24/7 Diner

24/7 Dinner

By Lawrence Chinhakwe

“Can you PLEASE finish one thing and get credit for it before moving onto another? Neither you or your brother appreciate what me and your mother have done for you! You don’t know how lucky you are, growing up here, with access to schools and resources,” Baba exclaims.

“Baba please not right now, you see me looking for a new job. You see me on this website, leave me be, go watch Alaskan Arctic or something. I just got home, last thing I want to hear about is how I got here.” I exclaim while Baba mumbles to himself walking into the living room, resuming the Wild Caught: Tuna Marathon.

No good, nothing here pays enough, or pays too little per credentials. I wanted something on Earth, but it seems interstellar travel is a necessary requirement these days. Okay, let’s widen the search, new tab, used refurbished galactic shuttles.

“M’balm! Or is it, Sgt. Ulimpto!” My brother says smiling, saluting and then dapping me up.

“Hey man, it’s just regular old M’balm now, what’s been going on?” I reply accepting his dap into a hug.

“Just school, Baba says you’re not in the Force anymore, he was pissed.” Little brother says jokingly.

“Still is.” I reply as we both laugh.

“So, tell me what happened.” Brother replies. “Ah, it doesn’t matter.” I say reluctantly, attempting to dodge the topic. “C’mon man, how am I supposed to talk smack about you without knowing?” He probed, desperate for any type of information.

“Haha, hey man, let me just finish up this application then I’ll get you hip.” I say.

Truthfully, I couldn’t tell him about the direct altercation leading to my discharge because I honestly don’t remember it, not to mention that the circumstances suggest a potential security violation. The first memory that comes to mind would be the cement floor. That’s where it all started for us, and that’s where it all ended for me:

“A-am I…what the h-ugh, ugh...the hell happened?” I thought to myself, curled in the corner of a cool dimly lit room. My surroundings murky, my gaze an impervious haze. “Am I still alive?” I asked aloud, as the stench of my breath hit my nostrils, confirming my query. My attempts to find a more comfortable position on the hardened floor alerted me that my body was bruised all over, mostly in my chest. I can feel my heart throbbing, echoing off a piece of metal attached to, and constraining my wrist. Wait…wrist!? As I try to release myself, I see not only am I shackled, but there are two other figures in this cell with me. I recognize these figures, though my sight is still blurred, these men I have known throughout my years here. Private First-Class Dewy Anson, and Lance Corporal Tosin Parsley, we work on Deck 7, engineering; these are the men are under my command.

My faculties slowly return to me. With each blink my depth of field clears somewhat, if ever so slightly. The hum of our Battle Class-Space shuttle massaged my ears and with each pulse, per usual, I find the rhythm within its vibration and tap my fingers along a surface in tune with it.

Soon enough I can hear the chatter of personnel approaching then dissipating. The deck above us echoes with standard issue T19 tactical combat boots both on this level and the deck above us. Although, now, I am in no position to lead these men, or perform the duties necessary of an Exploration Mechanical Observer.

“I should have stuck with Photography.” I thought to myself.

“Private…. Anson, Anson…Hey Dewy. Private Anson!” I call to the figure beside me, me and my comrades have been plastered on many occasions, so his undefined figure is still recognizable to me.

“Mhmm?? Sarge, that you? Ulimpto?” Pvt. Replies.

“Yeah, that Parse next to you?” I say.

“Y-yeah, yeah I think so.” He says stumbly.

“Wake him up would ya.” I request.

“Parse, hey…hey Parse, Cpl. Parsley wake up!” The Pvt. Said commandingly.

“Hit em’ man.” I say to Anson as he tries to lean over to smack him with his hand to no avail.

“Where the hell are we? W-What happened?” I continue.

Anson kicks Cpl. Parsley on the foot tying to wake him up. “Cpl., Wake up, would you?” He says.

“Ughh, ughh!” Cpl. Groans as he leans over his respective sink to vomit.

“Guess that explains what happened last night.” Pvt. Anson exclaims as we erupt into laughter.

“Doin’ alright there Sarge? You looked like a zombie the past couple days, I didn’t want to say anything but maybe taking up the other guy’s shift wasn’t worth it, you looked like hell, man. Not to mention that fight.” Corporal Parsley exclaims after rinsing his mouth.

“Fight?” I asked, in disbelief.

“Yeah man, I understand reassignment would have meant a pay cut, but you know how the Force deals with interspecies racism.” Parsley exclaimed.

At that point some of the events prior to the blackout came back to me.

For the past couple months there’ve been rumors here and there, talks of certain general crewman getting reassigned and outsourced by a different species. I wasn’t sure why until they bought us from holding for questioning, but we’ll get to that.

A few hours into the shift I felt like death, and according to my subordinate, I sure as hell looked it. Second shift’s CO was sick, intestinal blisters, something related to the food from planet Carper 707 and this ship’s methods of implementing artificial gravity caused it. My Lt. requested I cover both shifts and I’d get time and a half, in addition to paid time off next week. I couldn’t even give him an answer before I saw my name on the shift logs.

Two back-to-back shifts, with 30 minutes to an hour of sleep, depending on who conducted morning briefings were…doable. But by the 5th day I needed something to help me perform the duties needed to keep my men, the dual nuclear reactor, and thus our mission, running at top efficiency. People up top don’t know what it takes to keep these engines running, they just press the accelerator and complain when it doesn’t go.

It was around my last day on shift when I saw them, the Enu-AmZeru, medium height, lengthy creatures. They don’t talk much, but they smell really good and work hard; so, I figured what the hell.

Right before we start, Lt. pulls me aside and questions the yellowish pigment in my eyes, I tried to turn away and deny what he was talking about but regardless, he tells me to report to the Officers Suite for a “possible reassignment.”

I report to Suite. The whole time I’m there the Commander looks at me with a sadistic smirk, explaining I’m to do laundry and other remedial duties for the duration of my tour. And, since I hadn’t completed the full 3.8 years required under a given post, all previous benefits were to be relinquished and I would receive the equivalent of my new position. I was furious, me and the squad went to the Mess and drank like no other; too much this time.

I blacked out and wound up on this floor. Eventually, I noticed this bandage on my arm resting upon a vein. When the MP came and talked to me my heart dropped. He said during my drunken altercation, I was aggravated, we started a fight hollered racial slurs about the Enu-AmZeru; and it took about three men wailing on me with batons before I was taken down.

Given the color of my eyes, they tested my blood and found traces of “restricted inter-substantive enhancements” within my system. That and the excessive alcohol put me in a blind rage.

I was discharged soon after, for using illegal drugs I purchased to accomplish a job my Lieutenant knew I couldn’t preform. I could keep my pay, except for last month’s salary, including the negotiated time and a half; and with less than 5 months left on deployment, I couldn’t keep my benefits.

So, Here I am, back home three years later with nothing more than a few dozen thousand dollars and back pain to show for it…

“Sorry what?” I asked.

“I said try the restaurant business, the hourly pay is bad, but the tips are out of this world.” My brother says to me propelling me back into the present.

“Out of this world” …” tips,” my brother is a genius.

“Yeah well, the day I take career advice from my little brother, is when I’ll be head of Space Force. Go make me an Easy Minute Ramen would ya?” I say, seemingly disregarding his suggestions.

Immediately I searched for restaurant that yield the highest return in tips. All sites suggest the “24/7 Inter-Dimensional Diner,” and, they do same day interviews. Competitive base pay in addition to keeping 40% of your tips? If there’s a catch I’m the glove and was in no position to argue.

I reserved a rental car and arrived at the spot early. Classic inconspicuous Mom and Pop joint, but the area was far too familiar. This was right in the middle of the HUB. The HUB is a historic site where all 8 parallel dimensions intersect. All dimensions are ruled by one or more alien species.

I got there, did a very quick interview, mostly teamwork experience but when I mentioned my past as an Officer with the Earth’s United Space Exploration Forces, I was hired instantly.

“What have you heard about this place?” She asked.

“Not much really,” I responded, noting that since we have diners on Earth, I wouldn’t have much reason to come here.

She reminded me that “Earth’s largest interstellar and most lucrative export is milk and other dairy based products.”

Not surprising considering given that the mammary gland fluid for infants was also used for an innumerable number of dishes and beverages. The final note she added was since this Diner exists within the HUB, there’s a lunch rush every three hours; the pay is high, but so is the workflow. I reassured her of my history in high stress environments and soon enough the first rush appeared.

Aliens of all types paraded into the restaurant, most of whom were Enu-AmZeru.

“Since when do the AmZeru speak?” I asked.

“What do you mean by that?” The general manager smirking.

“It’s just whenever I’ve seen them, they don’t talk at all.” I replied. “That’s definitely strange, around here we can never get them to shut up, they tip well though so, go ahead and give table 3 a shot.” She suggests, nudging me into their direction.

I walk to the table, take the family’s order and was surprised by their mastery of English as well as their alien neighbors.

I did not want to be rude but I had to know. So after taking his order I asked; “Sir, I beg your pardon but, how do you speak so well, all the other AmZeru I’ve met are illiterate?”

The man chuckled and replied simply:

“All AmZeru have the innate ability to master all dialects within the known reality. It is why we are sought to mediate negotiations between all species. When we are enveloped within the complexities of conversation or debate, we feel at peace. The only illiterate AmZeru are those who have been stolen at birth and raised without the benefit of mothers and kin. Those enslaved are incapable of speech, focusing instead on physical prowess. Their only peace is a beautiful aroma which they emit to ease their burden.”