Serving Time

Preface: this story is one of two first round entries in a writing comp called NYC FLASH FICTION.  Writers are given a 48 hour turnaround time to produce a 1000 word piece based on an outline dictated by contest judges and sponsors.  1400 writers are participating, and my group of 29 writers was assigned the category of: ROMANCE - setting: GROCERY STORE - prop: digital camera.

If you find the time to read this thing, please tell me the weak points of it most importantly so I can build from there for my next assignment.  Many thanks.

28_Serving Time

"When the moon winks at me in the dark, I make sure I blow it back a kiss"

"Something an old boyfriend use to tell you?" Arturo asked.

"No, my brother," I mused. "He was a thief"

But so am I.

I was sitting with my crew spilt between two trucks waiting for this gordo rent a cop to take his usual 10:17 p.m. dump.

We'd have less than nine minutes to get in and out; maybe an extra forty seconds if his wife had packed his usual banana pudding for dessert.

"Vamos," I whispered, and with that my crew of eight were on the loading docks of another Fairway grocery store, third score of the night.

The assembly line we formed was militarily efficient.  After eight minutes I gave my guys the wrap it up signal.

It was better we finished early than late just in case that Pillsbury Dough Boy was on a diet, not likely, but why chance it.  I didn't need any of my crew caught and deported.

Speeding off I couldn't help but look back at the grocery store and think back to when I ran with my brother's crew.

Back then, we'd have found our way inside that grocery store safe for the cash, and hacked their system for credit card information.  We'd spilt the cash, and sell the card numbers.

Now, brother's dead, knifed by a guy who later gave us all up.  I'm still on probation, and I'm a mother to an eleven, going on thirty year-old daughter.

The green I steal from grocery stores is not dead presidents; it's lettuce, cucumbers, and cabbage.Perfectly good food thrown out by the ton because it's cheaper than donating it.

Screw that.

My crew and I take care of five food pantries in the barrio with fruits and vegetables for hurting families.

The next morning we're at St. Gabe's dropping off their cut of the night's haul.

"Buenos dias Galla," I hear someone calling as I help unload the truck.  I didn't look back but I knew it was Chef Marco.

"Buenos dias Chef," I coolly smiled.

"And what goodies did you bring me today?" he asked.  His smile trying to draw me in.

"Just what you see."

I loved watching his mind work as he picked and poked through what we hauled into the kitchen.  He took pictures of the food too with a digital camera he had.  He'd make prints with his recipes on back for the folks we'd serve.  It was the same way when my brother planned a job.  I envied their attention to detail.

"Let's see," he said pondering as he passed between crates. "With this I'll make a shaved Brussels sprout salad with maple Dijon vinaigrette for lunch."

Then moving towards the last of the boxes we brought in, he scratched his chin, then snapped his fingers, "shaved asparagus salad with shallots and fried eggs for dinner.  Does that meet your approval Galla?"

"Me?" I started laughing.  "Look maestro I told you before my mom is Brazilian and my dad Cuban, so the basic requirements of our diet is it adds five pounds to a woman's ass and ten pounds to a man's gut, and don't tell either one they're not sexy, especially the men."

"Well I've told you, no, I've begged you to let me take you out and show you some of the kitchens I create in.  Just say 'Yes' so I don't have to keep embarrassing myself in front of everyone here.  Besides you wear the five pounds well.  In fact I'd have only guessed three, four tops."

"Oh you sweet talker you," I laughed. "Besides I told you I don't date guys I work with."

"But technically neither of us work here. We're volunteers."

"Well if you're volunteering here then that means you aren't getting paid.  And she's gotta be fed remember," I declared smacking the side of my hips a few times for effect.

Everyone was laughing now.

Just as the laughter was dying down, Arturo my jefecame in and whispered in my ear.

I nodded and within a moment everyone followed Arturo out, leaving me alone with Marco.

He was smiling awkwardly, like a gangly teenager asking for his first dance.

"Look Marco you've always said you wanted to come with us on our runs when we pick up from our donors.  We've got a big job at that Piggly Wiggly Super Center on the north end, and I'm short handed on this one."

I figured it'd give us a chance to talk.  I liked Marco, but I'd paraded one loser after another past my daughter over the last two years breaking my heart,and hers along with it.

I needed to know he had some backbone.

"Great. What time?" was all he said.

Like the night before my crew and I sat stealthy near the grocery store platform waiting for Sheriff Woody to leave the toy chest so we could raid it.

But best of all waiting gave me a chance to talk with Marco, about everything and nothing at the same time.

I found out he was smart. He told me was saving to get his own food truck, from there a restaurant.

He was funny.  I nearly peed myself laughing at his jokes.

When his family came here from Croatia to escape the blood letting, St. Gabe's gave them shelter so that's why he volunteered.

Then just as I was about to trust him with my own confessions, a tidal wave of blue and white lights hit us. Four cops in two patrol cars were blocking our trucks.

One cop asked for my ID while his partner questioned Marco.

The next thing I knew Marco was out the truck and talking with both cops.  A moment later they were shaking hands, then both squad cars were gone.

As Marco got back into our truck he said, "I guess this thing pays off after all," showing me his police badge.

"You're a cop?"

"Galla," he said softly, "those folks at the center don't need a cop, they need me to be a chef, so that's what I am.  Tonight, I was a cop so your guys didn't wind up in a detention center."

And then he smiled and winked, and so I kissed him, gently.

"Thank you," I whispered, the teenage girl grateful for the dance.