Saving Della Ray

It was almost a few minutes later before I was shrieked back to my senses. I turned to see Gloria angrily calling out to me from the door of the diner. “You damn well have customers to attend to!” she screamed, green with resentment.

“I’ll be right there,” I answered, and hurried back to work.

Della Ray

I had always considered waiting tables at the diner to be a decent enough gig to fill out my days, but as the clock ticked with excruciating slowness towards the end of my shift at 5pm, I started to feel restless and irritated.

As I slammed my notepad on the pickup counter, Allan arched his eyebrow at my aggression. “What’s up? You exhausted?” he asked, surprise in his tone.

“Yeah,” I lied.

“Already? What about your gig at Sinkhole? You have at least five more hours of grinding before you can call it a day.”

“More like six or seven, but I have energy for that I’m just tired of … here. The time drags, doesn’t it?”

His mouth filled up with air as he debated on how to respond to me. He decided on teasing amusement. “Well, you have been working here for almost two years and you’ve never commented about the time dragging. You have something to look forward to tonight?”

“Rest. A long hard rest,” I lied again, and turned my gaze to the red clock on the wall as it crawled its way in seconds to the strike of five.

The moment it struck the hour, a big smile spread across my face. Heck, my heart was fluttering with uncontainable excitement. First, I would go home and see my little angel, have a shower, put on some make-up then I was off to the Sinkhole.

“See you guys tomorrow,” I sang out, as I untied the little white apron from around my waist.

An hour later, I was hurrying into Sinkhole with more zeal than was normal to feel after just completing an eight-hour shift at the diner.

“Hey, Nick,” I greeted the boisterous, broad, bald bartender I worked with as I strolled into the back-alley club just off East main street.

“Della-Ray,” he bellowed and for once, I matched his level of energy, with a huge smile.

I headed to the back room to change and minutes later I was out in my black polo shirt uniform and tight, black jean shorts to begin my six-hour shift as a cocktail waitress. The low serenade of Paul McCartney filled the air as I followed the four women who strolled in just then and subtly cajoled them into sitting in my section.

“What can I get you?” I asked brightly.

It was almost three hours later before I had the chance to take a proper break. The place was filled with the din from the chatter of its patrons winding down after the long and hard work day. Everyone was relaxed except for me.

Nursing a glass of ice cold cranberry juice I stretched my neck and looked towards every dimly lit corner I could see from where I stood behind the bar, and still there was no sign of him. I couldn’t remember him giving me a time for his arrival, but still it was nearing midnight and I had to face the fact that he was most probably, not coming.

The adrenaline of wanting to see him again died away and suddenly, I felt exhausted. I noted a group of businessmen walk in. They were laughing and had obviously been drinking elsewhere before they came here. I quickly downed my drink and went after my bread for the day. Soon, they were seated and I was at their service.

One of them asked why I wasn’t part of the menu, and I gave the same answer I always gave to their incredibly unoriginal and banal question, “Because you wouldn’t be able to afford me.”

“Oooo … feisty,” they cackled, elbowing each other like they were teenagers.

Obviously, they were more inebriated than I’d first thought. “So what’ll you have this evening, gentlemen?” I asked crisply.

They gave their orders between snorts of amusement and suggestive noises.

“Be right back,” I said with my usual dazzling smile.

But as I turned to leave, one of them tapped my ass and the smile instantly faded from my lips. Any other day, I would have turned around and told him where to get off, but that day I was disappointed and a bit blue, so I carried on walking towards the bar.

As I arrived at the bar, Lena the other waitress was walking away with a tray of six Sex On The Beach cocktails.

“You feel like taking over table fifteen?” I asked.

She glanced towards the promising businessmen, and looked back at me surprised. “That’s going to be a big tip.”

“I know but I can’t deal with that today, not even for the money. I might smash one of their heads.”