For the rest of the day, the restaurant was buzzing. By the time my shift ended, I was exhausted.
That evening, Mr. Caruso called me into his office.
“Erica,” he said, gesturing for me to sit, “I’ve been watching how you’ve handled all of this, and I’m impressed. You’ve shown patience, grace under pressure, and the kind of professionalism that’s hard to come by.”
“Thank you,” I said, still feeling a little dazed.
“I think it’s time we made it official,” he continued. “I’d like to promote you to assistant manager.
It comes with a raise, better hours, and, of course, more responsibility. What do you say?”
I stared at him, wide-eyed. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” he replied with a grin.
“You’ve earned it, even before the Thompsons.”
“Wow!” I said, feeling my tiredness draining away. “Thank you!”
We discussed salary and some of my new responsibilities. Later, Mr.
Caruso told me to go home. We would pick up this discussion the following day.
But as I walked out of his office, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that we should’ve handled things differently.
“Mr. Caruso,” I said, turning back, “do you think we should’ve called the police straight away?
I mean, they did dine and dash.”
He smiled, leaning back on his chair. “Justice was served, Erica. Look at the support we got.
That’s all that matters. Some dine-and-dashers get away with it, and the restaurant never sees that money. Instead, you helped us make more.”
I nodded, letting his words sink in.
Maybe he was right. The restaurant had turned a bad situation into a triumph, and the good guys had won.
