Six Arms, First Day

Zyx had six arms. This was considered an excellent qualification for waiting tables. Six arms meant six plates. Six plates meant fewer trips. Fewer trips meant more efficiency. This was the theory.

The restaurant was called The Drifting Spoon. It floated somewhere between the third and fourth rings of Saturn which was considered a good neighbourhood if you didn't mind the occasional ice chunk hitting the window which the management had decided was ambience.

Zyx had wanted this job for as long as Zyx could remember wanting things. Zyx had practiced at home. Balancing plates on all six arms. Walking without wobbling. Saying good evening in fourteen languages including one that was mostly just a very specific smell.

Zyx was ready. Zyx was absolutely completely entirely not ready.

The first customer was a Blorbian. Blorbian's had seventeen heads. This meant seventeen opinions about the menu. Simultaneously.

Zyx stood at the table with the notepad. The notepad was already full by the time the fourth head had started talking.

"And for the seventh head?" said Zyx. The seventh head wanted the Nebula Soup but without the nebula which was most of the soup so essentially just a bowl. Zyx wrote this down.

The eighth head changed its mind about the asteroid risotto. The ninth head wanted to know if the comet tail pasta was locally sourced. The tenth through seventeenth heads were still arguing amongst themselves and showed no signs of stopping.

Zyx went to the kitchen. In the kitchen Chef Morg had four eyes and used all of them to look at Zyx's notepad. "What," said Chef Morg, "is a bowl." "The soup," said Zyx. "Without the soup part." Chef Morg looked at Zyx for a long time. "Table seven," said Zyx. Chef Morg nodded slowly. "Table seven," said Chef Morg, "every time."

Zyx went back out. Table three wanted more water. Table five had a question about the dessert menu that turned out to be a philosophical discussion about the nature of sweetness which Zyx did not have time for but listened to anyway because they had six arms not six brains and only one was needed for carrying plates.

Then table nine arrived. Table nine was a single customer. Very old. Very small. With eyes like two distant stars that had seen everything twice and found it mostly amusing. She looked at the menu. She looked at Zyx. "First day?" she said. Zyx's four knees did something complicated. "Is it that obvious?" said Zyx. "You're holding the notepad upside down," she said.

Zyx looked at the notepad. Upside down. Since the beginning. The entire Blorbian order. Upside down.

Zyx's six arms drooped slightly. All six of them. At the same time. Which takes a special kind of discouragement.

The old customer looked at Zyx the way very old people look at very young people who are being too hard on themselves. "I'll have the Nebula Soup," she said. "With the nebula. All of it. No questions." She folded the menu. "You're doing fine," she said. "The first day is just the day you find out what you don't know yet. The second day is when it gets interesting."

Zyx stood up straighter. All six arms came back up.

The soup arrived. Zyx carried it without spilling. Set it down without wobbling. Said enjoy your meal in the correct language and not the one that was mostly a smell.

The old customer looked at the soup. Then at Zyx. She smiled with the particular warmth of someone who remembered their own first day a very long time ago in a galaxy far from here.

Zyx went back to table seven. Seventeen heads. Seventeen new opinions. The bowl situation had escalated.

Zyx took out the notepad. Right way up this time.

Good evening, said Zyx. How can I help you?