From Scratch Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Rachel Goodman
product launch for Kingsbury Enterprises.
I order my usual chai and get to work. Only everything is disorganized. Payroll records are outdated and incomplete. Daily sales figures are missing for weeks at a time. Purchase order requests are only partially filled out, and even then, with incorrect shipping instructions. Distributors’ catalogs are ripped with chunks of pages missing and several suppliers have sent outstanding payment notices for deliveries made months ago.
So much for the diner running on autopilot, I think as I flip through page after page of chaos. How does it even function with record keeping like this? Is it even turning a profit?
The sound of hollering yanks my attention away. I glance around and see four guys that look like they stepped straight off a bus from Nashville—guitars slung across their backs, cowboy hats pushed down low over their eyes, tattoos covering their arms—jabbing each other’s shoulders and laughing as they walk into the back room, where the stage is set up.
I recognize them as members of the Randy Hollis Band from the various posters hanging around the Prickly Pear. They must be performing tonight. I remember in high school and college watching musicians shuffle through this place, paying their dues, living off tips stuffed in empty coffee mugs, cutting their teeth trying to make their dreams a reality.
The same way Nick did, I think as sudden images of him playing the songs he wrote to a crowded room crash into me. I shake them away. I don’t want to remember him. Or what happened between us.
I turn back around and continue sorting through the diner’s files, keeping my focus where it belongs. Three hours later, I’m still trying to make sense out of something, anything, in this mess. My father’s chicken scratch, haphazardly scribbled in the margins of almost every page, mocks me. Claiming defeat, I toss my pen onto the table and stretch my arms above my head. A bowl of teeth-rotting cereal calls my name.
In the room adjacent to the café is Couch Potato Corner, the perfect place to catch a quick mental break and where I spent many late nights with Annabelle after all-day studyfests. Distressed leather sofas surround old-school televisions, complete with built-in legs and rabbit ears. A breakfast bar flanks the back wall filled with glazed doughnuts, cereals reminiscent of childhood, and Eggo waffles begging for a toaster oven and a bath in Mrs. Butterworth’s. Six dollars and thirty-five cents for all you can eat.
I pay my admission to the barista behind the counter and contemplate my choices. After pouring a bowl of Lucky Charms, I curl up on one of the couches, flipping the television to cartoons. I’m so distracted by an anvil being dropped on a coyote’s head I nearly miss my cell phone vibrating. Catching it on the last ring, I grab it off the side table and answer without bothering to look at the name on the screen.
“Hello?” I say, shoving of spoonful of pastel marshmallows into my mouth.
“You better be kidnapped by Goonies.”
And out comes the mouthful of marshmallows.
“Annabelle!” I say, scrambling to put the television on mute. “Hey!”
“Cut the bullshit, Lillie. When were you going to tell me you were in town?”
I bite my lip. “It was a last-minute trip. I got in yesterday.”
The sounds of Dallas traffic filter through the phone. From somewhere far off, I can hear the ringing bell of the McKinney Avenue Trolley. I imagine her strolling around Uptown, carrying glossy bags overflowing with linen swatches and stationery samples, phone pressed to her ear as she pops in and out of boutiques.
“You’re lucky I love you,” she says, then changes the subject with her usual abruptness. “Your fairy godmother, Sullivan Grace, woke me up at the ass crack of dawn this morning.” In Annabelle terms “ass crack of dawn” means any time before ten. Welcome to the cushy life of a wedding and event planner.
“Okay,” I say.
I order my usual chai and get to work. Only everything is disorganized. Payroll records are outdated and incomplete. Daily sales figures are missing for weeks at a time. Purchase order requests are only partially filled out, and even then, with incorrect shipping instructions. Distributors’ catalogs are ripped with chunks of pages missing and several suppliers have sent outstanding payment notices for deliveries made months ago.
So much for the diner running on autopilot, I think as I flip through page after page of chaos. How does it even function with record keeping like this? Is it even turning a profit?
The sound of hollering yanks my attention away. I glance around and see four guys that look like they stepped straight off a bus from Nashville—guitars slung across their backs, cowboy hats pushed down low over their eyes, tattoos covering their arms—jabbing each other’s shoulders and laughing as they walk into the back room, where the stage is set up.
I recognize them as members of the Randy Hollis Band from the various posters hanging around the Prickly Pear. They must be performing tonight. I remember in high school and college watching musicians shuffle through this place, paying their dues, living off tips stuffed in empty coffee mugs, cutting their teeth trying to make their dreams a reality.
The same way Nick did, I think as sudden images of him playing the songs he wrote to a crowded room crash into me. I shake them away. I don’t want to remember him. Or what happened between us.
I turn back around and continue sorting through the diner’s files, keeping my focus where it belongs. Three hours later, I’m still trying to make sense out of something, anything, in this mess. My father’s chicken scratch, haphazardly scribbled in the margins of almost every page, mocks me. Claiming defeat, I toss my pen onto the table and stretch my arms above my head. A bowl of teeth-rotting cereal calls my name.
In the room adjacent to the café is Couch Potato Corner, the perfect place to catch a quick mental break and where I spent many late nights with Annabelle after all-day studyfests. Distressed leather sofas surround old-school televisions, complete with built-in legs and rabbit ears. A breakfast bar flanks the back wall filled with glazed doughnuts, cereals reminiscent of childhood, and Eggo waffles begging for a toaster oven and a bath in Mrs. Butterworth’s. Six dollars and thirty-five cents for all you can eat.
I pay my admission to the barista behind the counter and contemplate my choices. After pouring a bowl of Lucky Charms, I curl up on one of the couches, flipping the television to cartoons. I’m so distracted by an anvil being dropped on a coyote’s head I nearly miss my cell phone vibrating. Catching it on the last ring, I grab it off the side table and answer without bothering to look at the name on the screen.
“Hello?” I say, shoving of spoonful of pastel marshmallows into my mouth.
“You better be kidnapped by Goonies.”
And out comes the mouthful of marshmallows.
“Annabelle!” I say, scrambling to put the television on mute. “Hey!”
“Cut the bullshit, Lillie. When were you going to tell me you were in town?”
I bite my lip. “It was a last-minute trip. I got in yesterday.”
The sounds of Dallas traffic filter through the phone. From somewhere far off, I can hear the ringing bell of the McKinney Avenue Trolley. I imagine her strolling around Uptown, carrying glossy bags overflowing with linen swatches and stationery samples, phone pressed to her ear as she pops in and out of boutiques.
“You’re lucky I love you,” she says, then changes the subject with her usual abruptness. “Your fairy godmother, Sullivan Grace, woke me up at the ass crack of dawn this morning.” In Annabelle terms “ass crack of dawn” means any time before ten. Welcome to the cushy life of a wedding and event planner.
“Okay,” I say.