Two Scoops of Doom: A Buffet Boy Story
By Aron White
Copyright 2012 by Aron White
Published by Morning Paradise Press
Cover Image Copyright by Scott Karcich, Dreamstime.com
Check out Aron's website for more stories at http://www.aronwhite.com
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Two Scoops of Doom
There are a variety of ways for a teenager in high school to spend his Friday night. Standing on top of a step ladder, hunched over the top of a soft-serve ice cream machine was not my preferred choice. Nevertheless there I was, working Friday evening at my father's all-you-can-eat buffet, the Golden Goose, trying to fix the ice cream machine while a mother and her bratty, I-want-ice-cream-right-now five-year-old daughter watched from several feet away.
"Momma! I want ice cream! I want, want, ice cream. Now! Now! Now!"
You need a tranquilizer dart now, now, now, I thought, continuing to rummage through the innards of the ice cream machine. The sleeves of my white button-up shirt were rolled past my elbows and the nametag on my left breast which read, "Hi! I'm Brian! How can I help you?" repeatedly rubbed against the edge of the machine, irritating the skin on my chest.
"We'll get you some ice cream, sweetie-pie," the mom replied in a soothing tone. "This gentleman is taking forever, but once he's done, we'll get you some ice cream, okay?"
"I want it now, ice cream now!"
After a few more seconds of attempted repairs, my head shot up about two feet, striking the ceiling above the machine. Pain throbbed through my skull as I put both hands on my scalp and fought the urge to cuss.
"You okay up there, B? Don't go gettin' yourself hurt or nothing."
Still rubbing my head, I looked down at Charlie, my twenty-year-old first cousin and busboy-in-residence, holding the sides of the step ladder to help keep my balance.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," I muttered, reaching over and closing the top of the machine before stepping down the ladder to the tiled floor of the surrounding buffet. Most people would savor the smell of fried chicken, french fries, beef, vegetables and the other assortments of food, but working here almost every day for the past decade had a way of neutralizing any appeal.
"Just be careful, B, don't wanna get yourself killed over ice cream," Charlie said in his usual, relaxed manner which always made me feel like the next thing he would do was pull out a joint from his pocket and light up. I know for a fact he's not on anything, but his mellow manner would make you think otherwise. That he always wore his white uniform shirt un-tucked on one side along with a black baseball cap turned backwards and slanted to one side on nights my father wasn't around didn't do anything to reinforce a clean-cut image.
"Hey, excuse me, gentlemen, what's the situation with my daughter's ice cream?" the mother asked. When my father isn't managing the buffet, supervisory responsibilities fall to me while my sister, Shannon, works the register and acts as seating hostess on the other side of the building by the front entrance. I caught her eye for a moment and she flashed her eyebrows upwards as if to say, "good luck."