“Everyone, please say good morning to our newest server, Solei. She will be training with Toni.” he introduces me during a morning staff meeting.
A petite, white woman with a boyish cut walks towards us with her hand extended and a monotonous greeting. Her jawbone tightens into a stress ball each time she chews her gum.
“Have you ever worked in a restaurant before?”
“No, I haven’t.” I swear she can smell the inexperience off me.
“Uh, huh,” she continues, the wad of gum tucked into the interior of her cheek. “Well, lunch gets busy. I’ll need you to stay out of my way when you see the tables filling up.”
“Um, okay.”
“Would you prefer I have someone else train her?” Marco interrupts.
“You know? That would be great, actually. I’m not losing tips to train someone that won’t even last 2 weeks.”
Toni stares me up and down, then walks away like I slapped her momma or something. The heat on my cheeks and ears brandish embarrassment as I slip out of the way.
“Don’t worry. I’ll train you, miss honey,” he turns his attention back to the staff. “If anyone sees Solei in need of assistance, please help her out.”
“You, come with me.”
We walk up a set of stairs to the second level of the restaurant. It hints at a New Orleans, French Quarter design with a second bar, room to dance, and a balcony overlooking the lower level.
“This is the employee coatroom. I’m the only one who has a key, so your things are safe here.” Marco takes me into a closet-sized room.
He gathers himself in a series of ritualistic movements. It begins with a swapping of his shirt. Then baby oil on his shaved head. Next, he changes his shoes and puts on a necktie. Following his cues, I put my things into an employee storage unit made up of stacked crates. Marco shuts the door, then locks it from the inside.
“Why are you locking the door?” I protest.
“Ay, please. Calm your tits. I’m not going to do anything to you,” he reaches into his coat pocket and takes out a one-hitter and a sandwich-sized bag of weed.
“I just want some breakfast,” he smiles devilishly.
“Yessss.” I celebrate, pleasantly surprised by the turn of events.
“You want some? Just a pull, though,” he pauses. “I should start acting like your boss at some point.”
“It’s probably better if I save brain cells. I have a lot to learn today.”
This rejection of the good herb is more in defense of the second half of my day than it is for this one. I would be too paranoid to exist at TLC if I get high this early in the day. The stank aroma has already attached itself to me, though. I’m pretty sure I already caught contact. A guilty by association kind of thing, if you will.
“Fair enough.” he shrugs.
Watching Marco pack his bowl makes it official. I love him. Who offers you pot on the first day of work? This guy does. He holds in the smoke for a few seconds, opens a vent, and blows into it. The airflow whisks away the funky smell in seconds. My now high-ass manager sprays himself with cologne and squirts breathe freshener into his mouth.
“Time to seize the day. Let’s go.”
For the rest of the shift, Marco Antonio shows me how things work at Giggles. I shadow him as he juggles between the kitchen, mixing drinks at the bar, clearing tables, and teaching me the restaurant’s operating system. By 2 p.m., lunch is done, and so am I. The servers are gathering at the front of the restaurant. They all begin to calculate their tips and tally receipts. I pretend not to care about having nothing to count for a job well done, as the hostess thanks patrons on their way out.
“Good job, people. Let’s get those receipts in order so you can get out of here.” Marco places an envelope with my name on the table. “Solei, you’re done for today. Same time tomorrow?”
“You got it, boss!”
“Great, I just opened the back room. Have a good one.” he blows an air kiss.
I pull thirty dollars from the envelope. Better than nothing, but silent prayers that this isn’t what my tips amount to when it’s official.
The back entrance helps me avoid Toni on my way out. Finally, a moment to myself, and the first thing I think of is TLC. Anxiety ravels in the pit of my stomach. I distract myself with a book on the short ride downtown, and some chill R&B music plays in my ear as I walk into the obscure building hidden in plain sight. Mr. grouchy doorman greets me indifferently when I enter the lobby, but I still smile at him. As I wait, Cheri and Lola catwalk into the lobby.
“Hi, James.” Lola flirts with the old man.
His face lights up like a schoolboy – the complete opposite of how he has interacted with me.
Femmes rule the world.
“Hello, ladies. You look so beautiful today.” he beams.
Lola signs the book as Cheri walks towards the elevator, where I’m waiting.
“You’re back. I thought you’d be scared off like the other girls. I’m glad you have bigger balls than that,” she pouts her bottom lip. “I would’ve been sad.”
“Really?” I question sarcastically, not believing this claim to have been so affected by my absence when she barely knows me. “And why would you be so sad?”
“We need new faces around here, that’s all.” her playfulness switches up.
Regret invades the space between us. I should’ve flirted back with her.
“Hi, welcome back!” Lola walks over just as the elevator arrives.
She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Her perfume lingers as Cheri rolls her eyes. I pretend not to notice.
Let me find out she’s jealous.
This attention gives me a confidence boost that I haven’t felt in weeks.
“Have you chosen a name yet? It better be something super sexy.” Lola continues.
The elevator bounces into place on the fourth floor.
“Can you help me pick one?”
“Of course. We’ll come up with something good for you.”
“Perfect timing, ladies. We have a client coming in an hour.” Becca discloses from behind the front desk.
“Who’s on the menu today?” Lola asks playfully.
“Alexander the Russian. So, hurry up and get ready.”
“Ew, I can’t stand him. He smells like metal, and he’s a jerk,” Cheri complains. “I guess I’m wearing brown lipstick today. He once told me that it makes me look too ‘ethnic.’ Thanks for the tip, jerk.”
By the end of the sentence, she’s mumbling to herself and headed to get ready.
“Well, I’m wearing my red lipstick because he loves it, and I want my Chloe shades!” Lola adds as she walks into the lounge.
Her energy stirs the room. The ladies who are already here get worked up when she walks in.
“I’m going to have you sit in the social circle, but you won’t be available for a session with him.” Becca is filling in today’s appointments into a leather-bound pad.
“What’s the social circle?”
“That’s how our clients determine who they want to have a session with each time they come in. The ladies gather around him, her, or them, mingle, ask questions, then they let me know who they’ve chosen.”
“Sounds simple enough. A few things, though. First, I still haven’t come up with a name. And second, can I show you my outfit to see if you approve?”
“Yes, of course!”
“I wasn’t sure what to wear. I normally don’t dress girly.”
Becca steps back to size up how my black and royal blue men’s jacket pairs up with my baggy jeans.
“You looked way more feminine yesterday.”
“I was trying to get the job,” I admit.
“True. Okay, let me see what you’ve got. As for a name, let me think of some ideas. Candy, Diamond, Jewel, Godiva,
” she pauses to think of more suggestions.
“Godiva? Like the chocolate?” I tease.
“Hey, at least I have ideas.”
“I have the perfect name for you!” Lola interrupts with a glass of white wine in hand. “Prophecy.”
“That’s it. That’s the one.” Becca cosigns.
“Prophecy. It has so much edge and mystery to it.” I consider Lola’s suggestion.
“I know. Just like you.”
Oh. Hello. Are these girls flirting with me? Or are they just doing what girls do when they’re extra gay with friends?
“I wish I would’ve thought of it for myself,” Becca concedes. “Okay, miss Prophecy, show me your outfit.”
I pull out a red and black plaid skirt, a black V-neck blouse, and wedges. All borrowed from my sister’s closet.
Lola laughs.
“That’s cute, but it’s not sexy. You might some clients with a schoolgirl or popstar fetish, but that’s about it. These men want what they don’t get at home, and that’s seduction.”
Cheri returns wearing a black corset with a diamond-shaped cut-out exposing her abs, fishnet stockings, and black stilettos. My cheeks flush. I try not to stare, but every inch of her is capturing my attention.
“What are you girls talking about?”
“We’re helping Prophecy get her brand together,” Becca replies.
“Prophecy? Where did that come from?”
“Lola suggested it.”
“Oh, did she now? Aren’t you helpful?”
She walks past us and into the lounge with an air of hostility. Lola follows her.
“What’s going on with those two?”
“I think Cheri likes me and is feeling territorial,” I brag.
“Is that right? What makes you so sure?”
“Because I know how girls act when they like somebody.”
“All right now, I see you.”
We laugh at my bold claim, before Lola returns with a weathered, slouch purse hanging off her shoulder and a look of determination.
“Come with me, please.”
I follow like a puppy.
“Take this off,” she orders.
A rotation of looks is pulled from the rack until she finds a leather halter top and a mini skirt to match. My shoulders and mid-section are more exposed than I would prefer but looking in the mirror feels lovely. The six inch heels that Becca gave me are a whole other challenge. The harder I try, the more my walk resembles a linebacker – not due to a lack of femininity – they just happen to be too small. These shoes are also the only other option besides the wedges; my original choice of footwear, which, according to Lola, would be too “tacky” to stare at all day, is no longer an option.
“Wow, this is going to take some work. You’re such a tomboy.” she declares. “Have you ever worn heels before?”
“Of course, I have. I wore heels for two of my cousin’s weddings and my Sweet Sixteen. I just need some practice.”
“Well, as long as you don’t walk, you look hot. And with a name like Prophecy? Done and done.”
She examines me from head to toe, searching for details to fix.
“Let your hair down.”
I do as she says, shaking my mop out of the loose ponytail it’s tied up in.
“Your hair is so long.”
A look in her eyes confirm an attraction between us. Heat flushes across my face, and a fidget throughout my body. Lola sits on top of the counter and pulls me between her legs to apply red lipstick. An ache rolls through the lower part of my extremities as our bodies border one another.
“Press your lips like this.” she makes a popping sound with her mouth.
I press my lips together slowly and pucker them. Lola does the same.
“You’re good to go, Prophecy. Knock ‘em dead, kiddo.”
A sexy linebacker in heels stares back at me when I check myself out in the mirror again.
“Here I go. Wish me luck.”
Maintaining balance and being seductive at the same time requires all of my focus. It feels like Lola’s watching me from behind. When I turn to ease the anxiety and prove myself wrong, I find a highly entertained Lola poking her head out of the doorway.
Becca whistles as I walk past her.
“These heels are killing me already. I need a drink.”
The first thing I do is pour myself some Pinot Grigio. The chill of the wine dampens the glass on contact. Cheri comes in seconds later for a refill. I move out of the way and lean against the counter to get a better view of her body.
“So, how old are you?” she asks.
“Nineteen. How ‘bout you?”
“I just turned eighteen last month.”
“You look older than that.”
“Gee, thanks. You sure know how to compliment a lady.”
Realizing how wrong that sounds, I fumble to correct myself.
“I don’t mean that as an insult at all. You just exude this womanly energy.”
“You think so?” she seems pleased with my correction. “I was feeling a little fat today.”
“Fat? Are you kidding me? No, your body is amazing. I wish you could see what I see.”
I test the boundaries.
“Yeah? Lend me your eyes and give me a glimpse of what you see.” she dares.
I study thick, high-heeled legs, the caramel in her complexion, skin patterned by the Xs of her fishnet stockings, and hips that widen just enough to bow back into the tiny circumference of her waist. The definition of abdominal muscles compliments the lingerie she’s wearing. Full breasts are held together greedily by the fabric. The motion of my gaze is deliberate, slow, and steady.
“I’m ready for a drink. Let’s get this day going already.” Lola crashes the party.
Cheri ignores her, eyes still fixed with mine. I lose my train of thought. My attention is altered by Lola’s need for a wine glass.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Now we wait,” Cheri answers. “We drink, watch TV, do homework, sleep and play games.”
LARRY
It’s been a week since I started my employment at the restaurant and TLC. Enough time to conclude that I’m better at playing “dress up” than a waitress. For anyone who has never been a server in midtown Manhattan during a lunch crowd, here’s a quick run-through:
You walk into a quiet, ghost town of a dining area. There’s time to have some cafecito, freshen up, set your tables – and if you’re lucky to have a boss like mine – there’s even time for a quick toke in the employee’s closet. By 11:30 a.m., you’ll get a couples of tables. Under these conditions, you have time to offer the highest degree of attentiveness. Once noon rolls around, you have a few more tables seated in your area. The pace quickens. You find yourself reminded of the extra dressing they asked for the last time you came around.
There’s another table that has been waiting to order, but you can’t quite get to them yet in the shuffle of orders hot off the grill and drinks crowding the bartender’s area waiting for delivery. The tension builds as you dash back and forth while being scrutinized by “hangry” nine-to-fivers, ready to eat the next human they see. A ticking clock closes in on their shrinking stomachs. They’re seconds away from walking out and grabbing a slice of pizza instead. The only thing keeping them in their seats is the time they’ve already invested and the promise of food they can already taste.
When I finally have a moment to take the order of a large table that has been giving me dirty looks, they pretend the meeting is more important than the meal, but they’re ready with their orders.
“Great, I’ll get these in ASAP,” I assure them.
“Can I get a frozen piña colada while I wait?” a tightly wound woman demands.
The orders are in quickly.
All smiles and lo
oks of gratitude greet me when I return with their drinks. Each one is placed in front of its respective customer. Suddenly, an imbalanced lean forward, tips the serving tray from its center of gravity. The frosted hurricane glass filled with piña colada spills over in slow motion, down one of their backs.
“Oh, my god! I’m so sorry.” I hold up a wad of napkins in my defense.
The well-dressed man’s face is in total shock. The creases of his wrinkles are now a contrasting red and pale white.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” he howls.
Marco, who had initially walked away from the scene laughing hysterically, has returned with hand towels and charisma in an attempt to neutralize my biggest mistake of the week.
“Hi, I’m the manager. My apologies for this mess. Solei is new here. How about I take ten percent off your tab to make up for it?” Marco’s poise dominates the conversation. “Sound good, sir?”
“Okay, sure. Thank you.” the man says with resignation.
He’s now seated in an exaggerated posture to keep his skin from making contact with the shirt. Understanding the double-edged embarrassment, Marco caters to them for the rest of their meal. I play the sidelines and apologize one last time as they leave.
“They left you a $100 tip,” he declares.
“What? No way.”
“See for yourself,” he holds out the signed receipt:
We’ve all been new at something before. Good luck!
“Well, that’s yours. You did most of the work, anyway.”
“Ay, please. I make bank here. You keep it.”
“Maybe I should spill drinks on people more often,” I joke. “This is my best tip so far.”
“Yeah, right,” he laughs. “Try that with one of these catty old hags that come in here. They’ll have you for lunch.”
“Thanks, by the way. I saw you take off when it happened.”
“Of course, I did. I couldn’t stop laughing. I needed a moment to gather myself.” his hands mime an attempt at centeredness while he takes a deep breath.
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