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Chapter Eleven:
Adventures in Waitressing
Sunday’s was becomingsomething of a second home to me in Domingo. It certainly wasn’t for the food or the hostess I couldn’t make eye contact with after my first adventure there, but I didn’t think it was a secret that I was coming for Mia. Part of me couldn’t shake the old fears that anyone who was so criminally underpaid that they had to rely on tips to feed themselves would flirt with me just to get more money. On the surface, I knew exactly how shitty, shallow, egotistical and terrible that sounded. But it had happened to me more than once, and one of them rode it all the way to a marriage they only stayed in long enough to get a green card.
To this day, I couldn’t even think about Canadian women without wanting to punch myself in the face for being so gullible.
Instead, I thought about Kapri, the gorgeous bartender at Fitz’s back home. I’d used my fear of being played as an excuse to turn her down again and again when she truthfully didn’t deserve it, and she wasn’t the only one. I’d done it to every waitress, bartender, dancer, hairdresser, and casino dealer I’d ever come across.
Zeppelin had asked me what was different about Mia ... and honestly, I didn’t know. She just was different.
I watched her as she zoomed around from table to table, getting yelled at by her boss, by patrons, by the busboy when she turned around too quickly and she knocked a tray out of his hands. She was exceedingly good at her job — but she was tired. I could see it. Her shoulders were slumping, there was no swing in those sinful hips, and her eyes held none of their usual playfulness when she finally came over to take my order.
“Sorry, sometimes this place is a madhouse. What can I do for you, Papí? Waffles y tired huevos?”
“No. Sit,” I said, standing up and holding out a hand. “Give me your apron and sit down. You need a break.”
She looked around like she was worried her boss might hear. “Cute. Like I’d put all this on you even if I could.”
“I wasn’t asking, Mia. You need a break, and I’ve been sitting here watching you long enough to know you’re not going to get one until someone else shows up or the place clears out. Just hand me the damn apron, your notepad thingy, and let me handle your boss,” I said sternly. “Sit down.”
“You’re bossy.” Mia crossed her arms, but conceded quickly. “Fine, you want to help?” Her question came out so quickly it sounded like one long word. “Here. But they’re not going to go easy on you because you’re cute.”
“That would be a first,” I said, flashing her a tight smile as I put on that ridiculous pink apron. “Now. Can I get you something to drink, señorita? You’re first up.” I held her pen to that little pad of paper with my tongue between my teeth and leaned down a little. “I have no idea what our drink specials are, so please don’t ask.”
“Strike one, Ollie. Can I get some waffles and agua? Extra syrup.”
“Sorry, all we have today are Handsome Huevos, I think. I’ll see what I can do though.” I winked, then headed to the next table and tried to keep up with their rapid-fire order — and thank god I actually knew Spanish.
By table four, it occurred to me I actually had to turn the orders in, so I glanced around like a lost little idiot trying to find the hinge on the counter that would let me back there. I pointedly didn’t look at Mia yet; I was trying to do her a favor, and I tended to get extremely clumsy when embarrassed.
Orders are in, got the drinks, how do people carry these trays?
I carefully eased my way back out to the diner floor then cussed quietly when I remembered the notes I took about who ordered what were on the slips I gave the chef.
I fucked up multiple times, but a quick, disarming smile and a whispered plea for forgiveness had my customers taking it easy on me.
All except for Mia.
I came back to her, water in hand, and held it out with sweat matting my hair to my forehead. “Here. Your food will be ready soon.”
“Are you sure?” she pushed. “Are you sure my waffles aren’t going to table three?”
I spun around quickly and couldn’t even remember which one table three was. “Um ... no. I mean yes, I’m sure. You’ll have your waffles and extra syrup. Promise, bonita.”
Someone behind me yelled for ketchup and I twitched a little bit before racing back to the kitchen to find some. The busboy glared at me and the chef snapped his fingers in my face because the plates were piling up, but I was determined not to fuck this up. I just wanted her to have twenty minutes off her feet, twenty minutes where she wasn’t the one getting cussed at for not being the fastest waitress in the country.
Yet I kept fucking it up. One tray tipped just enough to send a cup of coffee overboard and it shattered at my feet, I accidentally touched one of the cast iron skillets and burned the shit out of my hand, and one particularly shitty little kid threw an actual handful of applesauce at me because he’d asked for cinnamon, not plain.
I wasn’t the type of human who was built to handle that much yelling and disappointment, so when her boss walked in and yelled, “Who the hell are you?” at me, I snapped.
“Ollie, Sir. Oliver Bishop. Regular customer, volunteer employee. Do you understand that you only scheduled one waitress to be here during the brunch rush?” I asked, ignoring the way everyone was staring at me. “How are you even open?”
“There were supposed to be two. I’m not paying you for being a volunteer, I didn’t ask for one.” Ed glared at Mia as she hid her head behind a menu I forgot at her table. “I help her enough, big guy.”
“First of all, I’m not your big guy, pal. Second, the whole point of volunteering is that you don’t get paid. Third, the hell do you mean, you help her enough? What do you pay her an hour? Less than the price of a fuc—” my eyes shot to the family of four close enough to hear me “— friggin’ cup of coffee here? Y’know that’s a minimum for tipped employees, right? Not a maximum. She works her ass off for you every single day, and ... y’know what, it’s not worth it. If there’s anything I know for sure about her, it’s that she can tell you where to stick it herself if she wants to. In the meantime, please escort yourself back to your office so I can continue to serve your customers.” I damn near threatened to call the Department of Labor on his ass for the conditions around there, but I wasn’t convinced some of the employees had their papers in order and the last thing I wanted was for more hardworking people to be stepped on for no reason. “Go on.”
His cheeks flushed with anger as he stormed off, glancing back over at Mia with a face I couldn’t place, and when his door shut, she rushed over. “¡Ay!, Papí. Who told you to be so good, huh?” She held out her hand for her apron but before I could pull it off and hand it over, she abruptly hugged my waist. “Gracias.”
