by K. E. Radke
Excellent decisions today. Because I know my hand was about to betray me. Not to mention, lie to a boy that already said I’m not in his future.
Saturdays are full of chores. Everything has to get done before I leave for work or my mom will throw a fit. She allows me to sleep in after a late-night shift, but that doesn’t stop her from vacuuming at nine in the morning.
I sneak into the bathroom to cover the bruise on my wrist with concealer. The scratches on my hands scabbed over and aren’t noticeable, so I leave them alone.
Cartoons blast from the TV in the living room and my brothers are jumping around on the furniture, singing along with the sitcom. My mother is threatening to ask the Cucuy to come by and show them how to behave.
“Or you could get La Llorona,” I snicker and she immediately hits my shoulder.
Making the sign of the cross, she whispers, “Don’t wish that on your brothers.” She says a silent prayer, holding the Lady of Guadalupe emblem she wears around her neck. It’s solid gold, and she had it blessed by the Catholic priest as soon as my dad gave it to her. There’s a wooden one behind it. Worn and misshapen from wear over the years. The gold one was supposed to take its place, but she can’t bear to part with it.
“Start breakfast mija.” My mom continues vacuuming, and I slice up the tomatoes, onions, and jalapenos. The beans are already on the stove cooking. After all the chopping is finished, I throw it all in the pan and cook it for a few minutes before adding the eggs and scrambling it all together. At the same time, I warm up another pan so I can flip the tortillas waiting next to the stove.
Once all the cooking is done, I make the first plate for whichever brother gets to it first and yelp at the sight of my dad at the table. It shouldn’t surprise me. He has an uncanny ability to know when food is being served. I call it his superpower.
His plate is next, and he grunts out a noise that calls my brothers to the table to eat. My mother joins me in the kitchen and makes her own plate.
“Where are the tortillas?” my dad asks.
“You can’t have tortillas,” my mother scolds.
“What do you mean I can’t have tortillas? I want tortillas with my eggs,” he says frustrated like it’s a life or death matter.
“You’re on a diet. And you can’t have carbs.”
“Pinche carbs. Give me tortillas! They’re not carbs. They’re tortillas!” he roars while my mother stifles her laughter.
“Tortillas are made of flour. So they are carbs,” my brother, Armando, explains our father.
Aurelio, who likes to repeat everything he hears, parrots, “They are carbs.”
My dad’s face looks like it’s on fire. “I want tortillas now!”
Armando rolls his eyes. “I’ll give you tortillas!” He opens his mouth full of chewed food and Aurelio laughs. Chunks of food fly all over the table.
“Cochinos! Close your mouth,” my mom chastises, holding her plate to her chest, happy she never sat down.
I finish warming up five tortillas and put them in the tortilla warmer. On my way to start the washing machine, I place them in front of my father.
“Preciosa.” He thanks me and begins eating, guarding the tortilla warmer against tiny prying hands.
While the washing machine fills with water, I go back into the kitchen and make a plate for myself. Instead of joining them at the table, I eat on the counter and warm up more tortillas.
As soon as I’m done eating, I load the dishwasher and set off to wash my clothes. It’s a well-wound machine in my house, any little disturbance, and my mother will force it to get back on track.
The last thing to finish is homework. Not that I have much since starting my senior year. I’m barely at school because I have late arrival and early release. My parents have no idea it’s a shorter schedule. If my mother ever found out, she’d give me more chores to do.
By the time I leave for work, my dad is settled on the couch, sleeping upright. There’s a pillow fort surrounding him. Armando and Aurelio are being very quiet and my mom keeps checking on them every ten minutes to see what they’re up to.
“Dios mio,” she whispers to me as I leave. “They’re going to give me a heart attack. I think I’m going to wake him up, so they’ll be rowdy again. I keep thinking the whole house died, it’s so quiet.”
“I can slam the door,” I offer.
“Two times, say you forgot something.”
The first time does it. I can hear the laughter through the door. The sound distracts me from the setting sun and how dark it’ll be soon.
Not this again. The second I get into the car, the doors are locked and I’m breathing harder than normal. You don’t have time to panic. Breathe.
With white knuckles and numb fingers from gripping the steering wheel, I reach Sunshine Boulevard and park in the same lot I usually do, scanning the entire area.
It’s an open space and a lot of people are walking around. Safety in numbers. Instead of seeing the tourist destination, all I can see are the dark corners I never thought twice about. It’s why I left ten minutes early. The General wouldn’t step into the light. If he attacked me last night, he’ll have to wait till the sun sets. And if he didn’t…I hope whatever did has to play by the same rules.
I hop out of the car when a group of teenagers is nearby and I walk closer than I usually would to strangers. If anyone’s watching, it looks like I belong with them, straggling behind. When they turn the corner, I rush up to the next wave of strangers and use this tactic until I make it inside of Steak N’ Bake.
“It’s Saturday! Tips for you, tips for me, tips for everybody!” Maggie sings when I enter the back. Lowering her voice, she warns, “Avoid Lyle, he’s working a partial double because Blanca didn’t show up.”
The restaurant doesn’t have a room for us to put our stuff in, so we commandeered a cabinet near the beverage station to hide our purses while we work. It’s one place we congregate because it connects the kitchen to the restaurant and has enough space for several people at a time.
“Amelia,” Nora calls quietly and gestures me over into her office. It’s the tiniest office I’ve ever seen and every time I’m inside of it I get claustrophobic. “Have you heard from Rica? Her parents called me this morning, she never got home last night. Carla said she saw her with a guy you waited on, but he left hours before her shift was over.”
“He did. I made 5 bucks off a desert order.”
“Okay, I just wanted to make sure. You didn’t see her leave with anyone?”
“Honestly, I never notice when she leaves.” I shrug my shoulders and hope she comes in today.
We all agree to fill in for the missing hostess, except Lyle, but he’s already working a double, so we let him off the hook. It’s so busy I hardly make it to the front to seat people. Every time I get a table settled with orders, another group is seated in my section.
I set down the last plate for a family of five, and in my peripheral vision see another couple sit down in my section. Maggie steals the tray and folding rack from me, and I take the check from another table before I move on to my new customers.
“Are you ready to order?” I ask politely.
“Yes,” the woman answers absently. She’s still silently reading the menu, and I look at her date to order first since she’s obviously not ready, but his eyes are on her, and he refuses to acknowledge me.
One of those couples.
Easily jealous women are the worst customers. I can never win with them. In their minds, every word out of my mouth will be flirtatious, and an attempt to steal their man.
Another minute passes, and another customer tries to get my attention, so I suggest, “I can give you a couple more minutes.”
Her jaw clenches as she sets her fiery gaze on me and snaps, “I said I was ready to order.” Dark eyebrows she penciled in stare at me, making her appear ten times angrier. “I would like the original steak and potato plate. Can I substitute the baked potato for another steak?”
“Oh-um, no. You can’t, but you can always order another original steak and potato plate,” I say in an upbeat, easy tone.
She harrumphs at me. “Why the hell would I do that? What would be the point? I don’t want a potato. It’s a simple task. Take the potato off and put another steak in its place. You don’t need a college degree.”
Because the steak is worth more than a potato. My mouth spreads into the biggest smile I can manage from her attitude, and it’s a sign I’ve been working in customer service for way too long.
Stupidity should be considered a form of abuse, and people should be fined for it.
“We can substitute the baked potato for any of the vegetables on the menu, but not another steak,” I say kindly.
“I can’t believe you’re making me eat here. Do you see how I’m being treated?” She glares at the man across from her. He wilts in his chair, nearly falling under the table. I hope they don’t have any children together, and he can get out while he still can.
“Bring me the damn food. I’m starving.” She closes the menu harshly and thrusts it at me like she wants to take my head off with it.
“How would you like your steak cooked?” I ask.
“Medium rare,” she spits at me, trying to cut me with her words.
The man orders the same thing and I dash away to the computer to put it in. Let’s get them out of here as soon as possible.
In the middle of the dinner rush, Nora starts delivering the food to tables for everyone. She’s on her way to my difficult table when I call out the warning, “Careful. That one has claws.”
She winks at me. “Maybe they don’t like you.”
“Good riddance!” My words trail her.
Maggie is seating four people in my section after I deliver appetizers to a different table. Within seconds, I’m at the new table and ask for their drink orders.
“Waitress. Waitress. Can she hear me? I’m talking to you. Waitress.” The voice grates my eardrums and I internally cringe, trying to ignore her so I can finish with the customers in front of me.
“Waitress, Waitress. Waitress, I need to speak with you.” The woman with angry eyebrows is determined to hound me. She’s so adamant, the man ordering his drink whispers frantically, “Oh my—is she getting out of her chair?”
“I’ll be right with you,” I call politely over my shoulder to acknowledge her and stop whatever craziness she’s trying to bring attention to. In a flash, the eyebrows appear in the corner of my eye and she slams her plate down on the table. The potato rolls off the plate and into a woman’s lap. She screams because it burns her legs and the guy next to her quickly picks it up with a napkin and sets it back on Ms. Angry Eyebrow’s plate.
That’s not sanitary.
Stabbing the steak with a knife, eyebrow woman peels it open and shouts enraged, “Is this what you call medium rare? Did this even get cooked? I can’t find the meat there’s so much blood!”
It looks overcooked for medium-rare to me—but I don’t say that out loud. The four people in the booth are huddled against the wall, as far away from the psycho as possible.
“I can take it back to the cook and get that fixed right away,” my voice is calmer than I expect it to be, and I can’t believe I haven’t run for my life.
She flips the plate at me and the food burns my skin through my clothes. Horrified gasps and screams mix with mine. Taking deep breaths, I’m pulling my shirt away from my flesh and whimpering through the pain. At least the knife didn’t hit anything vital.
Cold liquid assaults me and a short, high-pitched scream fills the silent room. Everyone stops eating and listens to my ragged breathing. Is this really happening?
Someone yells out, “What are you? An animal?”
The older woman coming to my rescue stands up and points at my attacker. “Citizen’s arrest!” She tosses a flip phone to a boy at her table. “Record, Junior. We’ll need evidence.”
The child—he can’t be older than 10—is already recording the whole fiasco with a smartphone.
“That’s assault, you will leave my restaurant right now,” Nora says icily, coming to my rescue with her fists clenched. She places herself between me and the psychotic woman.
Everyone’s heads swivel back to us. “Lyle, escort her out. I’m calling the police, and trust me when I say if you give him any trouble at all, I will make sure every restaurant on the Boulevard knows your name.” Nora shoves the woman’s purse into her arms and escorts her to the exit until Lyle takes over.
The people in the booth offer me their napkins, and I hold it together long enough to excuse myself to the back. Nora and Maggie join me as I’m washing my face in the big sink.
“I took a picture of her license. Please tell me you’re going to press charges.” Nora squats and gently pulls up my shirt to check for any burns.
“I have some clothes in my car you can borrow.” Maggie squeezes my hand.
“She’s gone. You okay Amelia? Should we take her to the hospital?” Lyle joins us, but his eyes are averted as Nora inspects me.
“Go check on your tables Maggie, and tell the others to split Amelia’s tables.” I protest, but Nora interrupts me. “I cannot put you back on the floor. You’re all wet, and if I put you back out there, the old woman might start a revolt. So, I’m sending you home. I’m sorry.”
When she’s gone, I aggressively twist out of my apron and throw it on the ground. Liquid rolls down my face from the leftover droplets in my hair.
Lyle hands me a cloth napkin. “Hey, you want to come out with me and some friends? Sherry’s playing at Hazard tonight and she said she’d tell the bouncer to look the other way.”
I’m on the verge of saying no when he adds, “When was the last time you had a Saturday night off? You should enjoy it. I’ll buy you a drink.”
What the hell? Why not?
“Tell Sherry I’m in.”
***
Lyle lets me shower and change into the outfit I borrow from Maggie at his place. For the first time in my life, I sniff the towel before using it. The bathroom is absolutely disgusting. I’m pretty sure the black stuff on the shower walls lives here and Lyle’s the guy that comes to feed it.
A new appreciation for my mother overwhelms me. If she saw this bathroom, she’d probably quarantine me before letting me back into the house. I’m not entirely sure if I’m leaving without some kind of disease that already has me in its clutches. Incubating to rear its ugly head at the right time.
I step out of the bathroom on the sides of my feet because I’m positive the floor isn’t clean. Lyle guffaws while I’m drying my hair. The noise diverts my attention from his bachelor pad and all the empty food cartons all over the place.
“You can’t wear that.” He’s wiping tears from his eyes.
Black yoga pants and a red tank top will never be outfit of the year, but what other choice do I have? It is surprisingly comfortable. “If I go home, I’m not coming back out.”
There’s a flash and my eyes flicker to him. “What are you doing? Did you take a picture of me? Delete it now!”
“Relax, I’m only sending it to Sherry. She might have something to help,” he waves his hands at me unable to find the words, “this. Maybe she can help you make it work.”
He doesn’t have a table. Just a couch and a beat-up recliner. Peeking into his bedroom while he texts Sherry, there’s a box spring and mattress in his room. The dresser is bursting with clothes like a monster trying to swallow everything hanging out of it.
“Do me a favor, don’t steal anything while I’m gone,” he says absently and shuffles into his room. He peers at me from texting before the door shuts behind him.
“What am I going to steal? Trash?” I holler at him. “I’m surprised this place hasn’t been condemned. I ca
n’t believe you live like this. It’s disgusting.”
Lyle comes out five minutes later in black jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Cologne is sprayed from top to bottom all over his body. The scent is so strong I’m coughing and gasping like my lungs are starving for air. Pinching my nose and waving my hand in the air, I question, “Did you use the entire bottle? It’s burning my eyes.”
He throws a leather jacket at me. “Ha. Ha. Put that on.”
Holding it up, I tease, “I didn’t realize you cross-dressed on the weekends.”
“It’s Sherry’s. She said you can borrow it.”
“She stays here?” I ask shocked.
“Only when she’s really drunk. Too drunk to notice the mess.” He looks around his apartment and has the decency to look embarrassed. “Yea, it’s time to go. This place depresses me.”
“It’s your apartment! You can clean it up!” I point out.
“It’s easier to let dead things lie.” He opens the door for me. “Hurry before my roommate tries to follow us.”
“Someone else willingly lives with you? Do you pay them to live here?” I inquire in disbelief. The air is probably toxic.
“Not someone. Something.” He chuckles evilly when I shudder and squeal in disgust.
Lyle’s apartment is a shithole, but it’s in an excellent location. It’s only a ten-minute walk to the Boulevard, and you land right in the middle of it. But Hazard is in the opposite direction, so we take the car rideshare, A-Go-Go.
I put the jacket on right before we go inside the club because it’s way too hot to wear it. Sherry is waiting for us at the entrance and gestures for us to follow her. There’s a short line to get in.
Everyone is in dark colors. Some girls are in black, tiny, revealing dresses. Piercings are a feat to show off, and dark, heavy eyeliner lines everyone’s eyes. A guy with a mohawk waves at Lyle before we disappear around the corner.