NODA
DISCLAIMER: The story is mine, along with Mannetti, but the rest belongs to a Higher Power and Paramount, not necessarily in that order, although in the cosmic scheme of things they’re probably equal. None of this was done for any profit so I feel it is acceptable to borrow the characters and concept for this brief interlude. This tale may be archived and/or used personally, but any other use, please ask.
Copyright 1998 by NODA noda@ballcom.com
NOTE: This came about due to some work-related angst, and since Neelix and I share the same occupation, I felt he would understand.
How would they like to stand in this heat all day just to have their efforts defamed with snide comments? I’m not saying their jobs are any easier. Every one on the ship has challenges before them, but do I walk into Engineering and tell them I could do a better job re-aligning the warp coils with my eyes closed? Ensign Mannetti said as much about lunch yesterday. And dinner. And I believe breakfast this morning as well. If he comes in here for lunch with that attitude, I’ve a good mind to let him try! What a sight! I’m almost tempted to watch him make a fool of himself. But he would destroy my kitchen, and it isn’t worth a few moments of satisfaction.
My Kitchen. My domain. It used to be that I was the Captain here. When did that change? When did everything I tried to do turn into a joke? Perhaps I never had their respect. Maybe they’ve never taken me seriously, I was just too high on trying to keep up *their* morale, that I ignored my own. Who’s going to keep up *my* morale, especially now that Kes is gone? Just one day without the usual, “Say, that doesn’t have leola root in it, does it?” and then a jab to the crewmember next to them, would be heaven. Do they think I *like* serving them the same variations on a theme? How would they like to come up with something new when all there is are Talaxian tomatoes and leola root? How many different combinations do they think I can make? Is it my fault we’re low on stores and leola is easily grown in the Hydroponics bay? When Kes was here she made an effort to grow a wide variety of plants, but now that she’s gone, they’ve installed some crewman who has neither the interest nor the inclination to try new methods of propagation. About the only thing I can get from there now are herbs and a few sickly vegetables to round out today’s version of leola and tomatoes.
What I wouldn’t give for a full pantry! Then I’d show them what I could do! I’d make the Captain a beverage that she wouldn’t be able to distinguish from her beloved coffee. I’d make a vegetable dish for Tuvok and Commander Chakotay that would take their breaths away. Even Tom would get his favorite, a pizza that would rival any he had at home in the Alpha Quadrant. Then they’d appreciate me. All the energy I put into making sure they’re happy. Not only with their food, but with life on the ship as well. Why do I continue to care? It’s obvious that Captain Janeway won’t dump me off on the next planet, so why do I sacrifice myself for their happiness?
*What’s up with Neelix?* I hear someone ask their tablemate as my pots and pans clatter with more than the usual amount of noise. The woman next to him shrugs. Either she doesn’t know or doesn’t care. I suspect it’s the latter. After all, who cares if the funny little guy behind the counter isn’t happy?
I grit my teeth as the lunch crowd starts to come in. There’s Mannetti. I’ve already steeled myself for his barb du jour, but surprisingly, it doesn’t come. He looks down. I can’t help myself, I ask if everything is okay.
"No," he answers quietly. He missed recording a phase variance in the deflector grid and B’Elanna and Tuvok have both read him the riot act. I can see he’s remorseful, it probably was an honest mistake, but I can see he’s upset that he let them down. I know how he feels. Every time I hear derogatory comments about my food I feel the same. That somehow I’ve let them down. They had expectations of me that I haven’t met.
I’m surprised to find I have something in common with the man whom I’ve come to think of as my culinary nemesis. I want to offer a word of cheer, but I know now is not the time. Perhaps later when he’s in a more receptive mood.
Consumed with my thoughts of Mannetti’s distress, I realize I’ve gotten through lunch without reacting to the crew’s standard slurs, almost grateful I had the distraction.
Everything is cleaned up and put away as the Captain and Commander Chakotay enter the Mess Hall. I’m frustrated and angry. To quote Tom Paris: this was the cherry on the cake of my day. I know I will return Janeway’s warm smile, and act as if it’s no trouble at all to re-heat the mid-day entree for both her and the Commander. After all, to use another of Paris’ “twentieth-centuryisms,” I know what side my bread is buttered on. I’m rushing around, trying to get their meals together as the Captain stops me for a moment and places her hand on my arm, telling me with all sincerity that she doesn’t know what she would do without me. All it takes is those few words of gratitude to make it all worthwhile. And now I know. *She* is the morale officer, and any attempts I make pale in comparison.
The End