Short-Order Cook

    An average joe comes in

    and orders thirty cheeseburgers and thirty fries.

    I wait for him to pay before I start cooking.

    He pays.

    He ain't no average joe.

    The grill¹ is just big enough for ten rows of three.

    I slap the burgers down

    throw two buckets of fries in the deep frier

    and they pop pop， spit spit. . .

    pssss. . .

    The counter girls laugh.

    I concentrate.

    It is the crucial point——

    they are ready for the cheese：

    my fingers shake as I tear off slices

    toss them on the burgers/fries done/dump/

    refill buckets/burgers ready/flip into buns/

    beat that melting cheese/wrap burgers in plastic/

    into paper bags/fried done/dump/fill thirty bags/

    bring them to the counter/wipe sweat on sleeve

    and smile at the counter girls.

    I puff² my chest out and bellow³：

    Thirty cheeseburgers！ Thirty fries！

    I grab a handful of ice， toss it in my mouth

    do a little dance and walk back to the grill.

    Pressure， responsibility， success.

    Thirty cheeseburgers， thirty fries