Those That Were

Chapter 4

If there were anything that could be said about Bryson, it was that he hated long shifts. By the time he was four hours in, he had already decided that he really hated  people. And not the normal 'man, I really am getting tired of catering to customers today', that could be rectified by a a well-deserved off day. No. This was a deep-seated, fiery hatred. It was to the point where Bryson wished ill and misfortune to any person who thought it'd be a good fucking idea to come here and eat.

It was busy as fuck now, everyone left their own royal mess for Bryson to clean, and everyone --and that meant everyone-- would not shut up about the new damn 'alpha' in Tuscumbia. Him. They were talking about him like he'd be jumping for joy at the newfound title he'd been given without consultation --like he'd jump right into his designated leather jacket once he got the news.  Bryson had to listen to the same conversation about one-thousand times already and had to keep on smiling like every single person in this establishment wasn't the biggest damned idiot he'd ever seen.

Even the staff was abuzz. They gossiped amongst each other like a bunch of hens. Even Helen, the old hostess who Bryson had once thought to be wise, gave in to the mystery of the new pack leader. He was disappointed with her because he knew that she should know better than this. After all, Helen was only a few years younger than he. She was here before the world went nuts.

After filling an order for a family of four, Bryson entered the kitchen and collapsed into one of the corners for a second.

"That bad today?" Albert asked as he was busy pan-searing some vegetables. Albert was a cook here that had been at Ruby Tuesday for as long as Bryson could remember. He wasn't old yet --but there were a few wispy, grey strands that had recently found their way into his hair and perhaps a hint of crow's feet starting in the corners of his eyes.

"And worse," Bryson replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wish it were legal to drink on the job. I could use something right about now."

Albert chuckled, and scraped the cooked-vegetables onto a platter. "You'll live, young man. Heard there's been a lot of talk today. It's getting all over your nerves, no?"

"How did you figure?"

"Because," Albert paused. "I know you, Bryson. Known you for five years now. From what I can tell from working with you, you're the traditional sort. You're set in your ways and you don't like change. That's why you haven't done anything with your life yet. Hell, if I had more than lifetimes of youth ahead of me like you do, I'd be going to college and getting an education. I'd be more than what you are right now." He pointed an accusatory spatula in Bryson's direction.

Bryson narrowed his eyes. "Alright, Father Ruby Tuesday." The wolf knew that Albert meant well --had always meant well.

Albert smiled, and a bit of a wizened look glazed over the top of his eyes. "Been called that before, believe it or not. At least they're not calling me 'alpha', no?" The cook's right eyebrow hung high at Bryson, denting his forehead in three consecutive lines. Albert checked the kitchen to make sure no one heard his next words. "I'm willing to bet you're the eight-foot wolf that everyone's talking about, aren't you?"

Bryson quickly got to his feet. "What makes you think that?"

"Because I'm smarter than you think," Albert said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Because why would an eight-foot, older wolf not want  to claim that spot. You get respect, you get the stories, and you get women. That's all good stuff. The only feasible reason a person wouldn't take on the role is because they figure that all of this new fad is rubbish and want nothing to do with it. You think that, Bryson. You are likely the only wolf I've ever seen or spoken to that thinks that way."