My Pretties

by Jeff Strand

  Gertie nodded. "A customer was horrible to me. It's no big deal. I'll get used to it."

  "Which table?"

  "Eight."

  "The lady in the blue dress?"

  "Yeah."

  "She looks like a mega-bitch. Does she know you're new? You would've been shadowing Jason for your first couple of days, right?" Charlene had been off Tuesday and Wednesday. She'd spent all day Tuesday in her pajamas binge-watching television shows, and all day Wednesday helping her parents paint their house.

  "Yeah. It wasn't even something I messed up. She's just one of those people who gets off on being mean to people who can't do anything about it. But again, it's no big deal. I've been kind of discombobulated lately and I wasn't ready for that right after I started my shift. It's literally the first table I've done on my own."

  "Want me to take care of it?" Charlene asked.

  "No, that's fine. You have your own tables."

  "That's not what I meant."

  "What did you mean?"

  "Vengeance."

  Gertie gave her a "Surely you're kidding" look, then quickly seemed to realize that Charlene was serious.

  "Oh, no, no, no, that's not necessary at all. She wasn't that bad."

  "She made you cry."

  "Right. Yes, she was that bad. She's hellspawn. But, no, you don't need to do anything."

  Charlene walked over to her. "I'll be completely honest with you. This job sucks and I don't care if I get fired or not. So I'm more than happy to make your problem go away."

  "I don't want you to get in trouble."

  "I just said that I don't care if I get fired. I'm not going to stab her in the eye with a fork. This will make you feel better, I promise."

  "No. Don't do it."

  "Sorry. The train is already in motion. If you want to stop me, you'll have to tackle me."

  Charlene turned and left the back room. She walked over to the chef's station and picked up a tray that was meant for table fourteen, then strode into the dining area. She went over to table eight, where a middle-aged woman who looked like she clubbed dolphins for amusement sat across from a much older man who looked like he purchased the dolphins for her to club for amusement.

  "Your server had a family emergency and had to leave," Charlene informed them.

  The woman looked annoyed by this. The man shrugged and made a non-committal grunt.

  "Who had the lasagna?"

  "That's not our order," said the woman. To be fair, it legitimately wasn't her order, but the snotty-ass way she said this made it clear that Gertie was not exaggerating about her unpleasant nature.

  "It's not?" Charlene asked. "Are you sure?"

  "We're not senile. We remember what we ordered."

  Charlene glanced back at the kitchen. Gertie stood in the doorway, watching closely, looking very nervous about what Charlene might do. She even looked like she might regret not tackling her. Oh well.

  "Hmm. I was told to bring this plate of lasagna to you. Maybe I misheard. I can be so scatterbrained sometimes. They're forever telling me to get my head screwed on straight, but do I listen? Nope. Head's still on crooked. See?"

  She tilted her head. Then she spilled the plate of lasagna all over the front of the woman's dress.

  "Oh no!" said Charlene, as everybody in the restaurant turned to look. "Oh dear!"

  "Goddamn it!" The woman stood up. Tomato sauce, cheese, and pasta slid down her dress.

  "I'm so very sorry! I'm such a butterfingers!"

  Charlene looked back at Gertie. She was staring in shock with her hand over her mouth. Charlene couldn't tell if she was pleased or not. It didn't matter—Charlene was pleased.

  She set down the tray, then picked up a cloth napkin and dabbed at the woman's dress. "At least it wasn't spaghetti. That's way slimier. Let me help you."

  The woman swatted her hand away. "Don't bother."

  "My apologies. We won't charge you for the lasagna."

  "I didn't order the goddamn lasagna!"

  "It makes God sad when you use language like that."

  The woman gave her a look of pure, raw hatred.

  Charlene now had an extremely important decision to make. There was a large glass of Coke still on the tray. Would that be taking this too far? Or would that be taking this the exact right amount? Maybe the woman would appreciate having the warm pasta offset by an ice-cold soft drink. It might give her perky nipples. Everybody enjoyed perky nipples.

  She picked up the tray, not yet having committed to a plan of action. The Coke might remain upright. It might not. It all depended on whether or not the woman stopped scowling in the next couple of seconds.

  The woman did not stop scowling.

  Charlene, wacky klutz that she was, not-accidentally tilted the tray, causing the Coke to topple over and splash all over the woman. Because the woman was standing, the soda hit lower than the lasagna had; otherwise it might've helped rinse off some of the tomato sauce. The woman let out a magnificent yelp.

  "I can't believe I did that. It's like I forgot all of my balance training. I am so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so very sorry, ma'am."

  "You stupid idiot!"

  "Stupid idiot? I understand that you're upset, but there's no reason to be redundant."

  "I want to speak to a manager."

  "He'll be here soon. I'm sure he heard you yelp."

  * * *

  Charlene sat in the back room. Travis, the manager of Davey's Italian Grill who had nary a trace of Italian blood, sat across from her, looking stern. He rubbed his eyes, ran a hand through his graying hair, scratched the top of his head, rubbed his eyes again, sighed, and then spoke. "You know what I'm gonna say, right?"

  "I'm fired?"

  "Of course you're not fired. We're shorthanded enough as it is. I'm not gonna cut off my nose to spite my face."

  "I never understood what that meant."

  Travis looked surprised. "It means that if you're pissed off at your face, you don't cut off your nose, because it hurts."

  "Wait, I did know what that one meant. I'm thinking of having your cake and eating it too."

  "If you eat your cake, you no longer have it. You either have a piece of cake or you eat a piece of cake, but you can't do both."

  "Got it," said Charlene. "If you weren't going to say that I'm fired, what were you going to say?"

  "I'm docking your pay for the cost of her dry-cleaning bill."

  "Oh."

  "Do you agree that it's a fair consequence?"

  "I never get my clothes dry-cleaned," said Charlene. "I don't know how much it costs."

  "It's not that much."

  "Okay, good."

  "She says you did it on purpose."

  "That doesn't sound like me."

  "You're being sarcastic but it really doesn't sound like you," said Travis. "That's why I'm pretending to give you the benefit of the doubt."

  "I appreciate that."

  "She's been in here before. She's a nightmare. That doesn't mean you get to dump food on her. What if you'd injured her?"

  "With lasagna?"

  "What if she was allergic to tomatoes?"

  "I didn't get any on her bare skin."

  "But you could have. You didn't spill it on her knowing the exact trajectory the sauce would take. You spill lasagna on somebody with a tomato allergy and we've got serious legal problems."

  "That did not occur to me."

  "You're acting like this is a tongue-in-cheek conversation but I'm serious about the risk."

  "I usually can't identify the tone of our conversations."

  "This one is Angry Boss to Irresponsible Employee, but with affection."

  "Noted. It'll never happen again. I was just mad because she made the new girl cry."

  "I assigned Gertie her table on purpose. If you can survive that hag, you can handle any other customer. It was a test."

  "She would've passed. She just needed a minute to compose herself. Gertie didn't give me permission to dump the l
asagna on her. She tried to stop me, but only with words, so it didn't work."

  "You don't need to protect her. She's not getting fired, either. Pull another stunt like that, no matter how funny and satisfying, and this will be a very different conversation. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Get back to work."

  The restaurant was now in the dinner rush, so Charlene and Gertie didn't get the chance to talk. She did give Gertie a thumbs-up to show that she was still employed, although Gertie could've figured that out from the context clue that Charlene was carrying a full tray into the dining area.

  They were both scheduled to work until close. Charlene had a table that was in no hurry to leave, but they were a pleasant couple and it was fine. Around 10:30, she left the dining area, looking forward to soaking her aching body in a bubble bath. Gertie, whose last table had departed twenty minutes ago, was waiting for her.

  "So how was your first day?" Charlene asked.

  "Third day. It was very interesting."

  "This job sucks, right?"

  "Nah," said Gertie. "I only cried once. If I can get through an entire shift without stress-vomiting, it's a good job."

  "What kind of jobs did you have before this?"

  "Customer service."

  "Ah. Gotcha."

  "Anyway, I wanted to thank you for what you did. You didn't have to do that. You probably shouldn't have done that. You definitely shouldn't have done that. But I wanted to thank you the best way I know how."

  "Which is?" Charlene asked.

  "Alcoholic milkshakes."

  "Oh, hell yeah."

  "There's a place three blocks away if you're not too tired."

  "I was too tired until you said alcoholic milkshakes. Then suddenly my body was filled with a renewed energy, like I could accomplish anything, as long as it involved drinking alcoholic milkshakes."

  "Let's go."

  * * *

  They sat at the bar, each with a vanilla milkshake spiked with Bailey's Irish Cream. Gertie had downed the first half of hers at an impressive rate.

  "So how long have you been working there?" Gertie asked.

  "A few months."

  "And you don't need the job?"

  "Oh, no. I need the job. I mean, I need a job. Earlier today was what I'll call a 'reckless moment.' I'd say that it was the first one, but I'd be lying my ass off. It was maybe, I don't know...reckless moment number twenty thousand, one hundred and eighteen? Twenty thousand, one hundred and nineteen? Something like that. I tend not to do a lot of self-reflection before I act. I feel like you're the opposite."

  "Why do you think that?" Gertie asked.

  "First impression."

  "It's wrong. I'm very impulsive."

  "Okay. Good. Give me an example."

  "I've got one, but you'll think I'm insane."

  "I like insanity. Do tell."

  "I'll save it for our second round of shakes," said Gertie.

  "How the hell do you stay that skinny if you drink two milkshakes in a sitting?"

  "Lots of walking."

  "Fair enough. I'm sticking with one, though."

  "You're a cheap date."

  "Financially, maybe. Ask my ex-girlfriends about the psychological price."

  Gertie laughed. Then she frowned. "Oh, you're—I'm not—I was joking when I called it a date—that's not why I—"

  "You're straight. I get it."

  "I'm not even bi-curious. Sorry. I didn't—"

  "I didn't accept your invite so I could eat your pussy."

  Gertie didn't respond to that. The light wasn't very good in here, but Charlene assumed that her cheeks were burning bright red.

  "I'm not a predatory lesbian. I'm very much capable of forming bonds with heterosexual women, and am totally cool with the idea that there will be no munching. I assure you, I see you as just a friend and nothing more."

  "What if I was bi-curious?"

  "Still just a friend."

  "You complimented my body."

  "No, I said you were skinny. And I'd compliment Ryan Reynolds' body if he was sitting next to me. He doesn't get any snatch, either."

  "Why just a friend?"

  "Are you sure you're only on your first milkshake?"

  "It was a very strong milkshake. I should probably only have one. Why just a friend?"

  "How many tattoos do you have? None, right?"

  "One."

  "On your tit?"

  "On my ankle."

  "A skull?"

  "A manatee."

  "A manatee with fangs?"

  "No."

  "See, that's a problem. Are your nipples pierced?"

  "Ow. No."

  "That's another problem. What am I supposed to jiggle with my tongue? Also, my taste in women runs to those who are emotional black holes. You seem kind of sensitive. And I can tell that you would be a selfish lover. All receiving, no giving in return. Fingers, maybe, but I've got my own fingers."

  "I withdraw this whole line of questioning," said Gertie.

  "If you ever do decide to play for the other team, I can hook you up, but I'm afraid that our relationship will be forever platonic."

  "Sorry if I got weird."

  "Not a problem. Weirdness surrounds me."

  "Have you always known you were a lesbian?"

  "Nope."

  "When did you realize it?"

  "There was a penis in my mouth at the time."

  "I see."

  "I liked the guy it was attached to, and I recognized the aesthetic merits of this specific penis—it was very high quality—but it wasn't doing a damn thing for me. I realized I'd been lying to myself about my attraction to guys. Not long after that I decided to act on some strange squishy feelings that I couldn't quite understand, and realized that, yes, this was where I needed to be."

  "Did the guy get to finish?"

  "I gave him a handy. I'm not a monster."

  "Was your family supportive?" Gertie asked.

  "Not immediately. It's all good now."

  "How long did it take?"

  "One thing you should know about me. I will cheerfully tell you that I discovered I like girls while in the midst of a blowjob, but I don't really like to talk about myself all that much. So it's your turn. Give me an example of you being impulsive."

  Gertie slurped up the last of her milkshake. "Have you heard about the missing women?"

  "Umm, up in Hornbeam Ridge, right? Three or four of them?"

  "At least eight in the past few months if you widen the search range. Women who went out by themselves and were never heard from again. Did you know that they all have long dark hair?"

  "I did not know that." Charlene's short black hair was as punk rock as she could get away with while working in a family restaurant. Travis had never given her crap about the pink streaks or the way it was shaved on the left side, nor did he object to her nose ring. At the job interview he'd asked if she'd be willing to remove the safety pin from her eyebrow when serving customers because it sent shivers down his spine, and she'd agreed. Gertie had short blonde hair that seemed to be its natural color.

  "It's not really making it into the news stories, but I'm sure the police have noticed," said Gertie. "If it's one guy doing this, he has a definite type."

  Charlene felt like this conversation might not be headed in a fantastic direction. "Okay," she said. "When you said you were impulsive, I thought you meant in more of a 'drop everything and drive to Vegas' way."

  "I haven't told you where I'm going with this."

  "You sure haven't."

  "One of the missing women is my cousin Kimberly."

  "Oh, shit, I'm sorry."

  "She disappeared about two months ago. Kimberly is madly in love with her husband and she has two young kids. She'd never just leave. Never."

  "It's awful that they have to go through that," said Charlene. "I can't even imagine how I'd handle the not knowing part."

  "So I've been walking the streets of Hornbeam
Ridge at night, wearing a wig with long brown hair, trying to catch the guy who did it."

  They each ordered another milkshake.

  "Explain to me exactly what you're doing," said Charlene. "Because, no judgment, but you were right when you said I'd think you were insane."

  "I'm well aware that it's not one hundred percent sane," said Gertie.

  "So explain."

  "I have a stun gun and also a real gun. Every couple of nights I've been driving out to Hornbeam Ridge, putting on the wig, and walking around town for hours, hoping he'll come after me. If he does, he'll get a nasty surprise."

  "Let me get this straight," said Charlene. "You walk around after dark, wearing a...you know what, I don't need to summarize what you said. You know how it sounds."

  "I have a permit for the gun."

  "That wasn't my first question."

  "And I'm fast on the draw with the stun gun. If he came after me, I know I could defend myself. He'd be lying on the sidewalk in a puddle of his own piss, and the cops would force him to take them to the missing women."

  "What if he had a gun, too? What would you do if he just pointed a gun at you and said, 'Get in the trunk of my car, bitch,'?"

  "I've been following the stories. You can't kidnap eight different people—at least—by just pointing guns at them and giving instructions. He had to lure them somehow."

  "Or jump out at them from the shadows."

  "I'm careful."

  "Oh, yeah, you sound like The Amazing Ms. Caution. During the day, she gives safety lessons to young schoolchildren. At night, she's fucked in the head."

  "It's not a foolproof plan. But I'm not going to just hang out at home and wait for the cops to catch this guy. Not when I could be doing my part."

  "How do you know it's a guy?"

  "I don't. But when eight women with long dark hair are abducted, I tend to assume that the kidnapper is a dude."

  "Makes sense."

  "And it doesn't matter. I'll zap a chick, too."

  The bartender set their milkshakes on the counter in front of them.

  "I'll be honest," said Charlene. "I thought that me referencing pussy eating would be the most uncomfortable part of our talk."

  "So you see how I'm impulsive."

  "Um, no. You arm yourself and walk around a designated area with a specific goal in mind. It's kind of the opposite of impulsive. Dangerous, yes. Whack-a-doodle crazy, you betcha. Suicidal? Close. But not impulsive."