JERSEY CITY, NJ — The staff at The Crab Cave has a serious issue on their hands. Coming into work after a serious drinking session the night before, the first front of house employees to arrive found the specials board, a 3 foot by 4 foot standee, sitting on the bar, wiped clean. Well, sort of clean.
The question was, now what? Chelsea, seeing the situation for what it was, knew that (a) she had no idea what the specials were, and (b) was still pretty drunk, and wasn’t likely to remember soon. Generally, she could count on a good two hours of ancillary side work and about a quart of Arizona Tea and vodka to steady her. No such luck today. She decided to take the high road and, since she was the first to arrive, ignore the problem until someone else discovered it.
There was one person who could do something about it. Sarah. Sarah had a Master’s Degree in Graphic Design from UC Berkley, she could draw anything, and she was pretty good at rolling silverware. However, Sarah was not scheduled until Mid-Shift, and currently, she was asleep in her car under a number of coats for different social events. She was stuck there because she left her keys in her server apron and had not figured that out yet.
Kara was also there, but her morning routine of adderall and hydroxycut left her a jabbering mess of pent up sexual energy, so she was vigorously polishing silverware.
The bar manager was the next to notice the problem.
“What’s this thing?” Eric said, seeing the board on the bar.
“It’s the specials board.”
“What’s a specials board?”
“You remember, it’s the folding sign with the soup of the day on it. We keep getting in trouble for leaving it outside at the end of the night.”
“Oh right. We sell soup?”
It was good that Eric was there, because he was not disgusted by talking to the kitchen.
Chelsea was pretty sure that if she went back to the kitchen, she would openly vomit at the smell of boys, nitrile gloves, and Redbull.
Kara was pretty sure that she could not be near Ron the prep cook without stabbing him, and she had been looking at nothing but knives for the past furious half hour. But that’s not related to the narrative, just a check-in.
In walked Max, his long strut showing off his Mormon clean living. He insufferably had gotten to sleep at a reasonable hour, been on a run and had breakfast like everyday was the opening credits from Dexter. Somehow his voice was more pompous and high pitched than ever.
“He guys! Where should I start helping?” He said in a voice like mouthing a cheese grater.
He was a lost cause. Also his childish hypermasculine handwriting would ruin the sign. No one comes into a restaurant when the sign outside looks like a ransom note.
But there was hope. One of the kitchen people emerged.
At 9:05 in the morning this guy was already stained with what appeared to be a little bit of all the raw ingredients in the back of house.
“I can draw.” he said, when confronted with the problem.
“Oh good! Can you write the specials?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah sure, but give me a second to get my mind right. I’m really hungover, and dislexic.” he said, then promptly went to the bathroom for the next 45 minutes.
“Do you know what the specials are?” Eric asked the next person to come in, sous chef Tiffany. She just flipped Eric and everyone else from FOH and went back to the kitchen.
“What are we gonna do?”
Chelsea was perplexed, and, in her state, that was rapidly turning into high anxiety due to her imbalance of electrolytes.
“I’ve got it! Max!”
“By the grace of Moroni I am here.”
“The special board needs to get stored next to the Christmas stuff. Make sure it gets there.”
“Ok. You got it.”