Head Waiter (short story)

 

Head Waiter

(Random 2-word prompt- inflation, feast)

                “I’ll have the halibut,” he stated, “with the dauphinoise potatoes and asparagus.”  The stern, bespectacled man nodded to his bashful and handsome date opposite.  “He’ll have the beef.”

                “I… er…” stuttered the other man.  “But… I…”

                “He’ll have the beef,” he repeated, with a glare across the table.  “And make sure the halibut is only lightly seared; the last time I came here it was practically burnt.”

                Flower noted down the orders, fish and beef, along with the bruschetta for starters, and moved to head to the kitchen, but a hand grabbed his arm instead.

                “Where the hell is the wine?” snapped the man.  The grip tightened.

Flower couldn’t look the guest in the eyes; instead, he watched as an unconvincing wig wobbled with each syllable on top of the increasingly reddening head.

“I ordered the merlot half an hour ago, and you still haven’t brought it.  I want it immediately, you incompetent fool.”

                Flower nodded and apologised; there was no point talking back.

                “Well?”  The hair shook.  “What are you waiting for?”  He snapped his fingers in the air and Flower scarpered.

                He dropped off the order in the kitchen, making a point of mentioning the ‘lightly seared’ comment to the chef (who didn’t seem at all happy about it), and rushed to the bar.

                The guest had paid through the nose to open the restaurant, just for him and his date, and on a Monday evening.  Flower had been roped in to wait on them.  Urgh.  He shivered.  It was cold in here without any people, and the only heat seemed to be coming from the impatient bespectacled man.  Eyes seared a hole into Flower’s back from across the room; he could feel the beady little eyes willing him to make a mistake.

                Flower snatched a bottle of wine from the cabinet, the glasses were already laid out on the table, and hurried back.

                “Red wine??!”  He slapped the waiter’s hand; the man’s face was more crimson than the drink.  “What is wrong with you?  Are you deaf or something?  I asked for chardonnay.”  The man’s cheeks puffed up, and Flower could see his date shrinking with embarrassment.  “Or are you just stupid?”  He rolled his eyes.  “Don’t answer that,” he spat.  “I know which it is.  Sort it out.”

                “Yes sir.”  Flower didn’t care enough to argue; he knew he’d brought what the guest had asked for.  He darted back to the bar, replaced the red with white wine, and returned.

                “I guess that’ll have to do.”  The bespectacled man frowned, and he slyly adjusted his wig, which had slipped from its position on his big red head.  “I hope for your sake that it’s been chilled.”

                Flower popped the cork, while eyes watched him like prey, and served the wine; he filled the mean guest’s glass first.

                “No, no, no!”  The man waved his hand in the air.  “No, that’s not how it’s done.”  His wig had moved again… no, it didn’t fit; had the man’s head gotten bigger?  “You’re supposed to pour me a sample first, then I tell you if it’s suitable, and then you serve my date, then me.”  He seized the bottle from Flower, and knocked over his full glass of wine in the process.  “Argh, look what you’ve done!  You’re ruining my evening.”

                The alcohol, thankfully, didn’t spill over the guest… but it did spill over Flower, almost as if the bespectacled man had done it on purpose.  His shirt and trousers were drenched; he could feel the alcohol soaking through to his skin, sticking his clothes to his body.  He tried to keep his cool as the man continued to scream at him, and he wondered if this job paid enough for this bullshit.  It didn’t.

                “Sorry sir,” said Flower.  He forced a grin as he frantically tried to mop up the wine with the towel he kept tucked in his back pocket.  “I’ll get this sorted straight away.”

                “Don’t bother.”  The man pulled at his shirt collar; his head was definitely growing, his neck bulging against the fabric.  “You’ve done enough.  Leave the wine, I expect you to comp it.”  He sighed.  “This is a complete disaster.”

                Flower looked to the date, who cringed and shrugged.

                “I’ll be telling your boss about this,” continued the guest.  He removed his glasses from his expanding face and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  “This is ridiculous.  Don’t you know who I am?”

                “Yes sir.”  He didn’t.  “Sorry sir.”  He didn’t care.  “I’ll… er… go and check on your starter; it should be ready.”

                “I should think so!”  The man tutted, his features seeming small against his embiggening head.  His wig was now surrounded by a halo of scalp.  “I shouldn’t have to put up with this!”

                “Sir…,” said Flower.  The bespectacled man was looking quite ill; his beetroot head was now twice as large as it was before, and Flower worried it would pop.  “Are you ok?”

                “What?!  Of course, I’m ok!”  His tiny little eyes glared at Flower.  “I won’t be if you don’t make some haste with our damn food.”  He grunted.  “Useless idiot.”

                Flower nodded, then darted away.

                He tried to bring up the man’s inflating head to the chef but was met with an indifferent shrug.  The waiter nabbed the bruschetta and hurried back to the table, his trousers still wet.  Maybe it was best not to mention the problem to the guest, lest he get shouted at again.  Besides, it was his body, his problem, and certainly not Flower’s.

                “At last,” said the bespectacled man.  He didn’t look up; he was propping his large and angry head in his hands.

                As Flower placed the plates on the table, the man’s date thanked him despite the withering glower from opposite.

                “Leave us.”  The mean guest shifted his gaze to Flower.  “I don’t want you hovering around while we eat; I’ll summon you if I need anything.”

                Flower flashed a big smile and nodded.  He scurried away to hide behind the bar where it was a little safer, and a little warmer; he could feel the spilled wine creeping down his leg and into his socks.  He hoped it would dry before he was ‘summoned.’

                He tidied up behind the bar, keeping himself busy and keeping his eye on the irksome guest and his date.  The pair ate in silence, an angry frown on the giant head throughout; the head in question hadn’t returned to its normal size and neither man seemed concerned about it.  Flower stopped himself from speculating on the nature of their relationship; whatever it was it didn’t seem happy right now.

                The silence didn’t last long.

                Fingers, frantically clicked, beckoned Flower several minutes later, and with nary any problem and only a couple of tart words, he took away their empty plates and brought them a fresh bottle of wine.

Flower’s trousers were still damp.

“Fetch the main course,” demanded the bespectacled guest.  “It better not be as tasteless as the starter.  Vile.”

“But you ate it all.”  Flower couldn’t stop the words leaving his lips.  “The plates were almost licked clean; you must’ve liked it.”

The guest’s gigantic head swung towards him, beady eyes glaring, red face scowling, and the tiny wig vibrating and cooking atop.  “What did you say?” His voice was slow and deliberate, as if he were trying to prevent each syllable from bursting.  “How dare you!  How dare you speak to me like that!”  Fury bubbled out.  “You… you…” the man’s head grew a few more centimetres “you…” his forehead bulged “you condescending…” his nose flattened as his cheeks swelled “you condescending piece of shit!  Who the hell do you...” lips puffed and chin spread “think you are?”  A small fist slammed against the table and his head wobbled on a thin neck.  “I paid a lot of money for tonight and I expect professional behaviour from the staff of this restaurant.  Do you understand?  I pay your goddamn wages!”  His glasses squeezed and stretched against the expanding skin.  “I don’t pay for a rude and incompetent buffoon like you to talk down to me!”

“Sorry sir…”

“I haven’t finished!”  The man shouted, and his head grew bigger again.  “I haven’t finished telling you what a useless pile of garbage you are!”  His scalp strained as it engorged.  “I swear to the gods I’m going to make sure you get fired for this.”

Flower kept quiet.

“Well?” snapped the mean guest.

“Yes sir?”

“Fetch my fucking halibut!”

“Yes sir.”

Flower sped away to the kitchen, and didn’t look back; he could feel the man’s anger, the heat from his expanding head peering into his soul as he ran.

“Please tell me their food is done,” he pleaded to the chef.  “Please!”

The chef nodded, handing over the plates.  Fish and beef.

He sighed with relief; the sooner this night was over, the better.

Flower returned to the table and placed the plates in front of the bespectacled man and his handsome date.  He smiled his smiliest smile.

“Is there anything else I can get you both?” he saccharined.  “More wine?”

He was met with only a silent glare from two piercing sparks within the large head.  The red orb swivelled to the main course on the table and back again.

“Sir?”

“What is this?” said the guest.

“Pan-seared halibut with dauphinoise potatoes and steamed asparagus, sir.”

“Pan-seared?  Pan-seared??!”  His tiny hand seized the fish, and in a tight grip held it up to Flower’s face.  “Does this look merely seared to you?”  He threw the squashed meat back on the plate; veg splattered into the table.  “It’s burnt.  I told you to make sure it wasn’t burnt.  I was very clear, wasn’t I?”

“Yes sir.”

“Lightly seared.  Isn’t that what I said?”

Flower nodded.  “It looks lightly seared to me.”  He knew he’d made another mistake as soon as he’d opened his mouth.  “Sorry, I mean…”

“What?!”  The man’s head swelled.

“Sorry sir, I…”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME??!!”

“I… er…”  He couldn’t look back at the unblinking ire directed at him.  “I… I’m…”  He glanced to the date who shrunk back in his seat.  “Sorry, sir…”

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

“Sir…”  Flower faced the enormous dome, it’s forehead reaching to the ceiling, cheeks stretching out across the table.  “Sir…?”

“I. AM. TALKING.”  The man’s skin creaked against its continuing expansion; veins popped across the surface of his face, and his features contracted into the increasing mass.  “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”  His head swayed, struggling with the weight of its growth; the unconvincing wig fell, a mote of dust from a clear shelf.  “THIS IS THE LAST STRAW!  HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT AGAIN!”  The man’s glasses strained, shattered, and flew across the table; his date ducked.  “THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!!!”

And the once-bespectacled man screamed.  His head inflated, bigger and bigger, growing with each decibel, filling and spreading throughout the room.  His body was consumed.  So was the table.  Flower took a step back.  And then more steps.  The scarlet sphere bloated, swelled.  Face and ears absorbed… and then the table was eaten up, along with the lightly seared halibut and his date’s beef.  Flower lost sight of the date, devoured by the bulk.  The man’s head expanded, pressed against the ceiling, squeezed against the floor.  He continued to scream… and Flower joined in.

The waiter ran, crying out, as he zig-zagged between the empty tables, tables that were fated to be eaten by the ever-growing globe, and he prayed his body wouldn’t be next.  There was nowhere to go.  Nowhere safe.  The heat from the monstrous head cooked his back, closing the gap between it and him.  The man’s angry shriek rang in his ears as he ran.

Flower dived behind the bar.

The head followed.  The corporeal hulk squashed over and around the wooden barrier.  The wood creaked and resisted, bottles cracked, glasses smashed; the swelling head embraced and consumed, but the bar held out.  Skin flowed over and around; Flower’s hiding place shrank smaller and smaller.  The head’s mass pressed against his prostrate body.

And the screaming stopped.

So did the growth.

Flower sighed; it was hot and stagnant in the claustrophobic space.  Cramped.  Dark.  No escape.  He was encased by the meat of the mean guest.  Trapped against the floor.  Entombed.

What a night.

This job really didn’t pay enough for this shit.

He tried to get comfy, shifting his position because he would probably be stuck here for a while, and his hand touched something cold on the floor.  He grabbed it.

Oh.

It was a metal corkscrew.

It was sharp.

Flower had an idea… and it probably wasn’t a good one.

Might even be messy.

He gripped the tool as tight as he could and stabbed…

The End.

Next Flower Story (coming soon)