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I open my mouth to speak up, but the daggers she shoots at me are enough to shut me right up. I can talk to her when I haven’t just ruined her morning. She grabs a broom and dustpan, getting to work on the plates. At the very least, I owe her an apology. Doing these dishes for her should be enough to calm her down. Then, we can talk. Maybe I can give her a raise for her trouble. She can’t make more than a hundred grand a year at this level. I could boost it by another fifty or so with a short conversation with the restaurant’s manager.
When she checks to make sure I’m doing a satisfactory job of loading the terrifying industrial dishwasher, she spins on her heel and leaves. I suppose I’ll have to find her and apologize when I’m done with this.
Shortly after she leaves, a young black man with long dreadlocks tied behind his head walks in, holding an apron similar to mine.
“Are you the supervisor?” he asks, hands clenched on the apron and face nervous. I glance at the door behind him, but the young woman from before doesn’t come in. This must be the actual trainee that she was looking for. The misunderstanding is starting to make a lot more sense.
“Uh, she just left,” I say, loading another plastic tray with appetizer dishes. “She told me to finish these and then keep up when customers come in.
“I need trays!” a feminine voice calls into the room. It’s not the same young woman as before, which sends a surprising pang of disappointment through me despite the fact that I just got yelled at. Or, more accurately, hissed at.
The new guy joins me, grabbing a stack of black serving trays from a shelf above my head that I hadn’t even noticed before.
“Here,” he says. “Toss these in before the next load of app plates.”
Well, at least he seems to know how to do this job. I follow his lead, and we work through the disorganized mess.
I keep meaning to tell him that I’m not supposed to be here, but I never get the chance. After those first few minutes, he introduces himself as Hector, but our only other words are about getting the job done. For such an expensive restaurant that shouldn’t have many clients, we remain ridiculously busy.
During a brief respite, Hector explains, “This is the only dish area for the whole resort. It’s attached to Chéri, but it’s not the only place we work on. We do room service, two bars, and three other restaurants.”
As soon as he says that, another cart full of dishes is brought in, and we’re back to work.
I lose track of time until another dishwasher comes in, a middle-aged woman with her hair in a net. Was I supposed to net my hair? A pang of guilt runs through me, but I don’t have time to ask.
“Go clock out before Alexis gets onto you both,” she says.
Relief floods through me, and I finally notice that my feet are in more pain than they’ve ever been. I want nothing more than to have a deep tissue massage and a nap, but I have to find the woman who I offended earlier. I smell disgusting, the scent of half-eaten food mixed with sanitizer permeating the very air around me and burrowing into my clothes.
I fold the apron, but putting it back in the drawer feels wrong. Instead, I carry it out with me. My white shirt is covered in grease and dirty dish water despite the protective layer I just removed. I may have to throw it out, although I hate to be wasteful. Would a dry cleaner be able to save this shirt, though? I have no idea what that entails, but it seems like a complex job.
When I walk out into the restaurant, the lights going from bright white to dim and moody, I spot the young woman standing at a table speaking to well-dressed patrons. Compared to earlier, her voice is perky and friendly, so I must be catching her in a much better mood than before. I spot the door where servers are walking in and out, and I decide that I should wait for her wherever they usually hang out.
When she comes in, her ponytail is less perfect and instead covered in flyaways, although her careful makeup is still flawless.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice flat. Her expression loses all signs of happiness that it had shown on the restaurant floor, and her eyes are practically dead. I’m floored at the difference, and the words dry up.
When she glances up at me, her lips are tilted down, and her jaw is tense. How could someone change so much in just a few seconds?
“I, uh…” I stammer, trying to find the words I’ve been planning in my head all day. “I just wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn’t mean to mess up your morning.”
She shakes her head. “It happens.” Then, she looks away and begins to put an order into a screen in front of her. Her mood doesn’t improve. Did I do that to her? Will she be angry in front of the resort’s most exclusive clients for the rest of the day? I hope not, as I can’t do much to keep her from getting fired if the manager decides she’s not performing her duties properly.
I want to explain more, but her words seem like a dismissal.
“I suppose I’ll see you later,” I say. I’m not sure why I said it. I have no reason to come back here. I’ve more than made up for my behavior, but I can’t stand the idea that someone dislikes me without even knowing me. Maybe I can discuss the raise with her manager and then reveal what I’ve done. That’s sure to warm her to me.
She doesn’t acknowledge my words. Instead, she says, “Don’t walk through the dining area. Exit through the kitchen.”
I nod at her clipped tone. I could tell her that I own the dining area, the kitchen, and the rest of the resort, but I don’t. That would only anger her more, but she wouldn’t be able to express her feelings toward me without feeling like her job is at risk. I won’t get any real acceptance if she knows who I really am.
Before leaving, I go to the manager’s office, where a middle-aged woman is typing on her computer. “Mr. Preston, what can I do for you?” she asks in a jovial tone. She doesn’t seem intimidated by me, more amused that she has to call someone more than half her age by a title of any sort.
I shove my hands in my pockets. “What is the head server’s salary here? Eighty, a hundred grand?” I ask. “I believe I’d like to give her a raise. Possibly about fifty thousand a year?”
Instead of giving a nod of understanding, the woman guffaws with laughter. I scrunch my brows in confusion. She quickly collects herself, then says, “Mr. Preston, I appreciate your interest, but I don’t even make one hundred thousand dollars a year. Servers are paid a base wage of eight dollars an hour, plus tips. It’s above the state minimum.” She says this last sentence like it’s an amazing thing, but I can’t even comprehend that amount. That’s less than a hundred dollars a day. Even with tips, that’s basically nothing.
I frown. I’ll have to consider this more thoroughly before trying to bring it up again. “Thank you for your time,” I say, spinning to go.
