{"id":2521,"date":"2023-07-19T23:01:14","date_gmt":"2023-07-20T03:01:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=2521"},"modified":"2023-07-19T23:01:14","modified_gmt":"2023-07-20T03:01:14","slug":"the-mermaid-riot","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=2521","title":{"rendered":"The Mermaid Riot"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Evelyn Berry<\/h2>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Issue 16<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Flash Fiction<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Flora arrived twenty minutes late to her brunch shift. Her sweat-drenched uniform, a black button-up and butter-smeared slacks, adhered to her skin. Charleston in late summer had been stuck under some cruel toddler\u2019s magnifying glass. She clocked in and spun, nearly colliding with Patrick. Her manager, a forty-something man fake-tanned until his skin resembled a deflated basketball, wore a blue blazer, skinny jeans, and boat shoes. She expected a tirade. Her heart plummeted when instead he smiled at her, sweet as peach cobbler.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe other kid no-call-no-showed.\u201d Patrick performatively shook his head, as if two days before, he had not screamed at this college-aged busboy for not adding enough sugar to the sweet tea. \u201cSo, bro, I have a favor to ask.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Mermaid Riot occupied a two-story historic house on a narrow street that, in Flora\u2019s imagination, divided the overpriced boutiques of King Street from the tourist side of town, where just a block further the sprawling Charleston Market sold benne wafers, sweetgrass baskets, and t-shirts screen-printed with Palmetto trees. She had been, for three months, the new busboy, though since the restaurant was fancy, her official title was server\u2019s assistant<\/em>. This meant she cleared dirty tables and refilled sweet tea on command, tonight for both dining rooms. Flora joined Camilla, an older server with dyed-red hair, in the prep work of rolling silverware. She flipped a switch into an automatic mode. Twenty minutes later, her arms and legs moved on their own, her mind an endless tape of self-instruction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Table five needed a refill\u2014coffee, water, Diet Dr. Pepper, Shirley Temple with two maraschino cherries and a slice of orange. Table seven grabbed Flora\u2019s shirt sleeve to remind her about the strawberry preserve for their biscuits, now cooling into hard pucks on the table. The woman at table fifteen waved, a frantic karate chop through the dining room\u2019s jazzy Muzak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The biscuits. She needed to go upstairs and take the biscuits from the oven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She fled from the dining room and caught a dirty look from Camilla, who placed two empty pitchers in Flora\u2019s hands to fill. In midday, the kitchen trembled with trapped heat. The back-of-house staff\u2014two stoner cooks, a sous-chef who hated her, and the stoic dishwasher\u2014spoke in monosyllabic commands and warnings, \u201cSharp!\u201d \u201cHands!\u201d \u201cHot!\u201d punctuated only by the sous-chef growling at Flora: \u201cYou better not leave without running something, dude.\u201d Plates crowded the window waiting on servers to pick them up. Once she filled the tea pitchers, she bustled out the kitchen without looking behind her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She handed off the pitchers in the corridor to Camilla and stomped up the service stairwell, a relic from the house\u2019s nineteenth-century past. The upstairs kitchen was used primarily as a prep area on weekends by the pastry chef and didn\u2019t clang with chaos. During the week, this kitchen belonged primarily to the biscuit-makers, the busboys. When she turned the corner, however, she was surprised to see Patrick looming over the prep table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou idiot,\u201d he said and held up a tray of blackened biscuits between mitts of folded rags.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI was trying to\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He shoved the tray into Flora\u2019s bare hands. She yelped like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. Her hands seared with pain, and she let the tray clatter to the floor. Biscuits bounced, spraying crumb debris across the tiles. She lurched for the sink and held her singed palms, welts already bubbling, under a cascade of lukewarm water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou went and burned yourself.\u201d Patrick gestured at the biscuit fluff littering the kitchen. \u201cBro, are you going to at least clean this up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She didn\u2019t answer. For a moment, she felt no anger or embarrassment, only the flare of pain. She focused on the sound of water, the sensation of cold dousing her skin like a knife scraped across cement. Then she glared at Patrick, lifted a new tray of biscuits from a rack in the corner, and slid it into the oven. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She whispered to herself, \u201cWater, coffee, Dr. Pepper, Shirley Temple. Two cherries.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When she returned to the downstairs dining room, she slammed the drinks on the table, then spun to retrieve the water pitcher. One of the men at the table sighed dramatically. \u201cFinally,\u201d he said and sipped his soda. Then, \u201cCome on, man. I actually ordered Diet Dr. Pepper.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dude. Man. Bro.<\/em> They were probably not clocking her, but still, the words stung. Five months on hormones, she was only beginning to feel happy about the way she looked and stop obsessing about whether she passed. In the shower this morning, she carefully shaved the springy black hairs on her forearms and legs, even her tits and the tops of her feet. Unable to afford laser, she slathered her face with a red corrector and foundation to camouflage the beard shadow. A headache, like someone had brained her with an aluminum bat. She poured water for the table, not responding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man shoved the soda at Flora, who failed to catch the cup before it slid off the table and crashed to the floor. She dropped to her knees and mopped the sticky puddle with two rags pulled from her apron. Closing her eyes, she began to count down from ten. When she was a kid, she learned this trick from a television show. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ten. Nine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She couldn\u2019t panic or freak out or raise her voice and risk losing her job.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eight. Seven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Camilla tapped her shoulder. \u201cGet to the kitchen now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Six. Five.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the kitchen, Flora dropped the soaked rags in the mop bucket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The chef rolled his eyes. \u201cStop wasting time. We\u2019ve got hot plates to run.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Instead, she beelined for the walk-in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She closed the heavy door and wiped her sweat-slicked face with her last rag. She breathed in cold air and held it in her lungs, as if she could take some of this peace with her when she walked out.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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Evelyn Berry<\/strong> (she\/her) is a trans, Southern editor, educator, and agitator. She\u2019s the author of the forthcoming debut poetry collection Grief Slut<\/em> (Sundress Publications, 2024) and poetry chapbook Buggery<\/em>, winner of the 2020 BOOM Chapbook Prize from Bateau Press. Evelyn is the recipient of a 2023 National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in Creative Writing, 2022 Dr. Linda Veldheer Memorial Prize, and 2019 Broad River Prize for Prose, among other honors. Her work has appeared in beestung, South Carolina Review, Raleigh Review, Drunk Monkeys, Taco Bell Quarterly<\/em>, and elsewhere. She lives in South Carolina.
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<\/p>\n<\/details>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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\"\"<\/a>
Read “Le mot medical juste<\/a>“<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
\"\"<\/a>
Read “The Bead Collector…<\/a>“<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
\"\"<\/a>
Read “Gifts for Men<\/a>“<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/figure>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Evelyn Berry Issue 16 Flash Fiction Flora arrived twenty minutes late to her brunch shift. Her sweat-drenched uniform, a black button-up and butter-smeared slacks, adhered to her skin. Charleston in late summer had been stuck under some cruel toddler\u2019s magnifying glass. She clocked in and spun, nearly colliding with Patrick. Her manager, a forty-something man fake-tanned until his skin resembled a deflated basketball, wore a blue blazer, skinny jeans, and boat shoes. She expected a tirade. Her heart plummeted when instead he smiled at her, sweet as peach cobbler. \u201cThe other kid no-call-no-showed.\u201d Patrick performatively shook his head, as if two days before, he had not screamed at this college-aged busboy for not adding enough sugar to the sweet tea. \u201cSo, bro, I have a favor to ask.\u201d The Mermaid Riot occupied a two-story historic house on a narrow street that, in Flora\u2019s imagination, divided the overpriced boutiques of King Street from the tourist side of town, where just a block further the sprawling Charleston Market sold benne wafers, sweetgrass baskets, and t-shirts screen-printed with Palmetto trees. She had been, for three months, the new busboy, though since the restaurant was fancy, her official title was server\u2019s assistant. This meant she cleared dirty tables and refilled sweet tea on command, tonight for both dining rooms. Flora joined Camilla, an older server with dyed-red hair, in the prep work of rolling silverware. She flipped a switch into an automatic mode. Twenty minutes later, her arms and legs moved on their own, her mind an endless tape of self-instruction. Table five needed a refill\u2014coffee, water, Diet Dr. Pepper, Shirley Temple with two maraschino cherries and a slice of orange. Table seven grabbed Flora\u2019s shirt sleeve to remind her about the strawberry preserve for their biscuits, now cooling into hard pucks on the table. The woman at table fifteen waved, a frantic karate chop through the dining room\u2019s jazzy Muzak. The biscuits. She needed to go upstairs and take the biscuits from the oven. She fled from the dining room and caught a dirty look from Camilla, who placed two empty pitchers in Flora\u2019s hands to fill. In midday, the kitchen trembled with trapped heat. The back-of-house staff\u2014two stoner cooks, a sous-chef who hated her, and the stoic dishwasher\u2014spoke in monosyllabic commands and warnings, \u201cSharp!\u201d \u201cHands!\u201d \u201cHot!\u201d punctuated only by the sous-chef growling at Flora: \u201cYou better not leave without running something, dude.\u201d Plates crowded the window waiting on servers to pick them up. Once she filled the tea pitchers, she bustled out the kitchen without looking behind her. She handed off the pitchers in the corridor to Camilla and stomped up the service stairwell, a relic from the house\u2019s nineteenth-century past. The upstairs kitchen was used primarily as a prep area on weekends by the pastry chef and didn\u2019t clang with chaos. During the week, this kitchen belonged primarily to the biscuit-makers, the busboys. When she turned the corner, however, she was surprised to see Patrick looming over the prep table. \u201cYou idiot,\u201d he said and held up a tray of blackened biscuits between mitts of folded rags. \u201cI was trying to\u2014\u201d He shoved the tray into Flora\u2019s bare hands. She yelped like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. Her hands seared with pain, and she let the tray clatter to the floor. Biscuits bounced, spraying crumb debris across the tiles. She lurched for the sink and held her singed palms, welts already bubbling, under a cascade of lukewarm water. \u201cYou went and burned yourself.\u201d Patrick gestured at the biscuit fluff littering the kitchen. \u201cBro, are you going to at least clean this up?\u201d She didn\u2019t answer. For a moment, she felt no anger or embarrassment, only the flare of pain. She focused on the sound of water, the sensation of cold dousing her skin like a knife scraped across cement. Then she glared at Patrick, lifted a new tray of biscuits from a rack in the corner, and slid it into the oven.  She whispered to herself, \u201cWater, coffee, Dr. Pepper, Shirley Temple. Two cherries.\u201d When she returned to the downstairs dining room, she slammed the drinks on the table, then spun to retrieve the water pitcher. One of the men at the table sighed dramatically. \u201cFinally,\u201d he said and sipped his soda. Then, \u201cCome on, man. I actually ordered Diet Dr. Pepper.\u201d Dude. Man. Bro. They were probably not clocking her, but still, the words stung. Five months on hormones, she was only beginning to feel happy about the way she looked and stop obsessing about whether she passed. In the shower this morning, she carefully shaved the springy black hairs on her forearms and legs, even her tits and the tops of her feet. Unable to afford laser, she slathered her face with a red corrector and foundation to camouflage the beard shadow. A headache, like someone had brained her with an aluminum bat. She poured water for the table, not responding. The man shoved the soda at Flora, who failed to catch the cup before it slid off the table and crashed to the floor. She dropped to her knees and mopped the sticky puddle with two rags pulled from her apron. Closing her eyes, she began to count down from ten. When she was a kid, she learned this trick from a television show.  Ten. Nine. She couldn\u2019t panic or freak out or raise her voice and risk losing her job. Eight. Seven. Camilla tapped her shoulder. \u201cGet to the kitchen now.\u201d Six. Five. In the kitchen, Flora dropped the soaked rags in the mop bucket. Four. The chef rolled his eyes. \u201cStop wasting time. We\u2019ve got hot plates to run.\u201d Three. Instead, she beelined for the walk-in. Two. She closed the heavy door and wiped her sweat-slicked face with her last rag. She breathed in cold air and held it in her lungs, as if she could take some of this peace with her when she walked out.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2521","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2521","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2521"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2521\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2521"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}