"Hey Jamie," I say out of breath. Jaime's the new girl Sally hired about a week ago, and I already hate her. Forget that, it's more fair to say that we hate each other, only she's got absolutely no reason to have a problem with me, other than the fact that I'm way hotter than her dumb ass and I get better tips from the good looking guys who come in for lunch. But how is that my fault? I'm sorry you're ugly, Jamie, don't take that accident of genetics out on me. Wow I sound really petty right now, don't I? Maybe that's why she doesn't like me, come to think of it.
"Hey," she says back in a snotty tone, barely looking up from the plates she's trying desperately to balance along the length of her arm. She should take lessons from Sally; the woman's a good forty years older than dear, limited Jamie, but can still fit three plates on her right arm while carrying one more in her left hand, all with a huge smile on her face - that woman's an inspiration. I tighten my apron and grab a few plates to carry out. Jamie gives me one more stink eye but I just ignore her, I have bigger issues waiting on the other side of these doors.
The front of the house is more insane than I even thought it would be. It looks like a wedding minus the fancy clothing and bad dancing. There are literally people everywhere; booths and tables filled to capacity, mostly families, and a line out the door like we're giving away free sex. A room like this has its own energy, it's own life force, and a palatable undercurrent of anger and tension just waiting to boil over if the back fucks up someone's eggs. Please just be an easy service. Today's not the day.
The first thing I do on the way to deliver the food to my table is to spot Sally. Luckily she's way too busy to notice my lateness. She's doing her usual thing - warming up the room like the opening act in Vegas. I don't know how she has the energy at her age- hell, at any age- but I can't help but watch her as she's smiling, shaking hands, laughing, and generally doing everything in her power to make those people feel justified in waiting 30 minutes for pancakes while rocking a screaming 6 month old. God bless you, Sally, you're a stronger woman then me.
Despite my negative attitude, and the fact that I didn't have nearly enough coffee to be around people, the first half hour is going pretty smoothly. No complaints, no screaming babies at my tables (yet, they always show up), no ridiculous demands, everything is going smoothly as can be. "Dacia" I hear Jamie yell from behind me as we're both about to go back into the kitchen to get more food for our tables, "can you do me a favor?" Wow, you've got a lot of balls, my blond friend. I shouldn't think that, Mia's my blond friend and that girl is like my sister. Note to self: forget the mental blond dig when hating on Jamie, she has plenty of other annoying traits for me to attach.
"Yeah, what is it?" I'm being so fake right now that I hate myself.
"My boyfriend and his buddies just sat down, but I really don't want to cover their table cause it's just weird. Could you do it for me? You can keep the tip." Of course Ill keep the tip, stupid, did you think I was going to give it to you after slaving over whatever idiot saw you and decided you were the one?
"I don't know," I say, annoyed, "why don't you ask Tara or someone else to do it, they could use the tips too." I'm desperately trying to avoid helping her in any way. I could use the money, trust me, if I get one more call from a credit card company telling me how late I am in gonna scream, but I'm willing to give away ten dollars just to avoid anything Jamie-related.
"C'mon," she says all whiny, "I already asked and they said they're too busy." They also hate you, but go on. "And besides, your section is right next to mine, so you wouldn't have to serve a table across the room. Please." I'm starting to get a migraine - I used to get them all the time when I was in high school and they started up again recently. Between the throbbing in my head and the sound of her voice I decide to just give in rather than argue any more.
"Alright," I tell her, "I'll do it, but they'd better be nice to me, my head is killing me."
"Don't worry, I'll let them know you're a friend of mine." Friend? Is she crazy? I can't stand her and I know that she can't stand me. I guess it doesn't matter how delusional she is, money is money, I just hope her friends aren't total assholes. Who am I kidding, of course they are, otherwise they wouldn't be friends with her.
I take a few more plates back and forth before heading over to the boyfriend's table. The place is still swamped with people, and based on the line I pass as I walk by the front door, it'll be this way for a few more hours at least. Tips, Dacia, think of the tips and it'll all be worth it. "Hi guys, how are you," I say as I approach the table of three. Her boyfriend, Leo, short for Leonidas - yes, that's right - is sitting on one side of the window booth across from two other douchey looking characters.
"Better now that you're here, beautiful." Says the hipster-looking guy with the faux glasses and long sleeved plaid shirt. "I'm Eric. Eric Adam."
"That's amazing," I say sarcastically as my tongue will allow me to be to a customer, but this one seems arrogant enough to believe my false sincerity, "can I get you all some coffee or something to drink?" I pretend not to notice that they're all looking me up and down, but it's really bothering me. Not to sound arrogant, but I'm used to being looked at like an object by guys, it's been going on since I was a teenager, and I've learned how to ignore their creepy looks, but at work it bothers me.
"I don't want any coffee," the other guy says, "but I'll take those digits, beautiful." Good lord that's the worst line I've ever heard in my life, and I've heard them all. Who the fuck days digits anymore? Right, the kind of guys who would be friends with Jamie.
"So, you two, coffee for you then?" I'm totally ignoring the guy on the end, but I can feel him staring at me like I'm a piece of meat, and if I wasn't at work I'd put him right in his place.
"Aww, Declan, she doesn't like you." His friends ignore my order request and just laugh at him. Declan - of course that's your name. I finally look over and he's stewing cause I've embarrassed him in front of his boys.
"I'll come back when you guys know what you want." I say, staring to turn around so I can find Jamie and slap her dumb little face for putting me in this situation.
"Oh we know what we want," Declan says, "we want you to not be a bitch, but I guess that's too much to ask." Okay, now it's time to engage.
"If I'm a bitch for not giving your creepy ass my number then there must be a lot of bitches in the world," I say with a crazy attitude, "cause I can't imagine any sane woman giving you any number that isn't fake."
I get the response I'm going for when his other two douche friends laugh at him mercilessly. I guess in the hierarchy of guys like this it's better to be a douche than it is to be the one the douches laugh at. Screw him, he's deserves the ridicule, and Jamie deserves a swift slap across the face for putting me in this situation in the first place. She either realizes what winners these guys are and wanted to mess with me or, even scarier, she doesn't realize and thought I wouldn't be sexually harassed by her boyfriend’s friends. Knowing her it's probably the second - what would the world be without dumb girls like her? "So I'm gonna walk away now cause I'm here to work, not get harassed," I say calmly, "but you all have a good breakfast. Jamie will be taking your order as soon as she's done with her other tables."
Declan looks mad as hell, and the worst kind of mad at that - embarrassed-by-a-girl mad. I can't believe that he isn't used to rejection if this is his approach with women, but he's probably not used to a personality like mine. There's nothing more fragile than a man's ego. Still pissed, I ignore the cries of "more napkins" or "miss?" by the people at my other tables and walk into the back where I see Jamie scuttling off to. She looks overwhelmed as usual, she's a terrible waitress, and from me that's really saying something because I'm barely competent myself. She probably didn't even think about me at all when she asked me to take that table for her, she was just trying to make her job easier. "Are you kidding me with those guys?" I ask angrily. She turns around from tying to fix all the orders she's obviously messed up, a plate of returned food in ea
ch hand.
"Not now, I've got two very pissed off tables."
"Make that three." I yell.
"What?" She asks, finally turning around to face me.
"Your boyfriend's table," I say angrily, "that's all you, and don't ever try to give me one of your tables again." I don't care how I sound at this point, she's a moron, and she's made an already stressful situation even worse.
"What the hell?" She screeches, "you said you'd do it, what's the problem?"
"The problem is your asshole boyfriend's creepy friends were more interested in getting in my pants than Sally's waffles."
"Oh don't flatter yourself," she says, rolling her eyes in a snotty way that makes me want to hit her, "you're not all that." It's not the right thing for her to say at that moment. If she only knew the angry, violent thoughts running through my mind she'd know better than to get mouthy. Like any of this is my fault.
"All that?" I ask indignantly. "I'm sorry; it must have been me who asked you to do my job, right? And it was my table of future sex offenders who harassed you. I'm sorry, I have the situation all backwards, my mistake." At this point her face is turning red with anger, and mine is probably doing the same, but I don't care, I'm mad that she feels like she has the right to be mad. Things are escalating quickly.
"You know what, Fu. . ." Before she can get her final words out I hear Sally's voice yelling from behind me.
"Woah!" She yells. I have to admit, for an older woman her voice can really put the fear of God into me, like a pissed off grandma-voice after you've spilled juice on her favorite sofa. At least I think that's how grandma's act, who knows, I never knew mine. Maybe that's just on TV. "Excuse me, but I don't have time for this little drama going on here, I have a room full of customers to feed." She sounds mad, and when I take a deep breath I understand why. She's right, Jamie and I are playing out some bad high school moment in the middle of Sally's busiest service of the week. I'm being selfish, so I decide to apologize.
"I'm really sorry, you're right, I'll get back to work." Jamie just rolls her eyes a second time and it makes me mad all over again. But this time I keep my feelings inside, I'm not going to make the situation any worse than it already is.
"Jamie," Sally says, take those plates out, now.
"Okay, sorry," she says, brushing past me just close enough to bump shoulders. I can't stand that girl. I feel like a lecture's coming when I look Sally in the eye. Those I'm very familiar with, only they used to come at me for stupid reasons from a woman who was in no position to make any judgements of me. Sally's a different story; I respect her and, more importantly, she's my boss and this is her place.
"You wanna tell me what that was all about?" She asks, a look of shock still lingering on her face. I feel bad now that I've calmed down.
"Not really, no. Girl stuff. I'm sorry."
"Dacia, what am I gonna do with you?"
"Let me go back to work?" I say with a big fake smile on my face. Fake isn't even the word. My head is still killing me, the caffeine isn't working anymore, and I still low key wanna punch Jamie and her boyfriend in the face.
"Go home." She says.
"What? Are you firing me?"
"Oh, lord, Dacia, don't be dramatic with me, too. I'm sending you home because I know that If you stay around that girl any longer nothing good is gonna come of it. I know you." She does know me, she's been the closest thing to a mother figure I've had, and since Mia's been away on her honeymoon I've been a little lonely.
"Okay, fine," I say, knowing that she's right. "But can I make up the shift? I need the tips."
"Carl called out tonight for dinner service if you wanna come back in a few hours." I didn't wanna come back in a few hours. In fact, it's about the last place I feel like being, but like I said, I need the money.
"Sure, that works. Six?"
"Six"
"Great, see you then."
"Dacia," Sally says as I turn my back to take off my apron, "get some rest, baby, you look a wreck." If only she knew the half of it. I have been a bit of a mess lately, even by my own standards. Don't get me wrong, I literally can't be happier for Mia and Wesley, but I've been missing her being around. Truth be told I've been jealous. Not jealous that Mia found such a wonderful man - the love of her life - but jealous that I don't seem to be any closer to finding mine. It's petty, I know, but it's how I've been feeling.
I get into my car and take the deepest breath ever. It's early afternoon and I'm already exhausted. Now, if I was a normal person I'd go home and sleep. But who needs sleep when I can get another cup of coffee? Maybe I'll go pay my girl a visit and see how she's doing with all those customers.
Chapter 3
As I'm driving to blow off some stream I'm starting to realize how much of my life revolves around the search for good coffee. The more I think about it the more obvious it seems. Coffee brought Mia and Wesley together - well, actually, I'll take credit for that one, Mia didn't even wanna go to The Drip that night. So, technically, my love of coffee brought Mia and Wesley together - at least that's what I like to tell myself. Over coffee is where Mia and I would always talk, even back in high school, and coffee is where I'm headed now after a perfectly horrible breakfast service. Mia's away on her honeymoon, but I still have the only stable man in my life to gulp caffeine with. There he is now.
"Late as usual," Kevin says judgmentally as I walk into the cafe. "But that's you're MO now, isn't it? And you invited me, how are you late?"
"How am I ever late, Kev? Life gets in the way of my carefully laid out plans. A better question is why are you surprised, you should expect my lateness at this point, I've known you since before we were old enough to legally drink."
"Not that that little technicality ever stopped us, but I know what you mean. And you're right, it's my fault you're late, I don't know what I was thinking expecting you on time," he says sarcastically, "Lesson learned, it'll never happen again." There's my passive-aggressive best friend.
"I agree, you're a dummy. Now let's get our hearts beating a little faster, I haven't had the best morning."
"How come?" he asks. I give him the quick version of my encounter with my table of hipster douche-bags, and as I recount the whole thing I get angry all over again. God those guys were dicks!
"Yeah, I'll give it to you, you win the battle of the bad mornings." He says.
"Wait, you too? What happened?" I already know the answer. The source of all of Kevin's stress lately has a name, and her name is Margot. Kevin met her a few weeks ago at a party, and I don't think a day has passed since when he hasn't called or texted me to complain about her in some way. Margot is a stage five clinger; the stalker who gets attached to guys way too fast and calls if her man didn't answer her texts immediately. I've known girls like her my whole life, and I'm sure that Kevin's just the latest victim in a long line of guys who've spent their days regretting the moment they went up to dear old Margot at the bar one night. She's a pretty girl, too, probably what distracts from her craziness. Being pretty is so unfair, isn't it? Beauty should be earned, like everything else, not just reserved for the genetic freaks who had pretty moms. Being a good person should be a prerequisite for being beautiful.
"What now?" I ask him after seeing the look on his face.
"What time is it now?" I look down at my phone.
"Almost 2:30. Why?"
"And what time do you think Margot got up this morning?"
"How the hell should I know that?"
"I don't actually expect you to know that," he says, sounding exhausted, "just humor me for a minute. What's a reasonable time to get up?"
"For me, or for a normal person?"
"My god, why are you making this so difficult?"
"Just to torture you a little more than you already have been." I say, joking around. I feel bad, though, he really does look like hell. I don't even wait for him to say anything before I respond. "Like seven or eight I guess. That sounds reasonable, right?"
"Right. O
r at least somewhere in that neighborhood," he says, "so if Margot got up at eight, that means she's been awake for what, like a little under seven hours?"
"I'm praying that you have a point, Kev."
"So if you had a boyfriend, and you were awake for seven hours on a given day, how many times would you text him?" I stop and think about it for a minute.
"I don't know," I say sincerely, "maybe a few times, like three or four. But I need to ask a follow up."
"Go ahead."
"Okay. So in this scenario where I'm texting my fictitious boyfriend at approximately 2:30 in the afternoon, am I employed?"
"Let's say you are." He said back.
"Then not that many times. Maybe three or four," I say, "but even without a job I don't text a lot. Just not my thing, I'm more of a talk-in-person kind of girl." It's true, I'm strangely old fashioned when it comes to phones; the way I see it, anything important should be said to a person face to face, not over a glowing screen.
"Right, so not twenty seven times?"
"Twenty seven? Holy shit that girl's out of her mind."
"I'm starting to see that, yes."
"Starting?" I ask, "Kev, that's crazy talk! Twenty seven texts? What the hell were they about?"
"Well, it started off normal and then became something a little south of normal." He really looks out of it as he's speaking, dealing with her must be exhausting. "First, it was just your standard girlfriend text message, you know, nothing crazy, just your run-of-the-mill 'good morning, baby, how are you' kind of thing."
"And then?"
"More of the same, all mostly normal. Then I guess somewhere around text fourteen things started to go awry."
"Text fourteen sounds awry in and of itself, Kev, you realize that, right?"
Impressions of Me (Impressions Series Book 2) Page 3
