Zachary, having done his good deed for the day by passing whatshisface the inhaler, went back to ignoring the commotion. Some waiter - Ash, that was his name! - having an asthma fit was fun and all, but it was no reason to put his job on hold. He went back to the still-large stack of plates that needed cleaning and started scrubbing them one by one. He silently wondered why they hadn't invested in an electric dishwasher, but he supposed that if the bosses had he wouldn't have this job.

Not that it was a very good job. He'd only gotten this because it was the only one with work hours that worked for him, as a student in the nearby community college, and he wasn't getting a particularly large paycheck for it either. It fortunately wasn't a job with inhumane working conditions - he'd heard horror stories about those sorts of places - but it wasn't exactly accommodating to its employees either.

Scrub, scrub, scrub went the plate. Inhale, exhale, cough went Ash the Waiter. Eventually they left - taking those distracting coughs with them - to what he figured was the break room, and Zachary was rather happy about that. Coughing was almost as annoying as the sound of styrofoam rubbing styrofoam, and though it wasn't like there was much to distract him from, he still found himself irate when he worked while Ash coughed like that.

He wondered, idly, who would pick up the slack while Ash was sick. It was a rather busy day today, and they needed every hand available. He just hoped he wouldn't be asked to wait people. He probably wouldn't be - he wasn't trained in waiting (waitering, he wondered?) and he wasn't exactly ideal, being so asocial. Still, the plate stack was small enough that it could be left alone for a few minutes, and he wouldn't be surprised if his boss came up with the bright idea to delegate jobs to those without much to do.