by R. R. Banks
In fact, I bet she's the type of woman who insists that her “hired help” does not make eye contact with her. Ever. She certainly seems to be like that.
“I want to speak with your manager,” she demands.
I shrug like I don't care – because I don't. “Danny,” I call out. “Somebody wants to speak with you.”
Danny, a tall, gangly guy two years younger than me with thinning hair, pale skin, and coke bottle glasses comes out of the back and walks over to me. Danny's a good guy and we get along pretty well most of the time. He's had my back more than a few times, but I know that I'm on thin ice with him. I know he's getting tired of having to smooth things over for me.
“What's up?” he says.
I shrug and point to the woman. “She wants to speak with you.”
He gives me a look and then a quiet sigh – this isn't the first time he's had to field a complaint about me. Turning to the woman, he gives her his best smile.
“How can I help you?” he asks.
“You can start by firing that little bitch,” the woman snaps.
Danny raises his hands. “Come on now,” he says. “There's no need for that kind of language. What seems to be the problem?”
“For starters,” the woman hisses, “this little bitch insinuated that I'm having an inappropriate affair with my yoga instructor.”
So, she does have a yoga instructor. Figures. And yeah, she's probably fucking him. Danny turns to me, his eyes wide, a look of disbelief on his face.
“Amanda, is that true?” he asks. “Did you suggest –”
I shake my head. “I don't know what she heard,” I lie. “But I didn't say that.”
“She's a liar,” the woman almost shouts. “A goddamn liar.”
I shrug. “I didn't say that, Danny,” I say, looking him in the eye. “She must have misheard me.”
The woman's voice is raised so loud that the other customers are starting to pay attention to the little drama unfolding. Some of them are smirking, others look like they're hoping to see some bloodshed. If nothing else, at least they get a little show while they wait for their drinks.
Danny looks at me long and hard, trying to decide if I'm telling the truth or not. I don't like lying and generally do everything I can to tell the truth at all times. But I also need to keep this job. It's not easy to find work these days – especially work that will be as flexible with my school schedule as Danny is.
“Seriously, Danny,” I say softly. “I didn't say that.”
Danny gives me a small nod and turns to the woman. “I'm sorry for the misunderstanding –”
“You're taking her side?” the woman screams.
He shakes his head. “I'm not taking anybody's side,” he says calmly. “I'm just trying to resolve the situation. I'd like to refund you the price of your drink and offer you another drink the next time you come in, on the house.”
The woman looks at him aghast. “You actually think I'm going to set foot in this place again after the way I've been treated? Seriously?”
“I understand,” Danny says. “And again, I apologize for the misunderstanding. Please, let me try to make it right.”
I feel bad that Danny is taking all the heat for me. He doesn't deserve that. But at the same time, what else can I do? I genuinely hadn't meant to say that out loud – it was supposed to stay in my head. But somehow, it slipped out. And I couldn't afford to lose my job. All I could do was deny the hell out of everything and then try to make it up to Danny later.
“Do you even know who I am?” the woman snaps.
Yeah, an entitled, snooty bitch, I think to myself and then take a quick look at Danny to make sure I hadn't actually said that out loud. He's still focused on the woman though, so I think I'm in the clear.
Danny looks at her a long moment as if trying to figure it out before shaking his head. “No, I'm afraid I don't.”
She actually looks more horrified that he doesn't know who she is than she is by me saying she's banging her yoga instructor.
“I happen to be the wife of the Deputy Assistant District Attorney,” she huffs.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Danny says awkwardly. “I didn't recognize you.”
He's trying to appease her and say something nice, but what he said only serves to infuriate the woman even more. She looks positively apoplectic. But seriously, who knows the Deputy Assistant District Attorney – let alone, his wife – look like? Or even who they are? Talk about arrogant and entitled.
“Screw you,” the woman hisses. “I've never been treated so poorly in my life and I'm telling all of my friends to stop coming here. And I'm going to post a horrible review on Yelp. This business is going to fail. I'm going to destroy you. Mark my words. You messed with the wrong woman.”
The woman turns on her Christian Louboutin heels and storms out of the coffee house. Some of the customers in line are snickering and shaking their heads, discussing the little drama amongst themselves. Danny looks at me, his face grim.
“In my office,” he says as he turns and quickly walks to the back of the store.
It feels like the bottom fell out of my stomach and I'm suddenly feeling queasy and shaky. The look on his face is one I haven't seen before – and I'm worried. It was stupid to say what I said. But I didn't mean for her to hear it. I screwed up.
But I can't afford to lose this job.
Feeling like a condemned prisoner, I turn and walk to the doors that lead to the back of the shop – to Danny's office. All I need is somebody shouting, “Dead Man Walking” to complete the image in my mind.
Dear God, please don't let me get canned.
Chapter Four
“Seriously, Amanda,” Danny says. “What in the hell were you thinking?”
I open my mouth to speak and he holds up a hand to stop me. I close my mouth and lean back in the chair across the desk from him.
“And don't give me the you didn't say it spiel,” he says. “I'm pretty sure you did. That just sounds like you.”
I sigh and look down at the hands folded in my lap. It used to be that Danny gave me the benefit of the doubt when it came to customer complaints. But, I guess after fielding as many of them as he has, he's run out of patience and has stopped doing that. Not that I can blame him entirely.
“I didn't mean to say it out loud,” I admit. “I was thinking it and didn't even realize it came out until she freaked out.”
“Well, I think freaking out is a perfectly acceptable response,” he says. “I mean, you did accuse her of banging her yoga instructor.”
I shrug. “Yeah, it was stupid,” I say. “I made a mistake, Danny.”
“You've been making a lot of them lately,” he says. “What's going on with you, Amanda?”
I sigh and scratch at the chipping polish on my nails. Honestly, I have no idea what's going on with me. A therapist would probably say I'm depressed. And maybe that's it. But I'm twenty-five years old, I'm working as a goddamn barista, struggling to get by and put myself through school.
I look at some of my friends and see that they've already gotten their degrees and are getting settled into their careers. They get to go out, have fun – they're enjoying their lives. And there I am, slinging drinks and dealing with spoiled housewives with an entitlement complex.
But I can't tell Danny any of that. It's not his problem. It's mine. And I've got to find my way out of it.
“I'm just going through some stuff, Danny,” I say. “But please, I cannot afford to lose this job. It's about the only thing keeping me afloat.”
Danny sighs and leans back in his seat. He stares at the ceiling and I can tell that he's debating with himself – he doesn't know what he's going to do with me. I know he's well within his rights to can me. Hell, he probably should. I've had more than a few arguments with customers – I don't suffer fools all that well.
But at the same time, I have to make him see and understand how much I need this job. Because I do. It's a matter of survival at this point.
<
br /> “Look, Amanda,” he says. “I appreciate how hard you work and the fact that I can always rely on you. But –”
“Danny, I screwed up,” I cut him off. “I screwed up big time. And I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. Please don't fire me.”
He sighs again. “I have a boss I have to answer to as well, Amanda,” he says. “And if she finds out about this – and that I didn't fire you – she's going to be pissed. You and that temper of yours are putting me in a really bad position.”
I nod. “I know,” I say. “It was just a misunderstanding though. That's all she needs to know.”
“I can't have this kind of behavior in this shop, Amanda,” he says. “It's totally unacceptable.”
“I know, Danny,” I say, desperation coloring my voice. “And I'm sorry. If you give me another chance, I swear it won't happen again.”
He looks at me a long moment and then smirks. “You shouldn't make promises you can't keep,” he says. “I know your temper – and your sarcasm.”
I give him a grin. “How about this this then – I'll do my best to make sure it never happens again.”
He runs a hand through his prematurely thinning hair and looks at me for a long moment. The knot in my stomach tightens painfully and my adrenaline is pumping. I'm – scared. As much as it galls me to admit, I'm scared that I might lose my job.
“Don't make me regret this, Amanda,” he finally says. “I really need you on your best behavior from here on out.”
I nod quickly, a powerful wave of relief washing over me. “I swear you won't regret it,” I say. “Thank you, Danny. Thank you so much.”
“Go,” he says. “Get out of here. Misty got here early, so I'm putting her on the floor. Take the rest of the day to chill out.”
“Great,” I say. “I'll do that. And I'll see you here in the morning.”
He gives me a rueful smile. I can tell he's not convinced I can keep my end of the deal up. Hell, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure I can. Like I said, I don't suffer fools well. But knowing how much is on the line and what's at stake, I have to learn to rein it in. Need to learn to control my temper – and my tongue.
I need to keep reminding myself that I need this job more than I need to put some idiot in their place. That has to be my mantra from now on. It's not going to be easy – in fact, it's going to be downright brutal. But I need to do it. Have to do it. There is no other way.
I say goodbye to the girls and leave the coffee house, needing to go blow off some steam in the worst way possible.
~ooo000ooo~
I strapped the Velcro down, securing my gloves and stand up, jogging in place a little, getting the blood flowing through me.
“You ready?” Adrian asks.
I nod, letting my adrenaline surge through me. Adrian is my trainer at the PowerCore MMA gym I train at. I'm not training to be a pro fighter or anything, but I like to work out. Like the fact that I can burn off some energy when I'm frustrated. Truthfully, I like the fact that I can throw punches at people. Plus, I'm learning some self-defence techniques, so there's a practical purpose to it all.
Adrian is a friend of mine I first met at the coffee house. We dated briefly, but there wasn't really any chemistry or connection there – far more my fault than his. Instead, we became great friends. It's only been a year and a half or so, but I already can't picture my life without him. He's a good man. One of the very best I've ever known and I'm thankful to him for so many things.
Adrian recognizes that I've had a – difficult past. He sees the anger and frustration in me and sees my need to be able to blow off some steam and work through my demons. We've talked a lot about it and he knows that traditional therapy doesn't work for me. But at least physical activity and venting the pressure that builds up inside of me provides me with an outlet. A much-needed outlet.
When he first suggested it, I was skeptical. Not only because I didn't know anything about MMA fighting, but because I didn't know that throwing punches was exactly the healthiest outlet available to me. Back then, I actually was seeing a therapist and thought that talk therapy – perhaps even some medication – would be my best avenue.
But that little experiment proved to be a horrible failure. And that's when Adrian took me down to PowerCore for the first time and had me do some work on a body bag. He taught me how to punch and kick, and then turned me loose on it.
That first night, I must have beat on that bag for a solid hour. When I left the gym, every muscle in my body ached. I hurt in places I never even thought I could hurt. But, I went home and had the best, most untroubled night's sleep I'd had in years. It turned out that he was right – expending that much anger and dark energy was therapeutic. Healing.
After that though, I was hooked. I was like a junkie needing a fix and turned up at his gym day after day, wanting to punch something. Adrian kept encouraging me. Teaching me the proper techniques. When I got proficient at those, he taught me some advanced techniques. I'm like a sponge, absorbing everything he teaches me and always thirsting for more.
I wouldn't be able to afford a gym like PowerCore on my own. We're talking hundreds of dollars in membership dues every month. Not that it's not worth it, given the level of instruction and amenities the gym comes with.
But given my current financial situation, there is no way I could afford the place. Which is why it's a good thing Adrian owns the place. In exchange for unlimited access to the gym, I come in once a week – usually on Saturday mornings when I'm not scheduled at the coffee house – and clean the place from top to bottom. Adrian initially asked for me to come in once a month, but given how disgusting people can be and that his gym's reputation shouldn't be damaged by how dirty and gross it is, I told him I'd be doing it once a week.
It's a chore I do happily for all of the benefits Adrian's gym gives me. It's the very least I can do.
“You okay?” Adrian asks.
“Bad day at work,” I say.
He nods as if he understands – which he probably does. Adrian seems to be the only one who really gets me.
“Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “I'd rather do some sparring,” I say. “Anybody available?”
He looks around the gym and then turns back to me, giving me a smile. “I think I can find you a partner.”
I walk over to the sparring ring as he heads over to one of his guys who's training a client. They speak briefly and then the client looks over to me briefly and laughs before turning back to the Adrian and his own trainer. He shrugs and then the three of them walk over to the sparring ring.
I'm warming myself up, throwing a few combinations as I jog in place. The client – a Hispanic guy who stands about five-ten, has a shaved head, dark colored goatee, dark eyes, and a little bit of a gut – steps in and looks me up and down suggestively. He licks his lips and gives me what I can only imagine he believes is his best, most charming smile.
“Damn,” he says. “You sure you want to do this, sweetheart? You sure you wouldn't rather just go get a drink or somethin'?”
Oh, this is going to be fun. If there's anything I hate more than snooty, entitled bitches, it's obnoxious assholes – and calling me sweetheart, baby, or any other stupid pet name makes you an obnoxious asshole.
I strap on my headgear and cinch it down nice and snug. I don't like wearing the bulky things, but it's gym rules.
“How about we just stick to me kicking your ass?” I say and then slip my mouthpiece in.
He shrugs. “I'm into a little foreplay, baby,” he says. “It's all good.”
The adrenaline and anger are already surging through me when Adrian rings the bell, signaling the start of our first round. We both bounce lightly on our feet as we dance around each other, circling each other, looking for an opening.
“C'mon, ladies,” Erik, the other trainer shouts. “Are we fighting or dancing?”
My opponent, apparently spurred on by his trainer's words, rushes toward me. He telegraphs it so badly
, I can already see his move coming before he even throws it. He thinks he can distract me with a left jab, his real attack being a right cross.
Before he can throw it though, I spin to the side and avoid him altogether. Though light on his feet when he's just bouncing around, he's actually a bit slow and plodding. In the time it takes him to turn around, I'm already squared up. And when he's finally facing me, he's slow to bring his gloves up, allowing me the time to throw a quick three-punch combination to his face.
His head snaps back and he grunts, stunned by the attack. Lowering his head, he looks at me with real anger in his eyes.
“You're gonna pay for that, sweet tits,” he says. “Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this.”
He rushes at me again and this time, I spin to the other side, turning quickly and kicking him in the back of the knee. He drops to his knees and growls in pain. I'm on him before he can get back to his feet though, throwing a furious combination of punches and knees to his head and midsection.
He tries to cover his head and is screaming something I can't understand. The anger inside of me, dark and abiding, has bubbled to the surface and all I can do is keep punching, keep kicking. I want to hurt him – and hurt him bad. My vision blurs and I suddenly don't feel like I'm in control of myself.
I just keep punching, keep kicking, unable – or maybe just unwilling – to stop. I just keep seeing that woman's face from the coffee house. Hearing her voice. Keep hearing the guy I'm sparring with calling me baby and sweetheart. It's like this perfect storm of anger has been forming inside of me and finally broke.
“Amanda, stop,” I hear Adrian's voice, but can't comprehend what he's saying.
Large hands, stronger than iron, clamp down on my arms. I feel myself being lifted up and then carried to the far side of the ring. When my vision clears and I come back to myself, I find myself staring into Adrian's face. He looks simultaneously irritated and concerned.
