by Zoey Derrick
"Hi there. How are you tonight?"
"Great, thanks. I'll have the same - if you remember." He smiles.
"Barbecue bacon burger, fries and a Coke?"
He smiles again. "You got it."
"I'll be right back."
After what seems like an eternity, I finally make it back to his table. The dirty menu is staring me in the face once again. "Here you go," I say, setting down his glass and pulling a straw from my apron. I reach for the menu, determined to go and clean it off. I realize as I reach out that my hand is shaking. This fact does not go unnoticed by Mr. Suit. He tries to reach for my hand. I pull it back quickly, clutching the menu.
"Do I make you nervous?" he asks in his usual stern voice. I shake my head. "You're shaking like a leaf." I look quickly at his face. His jaw is set into a hard line, his lips pursed. “When was the last time you ate anything?”
"This morning," I say quickly. It's true: I ate a hot dog for breakfast this morning. Cold, straight from the refrigerator.
"You should eat something," he says, attempting to soften his tone.
"Thank you, sir." I watch his nostrils flare. "However, I assure you, I'm fine."
"It's not you I'm worried about," he says, staring coldly at me.
"Excuse me?" There's no way. How could he possibly know?
"Forget it. I shouldn't have intruded."
I try to gather my thoughts. "Can I get you anything else?"
"Yes," he says. His eyes rake up and down my body from head to toe. Rest assured, he's not seeing anything worth looking at twice. I wait patiently for him to go on, but nothing comes.
"What would that be?"
"A duplicate of what I just ordered. For yourself."
I shake my head. "It's not allowed."
"And you need to eat," he all but growls at me.
"I appreciate your concern, but I cannot afford to lose my job. So, thank you for your offer, however, I respectfully decline. Now if there is nothing else I can get you," I say, adding emphasis, "I will be back in just a few minutes with your food."
I turn quickly before he can trap me again with his stare. The look on his face is hard, unyielding. Something tells me that he’s going to find a way for me to lose this argument.
When I return to the counter, Laura starts in with the Spanish Inquisition about my conversation with Mr. Suit.
"He saw my hand shake when I picked up his menu. Then tried to order a burger for me to eat."
"When was the last time you ate?" she asks.
"Jeez, stop. This morning, alright?"
"No, Viv, it's not alright. You need to eat, you’re nothing but skin and bones."
I roll my eyes at her and turn to grab the washrag so that I can clean this stupid menu. "One meal won’t solve that problem," I mutter bitterly.
"So let him buy you a meal," she says. I shake my head stubbornly. "I won’t tell Bart."
"No, Laura. You know damn well he will find out, and when he does he will think I conned a nice customer into buying me food. It's not worth losing my job over."
"You say that as though your life means nothing," she says dryly.
I shrug. Lately I'm not sure how much I care about myself or my life.
"Damn it, Vivienne, what the heck is wrong with you?"
I just shake my head. "Stop. Please, Laura. I get it. I'll try and eat."
She just shakes her head and goes about her business. Antonio hits the bell on the pass-through, telling me that Mr. Suit’s food is ready. I go grab a tray, wipe it off with the rag and put the plates on it, hoping and praying I don't get caught in his stare, trip and fall on my face and make an ass of myself on the way back to his table.
I make my way there, feeling a little more confident because I haven't actually looked at him. I quickly place his burger and fries on the table, followed by the bowl of mayonnaise. "Anything else?" I ask, not looking at him.
"Will you join me?"
"I..." I shake my head. "I can't."
Suddenly I feel a hand at my back, causing me to jump slightly, and Laura comes into my peripheral vision. "Is everything alright?" she says quietly and quickly.
"I asked her to join me," Mr. Suit says to Laura. Fantastic.
"Oh, what a fabulous idea. Vivienne, why don't you take a break," she says, more as an order than as a request.
"I just started. I don’t–"
She cuts me off. "You're fine. Have a seat. No one else in here anyway," she says and walks away.
I look toward the man in the booth. He has a smirk of satisfaction on his face. "Now you have no excuse. Take a seat."
I huff loudly. I want to protest and throw a fit, but I have to admit, I’m curious. And, I realize with a sigh, I really am hungry. I concede to his demand and slide in across from him. As soon as I sit down, he pushes his food in my direction. I push it back and shake my head.
He pushes it at me again. I look at Laura, who nods and mouths, "Go ahead."
"What about you?" I say quietly.
"What about me?" he retorts.
"This is your food," I say. I'm trying to be tough, but the food in front of me smells so good. My mouth begins to water and I swallow back the saliva.
"I've eaten since this morning, for one. And for two, I think your co-worker over there has already placed an order for me." He nods at me. "So, now you have no excuses. Eat." His tone is gentle, but it still feels like an order.
With the smell of food in my nostrils, I’m too hungry to argue anymore. I reach for the ketchup, squirt it all over the fries and dive in.
THREE
Somewhere around the last of my French fries, Laura shows up with another plate for Mr. Suit, whose name I have yet to learn. She nods with approval at the fact that only half of the burger is left. "Do you want anything else?" she says.
I roll my eyes.
He scowls.
I shake my head.
"Water. And two more Cokes," he says as he hands his now-empty glass to Laura.
"I'll be right back." And she's off toward the counter.
I stare at the last half of my burger and debate whether or not to finish it, but then my stomach rumbles and I pick it up. Just as I lean in to take a bite, I see him staring at me again. "What?" I say around my burger, and he smirks at me.
"I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone eat with such purpose before. Like you’re eating your last meal. Why don't you eat?"
Really? Bottom line, I can barely afford the hot dogs I do have. But there’s no way I’m going to tell him that. "I'm just not hungry."
"That, Vivienne, is bullshit," he says with such an edge to his voice and such a straight face that I nearly drop my burger.
"What the hell do you care?" I snap. "I'm a waitress in some random diner, and you feel sorry for me, so you buy me a meal." Roughly setting the burger back on the plate, I slide to the end of the booth and stand up. "Don't worry about my food, I'll find a way to pay for it," I say and attempt to storm off, but suddenly the room is spinning. I feel my body start to sway, and the floor rises fast. I close my eyes — bracing for impact — and black out.
"We need to call an ambulance," I hear a male voice say. A voice that seems familiar, but...
"She'll put up a huge fight." That voice I know. It's Laura.
I feel arms tighten around me. "Vivienne." A hand strokes along my arm. "Vivienne." It's the male, Mr. Suit. My eyes flutter. "Vivienne, are you alright?"
I nod, I think. Or at least I intend to, but I can't quite tell if I have actually moved. "Ye—yes," I croak.
"Thank God," he groans, and my eyes open. Our gazes meet. His expression is soft, concerned. His eyes are warm, liquid. I feel his hand slide along my arm again. The sensation sends shivers across my skin and I squirm.
"Wh—" I breathe. "What happened?"
"You tried to storm off in a big bad huff, and I caught you on your way down." He's smiling at me. "Not my usual effect on women." I try to smile but instead I end up rolling my eyes. He laugh
s. "Yeah, you'll be alright."
I squirm, attempting to get up. He helps me sit upright, and Laura is quick to hand me a Coke. "You need the sugar," she says as she puts the straw to my mouth.
"I got it," Mr. Suit says as he takes it from Laura.
Laura smiles at me, then stands and heads back toward the counter.
I take another sip and I feel myself slowly coming back to normal. "Thank you."
His hand moves toward my face. I flinch and his expression changes, becomes instantly harder and more concerned. I shake my head and tuck the strand of loose hair behind my ear. I look up at him again. His eyes are warming, concern still etched in his features, and I shake my head again. "Sorry," I say.
He cocks his head to the side. "For?"
"Passing out. Flinching." Existing, I add in my head. His hand slowly strokes my arm. His touch is warm, soft. A tender gesture. Tears prick my eyes again. I turn my head away from him, instead looking down at the floor.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Mikah."
"Well, Mikah, thank you for the meal. I truly appreciate it." I move to stand up. The flood of embarrassment I feel right now is overwhelming, and I just want to get away from him as quickly and gracefully as I can manage.
"Let me help you." He stands up quickly and then bends back down to help me come slowly to my feet. Once I'm upright, he steadies me so that I don't fall over again.
"I'm fine. Really." I still can't meet his gaze. "I'm going to go clean up. Why don't you sit back down and eat your burger." I start to walk away, gingerly, making sure that my head is not going to start spinning again. I catch a glimpse at the clock as I pass through the swinging door. Seven-thirty. Jeez, tonight is going fast. How long was I passed out?
Heading into the bathroom, I take care of business, then take a look in the mirror. "Jesus." I look like hell. There are deep hollows around my eyes, my cheekbones are way more pronounced and my cheeks look bruised. My bright red curly hair is pulled back into a tight bun, except for the strand Mikah was trying to move when I flinched. God, I can't believe I thought he was going to hit me.
Damn it, Riley really did a number on me. I hadn't realized that his actions would have such long-term effects. I’ve managed to stay away from him — from men in general — since he put me in the hospital, and I haven’t really had to face any of it.
Riley was good at nothing except using me as a punching bag. A habit that nearly killed me two months ago. After Riley put me in the hospital, a social worker got involved and set me up with a place to live and a job. Which is how I ended up working here at the diner.
Pulling myself back together, I straighten my uniform, wash my hands and run cool water over my face before heading back out through the swinging door and into the dining room. My eyes scan the room. With the exception of Laura behind the counter, it’s empty. I feel hope rush out of me as I realize that Mikah is no longer in the diner. Turning to Laura, I ask her, "Did he leave?" I can hear the disappointment in my voice and hope Laura doesn’t catch it.
She just nods, so I grab the tub and head toward the table to clear off our plates. His is untouched; he never ate his food. Come to think of it, I never gave him his bill. Damn it all to hell, how am I going to pay for all of this? Irritation courses through me, and I turn back to Laura. "You let him leave without his bill?"
She shrugs. "He said he left the money on the table. I figured he would leave enough to cover it. Lord knows he can afford it." She goes back to wiping down the counter.
I turn back to the table. Man, he really didn’t touch his food at all. I place the back of my fingers on top of the fries. They’re ice cold. Jeez, how long was I out? I start gathering up the dishes and putting them in the tub. When I go to grab the plate I’d been eating off of, I see that something is sticking out from under it. I go to place the plate in the tub and nearly drop it.
FOUR
Sitting under the plate is a hundred dollar bill with a business card paperclipped to it. But when I pick it up, I realize there’s more here than a hundred dollar bill. I pull the paperclip off to find four additional bills folded together — five hundred dollars in all — and a piece of paper. I slide into the booth, my hand covering my mouth and tears streaming down my face.
I suppose I should feel joy or relief about being given this much money, but all I can feel is indignation at the fact that he feels I'm some charity case. I unfold the small piece of paper that was tucked in with the bills. It’s a note.
Vivienne,
I'm sure you're angry at this money, but please, don't be. Consider it a tip for a job well done and please, call me. I've attached my card.
-Mikah
I look at his business card. Its elegant silver lettering practically jumps off of the sleek black card.
Mikah Blake – CEO, MSB Enterprises
There is a phone number — maybe an office number — a website, an address downtown and an email address. I flip the card over. On the back, in the same handwriting as the note, are two phone numbers. A cell phone? Home phone?
I shrug and wipe the dampness from my cheeks. I'm not going to call him. I'm going to pay for the meal, take twenty percent for tip and find a way to give him back the rest. Despite the fact that this is enough to cover all of my rent this month, I cannot and will not accept a four hundred and seventy dollar tip from a man that sees fit to feed and take care of me.
The rest of the night passes by slowly, which is normal for a Thursday. We close at midnight and are out the door by five after because we spent the last hour of the shift cleaning everything up. I head out the front door with Laura, and she locks up.
"See you tomorrow," Laura says as I head toward the bus stop at the corner. "You want a ride?" Laura's typical nightly question.
"No, I got it. Thanks," I say and keep walking. It’s early enough I can still catch the twelve ten west toward my apartment.
As I wait for the bus, my eyes droop, exhaustion registering. Luckily I only have to wait a few minutes. Al, the driver, opens the door and I climb up.
"Good evening, Ms. Vivienne."
"Hi, Al," I say sleepily as I put my money in the machine.
"How was business?"
I shrug. "Slow, as usual." I turn toward the back of the bus and let out a sigh of relief. It's empty. "Seems pretty slow for you, too, tonight."
"It sure is."
I grab a seat right behind him. Al is getting on in years, but he obviously loves his job. I asked him once why he drives the late night routes, and he said it was so he could see me. But I think it has more to do with protecting us girls that ride at this time of the night. Usually there are several of us on the bus: some traveling home from work, others looking for their next fix. Going anywhere at this hour can be scary. Fortunately for me, my bus stop is just around the corner from my shitty studio apartment in South Minneapolis.
I fight to keep my eyelids open as the bus rumbles along. Almost home. Almost to my mattress.
"Vivienne, honey, you’re home," I hear Al say, and my eyes fly open.
"Thanks, Al." I gather up my things and step off the bus.
"Have a good night, Vivienne."
"You too, Al," I say as he closes the door. I watch as he pulls away, and I quickly make my way around the corner without drawing attention to myself. The street is dirty and it smells like trash and rotting food. Graffiti covers the walls around me.
I see my shadow lengthen as a car comes up from behind me, and I pick up the pace a little. Cars on the street this time of night, in this neighborhood, usually mean someone is up to no good. The car passes me as I reach my door. I glance up and see that it is a sleek black Mercedes. I scowl at it. What’s a fancy car like that doing in this neighborhood? I push past the blue door and into the entryway and unlock the inner door.
The hallways are an uneven brownish yellow, almost like they're stained with nicotine. Judging from the smell, that’s probably exactly what it is. The garbage that lines the basebo
ards of the entrance and the stairs is disgusting, but tonight I don't have the energy to care.
I shuffle up the stairs to the third floor. When I reach my door, I unlock the two deadbolts, turn the handle and slip into my apartment. I shut the door with my butt and lean back against it.
There is always a sigh of relief when I get home, knowing that I made it safely yet again. I've been harassed more than a few times on the streets and the bus, even in the less than twenty-five feet between the bus stop and the door.
I lock the two deadbolts and the knob and slide the chain. To be honest the door is so flimsy that someone could easily just kick it in, but the locks help me feel a little bit better.
My apartment is one room, a closet, and a bathroom. The kitchen consists of a small oven with a two-burner cook top, a half-size refrigerator, a small counter and sink. A few cupboards lie as empty and as useless as the fridge.
I head to the sink, grab a glass and fill it with water. I swallow it down quickly and refill it. As I drink half of the new glass, I unbutton my uniform with my other hand. When I reach the apron I put the glass down.
My hands slip into the apron pockets, and I feel the wad of cash from Mikah. My heart sinks. I can't keep this. It's not mine, and I'm nobody's responsibility. I walk the two steps over to my bed and fish around for my notebook between the mattress and the pallets that raise my bed off of the floor. I tear a blank piece of paper from the notebook and throw the money, the paper, and a pen from my apron onto the counter.
Then I take off my apron, smock and shoes. Looking down at my semi-naked form, I can see that small bump rising between my hips. It looks bigger tonight, no doubt because I've actually eaten a meal. Trying hard not to dwell on my swelling abdomen and the reasons for my current state of affairs, I shed my bra and panties and stumble into the bathroom. When I release the bun atop my head, the thick, curly red waves fall down my back and tickle my hips.