Linda was in her mid-40s and single, and she had that year-round beachy tan. She wore her hair in a messy bun when she was working, but her look was totally different, all tube tops, crop jackets, strappy heels, and white jeans, when she clocked out and hopped into her white Fiero convertible. Her parents owned one of the oldest Italian restaurants in town, but she came to work with us after some kind of fallout with her dad. Her 23-year-old son still worked for the family restaurant, and it was clear that he was being groomed to take over the business when her folks retired.
Linda was 3rd generation Italian with a southern Virginia accent, and her specialties were Pizzaiola Sauce and Brunswick Stew. She was also very bossy, and being closer in age to the owners than the rest of the younger staff, it wasn't long before she started telling us what to do. At least that's what it felt like to me. By this time, I had worked my way up from sandwich maker all the way to cook, and I had a reputation for being quiet and competent; I always got along with everybody in the kitchen.
One Sunday morning, though, Linda and I were on the opening shift. Our first job was to put out the case, filling bowls and platters with salads and entrees. On Sundays there was usually party leftovers in the walk-in, too, and we either put those out as specials, or created something new with those ingredients. That morning, Linda wanted to start cooking, so she set up her station and proceeded to micromanage me as I finished the case.
I had my own list of cooking to do, and I didn't consider ordering me around as helping put out the case. "Let me know when you need to use the bathroom," I finally told her after she gave me one direction too many, "then I can wipe your butt for you, too."
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