On His Terms
By Rachel Masters
2012 Rachel Masters. All rights reserved.
Ally looked out the window of Bobby’s Diner as the shiny black limo pulled up to the
curb.
One of her regulars, a sixty-four year old retiree named Burt, went from looking at
her ass to staring out the window. “What do you suppose that’s about?” Burt asked.
Ally sighed. “Maybe Donald Trump’s coming for a plate of Chef Denver’s hash.”
Burt guffawed, sipping his fifth or sixth refill of coffee that morning. “His hash ain’t worth that much, honey.”
She rolled her eyes and moved off to tend to one of her other customers. After all, whoever belonged to that limousine might not even be coming in. And if they did come in, Ally just hoped she didn’t get them at one of her tables.
Ally had learned the hard way these last few years that the rich ones tended to tip
the worst.
Well, Burt was the worst tipper, but the rich ones were still pretty bad.
It had been a busy morning at the diner, but a morning much like the ones that had
come before it.
Running from table to table, taking orders, pouring coffee, ignoring the stares at
her cleavage and butt from the older male customers, while simultaneously staying
as friendly and pert as was possible for the eight dollar an hour wage she was earning.
Of course, it didn’t help that most nights she was taking classes for her teaching
degree. Between school at night and the diner all day, she barely had time to eat a meal or
have a conversation with her sister.
This wasn’t exactly the life she’d envisioned for herself, but then again, Ally wasn’t
the complaining type.
“Ally!” Chef Denver yelled out from the kitchen.
She looked up, snapping out of her trance. “Yeah?”
“Order up, babe. Come on, let’s move it.”
Ally did as he said, moving to pick up her plates of food. Recently, life had become so routine that one day seemed to be melting into the other.
But as it turned out, this day was actually nothing like any of the others that had
come before it.
First, there was the sudden flash of cameras and the sound of people talking and even
yelling just outside the diner.
And then, like a dam breaking, a barrage of people came bursting into the place. Some sort of media hurricane. There were about ten reporters from local TV networks, radio stations, and newspapers.
There were four secret service-like men wearing black suits, dark sunglasses, wires
coming out of their ears, and apparently trained in the art of not smiling.
“Holy high hell!” Chef Denver shouted. He walked out from the kitchen to get a better look at the action. His wrinkled, time-worn face was slack with shock.
Martha, the other waitress on duty, was always quick to complain. “Looks like the
political circus finally made it to our town,” she said to anyone who would listen.
As the deluge of people made their way into the diner, two of the security men prepared
themselves at each side of the entrance door. A third proceeded to open the door,
and wait.
Time stood still for a brief minute or two as the patrons of the diner collectively
held their breath.
A dark-suited man appeared from out of nowhere and opened the rear passenger door
of the limousine and then somebody began to step out of it.
“You know who that is, don’t you?” Martha quizzed Ally.
Ally shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. She was clueless, partly because she
just never kept up with current events and partly because she’d been particularly
distracted lately.
Martha shook her head, annoyed at Ally’s political ignorance. “Hale Westbrook. You know, as in the Hale Westbrook.”
Ally shrugged. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“What are they teaching you at that night school of yours?”
“I don’t have time to keep up with the Kardashians . Just tell me Martha, stop torturing me.”
Martha smirked.
By Rachel Masters
2012 Rachel Masters. All rights reserved.
Ally looked out the window of Bobby’s Diner as the shiny black limo pulled up to the
curb.
One of her regulars, a sixty-four year old retiree named Burt, went from looking at
her ass to staring out the window. “What do you suppose that’s about?” Burt asked.
Ally sighed. “Maybe Donald Trump’s coming for a plate of Chef Denver’s hash.”
Burt guffawed, sipping his fifth or sixth refill of coffee that morning. “His hash ain’t worth that much, honey.”
She rolled her eyes and moved off to tend to one of her other customers. After all, whoever belonged to that limousine might not even be coming in. And if they did come in, Ally just hoped she didn’t get them at one of her tables.
Ally had learned the hard way these last few years that the rich ones tended to tip
the worst.
Well, Burt was the worst tipper, but the rich ones were still pretty bad.
It had been a busy morning at the diner, but a morning much like the ones that had
come before it.
Running from table to table, taking orders, pouring coffee, ignoring the stares at
her cleavage and butt from the older male customers, while simultaneously staying
as friendly and pert as was possible for the eight dollar an hour wage she was earning.
Of course, it didn’t help that most nights she was taking classes for her teaching
degree. Between school at night and the diner all day, she barely had time to eat a meal or
have a conversation with her sister.
This wasn’t exactly the life she’d envisioned for herself, but then again, Ally wasn’t
the complaining type.
“Ally!” Chef Denver yelled out from the kitchen.
She looked up, snapping out of her trance. “Yeah?”
“Order up, babe. Come on, let’s move it.”
Ally did as he said, moving to pick up her plates of food. Recently, life had become so routine that one day seemed to be melting into the other.
But as it turned out, this day was actually nothing like any of the others that had
come before it.
First, there was the sudden flash of cameras and the sound of people talking and even
yelling just outside the diner.
And then, like a dam breaking, a barrage of people came bursting into the place. Some sort of media hurricane. There were about ten reporters from local TV networks, radio stations, and newspapers.
There were four secret service-like men wearing black suits, dark sunglasses, wires
coming out of their ears, and apparently trained in the art of not smiling.
“Holy high hell!” Chef Denver shouted. He walked out from the kitchen to get a better look at the action. His wrinkled, time-worn face was slack with shock.
Martha, the other waitress on duty, was always quick to complain. “Looks like the
political circus finally made it to our town,” she said to anyone who would listen.
As the deluge of people made their way into the diner, two of the security men prepared
themselves at each side of the entrance door. A third proceeded to open the door,
and wait.
Time stood still for a brief minute or two as the patrons of the diner collectively
held their breath.
A dark-suited man appeared from out of nowhere and opened the rear passenger door
of the limousine and then somebody began to step out of it.
“You know who that is, don’t you?” Martha quizzed Ally.
Ally shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. She was clueless, partly because she
just never kept up with current events and partly because she’d been particularly
distracted lately.
Martha shook her head, annoyed at Ally’s political ignorance. “Hale Westbrook. You know, as in the Hale Westbrook.”
Ally shrugged. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“What are they teaching you at that night school of yours?”
“I don’t have time to keep up with the Kardashians . Just tell me Martha, stop torturing me.”
Martha smirked.
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