Ruiz

Like clockwork, the evening rush at Mac’s American Café ran its course, and the last patrons shuffled out.

Grateful for the break, the crew took the opportunity to relax. The young cook, Jimmy Smith, red-haired, freckled, tall and lean, sat down on a stool in the kitchen by the vegetable prep table. Fred Hopkins, stout and dark haired, assistant cook and dishwasher, joined him.

In an instant, Trish was there with two dark foamy soft-drinks in tall red plastic glasses for them.

“Thanks Trish,” Jimmy said. It was all he had energy to say.

“Oh man, that’s good,” Fred said, taking a long swallow of the icy sugar and caffeine.

“You boys have been going like machines in here,” Trish said.