Free Mildred Pierce by James M. Cain Page A

Miss.’
    ‘You got to be in good with the Chef !’
    Dimly Mildred began to understand why that great paw, banging on the steam table, had restored order when Mr Chris had been mobbed like a Junebug in a flock of angry hens. She had observed that the waitresses dipped their own soup, so she now got bowls and filled them with the cream of tomato that her customers had ordered. But there was no surcease from Ida. ‘Pick up your starters! Pick up your starters!’ At Mildred’s blank look, Ida grabbed two plates of salad from the sandwich counter, whipped two pats of butter on to two small plates, and motioned Mildred to get the four plates in there, quick. ‘Have they got water?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘For crying out loud.’
    Ida made a dive for the lift spigot, drew two glasses of water, slid them expertly so they fetched up beside the four plates. Then she pitched two napkins up against the water glasses. ‘Get in there with them – if they haven’t walked out on you.’
    Mildred blinked helplessly at this formidable array. ‘Well – can I have a tray?’
    In despair, Ida picked up plates, glasses, and napkins, so they were spread across her fingers like playing cards, and balanced halfway up her arm. ‘Get the soup, and come on.’ She was gone before Mildred could recover from the speed of her legerdemain. The soup Mildred picked up gingerly, kicking the
out
door open as she saw the others doing. Taking care not to spill any of it, she eventually reached the table. Ida was smoothing the two women down, and from their glances Mildred knew it had been fully explained to them that she was a new girl, and that allowances had to be made for her. At once they began amusing themselves by calling her January and Slewfoot. Lest she show resentment, she started for the kitchen, but it seemed impossible to get away from Ida. ‘Pick up something! Don’t never make a trip, in or out, without something in your hand. You’ll trot allday and you’ll never get done! Get them dirty dishes over there, on No. 3. Pick up something!’
    The afternoon dragged on. Mildred felt stupid, heavy, slow, and clumsy. Try as she would to ‘pick up something’, dirty dishes piled on her tables, and unserved orders in the kitchen, until she thought she would go insane from the confusion. Her trouble, she discovered, was that she hadn’t the skill to carry more than two dishes at a time. Trays were prohibited here, Ida informed her, because the aisles were so narrow they would lead to crashes, and this meant that everything had to be carried by hand. But the trick of balancing half a dozen dishes at a time was beyond her. She tried it once, but her hand crumpled under the weight, and a hot fudge sundae almost went on the floor. The climax came around three o’clock. The place was empty by then and the fish-faced cashier came back to inform her she had lost a check. The subsequent figuring showed that the check was for fifty-five cents, which meant that her whole hourly wage was lost. She wanted to throw everything in the place at the cashier’s head, but didn’t. She said she was sorry, gathered up the last of her dirty dishes, and went back with them.
    In the kitchen, Mr Chris and Ida were in a huddle, evidently talking about her. From their expressions as they started toward her, she sensed that the verdict was unfavourable, and she waited miserably for them to get it over with, so she could get away from Ida, and the Filipino dish washers, and the smell, and the noise, and drearily wonder what she was going to do next. But as they passed Archie, he looked up and made a gesture such as an umpire makes in calling a man safe at the plate. They looked surprised, but that seemed to settle it. Mr Chris said ‘hokay, hokay’, and went into the dining-room. Ida came over to Mildred. ‘Well personally, Mildred, I don’t think you’re suited to the work at all, and Mr Chris, he wasn’t a bit impressed either, but the Chef thinks you’ll