by Jamie Knight
I wasn’t really sure how I’d gotten so lucky. I had just seen an ad looking for a hostess and basically bullshitted my way through the interview, fake it till you make it being my personal motto at the time. It was a risk, but I needed the job. I was unemployed and the recession wasn't helping much.
I had lost my last job because of an over-developed sense of morality and justice, which I partly blame on my parents. The working conditions weren't just bad but dangerous. Rumor had it that the managers had worker's compensation payouts accounted for in the yearly budget. Doing it that way was still cheaper than making the improvements that would have actually made things safe.
Driven by rage and justice, I tried to start a union. There was more of a response than I had expected. Other workers, including those who had been there for years, started organizing around me like they had just been waiting for someone to lead them.
It hadn't turned out well. The managers had found out about our plan and fired me as the ring-leader. There would have been more firings. A lot more. But I had made it sound like the entire thing had been my idea and that I had basically duped the others.
Everyone else kept their jobs, though the head supervisor had really scared me, looking and talking as though he might actually take me out back and shoot me. There were other rumors that the owners had connections to the mob, and I wouldn’t doubt it. In the end, I honestly felt lucky to get of there alive, albeit without my paycheck and livelihood.
The manager at this restaurant was a lot nicer to work for. He was a bit of a picky timekeeper and a sexist pig but at least there was no sense of impending immediate execution for having the audacity to assert one’s rights. The worst he might do is fire you, or I guess grab your ass as he passed. It still made me mad, but I decided it was probably best not to tempt fate, no matter how much I might want to.
I was what my mother used to call "a little too honest," particularly with some of the rich assholes who would walk right in and be demanding like they owned the place. To my knowledge, none of them actually did, although I was a bit confused about the ownership structure of this place, so maybe some of them did.
And this was another reason I had to be careful. I had once lost a job by telling the owner what I really thought of them when they had come in for a surprise inspection and I hadn't known who they were.
When everything was ready, I went and unlocked the door, before hurrying back behind the podium to get ready for the onslaught. It could have been the weather, but it was nearly an hour before the first customers arrived. They were all bundled up in a similar way I had been, removing their coats to reveal mostly suits and other evening wear.
There were a few men who had clearly saved up to go out as a treat. The women were harder to tell. You could get some pretty nice dresses for pretty cheap if you knew where to look. Or else there was that old trick that involved wearing a dress with the tag still on it, tucked along the back seam all night long, and then returning it the next day.
The guys were a dead give away, though, usually wearing pressed and creased jeans rolled down at the ankle so they looked as much like dress pants as possible. The jeans were unusually worn with a polo short, or maybe a turtleneck. Sometimes with a blazer.
I had been around the rich and blithe long enough to tell the difference and not only be able to pick out the snakes in suits but also those trying to approximate their look, so that they wouldn't be judged too harshly. I usually gave those in this second category better tables than those they had booked.
I had such power and no one, at least so far, had reported me to the manager. In a place like this, you quickly learned to follow the rules and defer to authority. That was the theory, anyway, although I wasn’t always good at putting it into practice.
I checked in and seated the first few patrons, giving them the tables they had booked, acting as much as I could like a good girl. I really was tying to be good. To follow the rules. To keep my job.
It was annoying, to have to cater to the rich or wanna-be rich all day long. Sometimes I just wanted to scream at them and tell them that money isn’t everything. Having a soul is nice, too.
But I knew it wouldn't help anyone, least of all me, if I got fired again. It was important that I swallow my pride, quell the flame of justice that burned inside and do what must be done.
I should have smelled him coming. His cologne was so expensive and copiously applied that a half decent tracker dog would have had him in its jaws in ten minutes. His suit, bespoke and pin-striped and made to fit him exactly right, just screamed of new wealth.
His tie was silk and precisely tied, a dead giveaway that he was trying too hard. The gray of his temples was a testament to either premature aging due to job stress or to being a late bloomer in the corporate shark game. He looked a bit too old to be a young tech start up entrepreneur, but a bit too young to be the CEO or head up a board of directors.
It was his walk that gave him away, being too practiced and self-consciously cocky. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.
I didn’t even need “Stalin” to tell me that much. My high school friend Matt, who claimed to be a Communist, once got a puppy he named Stalin. He said he was going to train it to smell money and attack billionaires on sight.
Unfortunately, Stalin turned out to be a pug mix rather than a bulldog as Matt first thought and was no good at the job. Although I can't say I thought it was a bad idea overall.
"I have a reservation," Mr. New Money said, like a bored king ordering an execution.
"Name?" I asked.
"Really?" he asked, as though it should be obvious.
"Yes," I said, giving away nothing.
"John Handler," he said, very slowly, annunciating every syllabary.
I looked on the reservation list, under both Handler and John in case he tried to be clever. There was no trace of either name on the list.
"Sorry, sir. But I don't see your name here."
"Seriously?"
No, I just like pranking rich people who have the power to get me fired.
"Yes."
"Do you know who I am?"
"That’s a question for the philosophers," I quipped, the anger rising in me so strongly that I couldn’t help myself.
It was either make a joke or take a slug at him, and I went for the least violent route.
"Listen, you little -"
"I'm sorry, sir, but as you can see, there is a line. It wouldn't be fair to give you someone else's table. You are welcome to put your name on the wait list and I’ll call you when there’s an open table, if you’d like.”
That was the protocol, after all.
"I'll have your job, you cunt," John Handler said as he was storming off to the side and taking out his phone.
"You could never fit into this uniform, dear," I said.
He sat in the waiting area texting furiously as I put through people who were actually on the reservation list.
"What's the problem here?" the manager asked, appearing out of nowhere.
"I don't -"
"I'll tell you what the fucking problem is," Handler said, storming back over, "this little bitch is giving me attitude."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Handler! I know you always have a standing invitation and respected reservation here, and the hostess should know this too. Please go and find a seat. A server will be around shortly. The prettiest one we have, in the shortest skirt, I have seen to that. Feel free to have a grab if you like the look of her. She knows to behave herself."
"Thank you," Handler said, putting the phone back into his coat, "and thank you for responding to my text so quickly."
"Rest assured, Mr. Handler, this bitch with be dealt with."
“It’s fine,” I told him, as I gathered up my things. “There’s nothing to deal with. I’m glad I don’t have to work here anymore. I hate catering to rich assholes.”
I hadn’t planned to make such an
outburst. I knew I was going to be fired as soon as I put it together than Handler had texted the manager.
I was prepared for that. Not happy about it but ready to take it on the chin. No one had told me this John Handler guy was always supposed to have a reservation— why didn’t they add him to the list every day, then, just in case, or at least leave me a sticky note at the podium?— but it only made sense that I would be blamed and made to take the fall. Shit trickles downhill and all that.
It was when the manager had said the bit about having a grab at the server, Erin was her name, that the switch flipped and I went into full warrior mode. That was so far outside what should be allowed that the wrong had to be righted.
I was pretty sure I was never going to be able to get a job in a restaurant in New York again. But I was even more sure that I didn’t want one, if this was what it involved.
The manager looked at me with his mouth hanging open, as if he hadn’t been expecting me to tell him off while his back was turned, his attention on Handler as he was telling the rich asshole who rules the world that I was going to be fired. I hurried home, wondering if I was even going to be mailed my final paycheck, but otherwise glad to be free of that awful place.
Chapter Two - Gia
I dropped my parka and my bag on the floor on the inside of the door and headed straight for the kitchenette, but I could have just as well have been headed to the living room or bedroom, all of which were basically the same space in my small studio apartment. Getting out my kettle and mug, I made a cup of hot tea before flopping down on the couch.
My head still throbbed with irritation, but it was lessened by the fact that I knew I no longer had to put up with such working conditions anymore. I tried to think of it as the throb of victory.
I was hoping that maybe the little scene I’d caused had disrupted business quite a bit and it was possible Mr. Handler would not be served at all. The thought made me smile, not least because sweet Erin might go unmolested because of my action.
But I told myself to stop thinking about my job. My former job. I didn’t have to do that anymore, and it was a freeing thought.
After I’d finally calmed down some, I wiggled out of the dress, happy to be free of it. It was followed quickly by my bra and panties. I breathed an actual sigh of relief. I really did like being naked when it was possible. It felt so natural and unpretentious. Just the way things were. I really wished people didn't have such hang ups about it.
I went back to the freezer and got out one of those absurdly expensively and astoundingly tiny tubs of ice cream I loved so much. Setting up on the coffee table in front of the couch I had found down by the curb with a “free” sign on it— that was definitely my lucky day— I got my phone from the pocket of my parka and dialed.
"Hello?"
"Hey Sally Girl," I said, a spoonful of ice cream helping my mood.
"Gia?"
"That's me!"
"Are you okay?" Sally asked, sounding worried.
"Of course! Why?"
"You sound- happy."
"I'm not usually happy?"
"Not really," Sally admitted.
"Oh," I said, surprised to learn something new about myself.
But I guess it made sense that my best friend in the world wasn’t used to hearing me sound this way. She was a baker with her own bakery and we usually commiserated over the ups and downs of trying to have our own businesses. She was usually more successful than I, though, having done it much longer and with much more consistent dedication.
"Not that you're usually sad or anything. More like angry," Sally said.
"That's fair enough," I said.
"There is a lot to be angry about," Sally offered.
"Especially at work," I said.
"Especially your work," she said.
"I haven't had the best luck, have I?" I said, not being able to keep from laughing.
"Strange luck, certainly," Sally said.
"Most of it was my fault," I admitted.
"Though not all of it. Nostradamus couldn't have seen some of these unfortunate events coming your way."
"No, I suppose not," I agreed.
"The unionization attempt was -"
"Misguided."
"I was going to say brave," Sally said.
"That's nice of you."
"I do my best," Sally said.
"I don't suppose the earthquake at the amusement park was my fault either."
"I don't see how it could have been," Sally agreed.
"Unless I literally have a god-complex."
"Exactly," Sally said.
"This one was my fault though," I admitted.
"Which one?"
"The one that happened today."
"You were fired from the restaurant?" Sally asked.
"Not exactly," I said.
"Give me some exact re-telling," Sally said.
"Well, everything was going pretty well. I wasn't very late, and I ditched my parka in time. No one was there at first anyway. But then a swarm of people came in and I started seated them."
"As you do," Sally said.
"Exactly, everything going like clockwork," I continued.
"Then what happened?"
"Then he happened."
"He?" Sally asked.
"Yeah," I said.
"He who?" Sally asked.
"I've never heard of him but apparently I was supposed to. Said his name was John Handler."
"Oh shit!" Sally said.
"What?"
"Do you know who he is?"
"I just said I didn't. He asked me the same question and I suggested he take it up with Descartes," I said.
"You didn't!"
"I did," I said.
"He's very rich."
"I gathered that," I said.
"No, I mean stupid rich. Like Jeff Bezos rich and through many of the same ways."
"Oh," I said. “You mean like stomping on the rights of workers and vendors and not having to pay any taxes while us little people have them withheld from our paychecks? Those kinds of avenues?”
“Well, I meant online sales, but yeah, pretty much.:
“Okay then.”
Now I felt even better about not seating him.
"I think he owns part of a country in South America."
"No wonder he thinks he can have whatever he wants."
"What do you mean?"
"He came in tonight, demanding that I bump someone who actually had a reservation so that I would seat him instead. He claimed he had a reservation, but I didn't see him on the list. Apparently, there’s some kind of understanding that he always has a reservation, even if the place is already full and that he’s to be seated without question. At least that’s the impression I got from the manager after Handler texted him."
"He texted him? From within the restaurant itself?"
"Yeah. From the waiting area. Anyway, the manager came storming out like a tornado and apologized to Handler and told him to go choose a seat and that the prettiest server would be sent over and Handler could grope her if he wanted to. Then he added that I would be fired. They both used language referring to women, to which I strongly object."
"Did one of the words start with a ‘c’?" Sally asked, cautiously.
"Yep."
"Shit."
"Indeed they are."
"What did you do?"
"I yelled at him."
"You yelled at John Handler?"
"No, but I should have, while I was at it. That’s my only regret, really. I only yelled at the manager."
"What did he say?"
"He made a sound sort of like a walrus. He’s obviously not used to being told off, especially in front of important customers. I got out of there before the paperwork was done. That's why I didn't exactly get fired or quit, I guess; there’s nothing officially on the books. He said I was fired but for something I couldn't actually be fi
red for but then then I did something that forfeited my position either way."
"I'll say! They don't have your phone number, do they?"
"Nope, it was an online ad. They only have the email I used, which is quite separate from my actual one. I learned from my last few, um, ‘fiascos’ at work not to give out too much personal information, in case it all goes bad, which things usually tend to do on me."
"That's a relief," Sally said.
"You're telling me. It wasn't even the shit they gave me. Not really. I can take it. I mean, I was pissed, but I wouldn't have yelled at my boss like that about it Even the firing of me, I could have fought. A clear case of wrongful dismissal. It was what he said about Erin."
"Who's Erin?"
"The pretty server I was talking about. He even said he made sure she was wearing a short skirt. Saying if Handler wanted to have a grab, it would be okay because Erin knows how to behave herself."
"I'd have punched him, not just yelled at him," Sally said. “That was really vile of him to say.”
"I know, right?" I said.
"What are you going to do now?" Sally asked.
"I've had my tea and am currently eating ice cream," I said.
"No, I mean for a job," Sally said.
"I hadn't really thought about that," I said honestly.
I was still coming down from the excitement of it all.
"You might want to get on that. Do you have an idea what you want to do?" Sally asked.
"I'll come up with something," I said. “Let me celebrate being done with one awful job before I have to go try to get another one that won’t be likely to last much longer.”
“Fair enough,” Sally said.
My headache had mostly subsided by the time I hung up. Putting my phone back in my parka, I pulled on some sweats and got out my aged laptop, hoping it would still start up for me. The fan burst to life and the screen lit up.
I breathed a sigh of relief and started the always-unpredictable process of getting onto the wifi network of the cafe across the street from my building. There was no password, so it wasn't stealing or even really hacking. It was just a tricky and unreliable way of having to get Internet access. I had to be in the right position by the window and sometimes it still didn’t work.