The Tower by J.S. Frankel Read Free Book Online Page B

same age; both had been on cafeteria duty for about two years. John was the oldest member and having been a cook for one of the busiest diners in New York prior to joining up with the Tower, had been the head chef for the last three years. He ran the kitchen like a diner; get it done fast, serve it up fast, and do it all over again for the next customer.
    The Commissary was a very large room, located on the ninth floor. It was separated into two sections: One fairly small section for the Ultras, and the other, much larger area for the technical staff and crew. It held a number of tables all within easy walking distance to the “Food Court Area” a.k.a. the kitchen.
    On my first day, I’d seen the two sides split off and asked John about it.
    â€œWell, yeah,” John told me; “it’s been that way since I got here and probably before that. Ain’t no one complaining ’bout it,” he added. “They got their lives to lead and we got ours.”
    Well, weird or not, it was a different universe. And come to think of it, I hadn’t really seen much in the way of rooms or food in any of the cartoons I saw. Sometimes the characters would eat, but you didn’t really know what it was, and it wasn’t talked about that much.
    A shout broke through my reverie: “Bill, you got those waffles ready yet?”
    â€œYeah,” I called back. “I’m coming!” Took the waffles out and for once, I hadn’t burnt these. I slid them on a plate and the tech came up and grabbed the food.
    â€œThanks, Bill,” he said. “At least you’re trying. I eat the same crap every morning and it really sucks.”
    He had a point. While the other cooks, ten in all, were skillful at getting the food ready on time, it didn’t look all that appetizing. Bacon was often either underdone or overcooked, the waffles were often burnt (my bad, here), and the eggs were a white, runny mess no matter who made them, with me being the sole exception.
    The first time I’d prepared eggs, I felt confident. Everyone liked eggs, right? Started cooking six at a time, and then John told me: “Make more.”
    â€œHow many more should I make?” I asked.
    â€œYou’ll need a lot,” he said, pulling out carton after carton and stacking them on top of the kitchen shelf. “Start with all of these.” He wasn’t kidding. After frying, hard-boiling, poaching and sunny-side-upping around one hundred eggs, John Stinson a.k.a. Black Guardsman, came in and using his power suit to “form” a plastic shield, ordered, “Load it all on.”
    On went ten eggs, plus a mountain of vegetables further down the line, and what looked like twenty pieces of hash browns from Nick. When he was a bit slow in serving Stinson, the poor dip got a piercing glare which practically caused him to wilt.
    Gwyneth warned me: “Never be late with the Guardsman. You don’t want to see him blow his stack on an empty stomach.”
    Temptress, a pretty black woman who was his girlfriend, also had two trays full of food. “Good morning, Bill,” she said sweetly, and greeted every cook that way. Her boyfriend never said a word except to demand his eats in the a.m.
    And they were vegetarians . I’d noticed that on my first day here.
    â€œThey don’t eat meat?” I’d asked John incredulously.
    â€œNope,” John replied. “No meat or chicken or fish; that’s for the rest of us mere mortals,” he said with a laugh. “And they don’t smoke or drink, either,” he added. That figured, but even odder than not eating meat was the fact that they ate at least three times as much as the regular crew did. Wonderful: An army of superheroes with bottomless stomachs and a code of food ethics.
    â€œOh, crap, here comes Oriana,” one of the cooks said. “She is such a bitch to serve.”
    Oriana was in the room across the hall from