Tales of a New York Waitress (The Sibby Chronicles Book 1)

by Samantha Garman

  Tales of a New York Waitress

  Samantha Garman

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. ©2015 by Samantha Garman. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Created with Vellum

  For those who have ever worked in the customer service industry, I salute you.

  Contents

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  A Quick Guide To Yiddish

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Other books by Samantha Garman:

  About the Author

  Disclaimer

  No fictional people were offended during the writing of this book.

  Chapter 1

  Trippa: [tree-pah]

  1. Tripe. Stomach of a pig, cow, or sheep.

  2. Uhm. Ew.

  I blinked, wondering if I looked like that cartoon owl from the old Tootsie Pop commercial. “Say again?”

  My boss leaned back in his office chair and said, “I’ve got to let you go, Sibby. Hate to do it, and it’s not personal. It’s the economic climate. Things have changed; things have slowed down. So we have to downsize.”

  Economic climate?

  I thought only uppity financial spokespeople used that phrase. “Ed, please don’t do this to me,” I pleaded. “I’m good at editing textbook copy. I know how to format e-books. I can do more, really. I’ll even work for less!” I sounded desperate, and at that moment, I really didn’t like myself.

  But Mama had to eat. And pay rent. And fly to Boca to visit her grandparents. They played shuffleboard. What the hell was shuffleboard, anyway?

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re really good at your job.”

  “Then why is this happening? Is it how I dress? I can start wearing boxy suits and clunky heels if that helps.”

  I looked down at my scuffed, grey Converse sneakers and skinny jeans. I didn’t have to deal with customers face to face, so it never really mattered how I looked. Or so I had thought.

  “I’m not letting you go because of how you dress. There’s nothing wrong with dressing like a college student.”

  “Hipster,” I muttered, gently pushing up my jet black Spencer Tracy frames.

  “I’m gonna to miss your sense of humor,” he said, shaking his head like he deeply regretted firing me. “You can use me as a reference.”

  “Reference? You made me put on real pants and trek from Brooklyn so you could fire me? On a Monday? Who does that?”

  “I needed the weekend—I was trying to think of a way to keep you on, but I just can’t. And I didn’t want to fire you over the phone. I owe you that much, at least.”

  “Oh—thanks? I guess begging at this point is just a little pathetic?”

  He gave me a sad smile. It only made me feel more inadequate.

  I stood, feeling all the blood rush from my head. Passing out would sink what little pride I had left. “Guess that’s it then, huh?”

  “Take care, Sibby.”

  I snatched my messenger bag off the back of the chair and promptly dropped it, spilling its contents all over the floor.

  Awkward.

  I stepped outside into a hot, humid, overcast July afternoon and started sweating immediately.

  Sexy.

  Okay, time to go home and regroup. I walked to the subway, found a seat on a Brooklyn bound train, and marveled at the lack of people. During rush hour, it was nearly impossible to get a seat, and I was almost always forced to stand with my face in someone’s armpit.

  Being short sucks.

  When I got off the train, I tried to call my boyfriend Matt. No answer. Not shocking since he kept his cell in a desk drawer so he could get work done. Oh well, he’d be home around six. I’d vent about my day and then we’d get tanked. In the meantime, I’d eat a lot of ice cream. Maybe I’d stop by a bakery and get a box of donuts. Eating my emotions sounded pretty good.

  I trudged up the fourth floor walk up, mentally whining like I was climbing Mt. Everest. I sank my key into the lock, walked into the one bedroom apartment, and tripped over Matt’s shoes.

  Dress shoes.

  Shoes he only wore to work.

  So why were they by the door?

  I heard a deep, masculine chuckle.

  Approaching the bedroom, I heard the laugh again.

  I pushed the door open—

  And saw my live in boyfriend of two years in bed with another man.

  Oh. My. God.

  “Sibby!” Matt exclaimed, scrambling to cover himself. “What are you doing home?”

  I glared. “Wrong question.” He was naked from the waist up, showing off his impeccably muscled chest. He was hairless and tan. He hadn’t always looked like that. I should’ve known something was up when he started drinking protein shakes and working out all the time.

  His companion unfolded himself and got out of bed, grabbing his boxers off of the floor. Before he put them on, I got a full view of his package.

  Yowsa!

  I’d been clobbered once already today, what with getting fired. Now, I had to walk in and catch my boyfriend cheating on me. With a dude.

  Worst. Day. Ever.

  I slid my phone out of my pocket and called my bestest friend in the world Annie.

  “What up?” she answered.

  “Can you meet me?”

  “Meet you? It’s two in the afternoon. Aren’t you at work?”

  “No.”

  There was a pause. “Where are you?”

  “At a bar on the Upper East Side.”

  “You’re drinking before sunset. In my neighborhood? You never trek up here.”

  “It’s bad, Annie.”

  “How bad.”

  “Bad bad.”

  She sighed. “Give me fifteen minutes. I’m cleaning up lunch at Heather’s and then I’m all yours.”

  “I’m at O’Brien’s.” I hung up. “Another tequila pineapple please,” I said to the bartender.

  “You shouldn’t drink alone,” he said. He was cute, with an Irish lilt.

  “I’m waiting on a friend.”

  He peered at me with sympathetic eyes. “You wanna talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  Bartenders tended to be cheaper than psychologists, but far less effective.

  Twenty minutes later, Annie walked in. She had an enviable rack and a blonde, tamable mane. She loved sports and didn’t get attached to guys. Our friendship went back to freshman year in college and we were intensely loyal to each other.

  Without saying a word, she plopped down a bar of dark chocolate in front of me.

  The good, organic, 80% cacao kind.

  “You get me,” I stated.

  “What number are you on?” she asked, hanging her purse on a hook underneath the bar
.

  “I don’t know, ask him,” I said, gesturing to the bartender with my drink, liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass.

  “Vodka tonic please. And what number is she on?”

  “Three.” Only it sounded like he said tree because of his accent.

  “Three?” Annie raised her eyebrows. “How long have you been here?”

  “An hour,” the bartender answered for me, grabbing a highball glass and filling it with ice.

  “So, what brought about this day-drinking?” Annie asked.

  “It hits in threes,” I said. “Or trees.” I couldn’t do an Irish lilt to save my life.

  “What does?”

  “Tragedies.”

  “Oh, boy. Start with the first one,” Annie stated, taking a sip of her drink.

  “Well, I got fired this morning.”

  “What? Why? You’re good at your boring job!”

  “Hey,” I protested. She looked at me and my shoulders sagged. “Yeah, all right, but it was still a job—my job. I’m a fan of money. It pays for things like, you know, rent and food.”

  “And tequila pineapples.”

  “Exactly. Then I go home and catch Matt in bread with someone.”

  “Bread?” Annie asked.

  “I think she means, ‘bed’,” the bartender offered.

  “I got that, thanks,” Annie said sarcastically.

  “Just trying to help,” he said.

  “Can you not listen?” I demanded of him. “You’re hot and Irish, but I really, really don’t need a stranger witnessing my drunken misery.”

  “I respect that,” he said stepping away to the other end of the bar.

  “What did she look like?” Annie asked.

  “Who?”

  “The woman you found Matt in bed with.”

  “I never said it was a woman.”

  Annie’s eyes opened wide. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Matt’s gay?” both Annie and the bartender said in unison.

  “Little bit.” I looked at the bartender. “I told you not to listen!”

  He shrugged, but said nothing.

  “Holy shit on a stick!” Annie said.

  “Don’t say ‘stick’.” I rested my head on the wooden bar. “I refuse to go home tonight. I can’t face Matt.”

  “You can stay with me. We could be roomies!”

  “You live in a teeny tiny box and your bed is lofted. There’s barely enough room for you.”

  “Okay, so you’ll have to go home. Eventually. But tonight you can crash on my futon.”

  “One less thing to worry about. What am I gonna to do about the other stuff?” I moaned.

  “About Matt and the job?”

  I lifted my head and nodded.

  “Don’t do anything for the time being. We’re going out tonight.”

  “I don’t want to go out.”

  “You’re already out.”

  “Oh, yeah. True.”

  “Matt is a total wank.”

  “Thank you for that,” I murmured.

  “I’ll take you to all my favorite bars, we’ll play pool and flirt with guys who wear polos.”

  “I hate the Upper East Side.”

  “This is my terrain, Sib, I got ya covered. Now, drink up so we can get to our next stop.”

  “What’s our next stop?”

  “Falafel. You need fuel if you’re going to go out like I go out.”

  “I can’t party like you. I’m not frozen at nineteen.”

  “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she teased. “Now drink up.”

  I munched on a falafel that was as big as my face, my tongue numb from the spicy sauce. “I think I’m feeling a bit better about Matt,” I said.

  Annie raised her eyebrows. “It’s been like ten minutes. And you were a beard for two years—that doesn’t just go away because you eat a falafel.”

  “There’s something I’ve been keeping from you.”

  “Go on.”

  “Put your pita down first,” I said. “I don’t want you to drop it in shock.”

  She rolled her eyes, but my best friend humored me. She was good like that.

  “Matt’s not that good in bed.”

  Annie blinked. “You thought the solution to ‘bad in bed’ was to move in together?”

  “Well, now I know why he’s bad in bed. I’m missing a vital piece of anatomy that turns him on.” I shook my head. “It was stupid. We’d been together a year, and we were at that point…”

  “Gun point? Because that’s the only way I’d ever move in with a guy.”

  “Doesn’t the endless bout of one night stands get old?” I demanded. I was secretly jealous. Or not so secretly jealous. Annie didn’t do relationships and she didn’t care; and neither did the guys she regularly slept with.

  “You should try it,” Annie said. “And now you can.”

  “Ah, the bright side. Never date a guy who waxes his chest.”

  “Noted. So, you’re feeling okay about Matt. Is that the tequila or are you just really fast at processing stuff?”

  “Tequila. It numbs everything—even feelings. Truth be told, I think I’m sadder about the job. I got to wear jeans and Converse to work.”

  “I know.”

  “And even though it wasn’t very creative work, I was still writing.”

  “I know.”

  “Stop saying ‘I know’!” I yelled.

  Annie looked completely unfazed by my outburst. “When life hands you lemons…”

  “Rub them all over my open wounds and laugh?”

  “Whoa, with the drama.”

  “Stick it in a memo and fax it,” I groused.

  “What’s a fax?”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, that was a boring office job reference, right?”

  After our falafels, we stepped out onto 1st Avenue and she linked her arm with mine. “You don’t have to have anything figured out tonight.”

  “Good, because I plan on drinking a lot of tequila and you know I can’t think when I drink tequila.”

  “Let’s just get plastered and pretend we’re still in college. We can muddle through your crappy life tomorrow—with colossal hangovers.”

  “My life isn’t that crappy,” I protested weakly.

  She sighed. “Yes. It is.”

  Chapter 2

  Grappa [grah-pa]

  1. Distilled fermented grape skins, seeds, and stalks left over from the winemaking process.

  2. Italian moonshine. It’s like drinking rocket fuel.

  I didn’t remember the name of the bar we were in, but we were somewhere on 2nd Avenue, still on the Upper East Side. I knew this because the bartenders recognized Annie and we got drinks fast and the pool table even faster. Even though I was already swaying, I pounded tequila like it was coconut water.

  “New life plan: professional tequila drinker,” I said, trying to form words with a heavy tongue.

  “That’s not a thing. Another game of pool?” Annie asked.

  “Sure. I’m so gonna beat you this time,” I stated.

  “Doubtful. Despite what you think, tequila does not give you super powers.”

  “Oh, yes it does,” I said, dropping the plastic triangle on the floor. Annie laughed as she scooped up the triangle and racked the balls.

  Ha. Balls.

  “Am I more or less coherent than you?” I demanded.

  “Less.”

  “How is that possible? You’ve been matching me drink for drink.”

  “I’ve been drinking Bud Light.”

  “Oooooh. Maybe I should slow down?”

  “That might be a good idea.”

  “I’ll go get a water.” I sifted through the crowd towards the bar and a few minutes later I was back at the pool table.

  Annie broke and sank a color ball in the corner pocket, and then leaned over to take another shot.

  “Ugh, I’m gonna have to update my LinkedIn profile.”

>   “LinkedIn is stupid and worthless.”

  “Not if you work in the office environment. Oh, man. What do I say?”

  “You can’t tell people you were fired, that’s for sure.”

  “I didn’t get fired; I was laid off. There’s a difference.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I have to change my Facebook relationship status to ‘single’. I’m a failure on so many levels,” I wailed.

  “Facebook: almost as worthless as LinkedIn. Who says you have to update anything?”

  I could hear the eye roll in her tone. “Am I as pathetic as I sound?” I demanded.

  “The truth will hurt.”

  “Sad. How am I gonna get another job if I don’t update my LinkedIn profile?”

  “Your turn,” Annie said.

  “I need another job. Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you,” she groused. “The whole damn bar heard you. Now take your shot.”

  I set my water down on the corner of the pool table. I tried to line up my pool cue, but I was having difficulty, since I was seeing the blurry outlines of things.

  “Need some help?”

  I looked over my shoulder at the voice.

  Oh. Wow.

  Six foot something guy. Dark shaggy hair. Scruff. Because of the dim bar, I couldn’t tell the color of the eyes. And not wearing a polo. Flannel. He wore flannel.

  My sluggish mind wondered if I’d been transported to Brooklyn before remembering I was on the Upper East Side playing pool. Or trying to.

  “No,” I rebuffed his offer, trying to focus on the shot.

  I scratched.

  The guy laughed. “I think you need a lesson in pool.”