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OLIVE
* * *
I’ve been in California less than a month and I’m already on my third job. Job one, the marketing firm which my ex decided I was unqualified for. Job two, the catering gig I wish I could blotch from my memory with one of those Men in Black flashing wand things. And job three, a server for a Mexican restaurant called Dos Panchos. I can’t screw this up. And for the record, I’m not in the habit of getting fired so often, but this town seems to have it in for me. Even so, I’m determined to make this work.
The head server who hired me is amazing and I can already tell we’ll get along swimmingly. I’m all about happy joy-joy vibes. Just smile and be a good listener. That’s my motto. Rosa, the aforementioned head server, told me all about the girl I was replacing part time. Bernadette is her name. I’ll be taking three of her shifts, and that got Rosa a little emotional. So I listened while she waxed poetic about the many years they’d worked together. Now Bernadette is going back to school. I admire that.
I’d totally go back to school if I could focus on one thing. But I have shiny object syndrome. So many professions seem like fun. How could I possibly choose?
Anyway, I’m supposed to shadow Bernadette when she gets here for her lunch shift. Until then, Rosa’s showing me the ropes—getting me set up on the POS system, providing me with a branded polo shirt and Dos Panchos Mexican Restaurant embroidered apron. They’re both black with colorful embellishments stitched in. With big, bouncy girls like mine, I’m grateful for the slimming color.
Once Rosa is satisfied with how I’m catching on to the front of the house operations, she takes me into the back to meet the kitchen staff. Most of them smile politely. The dishwasher is a sweet, chubby man, but the cook kind of grunts at me. I’m sure he’s just super busy and focused on his work.
“Donde esta el jefe?” Rosa asks one of the guys chopping veggies. I don’t speak Spanish, but I’m willing to bet she’s looking for the owner, who she promised to introduce me to before we came back here. The man inclines his chin and responds with another Spanish phrase I can only assume means, “Over there.”
I follow her over to a door which has a very official sign on it that reads, Nacho Office, Go Away. Then there are notes taped randomly below it saying things like, Do not make eye contact with the gorilla, Reserved parking for the Big Cheese, and a print-out of Marlon Brando on The Godfather movie poster—but instead it says El Patron.
Rosa knocks, ignoring the warning signs. I’m guessing they’re all jokes, which just makes me want to meet the boss even more. He must be super fun to work for. I gathered this mostly from my interview when Rosa told me how low their turnover rate is. She’s been working here at Dos Panchos for twenty-five years, and Bernadette since she was fifteen.
The occupier of the office (el jefe, el patron, the big cheese), answers Rosa’s knock with an indistinct grunt.
I think he says, “Yeah,” or “Ewah,” or maybe “Pizza.” But that seems to be invitation enough for Rosa to crack the door open. She says something to him in Spanish mixed with the errant English words like, “New girl,” and “First day.”
Am I just a tiny bit nervous? Maybe. But I got the job despite omitting the Wedding of Doom from my resume. The wedding which shall not be named. Except… as Rosa invites me to go inside the office, closing the door behind us, my face gets hot. Then my blood runs cold. I’m hot, I’m cold. I’m cold. I’m hot. At the tender age of twenty-seven, I’m a walking menopause commercial. Because, true to my bad Los Angeles luck, who is sitting behind the boss’s desk? Who is this man they call El Jefe, El Patron, the Big Cheese?
The hot chef from Wedd-aggeddon, that’s who.
Chef Crabby Cakes.
For one suspended moment, I hope he won’t recognize me. That perhaps, I happen to look soooo different in this setting and he’ll smile with a welcoming handshake. But the moment his magnificent eyebrows lurch down and his plump lips press into a hard line, my hopes are dashed. Not only does he remember me, he is less than pleased to see me.
“You,” he says, all stern and boss-like. He’s dressed casually now. Gone is the fancy suit and tie. Gone is the slick hair, combed to perfection. Now the statuesque, airbrushed, GQ model is replaced by a guy in a Dos Panchos polo shirt much like the one I’m wearing, sporting a day-old stubble, and a lazy arm draped over the back of his chair. His dark wavy locks fall over his forehead as if his styling regime this morning consisted of running his hands through wet hair and letting it dry all higgledy-piggledy. As scrumptious as he looked at the wedding, it’s almost unfair how he can pull this look off—the same brand of polo shirt that makes me look like a soft and squishy Build-a-Bear, fits him like a glove, stretching over broad shoulders and hard pecs.
I’m totally getting fired again whilst drooling over the bossman.
I’m just gaping at Chef, jaw slack, eyes round and probably bulging. I should be using my sharp wit to come up with one hundred and one reasons not to fire Olive Isaac, but all I can come up with is, “Yes, me.”
Rose points her finger between us. “You know each other?”
I start to laugh nervously as one does when they’re about to get canned by the same man twice in one week.
“Well, this is awkward,” I say, already untying my apron. In my head, I’m calculating my prorated wages for the fraction of an hour I’ve worked and wondering if they have to legally pay me at all. Hey, even a couple of bucks will buy a measly lunch. Maybe they’ll pay me in tacos.
Like a fool, I blurt, “I like tacos.”
Rosa squints at me because she’s a sane person who needs actual context in a conversation. “That’s… good,” she says carefully.
Chef leans forward over his desk, studying me. His eyes remain on my face when he grumbles, “Rosa, will you give us a moment?”
Rosa gives me a stilted smile as she scoots out, keeping the door open. I look out to see half the kitchen staff staring.
Chef is the picture of all that is grumpy and surly. He’s all elegance and power while I’m shifting my weight from foot to foot, twisting my apron in my fingers.
I realize this is an opportunity to explain my behavior at the wedding—not that there’s any excuse for tackling a woman into a cake. I might have been a tad too enthusiastic at the time.
“There was a bug,” I blurt before he can fire me again. At the very least, I could walk out of here with some dignity.
His hard, cool expression morphs into something decidedly less stern. His eyes shift—growing wider and darker.
