Small Fry

by Lisa Brennan-Jobs

The waitress returned with a bowl, more carrots—fresh and old, combined. She brought a new lemon wedge and the orange juice. “Is this what you were looking for?” she asked, as if she thought it might be right. “Actually, no,” he said. “This isn’t at all what I was looking for. Does anyone know how to do their job here?” he said. “Seriously. You don’t. I asked for fresh carrots.” “Sir, I’ve asked the kitchen to do the carr—” “No. No. You obviously haven’t asked. This is the same shit you brought me last time.” “I’m sorry,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “I’ll take it back.” “I think that would be a good idea,” he said. “You should think about why you’re here and whether you are actually doing your job. Because so far what you’re doing is crap. Everything you’ve done is crap. You just bring this shit again and again. I would like shaved carrots and lemon in a bowl.” He made a gesture to show the size of the bowl. “Yes, I understand, but—” “All I’m asking for is the simplest thing. Do you have carrots.” “Yes, but—” “Do you have a lemon.” “Yes.” She stood very still. “Do you have a grater back there in the kitchen.” He leaned his chair back and looked toward the kitchen opening across the carpeted floor. “Yes.” “Okay. I’d like you to tell them to take three carrots and grate them like this,” he motioned pressing a carrot down a metal grater. The ends of his words were sharp as whips. “And then bring it out with a lemon.”