Under the Stars and Stripes (Under Him)

Since she left, she’s been pretty spotty communicating with me, and my dad seems to resent me for her leaving. His agency is on the decline and he’s drinking away the money he’s worked for years to accrue.

He once told me that if I hadn’t let myself get so fat, I might have a shot as a model because of my bone structure and height. Alas, my thick thighs, bubble butt, and slight cellulite has prohibited me from ever making it work… at least in his eyes.

When Window Guy makes a loud and rather hyperbolic exit, I make my way to his table and collect the $10.00 bill he left without asking for his check, which was for a total of $9.56. That was about what I’d figured he leave.

I wish that I was one of those people who had the gall to go after someone who leaves me a shitty tip and give them a piece of my mind. But it’s just not who I am… plus… I’m just too fucking exhausted.

It’s not even that it’s been so busy. I’m just depressed about money, and the pandemic, and I’m so tired of standing on my feet all day. At least on a busy day, I’d have been moving and my adrenaline would have sustained me. This is somehow far more exhausting.

“Okay, everyone,” Jerry says, as I join him and the two cooks from the kitchen around the table at the back of the restaurant. “I’m just gonna be upfront with all of you and rip this off like a Band-Aid.”

“Oh, fuck,” Tim says, as he pulls off his hair net and slams it — or, tries to, anyway, except that it’s pretty hard to slam a hair net — against the tabletop.

“The diner is hemorrhaging too much money to stay open. We’ve had less than fifty customers in the past week, which is a big decrease from our normal amount of foot traffic.”

He’s right about that. The diner is right in the middle of downtown Los Angeles. Until a few weeks ago, we were open 24/7, but the recent government-imposed curfews have us shutting down by nine each night.

“Please don’t say anything to the employees who aren’t here, I’m gonna conference call them later. But today was our last day open until something changes. Besides, it’s better for all of your health if you’re at home in quarantine like the rest of the world.”

“So…”

I hate that I’m about to ask such a self-involved question, but the stress of money is so far toward the forefront of my mind that I can’t stop myself.

“When will we get our last paychecks?” I ask.

Jerry sighs. And as soon as he does, I know what he’s about to say.

“Brittany…”

He massages his forehead with his fingers.

“I just don’t have the money to cut any checks for these last few days. I’m sorry.”

I immediately break out into a cold sweat.

Rent is due in less than three days and all I have in my checking account and in cash combined is a little over a hundred dollars.

I don’t even give him an ‘okay’ or a nod of understanding. I rip my apron off, scoop up my tips from the nearby booth, grab my coat and purse off the rack behind the host station and march out the front door.

“Britt!” I hear Jerry call behind me, but I’m too upset to turn back and face him. Tears are streaming down my face. I try and navigate my way across the street to a nearby park when suddenly a horn honks and a car slams on its brakes.

“Watch where you’re going!” a man calls out of the Toyota Camry with a lit-up neon ‘Uber’ light in the windshield.

“Hey, go fuck yourself!” I scream back, rather uncharacteristically, before slamming the palms of my hands against the hood of his car like I’ve seen countless characters in TV shows set in New York City do.

But this is my first time actually doing it. That’s how upset I am.

Then I march up to the sidewalk and walk down to the park to find a bench to sit on as I begin hyperventilating a bit.

As I’m fumbling through my purse for it, my phone begins to ring an inappropriately jaunty tune and I see the screen light up near the bottom of the seemingly never-ending bag.

“Hey, Sarah,” I say, with a crack in my voice, as I answer my best friend’s call.

“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately.

“I’m not sure you want to know,” I say with a sniffle, as I reach for the bottom of my bag again, where I keep an emergency pack of cigarettes just in case I ever approach the stress threshold I’ve now far surpassed.

“Jerry shut down the restaurant today,” I explain to her. “He won’t even pay us our last paychecks.”