It was a Wednesday morning, and Sasha had one goal — survive her shift without committing a workplace crime.
She arrived early, for once, hoping the kitchen might still be quiet, calm. Maybe even clean.
No such luck.
The moment she stepped inside, she was greeted by the unmistakable clang of metal pans, the smell of burnt toast, and Debbie's voice already echoing from the dish area.
"Not my job to make your job easier," Debbie muttered to no one in particular.
Sasha took a deep breath and clocked in.
By 10:45 a.m., the restaurant was buzzing. The first wave of coffee drinkers and early lunchers filled the booths. Sasha moved quickly — taking orders, smiling on cue, carrying trays like a pro.
For once, everything was moving smoothly.
Until she returned to the dish drop.
It was full. Again.
Plates. Bowls. Cups. Utensils. All stacked like a leaning tower of doom.
Debbie stood ten feet away, arms crossed, staring at her phone.
Sasha forced a smile. "Hey Debbie, dish drop's full. Mind clearing it out?"
Debbie didn't look up. "I saw it."
A pause.
Sasha blinked. "Okay… so… are you going to do something about it?"
Debbie slowly looked up, eyes blank. "Eventually."
"Eventually?"
Debbie shrugged. "I'm taking a moment. Not happy today."
Sasha clenched her teeth. "You're never happy."
Luis walked past, balancing two hot plates. "Ladies, can we not do this today?"
Debbie raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"
Luis pointed at the dish drop. "That. It's full. I got no space. Cooks got no plates."
Debbie slowly put her phone down. "I'm not your servant."
Sasha stepped closer, tray in hand. "But you are the dishwasher. This is literally your job."
Within 20 minutes, the dish drop overflowed.
Servers piled dirty plates on counters, prep tables, even the floor nearby.
Carla stormed in.
"What the HELL is going on?"
Sasha opened her mouth.
Debbie cut her off.
"I'm not happy."
The mess wasn't just about dishes.
It was about control, or lack of it — and Carla felt it slipping.
Standing at the kitchen entrance, clipboard in hand, Carla watched the dish drop overflow and her staff barely hold it together.
Luis was plating food on napkins now, improvising like a pirate with no ship.
Sasha was scrubbing dishes furiously, sleeves rolled up, hair clinging to her face, muttering under her breath.
Debbie? Gone. Again.
Carla's pen snapped in her hand.
Fifteen minutes later, Debbie reappeared, strolling in with a fresh cup of coffee.
Carla cornered her near the walk-in fridge.
"You left mid-shift. Again."
Debbie took a sip. "I needed a break."
"This isn't a spa."
"No," Debbie said calmly. "But I'm entitled to a breather. My hands were cramping."
Carla's eyes narrowed. "Do you want to keep this job?"
Debbie smiled. "Do you want to keep your kitchen from falling apart?"
Back in the dish pit, Sasha slammed down a tray. Luis flinched.
"Easy," he muttered.
Sasha turned, wild-eyed. "I can't do this alone!"
"You're not alone," Luis said softly. "But you're not in charge either."
Sasha froze.
That was the problem. No one was in charge.
Later, Carla pulled Sasha aside.
"You're both on my last nerve."
Sasha snapped, "Then fix it."
Carla whispered, "I am. I'm watching. One of you's going."
Sasha blinked.
Carla walked away.
And suddenly, Sasha wasn't sure who Carla meant.