Just as Ari closes her mouth, our coworker Shawna speaks up instead.
“The ICEE machine wasn’t working last night, I know that. It was running all over the floor.”
Bruce looks down at his clipboard. “I’ll look at it again. Now let’s move on to more important things.” He reads something and then looks up. “The napkin dispensers have to be filled at the end of every shift. Some of you are slacking on it.”
There’s no need for us to have staff meetings. Every week, we all come in here and sit as Bruce reminds us of things that should be notes posted to the break room bulletin board. I’m glad he doesn’t have much on his agenda today, because I still have restocking to do before I’m off at five.
“Everyone working the VIP event tonight needs to stay after this meeting,” Bruce says as he checks something off his list. “The rest of you can go.”
I stand up, waiting for Ari so we can walk back to the main concession area together.
“Boring.” Bruce points at me. “I’m gonna need you to work overtime today. Dave called in and I need you to work the VIP event tonight.”
“But—”
“What?” He looks up, his brows hiked up judgmentally. “You have plans tonight?”
“No, but…I mean, not really…”
The White Sox play the Yankees tonight, and though I usually watch baseball with my dad when it’s on, I guess that’s not technically plans. Still, I’m dirty from the washing machine repair and I’m out of tampons. I want to leave at five, when I’m off.
“Great.” Bruce makes a notation on his list. “Have a seat, I’m about to go over tonight’s event.”
I don’t protest. Bruce was probably counting on that. Even though this job doesn’t seem like much to most people, I love it here. I get to be here for every home game the Chicago Blaze play, and hockey is my favorite sport.
“You staying?” Ari asks me.
I nod, and ask in a low tone, “Can you put some tampons in my locker if you have some?”
“Yep.”
“Gonzales, the dishes aren’t going to wash themselves,” Bruce says sternly.
Ari rolls her eyes and gives me a wave as she turns to go.
As soon as the room clears, Bruce flips to the next paper on his clipboard and starts in.
“Tonight’s event is a VIP meet and greet for players and bigwigs. We’ll be serving horse dwarves—” He pauses to cackle at his mispronunciation of hors d’oeuvres, which we’ve all heard a thousand times—“and drinks. You need to wear white dress shirts and black pants.”
There’s a collective groan from the half dozen employees in the room. We usually wear red polos and black pants to work, and we all hate wearing white dress shirts. With all the running around we do, they get too hot. I keep one in my locker for occasions like this, complete with a yellow sweat stain around the collar no amount of bleach will remove.
“There better not be any nonsense,” Bruce says sternly. “Keep the food and drinks coming, smile and stay out of the way.”
I’ve been through this drill before. We’re supposed to do our best to remain invisible to the people we’re serving. That works for me, because I prefer to go unnoticed, anyway.
After the meeting, I quickly change my shirt, put on fresh deodorant from my locker, and pack the tampons Ari left for me into my small purse. I pull my medium brown hair into a ponytail at the nape of my neck, close my locker, and head for the front concession area where everyone is meeting for tonight.
Everyone’s gathered around the ICEE machine.
“I told you it was fixed,” Bruce says authoritatively. He holds up the ICEE he just made for everyone to see.
He looks over his shoulder and sees me. “Hey, Boring!” he calls. “This thing works fine, what’re you talking about?”
I walk over and a few people move aside so I can stand next to Bruce in front of the machine, the motor humming to keep it cold.
“It’s the blue that’s broken.” I glance at the ICEE in his hand, which is red.
He shakes his head. “You must be using the machine wrong.”
There’s nothing easier than making an ICEE. Pull handle down. Fill cup. Put handle back up. But I humor my boss anyway, pulling a cup out of the holder and placing it under the blue ICEE dispenser.
When I press a button and pull the handle down, a foamy stream of bright blue liquid sugar starts filling the cup.
Bruce grunts with disdain. “Seems fine to—”
The blue ICEE tap starts making sputtering sounds and runs dry for a second. Then, melted blue ICEE liquid starts to flow out uncontrollably.
Everyone, including Bruce, takes a few steps back as I cry out, arms flailing in front of me as I try to push the handle back up. The handle falls off and the Smurf-colored deluge of ICEE sludge splashes me full on in the chest.