Copyright © 2008 Faith Bicknell-Brown
All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.
A fork and knife clinked on a plate. The sound echoed in The Tap Shoes Restaurant. The lone trucker in the corner booth finished his entree, and Sheeba O'Malley took his order. She crossed the restaurant and handed Sam, the cook, the ticket with two burgers and fries on it.
"I can't believe people rush off to watch that new, stupid reality show that comes on at 9 P.M.," said Sheeba. "What? People have no lives anymore?" She tossed her order pad into a basket under the waitress counter and glanced at Sam through the short-order window. "I should talk. I have no life. And when I get home, I'll probably catch the last thirty minutes of Go Wild, Go Whacky too."
She paused and stared out across the nearly empty restaurant. The dining room, its black, white, and red decor both bold and old-fashioned, spoke of decades and famous dancers gone by. A variety of tap shoes sat upon shelves and cluttered two glass display cabinets. Photos of Sammy Davis Jr. and other dancers adorned the walls. Booths lined one side of the restaurant, tables covered the floor, and a long counter with traditional stools separated the waitress station from the dining room. Although quaint, the establishment shouted one word to Sheeba: prison. What am I doing working here? Why can't I find something better, something anywhere else but here?
"Life in Luneyville has its drawbacks," Sam said. He flipped a burger on the grill and grinned at Sheeba as she made her way to the time clock. "But at least you don't have to deal with the muggers, murderers, or drug pushers of a big city."
"Yeah," Didi, a plump black woman, hollered from the dishes area. "Or you could be stuck washing pots and pans like me. I feel like murdering Ida for burning the mash potatoes pot again."