by Liz K. Lorde
“Hello sir,” I begin, my voice as monotonous and boring as humanly possible. “Welcome to Burger Town, what can I get you today?”
Belle finishes up with a customer at the window service and floats on over towards the two cooks, chatting them up about some drivel. “I want two number three’s and a diet Coke,” the brown haired man says, and as though he only just remembered that I’m a human being, he adds: “Please.”
“Absolutely,” I reply and punch in everything that he wants, “that’ll be 9.50, sir.”
He pushes out a breath through his nose and stuffs a hand inside of his dress-pants, fishing out a black leather wallet from there and opening it. The man produces a twenty and hands it to me. After I make change and hand it to him, I let him know that it’ll be a few minutes, and that we will call him when his order number is ready.
Not but eight or so minutes later, and there’s a full line of customers now. All of them hungry and staring daggers at me, hoping that I’ll bleed. Well, too bad, ‘cause that’s not happening – I’m here to get paid, not to bend over backwards for barely above minimum wage.
Because of the increase in customers, David hurriedly strolls on over beside me and takes up the second register, and begins to take orders. David leans over to me and whispers, “Pick up the pace, Vivian, you’re moving too slow right now.” I can sense the frustration in his body language, “you know you’re never going to be Burger King—I mean, er, Queen—of the month if you don’t start trying.”
“I’m trying,” I say too defensively, a jolt of heat rushing up to my chest. Not to be Burger Queen of course, that’d be gross. Electricity blooms in the back of my head and I greet another customer, this time a little less politely. I feel like a failure for not working quicker, but this system was pretty different from the POS machines I’d used in the past.
Excuses, I tell myself, just excuses.
Belle is rushing around the back like a woman possessed, bringing trays and calling out order numbers left and right like she’s been doing it her whole life. But I can tell that she’s starting to get a bit frazzled.
A pretty blonde no taller than five and two walks up to the far left of the front counter, where the orders are picked up, and says to us in general, “Hey I wanted Pepsi, not Dr.Pleb.”
David looks over to the woman as he takes an older gentlemen’s order, and he tells the blonde, “I apologize ma’am, we’ll—“
The older gentlemen tries to talk over David, “And I’d like my fries fresh.”
“Right sir,” he says but doesn’t look at the man, “we’ll fix that right up, miss,” he explains to the woman, who actually seems nice enough to be okay with the mix up.
David calls out for Belle, and she sidles her way over to the front, grabbing the woman’s cup and apologizing in her all-too-perfect tone. The woman assures her that it’s perfectly OK, and Belle makes her way back to the soda machine. She fills up a fresh cup of soda for the lady, turns on her heel, and makes her way back over to us.
Before she can make it all the way back to the front counter, her black shoe touches against something on the floor, and she slides forward. Belle lets out a gasp as she trips and spills the cold liquid directly on my back.
Instantly I let out an accompanying gasp, and the customers at the front are making concerned and surprised faces.
I can’t believe she just did that. Oh my god.
I turn around to face her and she catches herself on the front counter, already looking to me. Her sweet blue eyes are lit up with shock and apology, and her pink matte lips are pouting out too. “I’m so, so sorry!” Belle insists, but I don’t believe her.
“God,” I fume, feeling the sugary drink seep into my back and pants and underwear. It’s god damn everywhere now. “Can’t you do anything right?!” I chastise her way more loudly than I should have.
“Please, Vivian,” she calls out, holding her hands out and trying to physically help me in some way, but I don’t want her near me, so I back up a couple of steps, nearly tripping myself on some of the spilled soda.
“You just can’t pay attention can you?” I say with vitriol, “you think life’s so easy and that it’s all just going to go right for you? Well guess what, it’s not!” I’m practically going on a tirade now as the customers at the front look on horrified. David Russo himself is shaking his head at the both of us, no, wait, he’s looking at me with disapproval.
Me? I didn’t do anything wrong!
The older gentlemen speaks up, “She didn’t mean to do it, miss,” he insists, but I pay him no mind.
Belle tries to defend herself, while our manager carefully maneuvers past the spill. The cooks in the back are getting caught up in the drama now too, watching us like hawks.
Belle’s eyes begin to tear up and she mutters how she’s sorry, and she starts looking for what I presume to be, a rag to try and clean up the mess.
I tell her, “The mop is in the back,” I point towards the back, “go and get it,” I instruct.
She’s shaken but she hurries off and goes to fetch a mop or a rag or a broom for all I care.
David sidles in front of me and gets very close, “You know she didn’t mean that, right?” He says in a no-arguing kind of tone.
She did so, I know she did. It’s not my fault that she can’t watch where she’s going or what she’s doing, “It shouldn’t have happened, now I’m soaked and it’s all because she’s too focused on how Timothy wants to put his dick in her.”
“No, no I don’t want to hear that nonsense, Vivian.” David says, “she had an accident. I remember when you first started working here,” his voice is becoming more and more grave. He’s enjoying himself, isn’t he? I bet he’d been waiting for something like this to happen, to go and take her side. David looks over to the front where our customers are somehow both amused at the drama and displeased with the further wait. “I’m sorry everyone just give us one second,” he’ll probably offer them a coupon or some discount or something. Whatever.
He snaps his head back to me and furrows his bushy brows, “You need to apologize to her.”
Just like that she comes back out with a mop and a rag and a big, dark blue bucket. “I absolutely will not,” I say to him. “It’s her fault and she should feel bad,” I insist.
“Vivian,” he says, “you need to understand that I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”
I feel a rock form in my throat, why was he doing this to me? Why did he have to be such an asshole? I can feel the eyes of everyone burning in me as they watch the scene unfold. Heat forms in my cheeks from pure embarrassment and I want nothing more than to be gone from this stupid place, from these stupid people.
I want my mom. I just wanted to be held and hugged by her, and to be told that it’s all okay.
Belle starts to clean up the mess on the floor, and she looks to me with those apologetic eyes, “It’s my fault, it was an accident – it’s okay,” she says, “you don’t—“
David raises his voice over her, “I want you to apologize. Now, Vivian.”
I don’t know why I don’t just say that I’m sorry and that I understand she didn’t mean it. But I just can’t bring myself to do it; like something was just wrong with me internally, and being able to function like a normal, compassionate and understanding human being was too foreign a concept.
I look between the staring audience, feeling myself begin to sweat a little – feeling the soda still dripping down my legs and all the way to my feet. Nobody wants me here, nobody ever did – I don’t belong here.
I guess that was all David really wanted or needed in the end, because he puffs out his chest like he’s some big man and he leans in close to my ear: “Get out, I’ve warned you before,” he says with an undercurrent of furry, “and don’t come back.”
Pain stabs at my chest and my whole body feels like it wants to just buckle and collapse onto the floor. The tone in which he’d used was so evil.
“But I—“ I try
and get a word in edge wise.
David just points to the door.
Belle stops cleaning now, and she’s looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Meanwhile, a few of the customers upfront are showing their obvious displeasure with the situation – and the car at the drive-through rolls up, asking if anyone is even here.
“Fine,” I say, making it my one and only will to not let them see me cry. I have to push back all of the terrible heat that crawls across my skin, have to will myself to not give them that simple pleasure. I know that he’d want for nothing more than to see himself break me.
“I quit,” I tell them and hastily unbutton my stupid stained shirt, leaving me with only my purple polka dot bra. The older gentlemen I’m sure is happy about that, but I don’t care. I give David Russo one last furious and hurt look before throwing my wet Burger Town shirt on the ground. Afterwards, I begin my shameful power walk from behind the front counter and towards the glass front door.
I hear a catcall from someone inside of the fast food place and I want nothing more than to yell at them for it, but I bite my tongue. No, I mean I seriously physically bite my tongue to try and restrain myself – maybe it’s because I feel like I deserve the pain. Maybe I’m too scared I’ll say something I regret. Either way, I storm off to the sound of Belle apologizing to me, calling out my name.
I angrily shove at the glass front door, pushing on the handle and making my way outside to the clear blue skies of the day. Even just breathing at this point feels like inhaling needles.
God it hurts.
I’m such an idiot! Why did they have to treat me like that? Why couldn’t today just have gone simple. As I power walk through the parking lot to my beat up F-150, I quickly start to realize how bad this is for me. How things are going to go from terrible and straight to worse. I needed this job. I needed this money.
I put my hand on the handle of my truck and my heart is hammering away at this point, the adrenaline from earlier flooding me. I open the door, get inside, turn the engine, and look behind me through water as I pull out. I’m clenching my teeth now, Dad is not going to be happy. Fuck, he’s going to be furious with me for this.
It’s not my fault, I tell myself, but even I’m not sure how much I believe that. The whole ride home I wrestle with the guilt and anger and sadness of it all; I lost my job because of one stupid mistake. I grip the wheel tighter and tighter until my knuckles become ghost white. By the time I make it home, I pass by our white and chipped away mail box, and park up front in the driveway just outside of the garage with it’s massive concave dent from one of Dad’s late night escapades.
My gut sinks to the floor and a burst of electric dread pricks at my mind. I was not going to be looking forward to having this conversation. I just hope that he understands.
The front lawn itself is well trimmed, and that was all thanks to my father. With the sun shining overhead, I sit in my vehicle for a moment, considering everything. All that hurt worked it’s way into my bones, and scratched at my skin – and just like before the memory of my mother swam through my mind. The pictures that I’d seen of her, when she’d take care of me while I was just a baby.
I’ve never even met her. How many people can actually say that about their moms? I sink back further into the cut up seat of my truck; this was something that I managed to scrap together from babysitting money and whatever work I could get in fast food. Basically the only thing that I could really call mine.
After a moment longer of mustering up the courage to go inside, I leave my truck and stride up and past the concrete driveway, heading for the front door. The house isn’t anything particularly special, but it was home. Or, as much as home could be, I suppose. It’s coat of white paint has long since been dulled, and the windows of the house are stuck with old orange curtains from the late nineties. Moving to the front door, I push my house key inside of the lock and head inside.
I hear my Dad call out with some concern, “Vivian?” His voice sounds like… God I hope he’s not already.
“Yeah!” I call back in reply, turning from the front of the house and heading straight into the den, which is connected to my room. “I’m home early,” I put my hand to my mouth to try and better project, I know that wasn’t exactly the truth, but I didn’t know how to break the news to him. I quickly go into my room and put on a fresh change of clothes. I end up putting on a dark green top and a pair of blue skinny jeans.
Once I leave my room and before I even get halfway through the den, Dad comes over to meet me. He’s standing there in the entrance way of the den. He’s a big man. Tall. One would probably describe him as traditionally handsome; with his dark and parted hair, his strong jaw and his small, silver framed glasses. Seeing him makes me feel this weird mixture of happiness and dread, because on the one hand – you know – he’s my dad. Of course he’ll understand. On the other hand, he’s got a bottle of liquor that he’s trying to hide behind his back.
“What’re you doing home already?” He asks, and damn if I can’t already smell it strong on him.
No chance in hell now. You see, there’s a tiny little detail I forgot to mention earlier – Mr.Blackwoode used to be famous for his love of the drink. Well, the family secret, if you will, is that he never actually got over that particular affair. Vodka, rum, gin, whatever it was so long as it got you good and wasted – Dad would be in it. I remember being more than embarrassed a number of times back in high school when they’d see him come and pick me up, with a couple of bottles of beer spilling out of his truck. I guess it was his way to cope with things, and I couldn’t blame him for wanting to escape, and to deal with the stress of it all… but at the same time, a part of me despised him for it.
It just consumed him. Mind, body and soul.
“Thought you worked ‘till sundown,” he continues, leaning against the white frame of the den’s entrance way.
“I…” didn’t know where I was going with this lie. The hairs on my neck bristle with anticipation of him sniffing out my inability to be honest with him, but I press on, “I was feeling sick, I think it’s something to do with the Chinese we had last night.”
Dad’s dark brown eyes just look right through me. “And I’m not sick?”
“Yeah, I dunno,” I say awkwardly. “Maybe your stomach is made of iron or something,” I shrug my shoulders and then point towards the bottle that’s hanging loosely from his hand. Dad shifts his eyes to look at it, and then brings them back to look to me. “I just, I didn’t feel good, Dad. I had to go…” I could feel the sickly warmth working it’s way through my body, filling me with every pump of my blood.
“You lyin’ to me sweetpea?” Don’t call me that, I think to myself. Please, please don’t call me that.
“No dad,” I say and shake my head, “I wasn’t feeling good, okay? Can we just drop it?” I start walking forward to try and move past him, but after a second or two he stops me. When I go left, so does he. When I go right, he follows.
“Sweetpea,” he says more angry this time, the handle of vodka on his breath becoming much more pungent up close. I could even make out the stale sweat from his work down at the factory. “If I call them up right now—“
“No,” I start firmly, “don’t, please don’t do that dad. Look you’re drunk you’re just, you’ll make an ass of yourself if you call—“
Suddenly he grabs my wrist, and a spike of fear impales my chest. He’s grabbing it hard. Way too hard. “You’re lyin again,” he insist sharply, “why’re you always lying so damn much?” His tone is becoming shorter and shorter, and his words start to slur together. Get your hand off of me! I try and yank myself free, but he’s just too strong. He doesn’t have much muscle, I mean yes he has enough given his line of work – but it’s the difference in pounds that really does me in.
“Dad,” I say, “let go of me right now, you’re hurting me.”
“Not until you admit it Viv,” he says it sweetly, happily even. But his grip just remains strong as
ever, and although I know that he’d never hit me – the thought still crosses my mind, that what if he did? What if he did hit me? Electricity forms at the base of my feet and crawls up my spine, I can’t fight him if he starts hitting me.
“Dad,” I repeat hopelessly, pulling again. Like quicksand, he just draws me in more. “Fine, Dad!” I yell at the top of my lungs, “I got fired, okay?! Is that what you want to hear?” I feel the kiss of heat behind my eyes, and I know that I want to cry – that I want to stain my face with as many tears as I can muster. “Just let me go,” I plead, “please?”
Dad lets go of me, but the fear does not leave me. No. It just burrows deeper beneath my skin. He’s looking at me with utter shock and disgust, like I’d been born the wrong way or something and that it was somehow my fault. His jaw hangs and his mouth is open a little. “You were fired,” he says it in a cold, cold tone.
Immediately I make several steps back, bumping into the orange leather chair and nearly falling back into it. I turn my head instinctively to look at it, and draw my head back to look at dad. My arm really hurts now.
Dad continues, “Vivian,” he says loud from his chest, so loud that it blankets my body in fear, so much so that my whole body twitches in response.
“Yes!” I admit it once more for clarity, swallowing nothing and keeping my eyes focused on his. I’m going to stand up for myself, I think. This is my time to be brave, to be honest now.
He shakes his head and sneers at me. He then brings the handle of vodka to his lips and purses them around it’s end, drinking long and deep the poisonous substance. He downs all that remains of it, never letting his gaze leave me.
Self medicating, and self medicating hard.
I really, really just want Mom to be here right now. I think about her and she’s my safe place, my internal home now. To think about her, it’s all I can do to keep myself sane these days.
I wish I knew where you were.
I wish you were here.
