"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Why I left Harry's All night Hamburger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

don't you screw up with anyone. One customer complains, one customer stiffs you for the check, and
you're out of work, you got that?"

"Sure," I said, though I've gotta admit I was wondering what to do if some cheapskate skipped without
paying. I tried to figure how much of a meal would be worth paying for in order to keep the job, but with
taxes and all it got too tricky for me to work out, and I decided to wait until the time came, if it ever did.

Then Harry went back in the kitchen, and I got a broom and swept up out front a little until a couple of
truckers came in and ordered burgers and coffee.

I was pretty awkward at first, but I got the hang of it after a little bit. Guys would come in, women, too,
one or two at a time, and they'd order something, and Harry'd have it ready faster than you can say
"cheese", practically, and they'd eat it, and wipe their mouths, and go use the john, and drive off, and
none of them said a damn thing to me except their orders, and I didn't say anything back except "Yes,
sir," or "Yes, ma'am," or "Thank you, come again." I figured they were all just truckers who didn't like the
fast-food places.

That was what it was like at first, anyway, from midnight to about one, one-thirty, but then things would
slow down. Even the truckers were off the roads by then, I guess, or they didn't want to get that far off
the Interstate, or they'd all had lunch, or something. Anyway, by about two that first night I was thinking it
was pretty clear why Harry didn't think he needed help on this shift, when the door opened and the little
bell rang.

I jumped a bit; that bell startled me, and I turned around, but then I turned back to look at Harry, 'cause
I'd seen him out of the corner of my eye, y'know, and he'd got this worried look on his face, and _he_
was watching _me_; he wasn't looking at the customer at all.

About then I realized that the reason the bell had startled me was that I hadn't heard anyone drive up,
and who the hell was going to be out walking to Harry's place at two in the morning in the West Virginia
mountains? The way Harry was looking at me, I knew this must be one of those special customers he
didn't want me to scare away.

So I turned around, and there was this short little guy in a really heavy coat, all zipped up, made of that
shiny silver fabric you see race-car drivers wear in the cigarette ads, you know? And he had on padded
ski pants of the same stuff, with pockets all over the place, and he was just putting down a hood, and he
had on big thick goggles like he'd been out in a blizzard, but it was April and there hadn't been any snow
in weeks and it was about fifty, sixty degrees out.

Well, I didn't want to blow it, so I pretended I didn't notice, I just said, "Hello, sir; may I take your
order?"

He looked at me funny and said, "I suppose so."

"Would you like to see a menu?" I said, trying to be on my best behavior -- hell, I was probably
overdoing it; I'd let the truckers find their own menus.

"I suppose so," he said again, and I handed him the menu.

He looked it over, pointed to a picture of a cheeseburger that looked about as much like anything from
Harry's grill as Sly Stallone looks like me, and I wrote it down and passed the slip back to Harry, and he