by Maggie Twain
I lean very deliberately forwards and link my fingers. “So now you’ve changed your tune, huh?” I shake my head sadly. “And all it took was for me to show up in a Ferrari. Now you have time for me, right?”
“Sir…”
I hold up a hand to cut him off. Both women are on the verge of tears. I feel bad for them, they’re slightly more innocent, but they still did nothing to help me before. “In case it hasn’t sunk in yet, I now own your asses, which means that now, I’m your boss.” I reach into the draw and pull out their pink slips. “You’re all fired.” Ah, that sweet satisfaction and I take a second to inhale it before looking each of them in the eye. “I just hope none of you ever have to suffer the tragedy of homelessness, to know how it feels to be treated like a piece of shit.” I throw the papers at them. “Now get out before I have you arrested for trespassing.”
They slink out the building via the back door and then I sink back into my chair, clasp my hands behind my head and exhale a beautiful breath.
But I know that within a week the urge will return and I’ll need to do it all over again.
Chapter Three
Angel
“I don't know why she hates me so much, all I know is that she does and she’s made that absolutely clear,” I blubber to Clare in the staffroom, drenching my sandwich in tears. “Everybody knows it, that I’ve been singled out, which is why everyday people act surprised when I return.” This morning, however, had been close because I very nearly didn’t bother. It had been the sight of mom perched over the budget, biting her nails that had forced the decision upon me. “I thought she was bad on my first day but she’s just getting worse and worse, and there’s no telling where it might lead.” That was the thing. If she wants me to quit so badly, for whatever reason, and nothing’s worked so far, to where must she stoop next?
“You can’t quit, babe, that’s exactly what she wants,” Clare grabs a tissue and wipes my face, “and she’d love nothing more than to see you like this. So stop crying.”
“I just don't know what to do. Why has she made it her mission to make my life so miserable?" I sigh into my hands and not for the first time these last few days discussing my feelings with my best friend, I really do feel close to quitting. The problem is nobody else is hiring in this small town, at least not an inexperienced young girl like me and besides, my family really needs what little money I pull in. I can’t risk unemployment.
After my first day, I’d purchased a new iron and spent thirty minutes making my uniform beyond perfect. It wasn’t enough though because she’d managed to find problems with my mascara, loose strands of hair, perfume she said was too overpowering and apparently, even my smile isn’t broad enough. Every day, new rules and regulations appear miraculously on the noticeboard and every day, I’ve contravened at least one of them, which means no tips for me. After two weeks, I’ve yet to receive any tips at all.
No, I’ve long since given up expecting to receive any tips. Yesterday, Clare offered to give me half of hers, and even Ben has tried giving me some of his money, but I've always waved it away. This is my problem and I will deal with it in my own way, or not.
Clearly, she wants me to quit and although I've come very close on several occasions, the larger part of me does not want to allow her to beat me. Besides, if it wasn't me being bullied by my supervisor, it would only be the next person. Or so I assumed. "Why do you think she hates me anyway?"
Clare puts a hand on my shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "Because you're the prettiest, silly. Some women are just like that, I mean, she's not exactly much of a looker, is she? She has to take out all of that bitterness the universe has thrown at her on somebody and you're the obvious candidate because, you know, you look like you."
I know I'm not the ugliest of girls but I'm certainly not so beautiful that it should merit my being treated in such a way. “But … but what about Maria?” I ask, referring to the girl who works weekends and who’s far more beautiful than I.
“Ah, you mean Maria Carrington? The answer’s kinda in the name there, babe.”
“What?” My mouth plunges open. “Mr. Carrington has a daughter?”
“Um, niece.”
I laugh. Thank God for Clare and her ability to cheer me up when I’m down.
I quickly finish my tear-sodden sandwich because I only have five minutes before I need to be back on duty and I still have to ensure my hair is perfect, my uniform isn’t scrunched after having sat down for 10 minutes and that there’s no lettuce stuck between my teeth. After getting all that out of the way, I run back down to the restaurant floor. The clock says I’m a minute early, better safe than sorry, and it looks like there’s a late lunchtime rush just entering.
Alma and I make brief eye contact and immediately she checks her watch. Her lips turn down because being late is one thing she can’t berate me for, at least not on this occasion, but that doesn’t stop her from pacing over towards me regardless.
"I need you on top form today, missy, because that man who’s just walked through the door is none other than Mark Harrison, or Mr. Harrison to you, and since I’ve little doubt that you have absolutely no idea who that is, let me tell you. Mark Harrison is our local member of congress, which means you’ll be extra diligent when dealing with him.” She begins rubbing her chin. “On second thoughts, maybe I ought to switch you with one of the better girls? Hmmm, no, Janice just went on her break. No, you’ll have to do.”
I think she would rather enjoy the thought of me embarrassing myself in front of such a highly esteemed diner but I will not give her that satisfaction. “I think I can handle it,” I say in a way that makes her head jerk back.
“Then go!”
I rush over to the door and Harrison immediately leers at my breasts. Of course, I’m aware men do this all the time but I’m caught totally off guard by the complete lack of discretion here. “Um, good afternoon, how many in your party?”
His friends are still coming in through the door. “Twelve,” he says, whilst managing a second to meet my eyes with his, “and we’ll have your best available table, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Yes, this way, sir,” I lead the way toward the corner and I hear him grunt from close behind.
“Not a bad piece of ass, is that, maybe I’ll see about putting her on my staff, if you know what I mean.” Two of his friends laugh as I clench up inside.
They’re all men, what looks to be a taxpayer-funded lunch with local businessmen and lobbyists, maybe even a couple other politicians. I hand them all menus and tell them I’ll return to take their orders in a few minutes.
“You can cook my pork any day.” The congressman says too loudly as I’m walking away. I’m cringing inside but Alma’s watching me keenly so I just grin and bear it. Compared to her, a few sleazy politicians are nothing.
After a few minutes, I return and take their orders, one by one. Finally, I ask Mr. Harrison what he’d like for lunch.
He again stares at my breasts but his eyes wander further down and there’s no way I’m not supposed to have noticed. “Today, I’m aching for a side of beef.”
I think … I mean … I assume I know the distasteful innuendo he’s trying to make but I play ignorance and write it down because, well, what else can I do. And it’s not like our uniforms are alluring in the slightest. We look like Victorian maids.
“And for dessert, I think I’ll pop a few cherries.” Several of his colleagues again laugh at that, but at least there are a few who don’t find the odious man funny at all.
I write it down, “thanks,” and walk away biting my tongue. If it wasn’t what he really wanted then he has nobody to blame but himself.
Alma’s looking at me funny and she makes a come here gesture with her finger, exactly how a mother does to her five-year-old child. She points to my underarms. “Have you not seen yourself today, madam?”
It’s at this point I notice the sweat, no doubt as a result of having to take the congressman’s order, and immedi
ately I know I’ve cost myself yet another day’s tips. Our blouses are gray, which means the stains are very visible. “I’m sorry, I…”
“You know the rules, girl, if you cannot present yourself as per the requirement of this restaurant, then you will be put on a warning.” It’s not even something she needs to add to the noticeboard, on this occasion she has me for real.
“I’m sorry,” I can feel the tears starting to well from behind my eyes, I tried, I really did, but nothing I do is ever good enough. It looks like she’s won, this horrible woman is about to get the satisfaction of seeing me break, and I’m just about to lose it, to untie my apron and throw it to the floor when Alma’s gaze moves over my shoulder. After a second, her face scrunches up into a look of utter distaste. "What the fuck has the cat dragged in?”
I’m shocked, she might be a nasty woman but never before have I heard her speak like that. I can’t help but turn around and when I do, there’s what appears to be a homeless man shuffling inside the most upmarket restaurant in town.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Alma grunts under her breath as the man draws glances from the nearest diners. A young woman covers her nose.
I actually find the situation quite amusing, not only for annoying Alma, but he probably just saved me from hastily quitting on the spot. Naturally, I already know that I’m about to be assigned to deal with the man, to eject him from the premises, and so instead I take the initiative and wander over in his direction, thinking to be extra pleasant towards the man just to get one up on my awful supervisor. It might be the only chance I’ll ever get.
I bounce straight up to him and give the poor man my best smile, which I don't have to fake. "Good afternoon, sir, would that be a table for one?"
Up close, he looks a heck of a lot younger than what I’d assumed from a distance, what with his filthy hair, beard and clothing, and I can’t help but think that with a little tender loving care, he’d be extremely presentable. His frame is astonishing for someone who probably lives on a diet of soup and donations. He’s looking straight at me, his pupils dilate within orange irises, and for a moment he’s lost his voice. There’s a very prominent stench of manure, as well as something else I cannot even begin to describe, and I can only wonder what the man’s story is. Someone nearby coughs.
Finally, he shakes his head and croaks, “yes, dear, table for one, if that’s not a problem?” It was all in the way he said it that made me think he’s almost expecting to be turfed out, but I couldn’t do that.
“What? That’s no problem at all, sir, you’re our valued guest,” I pat him reassuringly on the shoulder and instantly regret it because now my hand’s sticky with something gross. “Let me show you to a table.”
For some reason, he jerks in surprise and then grunts, “you’re, um, too kind, miss.”
I use the opportunity to take a quick glance over at Alma, whose mouth has plunged wide open. “Don’t mention it, the pleasure’s all mine.” And it really was too. There’s an empty table beside Congressman Harrison so naturally, that’s where I seat the customer. Two birds with one stone. I pull out the chair. “Please, let me take your jacket.” I might regret this.
He turns slowly around to stare at me and I definitely notice his eyes brighten when he takes a second good look at my face and for a moment he appears unable to move or even speak. Finally, he manages to shake himself back to awareness and with my assistance, begins to wriggle out of the stinky overcoat.
For sure, it smells worse than just about anything I’ve encountered in my entire life and after placing it around the back of his seat, I can distinctly feel a residue coating my fingers, almost like I’ve spent the last hour stroking a dog. His brown shirt, I suspect, used to be white, and is torn in at least three spots.
Judging from his broken and split boots, and hair that doesn't look like it's been washed in months, I seriously doubt this man has the funds to pay for a meal at Carrington’s, although that's not for me to judge. My job is simply to take each customer as they come.
I notice people are now staring at me, not just my colleagues but patrons as well. There’s a loud cough from close by. “Smells like congress after a particularly rigorous debate on sewerage. Hey, waitress, why’d you let him in?”
I ignore the congressman and hand the customer a menu. “What would you like today, sir?” I use the exact same enthusiastic tone as I do with every other customer.
He’s looking at me funny, like he can't quite believe I'm being civil to him. "What? I mean," he shakes his head, blinks, and then shakes his head again, "I mean, I’ll have a coffee to begin with, and some milk, on a saucer, with a teaspoon in a mug, and also the fillet steak, cooked, with roast potatoes and asparagus, please.”
Now, this just happens to be the most expensive item on the menu, and now I truly suspect he’s having a joke at everyone's expense, especially mine, but I remain professional and scribble it down, and that’s when I feel a hand on my ass, which causes me to jerk in surprise.
“I seem to recall asking to be seated at your best available table,” Congressman Harrison’s leaning back in his seat and white wine spills over the edge of his glass, “this is an important government meeting, I did not envisage having to sit beside the town tramp.”
That tramp’s gaze is now fixed on Harrison’s hand, still clutching my cheek, but then he shoots the congressman the kind of look that could shatter glass and for a moment, I fear he’s about to get up to clobber him but instead he breathes, takes a second to calm himself and glances back to me. “I’ll take the steak medium-rare, my love.”
Now I’m the one to blink in surprise because the customer sounded suddenly very different, like he’s taken a month-long detox in thirty seconds, but I shake it off and head back to the kitchen.
Alma’s mouth is hanging beautifully ajar. “Missy, have you not seen that hobo? Do you really think that creature has the means to pay for his lunch? And look, he's scaring the children.” She clasps her face in her hands. “And the congressman!”
He’s not scaring the children at all, if anything the poor guy’s a curiosity to them. He is, however, troubling Harrison, which is fine by me. I shrug. “What do you want me to do about it?” I try not to laugh because secretly, I’m loving the discomfort it’s all causing Alma, though I should probably quit while I’m ahead. “For your information, he’s a friendly man who just happens to be down on his luck, and how do you know it’s not his birthday or that maybe he found a $50 bill on the ground? Perhaps he just wants to treat himself. Does he not deserve to eat at Carrington's just because he's not Brad Pitt?”
“Enough.” She shows teeth and steps into my personal space. I hear Clare gasp from across the kitchen. "I want you to tell him to leave, right this minute."
I step away from the awful woman. “No, I refuse to do your dirty work. If you want to turf a poor man out just for his style of dress then you can do it yourself.” I jerk my jaw in the direction of the man in question and notice that he’s been watching the entire altercation with interest through the serving hatch. We briefly make eye contact from across the length of the restaurant until, distracted by something, he manages to pull away.
“Angel, I’m warning you,” Alma’s hand wraps around my wrist and now Clare bounds over from behind the computer screen, hand covering her mouth, though she wisely doesn’t say anything. This could get out of hand. Alma persists, “I don’t need much of a reason to have you fired, all it would take is one word to Mr. Carrington. Is your job really worth sacrificing for the likes of a hobo?”
It’s so unfair. I know there’s a strict dress code for the staff but there’s no such thing for the customers. Alma’s just being like this because of her usual Alma reasons. My gaze finds Clare, probably because instinctively, I’m needing support from a friendly face.
“Babe, just do what she says.”
I gasp at that. Maybe this isn’t the right line of work for me after all. I have about one second to decide what to do.
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br /> But to my astonishment, Alma strides into the restaurant herself and although I follow sheepishly after her, I’ve no doubt that five minutes from now, I’m out of a job.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she says as her face clenches up from the stench, “but I must ask you to leave.” Everybody on Harrison’s table is watching whilst he fans at his face with a napkin.
The homeless man’s gaze finds me and I shrug apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s all my fault, please don’t be mad at Alma.” I feel it my duty to make my own apology, given he was my customer.
Alma twists around looking astonished that I would defend her but turns back when the man croaks, “this is because I’m poor, isn’t it?” He shakes his head sadly. “Well, I’ll have you know, I’ve been working extra hard playing my flute on Main Street and people were generous today. I was going to eat at the shelter but thought that hey, since it’s my birthday, I’d treat myself to the first steak I’ve had since losing my home in the fire.”
It's a heartbreaking story and I feel terrible for him and angry at Alma, who has no real reason for being so mean. As usual, she just can’t help herself.
“I don’t care.” Alma folds her arms. "Sir, I will not ask you again, will you please leave."
The man rises to his feet and looks down at Alma with deliberation from his considerable height. "Are you sure this is what you want?" He asks with no small amount of gravity, for whatever reason. Again, I’m suddenly struck by his change of apparent demeanor and gravitas.
Alma nods vigorously, her face turning red from holding her breath. “Yes!”
“Then so be it.” He speaks in finality, like he’s secretly passing judgment over her and everybody else here. He gives me one final, wilting gaze, and is about to leave when…