He opened the heavy freezer door and stepped within. The door was mounted with a heavy spring and closed behind him. The interior was about ten feet by twenty feet and illuminated by a single light bulb in a wire cage. The walls were surfaced in a metallic material that looked like aluminum foil. The floor was a wooden grate.
The space was almost full of cardboard containers except for a central aisle. To the left were the large cartons full of frozen hamburger patties. To the right were the boxes of frozen french fries, fish fillets, and chicken chunks.
Skip flapped his arms against the subzero chill. His breath came in frosted clouds. Wishing to get back to the warmth of the kitchen, he scraped away the frost from the label of the first carton to his left to make sure it was ground meat. It read: MERCER MEATS. REG. 0.1 LB HAMBURGER PATTIES, EXTRA LEAN. LOT 6 BATCH 9-14. PRODUCTION: JAN 12; USE BY APR. 12.
Reassured, Skip tore open the carton and lifted out one of the inner boxes that contained fifteen dozen patties. He carried them back to the refrigerator behind Paul and put them in.
"You're back in business," Skip said.
Paul didn't respond. He was too busy setting up the cooked burgers, while his mind kept a running account of the new orders Roger had given him. As soon as he could, he turned to the refrigerator, opened the patty box and extracted the number of burgers he needed. But as he was about to close the door, his eye caught the label.
"Skip!" Paul yelled. "Get your ass back here!"
"What's wrong?" Skip questioned. He'd not left the area, but had bent down to change the trash bag under the central island's rubbish disposal opening.
"You brought the wrong goddamn patties," Paul said. "These just came in today."
"What difference does it make?" Skip asked.
"Plenty," Paul said. "I'll show you in a second." He then called: "Roger, how many burgers you looking for after order twenty-six?"
Roger checked his tickets. "I need one burger for twenty-seven, four for twenty-eight. and three for twenty-nine. That's eight total."
"That's what I thought." Paul said. He tossed the eight patties he had in his hand onto the grill and turned around to get the box of patties out of the refrigerator. As preoccupied as he was, he didn't notice that the first patty he threw ended up partially covering another patty that was already on the grill.
Paul motioned for Skip to follow him and spoke while he walked. "We get shipments of frozen hamburger once every couple of weeks," he explained. "But we have to use the older ones first."
Paul opened the door to the walk-in freezer and was immediately confronted by the carton Skip had opened. Paul wedged the box he was carrying back into the carton and closed the lid.
"See this date?" Paul asked while pointing to the label.
"Yeah, I see it," Skip said.
"Those other cartons back there have an older date." Paul said. "They have to be used first."
"Somebody should have told me," Skip complained.
"I'm telling you now," Paul said. "Come on, help me move these new ones to the back and the ones in the back to the front."
Kim had returned from the restroom and had managed to squeeze his six-foot-plus frame into the seat next to Becky. There were six other individuals at the same table, including a two-year-old whose face was smeared with ketchup. He was busy beating his half-eaten hamburger with a plastic soupspoon.
"Becky, please be reasonable," Kim said while trying to ignore the two-year-old. "I told Ginger that we'd pick her up after we finished eating."
Becky took a breath and exhaled, slumping her shoulders. She was sulking, which was uncharacteristic for her.
"I mean, we've done what you wanted," Kim said. "We're eating together, just you and me, and it's not at Chez Lean."
"Well, you didn't ask me if I wanted to pick up Ginger," Becky said. "When you said we were coming here, I thought you meant we didn't have to see her tonight at all."
Kim looked off and tightened his jaw muscles. He loved his daughter, but he knew she could be frustratingly willful. As a cardiac surgeon, he was accustomed to people on his team following his orders.
Paul returned from the rearranging in the walk-in freezer to face an exasperated Roger.
"Where have you been?" Roger demanded. "We're way behind."
"Don't worry," Paul said. "Everything is under control."
Paul picked up his spatula and began slipping the fully cooked burgers into their respective buns. The patty that had been leaning up against another was pushed aside so that the one beneath could be removed.
"Ordering thirty," Roger barked. "Two regular burgers and one jumbo."
"Coming up," Paul said. He reached behind into the refrigerator to get the meat. Turning back around he tossed them onto the grill. He then used his spatula to pick up the patty that had been draped over another. Flipping it back onto the grill, it again landed so that it was leaning on another and not flat against the cooktop. Paul was about to adjust it when Roger got his attention.
"Paul, you screwed up!" Roger snapped. "What's wrong with you tonight?"
Paul looked up with his spatula suspended over the grill.
"Number twenty-five is supposed to be two jumbos not two regulars," Roger complained.
"Shit, sorry!" Paul said. He turned back to the refrigerator to get two jumbo patties. After he tossed them onto the grill he used his spatula to press them down. Jumbos needed twice the cook-time of the regular burgers.
"And number twenty-five was supposed to have a medium fries," Roger said irritably. He waved the ticket as if he were threatening Paul with it.
"You got it," Paul said. He quickly filled a paper cone with the potatoes.
Roger took the fries and put them on the number twenty-five tray and shoved it over to what was called the distribution counter. "Okay," Roger said to Paul. "Number twenty-seven's ready to go. Where's the burger and fries? Come on Paul, let's get on the ball."
"All right, already," Paul said. Paul used his spatula to scoop up the patty that had spent most of its grill-time on top of two other patties. He slipped it into a bun and placed it on the paper plate Roger had put on the countertop in front of him. Paul shoveled on some grilled onions, then filled another paper cone with french fries.
Within seconds the teenager on the distribution counter leaned over his goose-necked microphone and said: "Pick up, number twenty-five and number twenty-seven.
Kim stood up. "That's us," he said. "I'll get the food. But after we eat, we're going to pick up Ginger, and that's final. And I'm going to expect you to be pleasant. Okay?"
"Oh, all right," Becky said reluctantly. She stood up.
"I'll get the food," Kim said. "You stay put."
"But I want to fix my own burger," Becky said.
"Oh, yeah," Kim said. "I forgot."
While Becky dressed her burger with an impressive layer of various toppings, Kim picked out what he hoped would be the least offensive salad dressing. Then father and daughter returned to their seats. Kim was happy to see the ketchup-besmeared toddler had departed.
Becky perked up considerably when the boy from her school asked for some of her french fries. Kim picked up his soupspoon and was about to sample the soup when his cell phone rang against his chest. He took the phone out and put it to his ear.
"Dr. Reggis here," he said.
"This is Nancy Warren," the nurse said. "I'm calling because Mrs. Arnold demands that you come in to see her husband."