Wendy's Waffle House
The Waffle House: A SumFlux Competition Entry
Management tapes a new face to the missing persons’ wall every month.
Photographs. White paper. Names underneath. All caps.
HAVE YOU SEEN - something wet chews through the rest.
A missing persons’ poster is wedged under the leg of booth two. Keeps it level.
“Strays and runaways”, says the regular in booth three. Back to his coffee.
Bzzzt-clink-shhhh.
The waffle timer rings.
A kitchen Presser lifts the hot iron, scoops out the crisp waffle, and serves it onto a mended porcelain plate. The cracks shine golden in the kitchen’s strip lights. He brushes the top of the waffle with syrup then palms the service bell. Ding!
Next, he opens the fridge and pulls out pre-prepared batter. The fridge handle belonged to an old saucepan. Spray the iron with cooking oil, ladle the batter, close the iron, and reset the timer. Rrrrrk-rrrrrk-rrrrrrk.
Kitchen Pressers wear butcher’s aprons to the floor. Elbow-length rubber gloves. Plastic bags fastened with elastic bands around their ankles.
Page two of Wendy’s Waffle House Induction booklet: Health and Safety in the Kitchen. Management handed us the booklets at the start of our first shift.
That first shift, Wendy showed me where the spray bottles lived.
“Front door sticks in the wet weather”, she said. “You have to pull hard”.
She also gave me my name tag. Wendy.
“We’re Wendys. Wendys serve the booths”, she said.
She chews gum with the back of her teeth. Hair high and lacquered. Red lips.
Each of her blinks takes longer to finish than to start.
Wendys move through the diner in slow orbits. Shift starts. We serve, deliver, refill, take payment, clear, wipe down, serve, deliver, refill, take payment, clear, wipe down, then serve, deliver, refill, take payment, clear, and wipe down. Shift ends. Mine does anyway, conditions of my release.
“Today you’re on booths five through eight”, says Wendy.
A note taped to the pass reads Syrup low. Half jug measures. Three underlines.
Table radios play covers of well-known songs.
Diners pull thick milkshakes through chewed biro straws.
Dried syrup holds the Wendy’s Waffle House sign up.
Booth five leaves a three-dollar tip. Fold the bills lengthways, then into tight thirds. Shoebox.
A crayon in my apron pouch from this morning. Yellow. She was drawing flowers.
A chip fryer basket accepts cash tips.
Squeegee and cloth beside the tills. The buttons and drawer stick.
Booth four leaves a full cup of coffee. It’s poured back into the jug.
A girl uses syrup from her plate to glue cut-outs into her schoolbook.
Tyre bar stools line the window seats.
Wendy smooths loose hair with syrup.
World’s Best Syrup says the chalkboard. While stocks last.
Booth eight leaves five dollars. Fold the bills lengthways, then into tight thirds. Sofa cushion.
Booth nine is a 1989 Ford County Squire. The front end lodged in brickwork. Management cleared the bottles, fitted a table across the back seats, and added two more chairs. The wood panelling down the sides is unchipped and varnished.
On the rear bumper: HOW’S MY DRIVING? CALL 0800 -
Regulars have dark-stained lips. Booth one goes through a stack of napkins.
Management takes coats by the door and disappears beneath them.
A Presser takes hot plates onto his forearms and waits for Wendy to collect.
Wendy runs short of napkins. The wall has spare paper.
Booth six leaves an eight-dollar tip. Fold the bills lengthways, then into tight thirds. Mattress.
In the kitchen, a Presser folds himself over the sink. Amber runs from his mouth.
A basement Tender waits by the toilet. Two flies circle him. One lifeless on his neck.
Outside, there is a fold-up table, a clothes rail, a donations tin, and a gazebo.
In the only disabled parking space.
Clothes arranged by size, extra small to medium. Trainers laced in pairs. Jeans folded shop style with price tags. Silver jewellery. Hand-twisted friendship bracelets.
Sign taped to the table: Donate for a complimentary stack with extra syrup.
A middle-aged lady comes out from behind the diner with bags of donations. She empties them onto the table and sorts them by size without checking the labels. One look per item. The piles come up fast.
She prices the clothes and hangs them on the rail.
Waits behind the table.
A woman stands at the missing persons’ wall. Coat on. She holds the corner of a photograph. A teen with black eyeshadow and a studded choker. Devil Horns. White paper. Name underneath. All caps.
She wipes her eyes.
Sits in booth eleven. Coat on. Looks out the window.
Wendy crouches to her eye level. Takes out her order pad and writes.
“The waffles are good here”, she says. “And I’d recommend extra syrup”.
Tears the sheet and sets it on the table.
“This one’s on us”, she adds.
Faint smile. The woman slips off her coat and balls it up next to her.
Wendy returns to the pass. Holds a syrup jug to the light. Checks the level.
A man folds his receipt and heads inside the diner.
Ding-aling-aling. The doorbell rings.
He sits in booth ten. Shopping bag and chest sticker.
Donated.
He pulls a t-shirt from the bag. Band printed on the front. One-dollar Size S written on a makeshift label.
Page six of the induction booklet titled Donations says: ring the bell to acknowledge the donation, announce the booth, deliver a complimentary stack, line up tableside, applaud the pour, break together, and return to duties. Duration: brief and impactful.
A nearby Wendy folds away her cleaning cloth and takes out her pad.
“One complimentary stack please, and extra syrup”, he says and points to his sticker.
Wendy writes down the order.
“And who’s that for?” Wendy asks. With a proud grin and pigeon chest, the man says, “My Grandson”.
Wendy returns to the pass, and the man bags his Grandson’s t-shirt.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
“We’ve got one. Booth ten”, yells the Wendy rattling the wall bell.
Canned applause plays over the speakers. Like the black-and-white shows we watch before school.
A fresh stack of waffles slides across the pass, and Wendy scoops up.
More Wendys converge behind her.
Booth seven leaves another five-dollar tip. Fold the bills lengthways, then into tight thirds. Back of the television unit. That’s a week’s —
An arm loops through mine and pulls me in.
He sees us coming. Jumps in his seat. Tucks a napkin into the neck of his shirt and holds his cutlery upright. His legs run giddy under the table.
We line up tableside.
Waffle steam clouds his glasses.
He tips the jug up, and we watch the pour. It runs thin at the end.
My clap jumps the start. A single shot around the diner.
They clap in synchronised beats. Perfect rhythm.
A golden tear runs down the cheek of Wendy beside me.
It tucks into the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t reach up to stop it.
Her smile so wide her face fidgets.
The other Wendys have their pads out, taking orders, and I’m still clapping.
The diner rushes back in. The waffle timer. Service Bell. Paper tears. Coffee slurp. Table radio. Knives, scraping plates. Chatter. All of it.
The man smiles with dark lips and waffle pieces between his teeth.
Twenty-seven dollars total. Week’s gas. Tuck the bills into my apron pouch.
Three Wendys serve a birthday party seated in the Ford County Squire.
They bring sparklers.
Double stacks of sprinkled waffles and one jug of syrup per two people. The kids wear party hats. Blow party blowers.
The table needs extra napkins.
Wet floor sign at the top of the basement stairs.
Move the sign, and the floor goes.
Each step grows a bruise.
I slam into the basement door and unvelcro it from the frame.
“Hip, hip hooray! Hip, hip hooray! And one for luck” muffles my fall.
Stand and hold my head steady.
Push the basement door open.
Page fourteen of the induction booklet: Discretion. Employees are reminded that all operational matters are confidential. Disclosure to other parties may affect your conditions of employment.
Humidity greets me and shrinks my uniform. The fabric clings to my shoulders and around my neck like court day.
Sweet shop fire makes my eyes water.
Rummage in my apron, half-blind, for a cleaning rag and press it hard against my lower face. All Purpose Cleaner scented lemon. Decanted from an All Purpose Cleaner scented apple bottle. Breathe deep.
A single bulb hangs from the ceiling on a long cord.
It clinks.
The basement is longer than the floors I’ve mopped upstairs.
Rows of copper vats with burners underneath. One burner glows blue.
Pressure gauge in yellow. Volume low.
Pipes spit, hiss, and disappear underground.
A paddle churns the copper vat in figure eights.
Waders to the hip. Rubber apron over the top. Elbow-length gloves, thicker than the Pressers’ upstairs. A ladle hooked on an apron string. Bald eyebrows.
The Tender holds a ladle up to the single bulb. Checks the colour against the light.
Sips and swallows.
He doesn’t look up from the ladle.
Barrels lie on their sides, screw caps undone and dark inside. Dried syrup puddles.
Tables fill gaps between the vats. Each is topped with folded clothes and metal trays.
Inside the metal trays are mismatched earrings, belts, necklaces, and chains coiled together, jewellery with a greenish tinge, house keys, several thumb lighters, phone charger cords, lip balms, and friendship bracelets.
Blong. Blong. Blong.
A noise from inside the lit vat.
Something solid.
Climb onto the table. Use the folded clothes for a step. It holds.
Peer over the edge and into the vat.
Exhaust fumes scorch my skin.
Syrup churns in figure eights.
Blong. Blong. Blong.
Something snags on the paddle.
It surfaces white, smooth, and rounded.
Blong. Blong. Blong.
Holes fill and empty with syrup.
Blong. Blong. Blong.
Teeth.
My fuse box blows.
Wendy stands in the doorway.
Grab my phone and dial 911.
She watches and pulls out her order pad.
No service.
She writes something and tears the sheet from the pad.
“The waffles are good here”, she says. “And I’d recommend extra syrup”.
She sets the ticket down on a step.
“Everyone finds it hard the first time”, she adds.
My lungs are laid off.
My daughter is at home.
Push past her and climb the stairs.
Clutch my car keys.
Hit the front door at a run. It doesn’t move.
Rain patters against the windows.
A gloved hand reaches past me and turns the lock. Click.
The Presser flips the sign. Closed.
Pulls the shutter blind down. Shhhhhh-thk.
Turn to run out the back, and Wendys seep from behind the pass. Sleeves rolled to their elbows.
They reach into their mouths and dislodge something from past their tongues.
Round. Dark amber. Teeth indents.
Set it on the pass. A line of caramel gum.
My own mouth fills with something sweet.
They take formation and block the exits.
At the top of the basement stairs is half a head. Hair net. Two eyes. Still.
The Wendys close in how syrup pours.
My stomach lands in my apron pouch.
Pressed backwards, I bump into something.
Turn.
A rubber fist.
The film reel ends. The projector runs. White screen. Loose end. Clack. Clack. Clack.
Strip lights. Basement door. Bulb. Paddle.
The vat is a hot car.
***
World’s Best Syrup says the chalkboard. New batch in.
Management tapes a new face to the missing persons’ wall.
Photograph. Her and her daughter. White paper. Name underneath. All caps.
He smooths it flat with his forearm. Induction booklet for the new girl in his armpit.
“Hey, didn’t she used to work here?”, asks a customer mid-waffle. Dark-stained lips.
“Change of circumstances”, says Management.
The regular is still in booth three. Back to his coffee.
Bzzzt-clink-shhhh.
The waffle timer rings.
Two kitchen Pressers carry a barrel up from the basement.
END
At first this felt like a meditative exploration of customers and repetitive work in a unique Waffle House, but then it turns and oh so wonderfully pays off something laid subtlety in the beginning. Enjoyed it!!