Dirk van Nouhuys – The Waitress

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Live Encounters Poetry & Writing June 2025

The Waitress, story by Dirk van Nouhuys.

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Two men in overcoats walked downhill toward a main street late at night with their shoulders hunched against rain and fog, not driving rain, but large drops that splashed one by one against shop windows. The gutter was full to overflowing and rushed scraps of plastic and other flotsam to unknown destinations. A metallic scent hung in the air. One of them remarked it must have been raining harder during their meeting. They saw a sign over a cafe, “Burgers and Beer”. The interior was lit but not brightly. Through the splattered windows they could dimly see a figure sitting at the counter reading a newspaper and tables illuminated only enough to make out grayscale, not color, by muted ceiling light.

Unseen behind the louvered door to the kitchen, the waitress and young wife, Jessica Georgiou, stood at a counter slicing onions. She paused to look at her fingers. They seemed beautiful to her. She lifted them to savor the fresh scent. She loved the smell, but she wondered whether anyone else might do so. Her husband, Christos, was asleep on a La-Z-Boy in an inner room before the flicker of an endless Netflix download. She stopped her work, wiped her hands, and picked up her phone, where she began stealthily swiping though a singles site. She checked out only the pictures, never the stories. For her it was like solitaire. She always swiped from person to person in the silence of digital anonymity, never approving even though he was asleep. She paused over one young man. Bare from the chest up he did a bouncy dance from side to side holding a rose at first against his chest, and then reaching out toward her eyes. She watched enchanted as he danced through a brief .gif and then she replayed it. She slid her tongue between her pursed lips and swiped on. Soon she heard voices muffled from the street.

‘That must be some cops going home from their union meeting,’ thought the waitress, for ‘waitress’ was how she saw herself though her husband owned the shop. She had been a waitress for a chain when he came in for a burger & fries. Sometimes she thought that’s why he’d married her. She had mixed feelings about cops. They threw their weight around, but young men in uniform both calmed and excited her.

Soon their figures emerged from the fog. Drops splashed against the glass of the door. One bulky and tall, the other thinner and shorter. As they approached the small cafe, they walked more slowly than ever and breathed deeply.

“Maybe it’s open,” the burly man said.

“I can’t tell,” the slighter man said.

The burly man put his face close to the glass with his hand over his brow as if he were staring into a bright distance. “Hard to tell.”

“Where are we? Do you think we could get a drink?” asked the slighter man.

“We’re on Davis Street. We came the other way,” the burly man answered. “I’ve eaten here. It’s a decent place.”

“Can we get a beer?” asked the slighter man.

“The waitress is a babe.”

“I smell burgers.”

“I ate here one time. The fries are too.”

“Do they have wine?”

“Beer. I don’t know about wine.”

“Is she in a relationship?”

“She’s married. Her husband flips the burgers, but he looks like a toad.”

The slighter man laughed. “Could she love a toad?”

“No, she probably doesn’t love him,” sighed the bulky man. “I bet the poor guy doesn’t know how lucky he is. Come on, let’s go in. Maybe she’ll show.”

“It’s late, are they still open?”

“You can see a guy at the counter.”

“If you like. . . .”

The waitress heard the bell chime when the door opened and then shuffling. She looked round at her husband, who was smiling and snoring sweetly as before. She slid her bare feet into slippers and hurried into café. She was wearing her regular uniform: a tight white blouse, a mid-thigh black skirt, and black yoga pants.

The two men in overcoats were hesitating in the doorway.

The waitress turned up the overhead lights and said, “Anywhere you want,” An old man at a table by the door reading a newspaper in Chinese in the half light did not look up.

The two chose a table near the warm smell from the grill and took off their overcoats. They were in uniform, with duty belts and armed. The waitress took their coats and hung them on a coat tree by the outer door. They smiled at her and she returned their smiles. She was a slender young woman with soft muscle tone, black strait hair close to her head, large black eyes, and flawless skin.

“How about a burger medium rare,” said the burly man, who was a sergeant.

“Hey, I’d like one too, rare” said the other who was a lieutenant.

“Everything?”

“Hold he onions,” the sergeant said.

“Everything.” the Lieutenant said. She thanked them and started away.

“Doesn’t your husband grill them?” the sergeant asked.

“I’ll be serving you tonight.”

As she was walking away the two cops glanced at one another. “A babe,” the one agreed softly. “And fries?” The other called out.

The waitress didn’t hear them, or pretended not to, and eagerly returned. She noticed there was no salt cellar on their table. She wondered if it had been stolen.

“We’d like fries too,” said the Lieutenant.

“I’ll have to heat up the grease. It’ll take a couple of minutes.”

The men glanced at one another. “No one’s waiting for me,” the lieutenant said. “My old lady will wait the hour,” the sergeant agreed. “We’ll wait.”

The waitress started back toward the kitchen.

“Nice ass; small but tight,” said the Lieutenant softly, then loudly. ”Hey, one more thing.”

The waitress returned, picking up a salt cellar from another table.

“And a beer,” said the Sergeant.”

“What kind?”

“Whatch ya got?”

“Bud, Corona, Miller, Natty, light if you want”

“Stella?” asked the Lieutenant.

She shook her head and put the salt cellar on their table.

“Bud light” said the Sergeant.

She stood by, looking at the Lieutenant.

“Do you have white wine?”

She nodded.

“What kind?”

“I’ll check for you.” She smiled and went back to the refrigerator under the counter. Her husband still slept. She found a bottle, picked it up, walked back by the grill, flipped the burgers and put on the buns.

“Did you hear about the case Hank is working on?” the Lieutenant was saying.

“No, which one.”

“The one with the flowerpot.”

“Flowerpot? No.”

“It’s a shit pot,” the Lieutenant said.

“Oh yeah?”

“There was this white girl involved with a black guy,” He would have said,’ ‘fucking a black guy’ but was mindful of the waitress overhearing. He liked her.

She returned with the bottle and a glass in her hands.

“To each their own,” the Sergeant said, what he did not say was, ‘Some women want black cock.’

She poured a sip for the Lieutenant.

“That’s good.” He nodded at the wine and smiled up at her almost forlornly.

The smell of the burgers began to warm the air. The waitress had caught the beginning of their story and wanted to hear more.

“Pretty too.” The Lieutenant said. The waitress wondered whether they were talking about her or about the girl in the story.

“How do you know? “The Sergeant asked.

“Hank had a picture.”

“How did he get that?” The Sergeant asked just as the waitress formed the same question in her mind.

“From the paper. She was a blond, sturdy but not fat, curly hair.”

The waitress doubted the girl in their story would be as pretty as she was. Still, she wanted to see the picture. Would they come back and bring it with them some night?

“Did you read it in the papers?” The Lieutenant asked the waitress.

She shook here head. She felt a little guilty she had not seen the story.

“Yeah. They were engaged, it turns out, but she didn’t tell her bothers.”

The Sergeant made a gruff noise of assent.

“He worked for them.”

“What was their business?”

“Beer distributors. They’ve got those trucks with the low floors in the middle.”

“What’s their name?” the waitress asked.

“Martinelli’s.”
“They deliver here!” The waitress exclaimed.

“How do you know it’s them,” the Lieutenant asked smiling up at her as if she had given him a little gift. “You can’t see their name on the trucks – they’re all covered with adds.”

“I see the bills,” the waitress said. She couldn’t remember a black driver. “Is he a driver?” she asked.

“No, he managed their warehouse.”

The waitress retuned to the counter to assemble the burgers and dropped the basket of fries sizzling into the oil. The old man at the table by the door continued to read a paper in Chinese. The Lieutenant wondered if he could understand English. The waitress wondered if she should take them their burgers now or wait for the fries to be done? If she hadn’t had to heat the oil they’d be done.

“She was their receptionist,” the Lieutenant continued. Then he looked at the waitress and said, “They look great. Do all your burgers smell this good?” The buns were toasted, the lettuce chopped, the tomatoes & onions sliced on the burgers, all on a plate with a slice of pickle and chips unless you ordered fries. “These are not McDonalds’ Burgers,” she said. She thought people who settled for chips were not really eating.

“So, what’s the case? We don’t arrest people for being engaged.”

“They found out.”

“How did they find out?”

“The usual way, pictures on her phone.”

“I knew it!” the waitress exclaimed.

“They didn’t do anything right away,’” the Lieutenant continued.

“They must have done something, there’s a case,” the Sergeant said.

“A couple of months later they drove with him to the woods above Pennyshaw.”

‘Maybe they told him it was some business trip.’ The waitress thought.

“Pennyshaw,” The Sergeant mused, “What jurisdiction is that?”

“Unincorporate Jefferson county. Yeah, they killed him there in the woods.”

“They killed him?” the Sergeant exclaimed.

The Lieutenant nodded as if he wanted to shield the pretty waitress from his words.

“Maybe it was like shooting a burglar,” said the Sergeant, “How did they do it?”

The waitress hurried back and lifted the fires from the oil, but she heard the Lieutenant answer. “A G19. Two bullets in the back of the head.”

“Sometimes men go crazy about what their women do,” the waitress said.

She only then realized she had imagined a handsome, clean looking black guy sitting at a desk in a warehouse, then getting up and coming toward her with some gift in his hand.

“They’ve found the body?” the Sergeant asked.

“She found it,” The Lieutenant corrected

“That’s why they didn’t kill her. She’s family,” the Sergeant said.

The waitress brought them the fries in stiff, waxed-paper boats. She pictured the girl, strong, not like her, on her hands and knees on the forest floor tearing the earth with her nails.

“How did she know where it was? did they tell her?” the Sergeant asked.

“We don’t know how she found his body. But she went with a friend and partly dug it up.”

The waitress pictured her studying a map on her phone. The map she imagined was wispy white lines on a dark blue background like a wind chart.

“Who says?” The Sergeant asked.

“Her friend.”

“What kind of friend is that?” the Sergeant asked. The waitress imagined being the girl’s friend. Her imagination was not a picture, but a warm familiarity shared with the sturdy blond woman.

“They tried to dig up the body. It was buried shallow. They couldn’t get it all. So, she cut off his head and took it home.”

“She took it home?” the Sargent said.

“I told you this was a shitter,” the Lieutenant said.

“Did she show it to them?” The waitress asked. She imagined a scene like Judith and Holofernes.

“No, she hid it. She put it in a big flowerpot. She covered it with earth and planted geraniums.”

“Geez,” said the Sergeant. He shook his head acknowledging the range of human possibilities. Tears welled in the waitress eyes.

“What happened to her,” the waitress asked.

“She kept hanging around the pot and grew paler and thinner.”

“Did it smell bad?” the Sargent asked.

“How do we know?” the Lieutenant said and continued, “Her friend said she wasn’t eating. And kept the pot on the windowsill in her bedroom. So, they got suspicious and checked the pot. Then they skipped. Cleared their accounts and fled.”

“What about her?”

“She killed herself. OD’d on opiates.”

“When they skipped!” the waitress explained. The Lieutenant looked up at her and nodded respectfully. “Yes, she waited till they skipped.”

Admiration and sorrow filled the waitress. She stood resting her weight on her fingers spread on their table.

The Lieutenant continued looking at her, “What would you have done?”

She glanced through the door to where her husband had not moved in the finger light of the TV. After a long pause to empty her mind, she said: “I wouldn’t have gotten mixed up in anything like that.” She gathered their empty plates and carried them behind the counter to the dish washer.

“Have they caught them?” the Segreant asked.

“No, but you know they will.”

The waitress had drifted back near their table. “What will happen to them?” she asked.

“That’s premeditated. That’s first-degree murder,” the Sergeant said, “because they planned it and took him to Pennyshaw. Maybe it’s a hate crime. They’ll get life.”

The waitress wanted to believe they had not premeditated, that maybe they had taken him to talk, to try to get him to break it off, but he had stood up for his love and…

“What would you have done,” the Lieutenant asked again, “I mean when they were gone.”

“What I said,” she snapped.

“How much?” the sergeant asked. As she ran the bill on the calculator on her phone he added, “Your husband must be having lovely dreams.”

“How should I know,” she said.

She told them the total and walked way. They were discussing what to do, decided to leave, left cash on the table including a generous tip. They took their overcoats from the hall tree.

She saw the door close behind them and went to pick up the cash and wipe their table. She had not noticed that the old man reading the Chinese newspaper — he was a regular — had left money for his coffee and donut and departed while she was following the story.

She walked back to the inner room and sat for a moment beside the La-Z-Boy. Figures in armor were struggling on the dark screen. Her husband stirred a little. She got up and went to clean the grill. Nobody else would come in tonight.

Through the window she could see the two cops walk slowly away twenty paces; then stop and begin talking with their heads together. What about? Was there a funeral service for the girl who had died? She could feel her heart beat as though those two outside were deciding…she did not know what.

The burly man parted from the slender man and went on, while the other came back. She watched him walk past the shop turn and pass again. He would stop near the door and then take a few steps again. The bell chimed when he opened the door.

Her husband heard the bell. He rolled off the La-Z-Boy and shoved his feet into his slippers. He was a burly man but with thin arms and legs. He had a round head on a thick neck. A grizzled beard surrounded his wide mouth. He hurried into the café where the Lieutenant looked at him and paused confused. “Could I have a bag of chips?” he finally asked.

Her husband nodded, gestured toward a wrack where different brands hung on display, and said, “Take your pick.”

He hesitated a long time, then suddenly grabbed a bag.

“How much?”

Her husband named the price. The slender cop reentered the night carrying the bag. Her husband stumbled, still half-asleep back to the La-Z-Boy, where he turned off the TV before he settled down.

She asked herself the Lieutenant’s question, ‘What would she have done?’ She wished she could ask him. He knew the story.

“I forgot that guy’s money,” muttered her husband, pulling a quilt over his body, “Get it and put it in the till.”

She walked to the counter and gathered the money in her hand. She watched the slender man pass into the rain. She imagined his uniform under his overcoat, his leather duty belt, his weapon He dropped the chips unopened into the gutter. The rolling water would breach the bag, soften the chips, and suck out the salt.

 

 

Note on sources: The inner story is loosely based on The Pot of Basil from the Decameron. The outer story is more loosely based on Chekhov‘s The Chemist’s Wife.

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© Dirk van Nouhuys

Dirk van Nouhuys publishes regularly in literary and other magazines to a total of more than 100 items.  He writes novels, short stories, experimental forms, and occasionally verse.  You can learn more at www.wandd.com including a complete list of publications at https://www.wandd.com/literary-publications.