Something Like Normal

by Monica James

  I snatch the light bulb from his hands and climb the ladder.

  “So, who’s Quinn?” I ask while unscrewing the bulb.

  “He’s the handyman around here. Well, he does odd jobs for me, chores these old hands can no longer do,” he replies.

  Glancing down, I see him looking sadly at his widely spread fingers, the melancholy clear in his voice. I quickly screw in the light, and am down the ladder in the span of a minute, feeling the need to console him.

  “Well, in that case, you should wait for Quinn to do things like this,” I say, passing him the old light bulb. “That’s what you pay him for, right?”

  Hank laughs and places the light bulb in the trash.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, confused.

  “I don’t pay him. He does it to help me out. He’s been doing so for years,” he explains, rubbing his tired eyes.

  “Oh, well… regardless, you shouldn’t be climbing ladders. You need anything done, you tell me,” I say stubbornly.

  Hank laughs, taking a seat in his favorite brown leather seat. “You sound just like my wife, God bless her heart.”

  I freeze because I don’t know what the right protocol is. And in an instance where I wouldn’t normally care what happened, I actually find myself… curious as to what happened to Hank’s wife.

  I’m about to ask what her fate was when the phone rings, startling both Hank and I.

  Giving him a small wave as he answers the phone, I decide I’ll walk to work because it’s a nice day, and my pasty skin could do with some Vitamin D.

  As I walk down the road, a road I have memorized after only one drive, I know I’m heading in the right direction. That’s because that was my job. I was to remember which routes were the quickest, or not patrolled by the police, and I guess a good sense of direction stayed with me.

  My mind begins to wander to my dad as the long walk looms ahead of me. Surely by now someone has found him, and I wonder if they suspect me.

  It surprises me that I feel no remorse. Does that make me a bad person? I remember watching one of those crime shows, where a psychologist was talking about different personality types. She said that studies have shown some people with personality disorders don’t experience ‘normal’ reactions to things such as death and pain. At the moment, I’m really questioning if maybe there’s something wrong with me, because when I think about what I did to my dad, I feel absolutely nothing.

  Lost in my own little world, I’m not watching where I’m walking and stray a little too close to the road. I’m walking a pretty deserted stretch, and haven’t passed a car in a while. But that changes when a carful of college kids in a red Jeep, comes speeding down the road, driving way too close to the shoulder, scaring the bejesus outta me.

  I jump to safety but trip, falling ass first into a patch of grass.

  The Jeep beeps at me and the cocky male driver sticks his head out of the window yelling, “Watch where you’re going, freak!”

  They’re gone before I can come up with a creative come back. But I memorize their license plate, which is BRAD1, just in case I ever see them again, and know whose tires I’ll be letting down.

  I pick myself up and dust off my, no doubt, grass stained ass. Oh well, I’m sure there are worse things that could happen.

  I can think of one.

  ***

  Thankfully, I’m not late for my first day of work, regardless of my little mishap. I walk up the busy sidewalk, and bless the laws of physics when I see the offending Jeep, parked illegally in a handicapped space, not too far up ahead.

  I am so tempted to reach for my flick knife, but refrain when I see a lady holding the hand of a child licking an ice cream. Most of it is spilling onto her pink sweater and tiny hands, and as they walk toward me, I can’t help but wish I had a mom to hold my hand when I was her age.

  Giving them a small smile, I make my way to the diner, because normal people don’t go around slashing people’s tires.

  Setting those thoughts aside, I push through the diner’s doors and am confronted by a bouncing Tabitha.

  “Hi, Paige!” she says excitedly, and I’m afraid she’s going to hug me.

  I quickly slip my backpack off my shoulder and flip it to my front, covering my chest so I’m hug proof.

  Tabitha ignores my stupidity and links her arm through mine, chatting away animatedly as we begin walking.

  “Tristan told me I was to show you the ropes, and I can’t wait. I’ve been working here for years, since I was sixteen actually, and I’m nineteen now, so wow… that’s a long time.”

  Nodding while attempting to keep up with her rambling, I’m not really listening to her because I feel ridiculous. I’m hugging my backpack to my chest, awkwardly trying to link arms with her like it’s something I’m comfortable with.

  “So for the first half of your shift, you’ll be working with me.” She smiles widely, and I can see that her two bottom teeth are a little crooked, which makes her smile all the more friendly.

  Tabitha has such a pleasant, welcoming face. I wish I could be like her and not feel like a total phony. Maybe if I hang around her long enough, her vibrancy will rub off on me.

  Looking at her high ponytail bouncing with each energetic step she takes, and the way her eyes light up when she looks at me, I seriously doubt it.

  “You can leave your bag back here,” she says as we enter a small locker room and bathroom.

  She jars open a small, grey locker, which is too high for her short frame, as she stands up on her tippy toes to reach it.

  Standing off to the side, I’m still clutching my backpack to my chest. Wow, Mia. If this scenario doesn’t scream, ‘weirdo,’ then I don’t know what does.

  Tabitha looks down at my bag, then up at me, smiling.

  “It’s okay, it’ll be safe in here. It’s a combo lock, and no one but you, me, and Alice come back here.”

  I give her a small nod, but don’t budge.

  “What’s inside there, anyway? Your most prized possessions?” she jokes.

  Oh you know, just my gun, mace, and real ID, I adlib in my head, but instead reply, “I brought a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, as I didn’t know what the uniform was.”

  Tabitha looks me up and down, taking in my blue denim shorts, black Harley Davison t-shirt and scuffed boots.

  “Well, you can leave on your shoes and shorts, but you have to wear…” She leaves the sentence hanging as she reaches into a small cupboard behind her, producing a white t-shirt.

  “This,” she finishes.

  Sitting on top of the shirt is a nametag that reads, ‘Paige.’

  “Oh, this is mine?” I ask, looking at her confused.

  Tabitha wrinkles up her nose and giggles. “Yes, silly, your name is Paige, isn’t it?”

  Well…

  I leave the question unanswered, as for some untold reason, I feel awful lying to her.

  I give her a small nod while placing my backpack into the locker and shutting the door, making sure to lock it afterwards.

  “Thanks,” I say as she places the t-shirt and nametag into my arms.

  “No worries. Go change and I’ll meet you outside,” she says cheerfully, and leaves me to do my thing.

  Taking off my worn t-shirt, I can’t believe I’m slipping on a white, fitted t-shirt that reads, ‘Bobby Joe’s’ in bold red letters.

  I look… normal.

  Who would have thought Mia Lee could do normal?

  I remind myself that my name is not Mia, as the slip up with Tabitha could have been costly if she wasn’t so trustworthy.

  Looking at myself in the full-length mirror, I frown as I hate the person staring back at me. I’m too skinny and even though this t-shirt is a size small, it still hangs off me. So I decide, then and there, I need to get to a gym to bulk up.

  Pinning on my nametag, I feel like a total impostor when the name ‘Paige’ stares back at me. Brushing those thoughts aside, I take my first step to becoming Paige Cassidy, the wa
itress.

  With my eyes lowered, I walk out of the locker room, looking at my feet, because I can’t face the people I am about to serve. If I was to admit why, it’s because I’m nervous.

  Actually, I’m petrified.

  Delivering drugs to junkies, businessmen, and doctors was never an issue, because it was a transaction we both wanted over with as quickly as possible. But waiting on tables and pretending to be normal is much scarier than dealing with drug addicts.

  What if my customers look at me? Like really look at me, and see that I’m a fraud? What if they look at me and smell my desperation of trying to fit in?

  With those unsettling thoughts plaguing my mind, and my eyes staring at my scuffed boots, I fail to see where I’m going and clumsily bump into a hard chest.

  “Shit!” I cuss, lifting my eyes, meeting a pair of amused golden brown ones.

  Tristan.

  “Hi,” he says, his hands supporting my upper arms, which he thankfully drops once I’ve steadied myself.

  “Sorry,” I reply, making a face.

  “Hey, no harm, no foul,” he replies, smiling, and I’ll be damned, he has a dimple.

  I give him a small nod, thankful I’m not getting fired right now for being a klutz.

  “Do you want me to get you a smaller size shirt?” he says, looking at my baggy t-shirt.

  “It’s the smallest size you have,” I reply, pinching at the loose material.

  I must look I’m drowning in it.

  “Oh,” he replies, scrunching up his brow, his lengthy bangs slipping into one eye.

  “Well, that’s okay. You make it work,” he says kindly, brushing his hair off his face with his long fingers.

  Funnily enough, I accept his comment for what it is—a compliment.

  Thankfully, the comment on my attire passes as quickly as it came.

  “You been out there yet?” he asks, gesturing with his head through the double swing doors to the diner.

  “No, not yet,” I reply, shaking my head, wisps of my faded red hair getting into my face.

  Removing my black hair tie from my wrist, I secure my hair back into a messy bun, as I’m sure people will not be cool with a stray hair in their burger.

  I’m aware of Tristan watching me, not in a seedy way, but just watching with close inspection. It’s not unnerving, and I find myself wondering what he sees when he looks at me.

  After a few seconds of silence, he says, “Well, if you need anything, just let me know. But you’re in good hands.”

  He smiles with a genuine grin as we both hear Tabitha cackling just outside the doors.

  How does she do it? How do I be human without showing people too much of who I really am?

  “Tristan!”

  We both turn to look in the direction of the kitchen, and Tristan gives me a lopsided grin.

  “I better go before I get flamed on an open grill,” he jokes and looks as if he’s going to reach forward and touch me.

  I know it’s just a friendly gesture, but I still flinch at the thought.

  Giving me a strained smile, he seems to want to say something, but decides not to as he heads down the skinny hallway to the kitchen, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.

  The double doors swing open and in comes a flustered looking Tabitha.

  “Everything okay?” she asks, hands full of dirty dishes.

  Nodding, I take a deep breath, and reply, “Yup. So, where do I start?”

  Chapter 8

  Smile

  Bobby Joe’s is insanely busy, and Tabitha said this is nothing compared to the dinner rush.

  I’ve followed her around for most of the afternoon, and learned the ropes with ease. I’m a quick learner and on the plus side, I don’t need to write anything down as I’ve got a photographic memory. I have Big Phil to thank for that.

  It’s the only good thing I can take away from my old ‘job.’ I only had my memory to rely on, ensuring I knew what each junkie wanted, how much, and when. That was it. No writing it down or rereading what they requested once they placed their order.

  Looking at the cash register, and then at Tabitha, who’s telling me how to work the thing with way too many buttons, I feel like I’ve woken up in the twilight zone.

  Who would have thought I’d be standing in a small, sleepy town, learning how to bring up the total of a double cheeseburger with extra cheese and curly fries?

  “Got it?” smiles Tabitha, taking a pen out of her bun and giving it to the customer to sign his credit card receipt.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  This is the easy part. It’s dealing with people—that’s the hard part.

  At first I watched Tabitha take orders, reciting the special of the day by heart. But when it was my turn to serve a table of four, I freaked.

  My happy voice came out kinda creepy, and I even cringed when I asked if they wanted a top up of their coffee. But Tabitha was behind me the whole time, encouraging me when I was about ready to give up. Quitting is not an option, as this is not long term. This is just a means to an end.

  “Will you be okay on your own for around thirty minutes?” Tabitha asks, untying her black apron while we walk to the counter.

  I nod, even though I think I might choke without her.

  “I’m just going on my break. It’s usually dead at this time of the day, so you’ll probably just need to refill the sugar pots and prep for the dinner rush.” She smiles encouragingly.

  “If you have any problems, let Tristan know,” she says, reaching behind the counter for her bag. “See you soon.”

  She gives me a small wave and is out the door, leaving me alone.

  I gulp and tell myself I can do this.

  Thankfully, the two booths that are occupied have ordered their meals, and seem quite content eating them without disruption.

  Walking behind the counter, I begin searching for the sugar to refill the pots, but after a fruitless search, I come up empty. However, I do stumble across the ketchup in a huge refill bottle.

  Dropping to my knees, I slowly shuffle the heavy container out from under the ledge, as it’s damn heavy. Wrapping both hands around the bottle, I drag it out, but my fingers slip as there’s ketchup running down the sides, and it drops onto the floor. The top pops off, resulting in a red river of ketchup staining the checkered floor.

  “Fuck,” I mumble, looking around for something to mop my mess.

  I see a dishcloth sitting on the counter and blindly reach for it. I quickly wipe up the messy puddle, but just end up making more of a mess, spreading the ketchup over a wider area. My nametag is digging into my boob, so I rip it off and shove it into my pocket angrily.

  “Motherfucker!” I curse under my breath, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, annoyed.

  Slapping both soiled hands on the edge of the counter to pull myself up, I’m confronted by a highly amused smile, tugging lightly on a silver ring.

  Motherfucker!

  Rising to full height, I turn around quickly to wash my hands in the small sink behind me. I push on the soap dispenser one too many times, and lather up a crazy amount of vanilla hand wash. As I rub my hands together and watch the water wash the red away, I can’t help but think about another time I was standing at a sink, washing red off my hands.

  I literally shake my head, hoping to dispel such thoughts.

  I’ve exhausted my stay, because a second longer washing my hands, anyone would think I have a serious case of OCD. Turning off the water, I dry my hands on the paper towel, totally delaying facing the person standing patiently behind me.

  Taking a deep breath, I scold myself. This is ridiculous—he’s just a boy.

  Spinning on my heel and meeting his amused eyes, I try not to notice the brightness of his emerald eyes, or how hot he looks in a Johnny Cash t-shirt, which highlights all the sharp contours of his upper torso.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, finally finding my voice.

  Quinn’s mouth twitches as he leans forward and b
races both hands on the edge of the counter, taking a closer look at me.

  Of course I take a step back.

  “It is you. I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on and all,” he replies with a smirk.

  I tell myself that musky, sandalwood scent is coming from the kitchen, and not oozing off Quinn’s glorious body.

  “Ha ha, very funny,” I throw back. “What are you doing here?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest in defiance.

  Quinn grins, tapping a menu on the counter with his long finger.

  Of course, he’s here to eat, not to see you.

  “Okay, pick a booth and I’ll be with you shortly,” I say, picking up the menu and slamming it into Quinn’s stomach.

  He just smirks and I practically run, making sure to sidestep the spilled ketchup before I embarrass myself further. I bolt through the double doors leading to safety, away from that smirk.

  Taking two deep breaths, I stop and wrap my arms around my middle.

  What was that? I don’t understand why I am reacting to a complete stranger this way. Is this what being normal is like? A complete freak in public? Because if so, I was doing that all on my own before conforming.

  Putting my game face on and grabbing my pot of coffee, I stalk out, ready to face the world head on.

  Looking around, I see Quinn has taken a back booth, away from the two remaining customers who seem content, chewing on their meals quietly. I will my feet to move, and my heavy boots clunk on the floor with each step I take. As I reach his table, I tell myself no eye contact.

  In and out, and then this is over.

  Reaching for his white, upturned coffee cup, I flip it over to pour him a cup, which mercifully, I don’t spill.

  He has the menu propped up on the table and is flicking through it, wiggling his mouth from side to side in contemplation. He is casually slouching back into the red booth, and as his dark hair slips over his brow when he bends forward to take a closer look at the menu, thankfully shrouding his eyes, he can’t see me all but salivating all over myself.