Murders A Waitress

jon matych

16 • Scribbler

fiction, short story, thriller

1st

Draft

Published on:

Feb. 20, 2008, 2:14am

Word Count:

2451

Last Edited:

Mar. 14, 2008, 4:54pm

Work Description

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“More coffee, sweetie?” asks the bulbous, dreadful waitress making her rounds. As I am the only patron of this all night coffee-and-cigarettes joint, her job is brief. Silent, I raise my empty chipped and dirty cup to her pitcher, and she splashes the dark liquid into it.

I hate her.

I hate the sky blue of her work uniform, the red and blue spider webs of veins spreading over her massive calves as they disappear miraculously, cramped into dirty white tennis shoes that have seen better days than this. I hate her died blonde hair, stringy and thin, indicative of her lack of skill in hair care. I hate her face, painted lips and cheeks like a clown, her bulging eyes smeared with blue in a vain attempt at beauty. Most of all, I hate her fake waitress-smile and her always peppy cheerleader voice. I hate the fact that I know she is miserable. I surmise that she lives in a miserable basement apartment with miserable décor, eats miserable food, drinks miserable liquor, and probably kicks her miserable malnutrition-ed cat. At 4:30 am on a Tuesday night, Wednesday morning, her painful smile, an exclamation point, an ugly harmony to her miserably shitty existence, does very little to brighten the dark room.

I sip my thick black coffee, alone, my eyes vacant, but my mind alight with possibilities. Removing the droopy painted skin from her face, opening up each and every spider web vein, and watching her bleed might be fun. I wonder, would she welcome the end, beg for escape from her wasted life, view me as her savior, euthanasia her commiseration? Would she pray for mercy, pray to be spared that she may continue to live her toilsome empty life? Would she accept her end, endure her torture, a holy-rolling Christian waiting to be welcomed to St. Peter’s Gates?

She plops down across from me, and I raise my eyes to her lips-pursed, toothless smile, the one that strangers in a small, safe town offer to each other as they pass. She winks at me, her right eye closing flirtatiously for a nanosecond.

“What’s your story, babe? Your name, where ya from, what do ya do? You know. I see you in here all the time, always alone, always coffee—black…” The social propriety of the conversation infuriates me. I hate people who don’t give a shit less, and I rarely waste my time with such encounters. I check my watch and decide as I clear my throat that I do have the time to waste. “Name’s Francis—Frank,” I lie. “I moved up here from the south about a year ao on a whim, just looking for a new start, a second chance.”

It sounds believable enough; the idea of a second chance has a certain cathartic appeal with most folks. Her turn. I smile dismissively as she begins, paying no mind to my complete lack of drawl or twang. Cathy with a c, her name tag confirms. She’s lived here all her life, but her grandmother used to live in Mississippi! Pretty weak common ground if you ask me. She used to be a model (*cough*) for Penny’s or some department store. “These days,” she continues, “the modeling industry is in the shitter. No work for us, and the pressure from Hollywood and New York to look, you know, like them, is unbearable.” Obviously not too much pressure, I think. She smells like stale cigarettes, baby powder, and pungent body odor. “The waitress thing is temporary, just an in between you know. I’ve got some interviews coming up next week.”

After five minutes of shallow, impersonal conversation, my initial thoughts are confirmed: I hate her. It seems my mysterious, cold demeanor, however, is somehow endearing. She is pathetic, lonely, and revolting. It wouldn’t surprise me much if she turns tricks to make up for the undoubtedly poor pay. She talks mostly to hear her own voice, due to nerves or egotism, I can’t be sure. My cold smile encourages her, empowers her. Ever the busy woman, she cuts the small talk and gets down to it.

“Listen, sweetie. You’re kinda cute, really rugged, the way a man should be. You married? Got a wife at home, a girlfriend? I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, I just…”

“A bachelor,” I tell her, “though not really trying all too hard

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RLyn

306 • Calligrapher

Thank you for posting this story, I really enjoyed it. It kept me guessing on what was going to happen next. I have taken a few paragraphs and sentences that i have questions or suggestions on and put them below. The last paragraph is just my opinion. Great job with this

I know she is miserable. I surmise that she lives in a miserable basement apartment with miserable décor, eats miserable food, drinks miserable liquor, and probably kicks her miserable malnutrition-ed cat. At 40 am on a Tuesday night, Wednesday morning, her painful smile, an exclamation point, an ugly harmony to her miserably shitty existence

I feel like the whole being miserable thing is kind of repetitive. You are trying to portray how miserable this waitress is and maybe she and the world would be better off if she was dead. I feel like ok she is miserable and this is miserable and this is miserable. She could live in a dingy apartment and you could obviously see she had a bleak outlook on life...i know thats not what you are going for, but you can change your words and get the same effect.

After five minutes of shallow, impersonal conversation, my initial thoughts are confirmed: I hate her

I think you could use a stronger word than hate. I could hate my breakfast or i could find my breakfast repulsive? You say that she is revolting which is a stronger word in another sentence, hate just doesn't fit right for me. I don't know you mention it a few other times to it could just be me.

I get a rush from sex, sure, but that hardly moves the mercury of my thermometer. I swish the remains of my sixth cup of coffee around in my mouth, closing my eyes, feeling the warmth from the ebony liquid caress my tongue, relishing the anticipation for the hours to come.

I like this imagery.

When she wakes, it is to the pleasing aroma of nice, fried, something. I can actually hear her salivating. Tied to her chair, she is helpless to find the source of this delightful fragrance. I walk from the kitchen with a serving dish piled high with the tenderest meat she has ever seen. From the slender portion, she deduces it is a nice filet, or veal, and her eyes beg me for it. I sit down next to her with a smile, and begin to feed her generously. She relishes it, clearly enjoying the act of eating, which hardly surprises me a bit. The plate is clean, and I throw back my head in a deep belly laugh. Her confusion is evident by furrowed brows and open mouth. The silence of the apartment puzzles her, and I can almost see the cogs in motion. “Where’s Muffy?” she asks.

I punch her in the stomach, and scream into her ear, “You ate her, you fat bitch. I broiled her with lemon, and you ate her.”

I was not expecting this. I thought he would be to disgusted by her to keep her around very long. I like this though! Shouldn't he like her being upset? You go on to say that she is crying about her dog and this infuriates the man... i guess i am confused. So then he kills her with Drain-O, isn't he fantasizing about slitting open her veins or doing some grotesque thing to her?

Thanks again

Aaron Moritz

71 • Pencil Pusher

wow, really great story. You did a great job of describing the waitress' life, and everything that made the narrator hate her made me feel sorry for her, but also sympathize (well, sort of) with the killers point of view. I also like the repetition of "I hate her", it makes you think about some creepy guy off in the corner, judging and hating you.

Truthfully, were I to make myself at home here, I would burn this place to the ground with myself still inside.

I really like that imagery.

I punch her in the stomach, and scream into her ear, “You ate her, you fat bitch. I broiled her with lemon, and you ate her.”

You have a talent for dialogue too, that line actually made me laugh, and all of the waitress' dialogue in the diner was very well written, very real sounding.

I did think the changeover when he switches into killing mode was a little abrupt. I was waiting for it to happen, but it still seemed to catch me off guard. And I'm just nitpicking here, but I think the title could be a little stronger, rather then just saying what happens in the story, though I am terrible with titles, so I don't have much advice for you on that front.

Victoria Blevins

23 • Scribbler

I couldn't help but laugh throughout this entire piece. I should have been shocked, and completely disgusted with the narrator's actions, but I took them all in and accepted them for what the were. It doesn't hurt that I'm a sucker for unnecessary and gratuitous violence.

The waitress's kindness is sickening. Almost to the point of the reader thinking the murder is justified. I always feel more heartbroken for the animals when they're hurt, so having muffy slaughtered and eaten was kind of hard to take.

You have an unbelievable way of describing scenes and characteristics. I was never lost or confused and was completely swept up in the imagery of it all.

I surmise that she lives in a miserable basement apartment with miserable décor, eats miserable food, drinks miserable liquor, and probably kicks her miserable malnutrition-ed cat.

This was one of my favorite lines. I can't remember when I enjoyed the repetition of a word this much.

My only complaint is that there isn't more. I would have loved to see who else he killed.

The flipping of key 4D to the bum was the perfect ending though. Again, great job.

Rusti Fae

396 • Calligrapher

*** This story had some wild and vivid imagery! The way the tale was told was very descriptive. Even though I read what the killer was feeling; the feeling never really reached me, I was definitely an observer. In the begining I did get a slight feeling of being over written, but after reading more I understood that it was your style of writing. Oh and you had a misspelled word in the line;

>“Name’s Francis—Frank,” I lie. “I moved up here from the south about a year ao on a whim, just looking for a new start, a second chance.”"<

The word I believe you were trying to write was "ago" and you spelled it "ao"... it's just a small typo nothing major. I did think however, that he was going to kill her the way he had it planned in his mind. Or at least make her suffer more than he did. As far as the main character; he was portrayed well as a cold blooded killer.

I agree with the last writer as far as the pet she had. It's not their fault they live the way they do, maybe you should have left it with the dog eating her instead of the other way around. A meal unlike any meal she has ever given him...lol! Sorry now I'm being gross... Well as an over all, the story was written very well, I love some of your terminology... I look forward to more of your work...write on!

Rusti Fae***

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