Silverware Spirits

A Waffle House Short Story

CeCe wasn’t clean enough for Chick-fil-a. She showered and all that, but spiritually? She was dirty. Folks could see it on her skin. Her eyeliner left stains beneath her lashes. The tattoos on her fingers were faded like Sharpie scrawl on a bathroom wall. Her skin was poked with piercings, and if she took her plugs out, she had long, worn lobes that brought to mind what they warned would happen to your vagina if you whored around. Folks looked at her sideways, and CeCe used to like it that way, but it didn’t pay.

She had a brief stint as a piercer, and was pretty damn good at it until her grip slipped and the needle meant to go through the girl’s eyebrow popped her iris like a yoke. The story spread and shuttered the tattoo shop.

When Matthew, her Chick-fil-a interviewer who sweat peanut oil, asked what happened at her last job, CeCe told the truth. She thought about lying, but everybody already knew.

At least someone would finally hear CeCe’s side of the story: The girl’s forehead couldn’t have been slicker on that hot humid day, and when she saw the needle coming at her, she’d bucked. Not my fault.

Shortly after, the interview concluded, with CeCe muttering thanks and Matthew holding the door open, saying my pleasure. Oh really, she responded, how much pleasure, and the door shut behind her.

She spit in the parking lot and slumped into her dead brother’s 1991 Chevrolet Pickup. The cops had told her not to drive it because it couldn’t go faster than 50. CeCe inhaled the headrest’s upholstery, the fading dark spot from his hair grease. She thought about driving off the edge of the world, but took a left instead.

If Waffle House wouldn’t take her, no one would.

***

Now ‘member, said shift supervisor Shelise. It’s a Waffle Home. It was clear to CeCe that Shelise saw her as a lost soul, a project. Shelise always had worship music playing low on the radio, and none of the patrons seemed to mind. Even the high schoolers, who swung in drunk and belligerent after football games, delighted in her syrupy demeanor and ecclesiastical outbursts.

CeCe remembered how Shelise had told her one late shift that when she’d lived up in the Blue Ridge mountains she’d gone to a Pentecostal Church where the preacher drank venom to show his faith. He never died; he danced with copperheads and rattlesnakes, and Shelise herself had spun around them and spoke in tongues.

Do it, CeCe begged through saline bacon steam as she stood over the griddle. Speak in tongues.

Cain’t, unless the spirit moves me.

CeCe only started to sour on her when she realized that Shelise’s tip-pooling policy wasn’t mandated by corporate. All it took was a quick google and confirmation from the manager, who still, for some reason, supported Shelise’s decision. CeCe had been getting scammed for weeks, sharing her hard-earned cash with Frank and Dallie and whoever wasn’t cute enough to get enough.

It all came to head one Sunday morning, during the post-church rush. The strands were coming loose in CeCe’s bun, and she was hungover in the extreme, trying her darndest to keep straight which hashbrowns were scattered, smothered, or covered. Um, I asked for onions, and the plate had to be brought back, the job twice as hard with her accuracy rate that morning at an alarming 50%. Dallie called out sick, so they were screwed.

The sun, blanched and hard, glinted off silverware, forcing CeCe to squint. Every sound was a butter knife against her skullcap. Last night was the folk music festival, and now she was bloodshot and sore, a wrenched dish rag.

A family with five kids sat down and spent over a hundred. The brats demanded more choc’lit chips! more choc’lit chips! slathering what they had onto their hot waffle beds with synthetic butter blobs to make brown Play-Doh. Psyched on orange juice, they squealed and whined while Mama half-heartedly told them hush. Dada patted CeCe’s ass whenever she passed to the kitchen.

The demonic family left destruction in their wake. A mound of gluey plates smeared with coagulating cheese globs and half-chewed bacon strips, straw wrappers and napkins stuffed in booth seat cracks. An entire cup’s worth of OJ was spilled beneath the table.

CeCe deflated, but was hopeful for her tip, which they hadn’t paid at the counter. She could pocket from the table before Shelise noticed. But there was nothing to pocket. Only three crumpled bucks, one soaking in a puddle of creamer.

CeCe charged to the parking lot. HEY!

It was too late. Dada shut the door of his van, nearly backed into her, and sped away.

She hoped they all died in a fiery car accident. Or a log would come loose on a truck and slam Dada, mashing his faceskin with his spawn’s faceskin in the backseat, and hopefully another kid was behind that one for a perfect smash burger of faces.

Other buttoned-up patrons stared at CeCe stewing in the parking lot, and she was tempted to yell at them too ‘til she saw Shelise shaking her head behind the glass. Fighting the pang in her forehead, CeCe stalked back inside.

Shelise stood corpse-stiff and pointed a witchy finger. No more a’ that or you’re OUT! I’m pretty dern sure that family goes to CrossRoads. Their pastor coulda saw, he’s comin’. Any minute now. Alotta folks from that church come ‘ere, and we need ‘em!

CeCe started to protest, but Shelise set a silencing palm on her shoulder. Ion’t wanna call management.

CeCe sucked in her rage. She’d store it in the freezer, save it for later. They hurried to clean the table, stacking plates and getting greasy grit under their nails. Each silverware ting and scritch made CeCe twitch. In the kitchen, she dumped the cups in the tepid, dishwater pond, and it spat back in her face.

CrossRoads Church wasn’t a business concern. Shelise got all hot and squirmy when the pastor came in, her plump flesh shone and her eyes went blinky and attentive. Everything had to be just so. Why the hell did CeCe have to care? Why was she bustin’ ass trying to clear the table quick as she could?

The pastor was either secretly gay or his wife died. He couldn’t be divorced, yet he always arrived alone. On a motorcycle. It was part of his whole gimmick.

Next thing you know he’d get tattoos and piercings and you wouldn’t be able to tell between alts and adherents. Maybe that would be good for CeCe.

She stormed away from the sink, nearly tackling Frank, who was slight and high as a kite. Still, he consistently made the crispiest shredded taters and melt-in-your-mouth scrambled eggs, so Shelise had no problem with him.

CeCe snatched her purse from the hook on the wall and rifled through its contents. She had six psilocin capsules that she’d taken from a white guy with dreads at the music festival. She’d never done shrooms before, but figured it’d probably make her feel better than ibuprofen. She popped a pill into her mouth and swallowed with a too-cool sip of brew. When Frank turned his back, she played with a pill over Shelise’s milky coffee which sat where it always did, on the countertop’s corner.

A thrill when the casing broke, and the earthy powder disappeared into the steaming beige.

***

Behind the counter, CeCe kept a close eye as the CrossRoads pastor sipped his spiked coffee. She’d dumped the other four psilocin pills in the refill pot and just replenished his second cup of the stuff. He wrinkled his nose at his beverage. CeCe’s faceskin tickled. She giggled.

This a new brew? the pastor asked. The hissing eggs on the hot pan became the hissing of snakes. Out the window, silver spirits dove towards the diner from passing cars. Relentlessly, they came, and CeCe shivered against her itchy uniform.

Shelise rattled an inhale from across the diner. The big woman rushed to the table, but not before shooting a scornful look CeCe’s way. Somethin’ the matter?

No, the pastor said. It’s good. Reminds me of chicory coffee. What the cowboys drank.

What’s chicory? Shelise twirled silver into her hair.

A root. He finished his mug. ‘Supposed to be good for you.

Shelise grinned wide. She’d begun to stroke the edge of the table, pinching it with her fingers. She loitered there too long, staring out the window with her sets of stained teeth creaking open.

CeCe skittered to wipe down a table at an angle where she could better see her supervisor. Ssssss. Sssss…

It’s rainin’, Shelise whispered. Her smile dropped.

CeCe turned to face the white, dry sky.

Rainin’ blood.

And it was. Shelise had conjured it, done something horrible. Red leaked inside through the windows. CeCe pressed her hands against the glass and felt it run hot and thick down her arms. Ah, ah!

The pastor paled. He shook his head, drank more coffee. He straight-hand slapped his cheek with a sudden ferociousness.

IT’S RAINING BLUUUUUHD! CeCe roared with laughter. IT’S RAINING BLUUUUUUHD! She stuck her tongue on the glass. It tasted like cherry juice. The door chimed as families left in bouquets of pastel and khaki colors, all bulging eyeballs and black gaping mouths. Those gaping holes that take and take and never give, they never gave nothing to CeCe!

She scrambled to block a woman and holler, YOU HAVE TO PAY! YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR YOUR FUCKING FOOD!

The woman swung her purse at CeCe, missed, then shouldered her out of the way, gripping her son’s forearm.

CeCe shrieked and clawed at the window as they ran into the red rain. Their cars spun silver as they rolled away, white lightening on crimson.

The pastor announced he was not ashamed. His socks, belt, and pants spilt on the tiles. He hiked up one knee and stood on the table, toes in grits, his other foot crushing a perfectly good Texas Patty Melt. Tiny black snakes levitated from the grout in the tiles and covered his skin, coating him until he was in a suit of slithering scales.

CeCe squeaked. Am I in Hell?

Shelise gasped loud enough to make the whole House shudder. She began to speak in tongues. Heylala heylalalama! Her pupils blew up and ate her eyes. She shook and raised her hands. The pastor in black danced to her music, flinging food bits. Shabada soom mo la balalat, shabada da soom soom balalat, malalahat, kay, kay shilamama bosho…

Frank was behind the cash register, recording on his phone.

Frank! CeCe cried. The silver spirits were rushing around her, their fire righteous in the torrent of blood. Help me, Frank! I’m in Hell!

Kee-yah! Ke-eye! Shelise grabbed the syrup dispenser between the pastor’s legs and poured it down the front of her shirt. Kee-yah! Ke-eye!

This is God’s House! The pastor boomed. He stomped on a plate and slid, asschecks landing on sunny-side ups and cracking ceramic. The black snakes dissipated and left him in his nakedness.

As he sat there, folded over and food-defiled, CeCe felt sad for him. But then she didn’t care because her skin turned silver neon. She ran outside, into the red rain with the bright souls, all of them lost.

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🧇 HAPPY WAFFLE WEEKEND BITCHES!!!!!!!!!!! 🧇 Well, ain’t I just smothered, covered, chunked, diced, peppered, capped, and topped to be here.

The Waffle House

Let me serve a hearty helping of thank you’s to SUM FLUX, the marvelous Wendy Russell, and our esteemed judges, Jon T, Will Boucher, Keith Long, and Sandolore Sykes for organizing this delightful, energizing contest that, like coffee, gave us all a reason to get up in the morning.

As a native of Georgia, the state of fried chicken, Coca-Cola, and, yes, Waffle House… the chosen topic was close to my peach pit of a heart.

(That said, go to your local diner instead, if you have one. Less consistent, but better for thy soul.)

GAWD BLESS YAH