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Wind whips against the flexi-glass storefront of Chelly’s diner, shaking the windows like a warning of what’s outside. I rub my arms and give thanks that at least the heat’s working here. It’s warm inside, but just barely. Orange light cascades down from the flickering lamps above and the heat from the kitchen behind me provides just enough fire to quell the one raging inside of me.
I stare daggers at the rude man at table C. He’s picking his yellow teeth with one of our forks and shifting back and forth on the dusty red cushions of the corner booth. If he wasn’t so fat, I’d figure he was a tweaker. The glare from his bald head is enough to make me look away. I turn my gaze towards the front door, crossing my fingers and praying with all my might that no one else decides to show up before closing time. Small snowflakes have started to lash around outside and I shiver at the thought of having to walk home after my shift—my only consolation is the smell wafting up from behind me in the kitchen.
Carlos is cooking up something mean. At least I won’t have to go to bed hungry tonight—it’s more than I’ve been able to ask for in a long time.
The smell of pulled pork and toasting Kaiser buns puts me at ease. I know that the dude in the corner booth isn’t about to tip me, but if he can just get lost in the next 10 minutes or so, then I’ll thank him, because it’ll mean I can kick off my work shoes and dig into my first real meal of the day. I can’t push, though. Things have been rough lately, and I can’t afford to get into another fight.
My belly rumbles and I look back at the rude man at table C. Get out of here! I try to will him off of his fat ass. All I’ve had to eat today are other people’s scraps and it’s just not enough. But this dude won’t budge. He’s been a thorn in my ass all night long, and it’s taking every last ounce of my remaini
ng strength not to snap at him. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. I’m usually not that angry of a person, but there’s been so much building up on my plate lately—and none of it food—that I feel like I deserve a little release.
Boy, would I love to just unload on this asshole. But I can’t. I’ve already lost one job because of my attitude; I can’t afford to lose another.
I try to busy myself as far away from table C as I can manage, until, finally, after what seems like ages, the dude stops molesting his fork for long enough to gesture for the bill. He flicks his hand at me like I’m some kind of wench, and I have no choice but to obey him. It kills me, but I’m in no position to do anything drastic. Mrs. Cheng, the owner of this place, was nice enough to give me a job, despite my lack of references, and I have a pile of bills as high as Mt. Everest on my coffee table at home. This dude can test me all he wants, but I can’t react—so is the life of a lowly servant.
I scream internally as I tally up his bill and walk it over to him. I toss it on his table and turn around before we can make eye contact. I don’t get far, though.
“Excuse me,” the bald man barks. He clears his slimy throat. I stop in my tracks and turn around at a snail’s pace. I’m just about punching air as I force a strained, customer-service friendly smile onto my face.
“Yes, sir.” My voice is so sweet I nearly puke.
The man has the bill in his hands. He points at it with his sausage fingers. “I didn’t order this.” A wet smirk crawls over his sausage lips. This man is sausage all around. I’m nearly of the mind to throw him in the greaser out back and have Carlos make a sandwich out of him. Maybe then I’d finally have some leftovers to keep me well fed.
“What didn’t you order?” I ask, keeping my distance.
“This.” He points at the bill again, like a bully teasing his victim. This guy has probably been shat on his whole life and instead of letting it make him a better person, he’s decided to morph into the very thing he hates. I’d bet he tortures menial service workers all across the city—my gut clenches as I realize that I’m next. He wants me to bend over and check out what he’s pointing to on his receipt. His eyes are fixed on my breasts. He’s vying for a closer look. I’m not going to give it to him.
I cross my arms over my chest and look back towards the kitchen. Through the counter, I can see flames skipping up, but Carlos is nowhere to be found. I’m on my own, as usual.
“If you’ll tell me the mistake, sir, then I’ll do my best to fix it.”
A snarl curls on the edges of the sausage’s lips. He doesn’t like that I’m not playing along. I don’t budge. I let the fire in my eyes burn at him while we have our little showdown. If this guy was any thinner, then I might be worried, but I’m pretty confident I could at least scream before he gets to me. Carlos has a platoon’s worth of knives back in the kitchen and he knows how to use them. This guy wouldn’t stand a chance. Sure, he might get a few wallops in on me first, but it’d be well worth it.
“What ever happened to customer service?” mumbles the man, finally breaking the little stalemate. He reaches into his pocket and rocks in the little booth like an overblown beachball. His belly shakes the table and the fork he had been using as his toothpick falls onto the dirty floor with a clang. He doesn’t bother to pick it up.
A few bills float from his greasy hand and onto the table—I can already see that there’s no tip among them. A wet smirk is plastered on the sausage’s face as he grunts and waddles out from his booth. “A little advice, honey,” he slobbers as he brushes past me. “Smile more.”
It takes all of my willpower not to smack him upside the back of the head. I watch him go, only to make sure he doesn’t try any funny business, and when he’s out of sight, I can’t even be bothered to take his money. I don’t want to catch whatever makes him such an insufferable asshole. Sure, I’ve been having issues with my anger lately, but I’m a good person—I was even on my way to becoming a nurse before my whole life went down the shitter.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. Desperate anger threatens to leak through my eyes at the memory of my downfall. The world is getting blurry, but I wipe away the tears before they can fully form.
I hate that I’m stuck working this dead-end job. I hate that I have no other choice. I just want to punch the universe right now. I settle for the counter back by the kitchen. My hand stings as I slam a balled-up fist against the cold plaster.
That’s all it takes for Carlos to finally poke his head up through the flames. I quickly wipe the frustration from my face.
“You alright?’ Carlos asks. His bleached, platinum blonde hair stands out against his smooth dark skin. Sweat trickles down his cheeks and I can’t help but smile ever so slightly. At least I have a friend.
I nod and turn to lock up for the night. The streetlights outside are swinging in the raging wind. I wish I could afford a car.
I clean up the fat man’s table and deposit his cash in the register, and then I park my big booty on one of the counter stools and wait for Carlos to serve his meal of the day.
“Hungry?” Carlos sings from the kitchen.
“Always,” I snap back, wishing I could bear to be more playful. Truth is, I’m completely drained and teetering dangerously on the edge of a breakdown. I don’t want to be here anymore, but I don’t exactly want to be back at my dingy apartment either. I feel stuck in a cycle of loneliness and apathy and poverty and I can’t seem to spot a light at the end of the tunnel. Just a few years ago, I had so much hope and promise, and now it’s all gone, replaced only with the struggle to survive.
I’ve been working 12 hour shifts here for longer than I care to remember, and I can still barely pay off my bills—let alone my debt. My life has become a slow slough with no end in sight; it’s exhausting and somehow even more tiring than back when I had two jobs.
A plate filled with french fries and an overflowing pulled pork sandwich is shoved in front of me. Carlos plops down on the stool to my left and immediately digs into his dinner. He doesn’t have to convince me to join in. I stuff my face and let the warmth of the meal work its way through the insides of my frayed body.
