Trusty Odin

Odin was damn fine at his job...

ODIN liked his job- he was very good at it. He was the finest dishwasher this side of the Mississippi and Mississippi was spelt Em-eye-crooked-letter-crooked-letter-eye-humpback-humpback-eye. He knew this because Ms. Hatfield taught him this. Ms. Hatfield was a nice lady that worked in the home he lived in. She was the nicest lady on this side of the Mississippi.
Odin arrived at the Lucky Nine Steakhouse ten minutes till five just like he did everyday. Except for the days when the bus was running late, but when that happened, the bus driver was always kind enough to use his cell-phone and call Odin�s boss Mr. Fernhill, let him know he was on his way. Odin liked the bus driver- especially when he�d let him wear his hat. Odin went to the time clock and found his time card with the lucky star on it; he clocked in and proceeded to make himself a Suicide. A Suicide was all the sodas mixed together in one cup, and it was Odin�s favorite thing. He knew how to make them just right, with a little bit of Dr. Pepper, a little Sprite and a whole lot of Shasta strawberry.
After mixing his Suicide and putting away his Mighty Thor backpack, he made his way to the kitchen. He would pass customers chewing on their steaks and they�d always smile at him. Everybody liked to smile at Odin, everywhere he went. Maybe it was the way he walked with the hunch and his left arm drawn close to his side. They thought it was amusing.
He got to the dishpit to see his boss Mr. Fernhill standing over stacks of dirty pots and pans and loaded-down bus tubs from the lunch rush. Water was overflowing in the sinks because the drain was clogged with food again. The floor was a mess of dirty water and trash. Odin did not like seeing his dishpit in such disarray. It bothered him. It was not good, not good at all. He had to get this cleaned up, put it back like it needed to be. He started to rub his fingers on his jaw.
Mr. Fernhill stood with his hand on his hip and rubbing his stomach- which meant he wasn�t having a good day.
�The day boy walked out on us, Odin- right in the middle of the rush. We had a thousand dollar lunch and that sumbitch walked out on us- said the dishwasher was screwing up. So m�real sorry about this mess, but we need to get this knocked out before the supper rush.� Mr. Fernhill tells him.
Odin just stood staring at the dirty floor. He continued rubbing his fingers on his jaw- he was just itching to get to work. He didn�t like to see his dishpit in such disarray.
�You think you can get this knocked out, back in working order before the lunch rush? If you can, we got cookies for you. Mrs. Stogel brought in some cookies- those kinds you like.�
Odin shook his head and smiled, giggled a bit. Mrs. Stogel made good lemon cookies. The finest lemon cookies this side of the Mississippi.
�Attaboy.� Mr. Fernhill told him.
Odin went to fixing the dishwasher as Mr. Fernhill walked out of the pit. Odin was proud of his dishwasher, it was a good machine, it was as upright pass-through AM14 model Hobart and ran just like his daddy�s pick-up if you treated it right. Odin pulled the filter plug and drained the machine. He slid the doors open and pulled out the rack of dishes. The inside bottom was covered in dirty, soggy food. Odin never understood why folks didn�t clean their plate like he always did. Half-eaten ribeyes, chunks of baked potatoes, and half a dozen drinking straws all bunched up in the drain- it was the drinking straws that were screwing up the machine, the day boy wasn�t taking the time to empty the glasses properly. He took the water nozzle and sprayed it down then pulled the filter and sprayed it thoroughly. He took a toothpick and cleaned the metal grate of tiny bits of food. He stuck the filter back in, refilled the machine, slid a rack of dishes in and turned it on. This only took Odin seven and a half minutes. Within the average length of a Merry Melody cartoon he had his machine back in working order. Yessir, Odin was a pro. Then he stuck his hand into the water of the sink and started digging food out of the drain.
�Odin!� a soft voice hollered.
Odin turned to see Erma, the tiny young waitress who still had a black eye, and a few bruises on her neck. They had been there all week. Odin didn�t like see them, he gave Erma a tight hug. He liked Erma, she smelled real pretty.
Erma giggled
�Okay, Odin, okay- how many times have I told you not to do that without gloves, sugar?� she asked him. �You gonna wind up getting scurvy or one of those diseases they talk about on Discovery Channel.
He really didn�t mind putting his fingers in the sludge of gooey Texas Toast and potato skins- I mean, the drain did have to be cleared or how else would he get rid of all the water? Everyone told him he should put some gloves before he did it, but Odin didn�t have time to look for gloves, he had dishes to wash and it was twenty till six, the dinner rush was about to hit.
Odin pointed at the bruise on Erma�s neck and frowned.
She shied away, looked the other direction, �Oh...yeah, I...fell, remember, Odin? I told you about that.�
He knew Erma was lying to him. He knew she got those bruises from her boyfriend. His name was Dwight, he was the head cook who was too hairy- always wore ripped up R. Kelly shirts and cologne that smelt like Windex. He wore his hat cocked to the side because he said he was a true gangsta. He also wore his hair in cornrolls, which Odin thought looked weird on a white guy. He did mean stuff to Odin like pour salt in his Suicides or hide his scrub pads. One time he put liquid soap in Odin�s Hobart, it sudded up the whole dishpit. That put Odin so far behind on the dishes that Mr. Fernhill had to throw on apron and help. Odin didn�t like Dwight at all; he thought he was a mean sumbitch. He was the meanest sumbitch this side of the Mississippi.
�Erma, whatda�f**k have I told you, girl?� a voice said.
Erma and Odin both turned to see Dwight approaching. He was carrying a stack of pots and pans. He threw the stack onto the counter making plates fall to the floor with a loud crash. Odin cowered behind Erma.
�Goddammit, Dwight. Why do you do this?� she yelled.
�I told you about talking to him, Erma!� Dwight said, putting his finger in her face. �He ain�t got time to talk to you. He needs to get all dees mothafuckin� dishes washed. We about to get hit by a rush and we ain�t got no clean skillets.�
He looked over Erma�s shoulder at Odin.
�You understand me? Can you understand what I�m saying, dawg?�
�Stop it, Dwight, he ain�t stupid, he�s just-�
�Oh he special. He so special, maybe he shouldn�t be working here.�
Dwight got right up on Erma, sandwiching her between he and Odin. Erma finally shoved him away.
�Stop it! Or I�m gonna go get Mr. Fernhill.�
Dwight balled his fist, looked Erma in the eye with a slow boiling rage.
�Do it, and maybe you might accidentally fall down the stairs again.�
Erma bit her bottom lip, her eyes watered.
Odin couldn�t take any more. His gut was all wound up. He felt anger and anger was bad. He snapped and started grunting, throwing his arms all about. He snatched a dirty pan off the counter and went at Dwight.
�Odin, no!� Erma yelled, grabbing the pan from him. They struggled as Dwight jumped back with his fists drawn.
�See, see! That mothafucka�s dangerous! He should even be here!�
Erma finally pulled the pan from Odin grip threw it on the counter.
The ruckus had caught the attention of the other cooks in the kitchen, they ran back to catch the tail-end of the fiasco.
�Dwight, just go back in the kitchen.�
�He tried to kill me, did you see that? That retarded motherfucka tried to kill me!�
�Dwight! Don�t call him that!�
Dwight looked around at the other cooks.
�What�chall looking at? Get back in the damn kitchen.� He told them.
The cooks walked away shaking their heads. Dwight slowly looked at Erma with narrow eyes.
�I get off work, I�ma go get me a blunt and some beer. When I get home, you better not be there.� he hissed.
�It�s my apartment!� Erma said, slightly choked up.
�And who paid the bills? Ain�t like yo a*s can, making 30 dollars in tips a night.�
Erma stares at him, a tear rolled down her cheek. Odin hated that.
Dwight looked at Odin.
�See what you done?� he said, walking away. �Get these goddam dishes washed.�
Erma put her face down, wiped the tears from eyes. She looked at Odin.
�You didn�t do this, Odin- it�s okay, sugar.�
The floor manager ducked her head into the kitchen door, �Erma, you got a two-top on the patio and a six-top waiting on drinks, let�s go.�
Erma squeezed Odin�s arm and hurried away.
Odin went to work. In merely an hour, the length of an episode of Dukes of Hazzard, he had the dishroom back in shape and flowing smoothly again. Odin liked Dukes of Hazzard. It was his favorite show. He liked the way Roscoe P. Coltrane talked. He tried to think about that instead of what Dwight said to him.
The rest of the night went like clockwork. Odin had every bit of his closing detail done by ten-thirty. The Hobart was cleaned, the dishes were put away and the floors were mopped. He dragged the rubber kitchen mats outside and threw them over the railing, and then he dumped the garbage and grabbed the water hose. As he was spraying down the rubber mats, Erma and a few of the other waitresses walked out.
�You�re staying with me, tonight- honey,� one of the waitress said to Erma. �That�s all there is to it.�
Erma nodded her head. She was embarrassed. She walked over to Odin.
�Are you okay, Odin? You�ll make your bus okay, right?�
Odin nodded. She gave him a big hug. She smelled so pretty.
Erma and the waitress got in her Honda and left. Erma rolled down her window as they were driving away.
�Don�t miss your bus, okay Odin?�
Odin nodded.
He went back inside and grabbed his backpack, took his time card and punched out. He was walking out as Mr. Fernhill approached him.
�Did a good job tonight, Odin- and listen,� he said, putting his hand on Odin shoulder. �Don�t worry about Dwight, he�s getting a stern talking to tomorrow, alright?�
Odin nodded. He was used to it. Mr. Fernhill was always giving Dwight a stern talking to. He couldn�t do much else on account of Dwight had been the head cook for six years, not mention his uncle owned the restaurant. Dwight could practically get away with murder.
Mr. Fernhill walked with Odin down to bus stop and waited with him for the eleven-fifteen. It came by about ten minutes late but the bus driver made amends by letting Odin wear his hat. The bus got ten blocks and let Odin out at his home. Odin exited the bus holding the rail tightly like he was supposed to. The door shut with a hiss and it rolled away.
Odin watched as the bus got further into the distance, the brake lights dissipating into the black.
Then he took off into the other direction. His hunch was gone, both arms hung loosely at his side. He stood up straight and stern and the slack in his face pulled tight over hard cheekbones. A ringing noise went off in his back pack. He reached into the pack and pulled out a cell-phone. He flipped it open and spoke.
�Yeah, the bus just dropped me off�yeah, I�ll meet you at the rendezvous in fifteen minutes... what? The bus ran late, cut me some damn slack� you left the transport where I asked you�because I got one quick errand I need to run.�
He flipped the phone shut and doubled his pace. He got around the corner and cut down and alley. Behind one of the dumpsters sit Odin�s vehicle, a silver Porsche 911.
Odin made a quick glance around, got in and reached beneath the seat, pulled out a metal case. He flipped it open. Inside was a bronzed 9 mm with a thread-mounting silencer. There was an engraving inside the case written in Russian. The engraving read: To my darling �Hobart� �Love, Natasha
Odin fired up the Porsche and took off out of the alleyway. He got two blocks then punched a button on the dashboard. A video screen slid out. The screen lit up, on it was a stern looking man in an expensive suit they called the Handler.
�Jesus- is that food in your hair?� the Handler asked.
Odin ran his fingers through his hair, sure enough it was a piece of corn.
�It was a hectic night, okay? What�s the job?�
Data begin scrolling on the screen over the Handler�s face.�
�The situation in Ecuador is getting out of hand. We�ll brief you more when you�re en route. But it means you cannot miss that plane.�
Odin punched it into fifth.
�I won�t miss the plane. Just something I got to handle, first.�
Odin flicked the piece of corn out the window. The Handler grinned.
�You know, if you ever get sick of scrubbing dishes, we could always find you another cover. Wanna be a used car dealer in Tacoma?�
Odin screeched around a corner.
�I like my cover. The people are nice to me��most of them.�
�Well, that�s because you�re a retard.�
Odin gritted his teeth, pointed at the screen, �Don�t� he snapped.
�Don�t what?� the Handler asked.
�Don�t use that word. Ever again, do you understand me?� he hissed.
The Handler swallowed hard.
�Just don�t miss that plane.�
The screen flickered and went blank.
Odin screeched around the corner and slammed the brakes. He screeched to a halt in front of the Ajax Liquor store. He sat, letting the engine idle. He picked up his nine out the case and put it on his lap and waited.
He heard a door chime, he looked up to see Dwight exiting the store with stoned eyes, hugging a case of Budweiser to his chest.        
Odin slowly rode the window down and picked up the gun and aimed it at Dwight.
�Ay, Dog!� Odin yelled.
Dwight looked over and spotted Odin, his eyes went wide. Just before he dropped his suitcase of Bud, a bullet whispered through it and straight into his heart.
Odin hit the gas and spun out.
What he had done didn�t even register with him until he hit the airport. He figured it was rather funny, Dwight trying to make sense in the afterlife of how he got shot by a mentally challenged dishwasher sitting in an expensive sport car.
But it was okay, when Odin got back to work on Tuesday, he knew Erma wouldn�t have to explain the bruises.
In fact, right before Odin got on the plane, he made a few quick calls and made it so Erma would wake up with ten grand in her bank account. She got lucky and inherited it from a long lost uncle who passed away. That should take care of her.
Odin strapped himself in and went into business mode. Because he wasn�t a dishwasher anymore. He was an assassin. He was the finest assassin this side of the Mississippi.

Mississippi spelt Em-eye-crooked-letter-crooked-letter-eye-humpback-humpback-eye.