want to eat.” He dropped a hand on my shoulder. “Just ask them if they want kartfels and caulis, barley stew or soaked bread. They’ll tell you, and you tell the kitchen. Keep a tally of how many of each have been ordered.”

I can remember turning red with embarrassment. “I have no idea how to do that,” I whispered.

“Write down the three menu items, and put strokes in each column,” he said with some impatience, shoved a long piece of paper and a scriber into my hand, and moved away from me into the crowded room.

I grabbed a serving tray for something solid, drew three wobbly lines down the length of the paper, and prayed I’d remember which column was which.

Walking out into that room was like swimming into the sea of no return. I stopped at the first table I came to and smiled as best I could through my chattering teeth. “What would you like to eat?” I asked.

A huge, broad-shouldered individual with roached hair and tattoos up his neck and across his scalp looked up and smiled. “Number one,” he said. I blinked. “Number one on the menu,” he said, more question than request. He sensed the pause, and I swear he sensed somehow that I couldn’t read. Was I telegraphing that somehow? Scary thought. He studied my face for an eternity of five seconds. “Number one on the menu board is kartfels and caulis,” he said quietly. “Two is barley stew, and three is soaked bread. I will have number one.”

And thus, my career as a waiter began. I moved from table to table and took orders. Some patrons never looked up, but held up fingers and went back to their conversation. Some looked up and smiled, or scowled, or looked me up and down more than I was comfortable with, but I made it all the way around and back to the kitchen with the orders.

“Next time come back halfway around so I can be prepping plates,” the cook growled. “Now go bring me some clean dishes.”

Next time? I got to go back? I wasn’t fired on the spot? I grabbed the plates and bowls and ran back into the main part of the kitchen. “And stir that pot!” the cook yelled, so I did that, too. “Get your scrawny ass over here and get these plates out to table one,” he bawled.

Now there was a stumper. Were the tables numbered, or were these for the first table I’d serviced?

“The first table you waited on!” he yelled, and I realized I’d said it out loud.

I did not wait one more second. I grabbed that tray and bounded, like the startled fleeter I was, back to that table. I stopped. Who got what? I was no less doomed than I’d been in the first place.

“Just put it down,” said the tattooed man. “Right in the center of the table. It spins on that hub in the middle.”

I let out a whoosh of relief that didn’t escape him, and I saw the hint of a smile as he turned casually back to the others.

I wanted to ask him where he was from. He was fascinating. He was kind and soft-spoken. But…then, Brother Darwin had been, too, hadn’t he? I felt a sudden chill, nodded too curtly, and ran for the kitchen.

 

Image Designer Credit: Sage Hollis