by Sasha Leone
Fucking hell, I haven’t had the flu since I was a teenager, but now it’s smacking me over the head like a bully making up for lost time. I can’t afford to be sick. This is the second day in a row I’ve spent on my knees in the dingy bathroom of my new job at the Mars diner uptown.
A pang of dread works its way through my heart as I pray that the customer I just abandoned, mid-order, isn’t going to complain to my new boss.
Ms. Lindsay is nothing like Mrs. Cheng. The hard-nose, bitter woman is a chain manager through and through, and there’s not an empathetic bone in her body. This is purely business to her—she didn’t even give Carlos time off to grieve his uncle last Sunday. In fact, she gave him a choice: go and never come back, or stay and keep your job a little longer. He didn’t have much of a choice, and neither do I. Things are as fucked up as ever, and the prospect of not being able to pay the bills is almost becoming a matter of life and death, especially as the city continues to descend into crime-filled chaos.
“You okay, Nia?” I hear Carlos’s voice come from the other side of the half-closed bathroom door. I’m so thankful that we were both somehow able to get a new job at the same place. After Chelly’s was forced to temporarily close down, my biggest worry, besides the money, was not being able to see Carlos as much anymore. I don’t know what I’d do without my best friend.
“Just trying to puke up the last bit of poison,” I try to joke, before another wave of nausea kicks my gut and forces me to lurch into the toilet.
Thank god Ms. Lindsey isn’t here yet. She usually doesn’t make it into work until around noon, and so, as long as no customer complaints come over the wire, I should be safe from her scorn. I don’t know if I can handle being told off right now. My whole life is so much more fragile than it was even just two months ago. I’ve hit new low-points and I’m feeling just about ready to shatter.
Life sure is a motherfucker, and she’s got a mean left hand... and a mean right hand too—I don’t ever want to find out what her kick feels like.
The bathroom door creaks behind me and Carlos steps in. The cook smells so strongly of food that I can’t help but throw up my guts again.
Fuck me, I just can’t catch a break. This is what I get for ever daring to dream...
I quickly shoo that thought from my mind. Don’t you ever think about that man ever again! I order myself. A sneer comes over my dripping lips and I force myself back onto my feet. At least the anger is good for getting me going again—it’s all I can ask for at a time like this.
“You think it’s from the food here?” Carlos asks, as he helps me wash up. His eyes dart back and forth between me and the door. Mars isn’t Chelly’s. There are two other waitresses and another cook who work the same shifts as us, and there’s no room for descent. As hard as it was being on my own out on the floor before, it’s way more stressful having to always watch my back for saboteurs and gossips.
I shrug, splashing a bit of water on my flushed faced. “It has to be, I’ve barely eaten anything for the past two weeks, other than the leftovers I can manage to sneak when Betty and Agatha aren’t looking.
“Damn, I don’t envy you at all, girl,” Carlos teases, leaning against the bathroom’s white brick wall. “At least Allan’s cool about sharing the spoils.”
I shudder at Allan’s name. He may give Carlos all the scraps the two can eat, but he gives me the creeps. The sickly thin, patchy-haired, no-lipped chef never seems to be able to do anything but stare when I’m around. It makes me so uncomfortable, but I can’t afford to complain. He’s been here longer than I have, and Ms. Lindsay has made it all too clear that I’m expendable.
I don’t feel expendable...
“Jones!” Agatha’s voice calls from the kitchen.
Shit. I need to get back to work. “Thanks, baby,” I whisper, instinctively kissing Carlos on the cheek.
“Ew!” he screams playfully, careful to keep his voice down.
Oh yeah, the puke. “Sorry!”
“See you after work,” he calls after me, as I wipe my mouth with my lily-white server’s uniform and rush back to the floor.
“I’m not taking your customers,” Agatha grumbles as I rush past her. I try not to pay her any mind. She’s a grumpy old lady, and speaking to her makes me want to get out of here almost more than I want the money I get paid to stay.
I incessantly apologize to my customer, but he looks suspicious. I’m not surprised by his reaction. I can’t imagine I was very subtle when I covered my mouth and ran from him before he could give me his full order. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would know that I had just thrown up. I try to keep my distance, so he doesn’t smell the incident on my breath. I’ll take some mouthwash when I’m finished with him.
“Another waitress already took my order,” he says, after I finish groveling.
I sigh. I’m really being dug into a hole here. The only reason I got this job in the first place was because this uptown diner needed some extra bodies to keep up with the uptick in service.
The well-to-do area that I’m working in now is nothing like Chinatown—I should be glad, but it’s hardly an upgrade, considering the circumstances. For almost the past two months, most of the city has been on absolute fire from gang violence. Some news reports are saying it’s because of a turf dispute, others are saying that it’s a power struggle, no one really knows—the only thing that’s clear is that there’s a civil war happening out on the streets, every hour of every day.
It’s gotten so bad that some parts of the city have had to essentially go into lockdown. Chinatown is one of those places. When a bomb went off on the corner of Baker street, even Mrs. Cheng, one of the hardest working people I’ve ever known, decided that life was more important than her business. She wasn’t alone.
Almost all of the shops in the poorer parts of town have been closed down. So many people are struggling, but the areas where the rich and the powerful live have been cordoned off from the violence by a shield of police-officers. It’s outrageous. The poor are left to defend themselves, while those that already have all the money and security are prospering, because the only businesses that can risk remaining open are the ones that they own.
Mars is one of those places. It’s a higher-end diner chain that’s got at least one location in almost every major city in the country. I’d never eaten here before I got the job, but I’d say, for my money, Chelly’s is way better. Still, Mrs. Cheng is barely holding onto her restaurant by a thread, while Mars is booming, because if anyone wants the diner experience, they have to come to the one part of town that’s not on fire.
I waddle back to the counter and try to catch my breath before I’m called on by another customer. Even with two other waitresses, there’s hardly half the down time here compared to Chelly’s. The customers are more demanding at Mars too. It’s like everyone has someplace else to be other than here, and they can’t wait to get out. The only difference between them and me is that I can’t afford to leave.
Still, I’m thankful that I have a roof over my head and an apartment to go home to at the end of every shift. By some miracle, my area hasn’t been hit so hard by the violence that’s engulfing the rest of the city. It’s a low-income neighbourhood, but there seems to be some invisible forcefield taking the brunt of the action. Besides getting this job, it’s the most luck I’ve had since he-who-shall-not-be-named came into, and then promptly disappeared from, my life.
Still, even the safety of my little sanctuary is coming at a price. People have been taking note of the relative peace on my block, and as a result, rent is skyrocketing. My lease is up next month, and I’m trying my hardest not to think about it, because at this rate, I’m not going to be able to afford to stay.
It’s a problem that I’m pushing down the road as far as possible. I have a safe place to stay now, and I have a job—but for how long? I have no idea.
“Bill, please!” A bald man in a sharp business suit calls to me. I snap out of my worried daydre
aming and let him know that I’m on it. At Mars, I’m forced to work on my people skills far more than I ever was at Chelly’s. The ‘fed-up waitress’ was almost part of the charm at the gritty diner, but here, people expect the friendliest service around, and I’ve found that if I give them exactly what they want, I can make more in tips than I ever could at Chelly’s. It’s a silver lining to the extra pressure of feeling constantly watched by Betty, Agatha, Ms. Lindsay, and Allan.
Sure enough, the busy bald man leaves me a decent tip. I didn’t almost puke in his presence, so it’s almost expected. I’m not so confident about the customer who saw me rush to the bathroom, though. If I’m going to be able to afford my rent next month, I’m really going to have to stop getting nauseous at work.
Was Carlos right? Is it the scraps that I’m scrounging up here that are making me sick? I made it almost two weeks without an incident, why am I getting hit with this food poisoning now?
If it even is food poisoning...
I don’t have a fever, and I haven’t been feeling so awful after I finally get the ‘sickness’ out of my stomach.
“Can I get the check?” someone else asks in my allotted area of the diner. I nod, feeling physically better, but just as mentally worn out as ever. I need to figure out what’s making me sick, or else I’m not going to have a toilet to puke in.
“Feeling better?” Carlos asks, as we step out into the cool, early-spring night. I’ve barely had a chance to talk to him since our little pow-wow in the bathroom earlier. We were so swamped that I only ever got to speak with strangers, and, even though I was surrounded by people all day, I felt lonely without my best friend to chat with.
“I’ll live,” I chuckle, leaning on Carlos’s shoulder for support. Truth is, I’m beat. My feet are sore and my muscles ache and my mind is heavy with worry. I need a good night’s sleep bad; I can only hope I’m exhausted enough to get it.
I appreciate the peace that surrounds us on our walk to the subway station. There’s no threat of theft or violence in this little slice of Eden among the hellfire. An army of policemen stand guard around these grounds. It’s unfair, but at least I get to benefit from it in some small way.
“This is the second time you’ve had to rush to the bathroom at the beginning of your shift in two days,” Carlos points out. “I don’t remember you ever being sick at Chelly’s...” There’s an implication in his voice that I’m not quite grasping.
“Food poisoning?” I try to guess. I know that Carlos loathes Ms. Lindsay, and by extension, Mars. Could he be thinking of some kind of lawsuit? How sweet would it be if we could get paid not to work? But we’d never win. We’re not supposed to eat the scraps in the first place, and even if we were, there are so many repeat customers at the diner that they can’t possibly be getting food poisoning on a regular basis, otherwise, why would they ever come back?
I feel Carlos studying me from up close. “What!?” I ask, impatiently. I’m not exactly in the mood for any more guessing games.
Carlos chooses his next words carefully. “Have you, uh, been ‘seeing’ anyone lately,” he asks, making air quotes around his pronunciation of the word ‘seeing’.
I squint my eyes at the bleach-blonde, dark-skinned cook. “How dare you!” I mock, with exaggerated offence. “You know I’m a good Christian girl. Do you see a ring on my finger?” I stretch out my fingers and Carlos studies them playfully, before taking on a more serious tone.
“I did see you wearing a flashy silver bracelet about a month and a half ago.”
An arrow rips through my heart. I almost buckle over on the spot. I don’t think about that man anymore. I hold back the snarl from my lips. Asshole.
“Well, have you seen it on my wrist since?” I snap back. “Whoever gave it to me must have disappeared just as quickly as I stopped wearing it.”
Carlos fans two open palms at me like I’m a wild horse. “Easy there, girl. I was just asking. After all, you know what they call it when you keep getting sick in the morning...”
It takes me a second to realize what Carlos is getting at, and when it hits me, I’m nearly floored. “No...” I whisper out-loud, more to myself than to him. My sore muscles turn into heavy stones and threaten to pull me to the ground.
I try to fight the thought, but before I can doubt it any longer, the clarity of my situation confronts me, head-on.
When was the last time I even had my period?
I can’t remember. Life has been so chaotic for the past 6 or so weeks that I haven’t even thought to think about it. It definitely doesn’t help that I’d almost felt drunk with excitement that night—
I stop myself. No... I won’t think about him! He doesn’t deserve my attention.
Not even if Carlos is right...?
“There’s no way!” I shout, startling a passerby. I’m trying to convince myself more than I am Carlos, but it’s not working either way. It only took one sentence from him to threaten to turn my whole world upside down.
“You don’t think we should make sure?” he asks, rubbing my shoulder and trying to calm me down.
I desperately try to let him ease me, but I’m suddenly shivering like it’s the middle of winter again.
How had this thought not already crossed my mind? Did we even use protection that night? We must have fucked a hundred times... and I don’t remember a hundred rubbers. Was I so drunk with lust and excitement that I’d forget something so vital? And not only in the moment, but for weeks after the fact, too?
How could I possibly be so stupid?
... is it possible that I was filled with more than just lust that night?
I bite my lip and turn away from my own thoughts.
“Come on,” Carlos says softly, leading me down the street. “There’s a drug store up here. It’s on me.”
18
Nia
It’s fucking positive. Are you fucking kidding me!?
After all I’ve been through, now this is thrown at my feet!?
I must have been a right bastard in my old life, because I’m sure getting the shit’s end of the stick in this one.
I can’t stop cursing myself as I pace back and forth in my bathroom. The positive pregnancy test sits on the edge of my sink like a gun aimed at all my hopes and dreams.
I can barely afford to keep myself alive, how am I ever going to support a baby!?
My heart races at a thousand miles per minute and my lungs can barely keep up with my short, panicked breaths. This isn’t the kind of excitement I was looking for when I gave myself to that vanishing beast on that cold night all those weeks ago.
My god, will my child be an alley baby!?
The first time we fucked was while we were on the run from the cops, in that little alley, with me pinned against a brick wall. Fuck. What will I tell people?
Not the truth, obviously. We fucked plenty of times after that, in a huge bed on the massive floor of a luxurious loft. That’s what I’ll tell people if they tie me down and torture an answer out of me. He will become some rich asshole who jetted off to Saudi Arabia or something right after he ravished me.
Oh, what’s that? No, he didn’t leave me any money. I just got this shitty bracelet!
I try desperately to calm myself down.
Who’s even to say I’m going to have this child? How expensive can it be to get rid of something like this? ... Can I afford it? And if I can, will I be able to bear that cross for the rest of my life?
I’m filled with questions, but empty of answers. It feels like the world’s closing in around me. Can you suffocate on stress?
I try to tell myself that there’s nothing I can do right now. Nothing’s open at this hour, and even if it was, I’d have to walk through a warzone just to get to it. If I opened up my window right now, I know I’d hear the distant sound of gunshots and police sirens. If I was just a little crazier, I might think that it all sounded like fireworks and Champaign explosions, celebrating the wonderful news of my pregnancy.
It’s too bad I’m not that crazy... yet.
The violence outside makes me even more worried about the choice I have to make. This city is so filled with death, how could I possibly justify bringing a little life into it all? I might not even be able to afford to renew my lease next month.
A homeless single mother? I sneer at the thought of becoming a statistic.
I try to hold onto that feeling. If there’s one thing that can keep me from falling off life’s edge, it’s anger. I can use anger. Controlled rage is the best fuel for determination, and right now I need all the determination I can get.
My eyelids flutter and my feet ache as I shuffle from the bathroom towards my bedroom.
Wait, no scratch that, I think, trying to control the fire growing inside of me. Right now, what I really need is some sleep. I’m not coming up with any solutions in this state of mind. I’m exhausted, both physically, mentally and emotionally. There’s only one way out of this mess, and it’s by getting through the night first. For now, I still have a job, I still have a roof over my head, I still have a friend in Carlos.
I sit down on my creaky mattress and my bed moves just enough to shake my rickety bedside table. It droops forward on its wobbly leg, ever so slightly, and the bottom drawer opens halfway up. A book slides out of the way and, under my table lamp, I can see the shimmer of something I’ve been trying to forget—I still have that goddamn silver bracelet.
Hadn’t that beast who’d given it to me once suggested I pawn it off for money? I wonder how much it’s actually worth? Maybe enough to pay my first and last months rent? Maybe enough to stop having to worry about a baby...?
Sleep, Nia. You need sleep, not more questions.
I try to listen to the only rational voice still left in my head as I hug my pillow and try to will myself to sleep. Just make it to tomorrow. You only have to make it to tomorrow.
“Where’d you get this?” the grizzled pawn shop clerk’s voice is deep and heavy with an accent.
