I hurried after her, dishcloth left messily on the counter. The other casual labour were already in a file, waiting anxiously along the front of the corridor, opposite the main cooking zone. There was a counter set against the kitchen wall, height at level with a window opening in the partition. I was in time to see a chef slide a dish out the cubby.

Ray marked an order chit that was tacked neatly along the side wall.

“One of you, get this, and bring it out. Leave it on the station following the number peg,” Ray instructed in a half turn whilst tapping the clip biting the edge of the plate.

Five of us nodded like a telepathic unit, then the one at the head of the line volunteered first.

The dishes filed out quickly, deploying the runners in rapid succession till it was my turn, where several small dishes of starter snacks met me.

Ray helped me arrange the small plates atop the service tray, including the accompanying sauce plates.

“Go!”

I scurried out, sense of urgency spiking through my limbs.

I made a beeline for the station that was the corresponding placement for table nine. Along the way, I heard a poor girl get barked by the woman with the shrill voice.

“Stop spinning around – number ten is behind that pillar!” she pointed.

I almost missed my stop getting distracted by the red rashes around her mouth. They weren’t as red earlier. It must be a sign she’s flushed with intense stress. Plus, her short hair that reached her chin looked like a messy mop now. Casting a quick sweep over the restaurant, I counted two eight-seater tables already filled, along with two other smaller ones. And it looked like guests were still coming in.

Seeing her uptight demeanour, and not forgetting Ray’s, I kept wondering how chaotic it will really become.

On the other hand, the waitress stationed at the counter where I deposited the food, seemed more relaxed. Her hair was up in a neat bun, as prim and proper as her short, east-asian brocade cheongsam. She called after me in levelled tones, sweet smile on her face, informing me that number ‘6’ was round the back of the pillar.

I apologized sheepishly for reading the number upside down, thinking it was ‘9’. Well, there were the Chinese characters written beside it but I basically skipped over the alien language.

After correcting my mistake, I hurried back to the kitchen pick up point, where a big ass bowl of exotic urchin and tentacles swam inside a thick, sticky broth, waiting with beady eyes.

Ray’s face was scrunched up in stress, eyeing down the row of the four other helpers, then his gaze landed on me who just entered. He drew a scrutinizing gaze down my arms, probably trying to discern if I had any muscles under the baggy sleeves. I had none, but felt my male pride bristle anyway.

So I volunteered myself in a gung-ho manner.

Ray gave me an unconfident look, but had no choice anyway, since the rest of the casual workers were girls, and typically, proper men don’t subject females with such a heavy load if there are other guys available.

Unfortunately, the large porcelain bowl surpassed all my expectations. I barely kept from grunting with effort from lifting the heavy ass china. I tried to make a good show like the weight was completely manageable for me, but my slow, laboured steps betrayed my dignity. The demon Sergeant even had the gall to snicker at my back – which I heard – the damn bastard!

My sweet comrades on the other hand, did not laugh at my evident struggle, quickly bounding ahead to push the door open for me. I flashed a grateful smile, then held a stiff face as I trudged one step at a time to the required drop-off. My arms were complaining by the time I was done, but I shushed them, internally berating myself for the unwise decisions I made skipping out on physical training sessions during my younger academic days.

Much to my dismay, another giant saucer of lavish alien haul awaited me.

Ray regarded me with a teasing glint in his eyes, ruffling me further.

I set my jaw straight, determined to hang onto my masculine pride. If there was ever a time to subject my weak, chicken arms to the brutality of the average, working class Galaxian civilian, this was it.

After countless trips up and down bearing heavy loads, I had a mind to draw up a proposal to the restaurant management on changing their heavy dinnerware for lighter ones. First, I have to be hired on board as their purchaser. Unfortunately, I had no experience in the field to speak of.

Career ambitions aside, I managed to keep my arms with me – haven’t cracked a bone yet – though they were shaking like pudding after the umpteenth trip.

The tables were over seventy-percent full, guests coming and going in an endless swarm of starving demons. I had no idea how they wolfed down the dishes so quickly. As soon as I deposited the orders on the respective stations, and cleared the dirty dishes the waitresses had piled atop, the dinnerware would magically stack up again the moment I returned.

I could have saved many trips if I ferried more each time. Regrettably, I’m a shame to the collection of humans and aliens with ding-dongs since I lack brawn power.

At least I have a good sense of bearing. The other runners – not so much. They kept rounding the tables and stations in frustrating attempts to spot the station number. I kept hearing short tempered waitresses hissing at them like Serpentarians.

One girl in particular, was often barked at. Especially by the one with the chilli mouth, because she kept passing by to and fro the tables Chilli was attending to. The other runners had the smarts at least, to go the longer way round, giving Chilli a wide berth as much as possible.

Poor thing. I grimaced when I spied her spinning around helplessly, and since I passed by her on my way back into the back rooms, I softly asked what table number she got in her hand. She replied saying it was ‘eighteen’. Poor thing couldn’t read the accompanying Chinese letters either. Worst, she has bad memory – couldn’t remember any of the station numbering. I had to remind her it should be table ‘81’, because there was no ‘18’.

Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know either. It must be something related to Chinese beliefs and customs that dated back all the way from when Earth was an infant and folks still thought they were alone in the universe. What a small minded hair-brained beginning, huh?

Anyway, the only custom I know of, was the numbers four and thirteen were avoided at all cost (don’t ask me why; just ask Galaxipedia, or in your case, one of its predecessors like Wikipedia or something.) So in true customary fashion, those tables were missing from the dining floor. Then again, they have a pretty messed up numbering system skipping chunks of numbers. I suspect the one who planned the layout must be a Birdarian. Only bird brains don’t know how to count. They don’t have hands to test weight either, so it must be the same one who decided on their dinnerware. I could roll my eyes like my bestie’s signature move, saying ‘good management is so hard to find.’”