“Another waitress already took my order,” he says, after I finish groveling.
I sigh. I’m really being dug into a hole here. The only reason I got this job in the first place was because this uptown diner needed some extra bodies to keep up with the uptick in service.
The well-to-do area that I’m working in now is nothing like Chinatown—I should be glad, but it’s hardly an upgrade, considering the circumstances. For almost the past two months, most of the city has been on absolute fire from gang violence. Some news reports are saying it’s because of a turf dispute, others are saying that it’s a power struggle, no one really knows—the only thing that’s clear is that there’s a civil war happening out on the streets, every hour of every day.
It’s gotten so bad that some parts of the city have had to essentially go into lockdown. Chinatown is one of those places. When a bomb went off on the corner of Baker street, even Mrs. Cheng, one of the hardest working people I’ve ever known, decided that life was more important than her business. She wasn’t alone.
Almost all of the shops in the poorer parts of town have been closed down. So many people are struggling, but the areas where the rich and the powerful live have been cordoned off from the violence by a shield of police-officers. It’s outrageous. The poor are left to defend themselves, while those that already have all the money and security are prospering, because the only businesses that can risk remaining open are the ones that they own.
Mars is one of those places. It’s a higher-end diner chain that’s got at least one location in almost every major city in the country. I’d never eaten here before I got the job, but I’d say, for my money, Chelly’s is way better. Still, Mrs. Cheng is barely holding onto her restaurant by a thread, while Mars is booming, because if anyone wants the diner experience, they have to come to the one part of town that’s not on fire.
I waddle back to the counter and try to catch my breath before I’m called on by another customer. Even with two other waitresses, there’s hardly half the down time here compared to Chelly’s. The customers are more demanding at Mars too. It’s like everyone has someplace else to be other than here, and they can’t wait to get out. The only difference between them and me is that I can’t afford to leave.
Still, I’m thankful that I have a roof over my head and an apartment to go home to at the end of every shift. By some miracle, my area hasn’t been hit so hard by the violence that’s engulfing the rest of the city. It’s a low-income neighbourhood, but there seems to be some invisible forcefield taking the brunt of the action. Besides getting this job, it’s the most luck I’ve had since he-who-shall-not-be-named came into, and then promptly disappeared from, my life.
Still, even the safety of my little sanctuary is coming at a price. People have been taking note of the relative peace on my block, and as a result, rent is skyrocketing. My lease is up next month, and I’m trying my hardest not to think about it, because at this rate, I’m not going to be able to afford to stay.
It’s a problem that I’m pushing down the road as far as possible. I have a safe place to stay now, and I have a job—but for how long? I have no idea.
“Bill, please!” A bald man in a sharp business suit calls to me. I snap out of my worried daydre
aming and let him know that I’m on it. At Mars, I’m forced to work on my people skills far more than I ever was at Chelly’s. The ‘fed-up waitress’ was almost part of the charm at the gritty diner, but here, people expect the friendliest service around, and I’ve found that if I give them exactly what they want, I can make more in tips than I ever could at Chelly’s. It’s a silver lining to the extra pressure of feeling constantly watched by Betty, Agatha, Ms. Lindsay, and Allan.
Sure enough, the busy bald man leaves me a decent tip. I didn’t almost puke in his presence, so it’s almost expected. I’m not so confident about the customer who saw me rush to the bathroom, though. If I’m going to be able to afford my rent next month, I’m really going to have to stop getting nauseous at work.
Was Carlos right? Is it the scraps that I’m scrounging up here that are making me sick? I made it almost two weeks without an incident, why am I getting hit with this food poisoning now?
If it even is food poisoning...
I don’t have a fever, and I haven’t been feeling so awful after I finally get the ‘sickness’ out of my stomach.
“Can I get the check?” someone else asks in my allotted area of the diner. I nod, feeling physically better, but just as mentally worn out as ever. I need to figure out what’s making me sick, or else I’m not going to have a toilet to puke in.
“Feeling better?” Carlos asks, as we step out into the cool, early-spring night. I’ve barely had a chance to talk to him since our little pow-wow in the bathroom earlier. We were so swamped that I only ever got to speak with strangers, and, even though I was surrounded by people all day, I felt lonely without my best friend to chat with.
“I’ll live,” I chuckle, leaning on Carlos’s shoulder for support. Truth is, I’m beat. My feet are sore and my muscles ache and my mind is heavy with worry. I need a good night’s sleep bad; I can only hope I’m exhausted enough to get it.
I appreciate the peace that surrounds us on our walk to the subway station. There’s no threat of theft or violence in this little slice of Eden among the hellfire. An army of policemen stand guard around these grounds. It’s unfair, but at least I get to benefit from it in some small way.
“This is the second time you’ve had to rush to the bathroom at the beginning of your shift in two days,” Carlos points out. “I don’t remember you ever being sick at Chelly’s...” There’s an implication in his voice that I’m not quite grasping.
“Food poisoning?” I try to guess. I know that Carlos loathes Ms. Lindsay, and by extension, Mars. Could he be thinking of some kind of lawsuit? How sweet would it be if we could get paid not to work? But we’d never win. We’re not supposed to eat the scraps in the first place, and even if we were, there are so many repeat customers at the diner that they can’t possibly be getting food poisoning on a regular basis, otherwise, why would they ever come back?
I feel Carlos studying me from up close. “What!?” I ask, impatiently. I’m not exactly in the mood for any more guessing games.
Carlos chooses his next words carefully. “Have you, uh, been ‘seeing’ anyone lately,” he asks, making air quotes around his pronunciation of the word ‘seeing’.
I squint my eyes at the bleach-blonde, dark-skinned cook. “How dare you!” I mock, with exaggerated offence. “You know I’m a good Christian girl. Do you see a ring on my finger?” I stretch out my fingers and Carlos studies them playfully, before taking on a more serious tone.
“I did see you wearing a flashy silver bracelet about a month and a half ago.”
An arrow rips through my heart. I almost buckle over on the spot. I don’t think about that man anymore. I hold back the snarl from my lips. Asshole.
“Well, have you seen it on my wrist since?” I snap back. “Whoever gave it to me must have disappeared just as quickly as I stopped wearing it.”
Carlos fans two open palms at me like I’m a wild horse. “Easy there, girl. I was just asking. After all, you know what they call it when you keep getting sick in the morning...”
It takes me a second to realize what Carlos is getting at, and when it hits me, I’m nearly floored. “No...” I whisper out-loud, more to myself than to him. My sore muscles turn into heavy stones and threaten to pull me to the ground.