Things have never gone my way. I mean it. Whether it's getting a fucked up coffee order or getting rear ended on the freeway, the Universe always jumped at the chance to screw me over.
This statement was proven to be true once again when I was informed by my slightly perverted, very old boss that I'd have to stay at the diner until close. His dumb reasoning was that a large party was coming in later that night and we'd need all hands on deck. It took all of my strength to not rip my flesh from my bones right then and there, so instead I forced a smile and nodded obediently.
I fucking hate my job.
You'd think that working at an old fashioned 50s diner would be an aesthetic movie dream. It's the opposite. The only customers are old, impatient people who scream at you if their food tastes slightly weird. Occasionally you'll get some college students cramming in last minute studying. Other than that, it was as vacant as the abandoned Chuck E Cheese down the street. Now imagine having to stand around for 8 hours with absolutely nothing to do.
It's literal Purgatory.
Alas, being a broke 22-year-old artist meant I had to work wherever I could. I was making a fair amount of money from art commissions, but not enough to pay the overpriced Nashville rent. If it were up to me, I'd be thriving in a hidden cottage somewhere in the middle of Washington. I only ended up in Tennessee because I stupidly followed my (now ex) boyfriend here.
That's a traumatizing story for another time.
"Nice ass." A voice followed by a smack to my butt caused me to whip around from my positon behind the counter. Fists raised, ready to fight, until I came face to face with my best friend and coworker, Ashryver.
"My God, you're lucky I didn't swing," I chuckled, pushing my frizzy baby hairs back from my forehead. "You can never be too sure around here." She laughed back at me, shrugging her shoulders before ushering toward a table of 4 elderly people who looked like they were a few days away from dying.
Good luck sucking down a milkshake.
The night was nearing, which would normally indicate my shift coming to an end. I would not be so lucky this evening. The large party reservations finally showed up at 9pm; a group of men emerged from a tinted window van. Mystery men—hot.
"Why the fuck are Men In Black coming to this run down shithole?" Ashryver emerged from the break room, peeking toward the wide array of front windows from over my shoulder. The diner was empty, so we just stood like statues and watched from inside.
It looked to be a collective of 4 young guys... hardly a large party. This is what I'm staying late for? I made a mental note to kill myself later as I exchanged wary glares with my girl across the room. She looked just as confused and annoyed as me. I had a perfect guess of what this was: conceded men who make shitty Soundcloud music, who think they can get anything they want just by winking and making a sexual remark.
Goodie.
Eventually they emptied out of the clown car, looking already tipsy, and barged through our glass doors.
"Hello there, young lady!" A long haired brunette practically screamed at me, the British accent very prevalent, and very obviously fake. He had sunglasses on—despite the lack of sun—and let a cigarette dangle from the corner of his mouth.
I wanted to kick him out.
"Are you the 8:30 reservation?" Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them. Don't give in to his games. Don't rip his head off for calling you 'young lady' when you're very clearly the same age.
"Yeah, we're late, sorry." A curly haired guy shoved his way to the front of the group to talk to me. He seemed more put together and less of an annoying bug.
"No problem, sir," I fucking hate customer service. "There's a table ready for you guys in the back corner. We'll be right with you." The fake smile on my face was cracking at the seams, threatening to crumble and unveil my pissed off demeanor. The last thing I wanted was to deal with a handful of drunk men. Especially at night. I've seen enough Netflix documentaries to know it typically ends with a murder weapon and a nationwide search.
They all just stared at me, blinking, like I was an idiot. Did they not understand? I raised my eyebrows in question, holding eye contact with Curly Boy, before a taller brunette spoke up from behind him.
"Um, can we actually just sit at the bar? We don't really do 'formal'." The mediator looked to be the youngest of the bunch, though still in his early 20s.
I shrugged and gestured to stools on the other side of the counter where I stood. "Sure, if you want. It's not really a bar, but sit wherever." They were already confusing me and getting on my nerves, and I wanted nothing more than to smoke a cig and go back to my apartment.
"Do you serve alcohol?" British Boy asked, still with the accent, as he took a seat in the stool directly across from me. As though he needed more alcohol.
"Nothing fancy. I have a few house IPAs and then, like, some shitty brown liquor from 2017. Doesn't really seem like your cup of tea." I internally giggled at my pun, not giving a shit that no one else got it. They were probably too elite to understand. From the corner of my eye I saw Ashryver holding in a laugh from a booth in the corner, which satisfied my need of validation. At least she thought it was funny.
All the guys were now seated, staring at me incredulously, whilst British Boy leaned forward on his elbows.
"You know, that's exactly my cup of tea," his voice was gravely and dark. "Now," he slapped the counter and fell back into his chair—horrible accent returned. "How about an IPA. Surprise me, darling!" I wanted to punch him in the throat for the patronizing nickname. So, I plastered on the smile I've gotten so good at manipulating, and went to pour his drink on tap.
I could hear them behind me, talking amongst themselves—hushed voices like they were planning a murder heist. Oh shit. I have seen too many Netflix documentaries. After serving them all a beer, with the exception of Mediator who wanted the liquor, I headed to the backroom for a breather. It was no surprise that Ashryver was also in there, hitting her vape and scrolling through social media.
"They're fuckheads. All of them." I began ranting before the door even closed behind me. "I mean, seriously? I had to stay late for this? 'Large party' my ass! It's just 4 average dudes, they couldn't bar hop somewhere else? And then, they show up in a stupid tinted van like this is the Grammys Red Carpet. What a bunch of pathetic lo-,"
"Andromeda." The blonde snapped her fingers in front of my face. "Calm it. Before you go out there and get into a fight." She was right, and I knew she was. I had a tendency to get super worked up and then unleash all my anger.
Like a sea monster sent up from Poseidon.
"Just go back out there, fill their beer, and stay in your lane. They're men, they like to play mind games." Fuck men and their stupid men brains.
"Okay, okay, I got it," I tossed my arms up, upset about the fact that she was so right. "It's like dealing with the 4 Stooges out there. British Boy, Curly Boy, Mediator Boy, and Shy Boy. God save us all." I adjusted my ponytail and started to head back to the front when Ashryver called after me.
"You should write a book about that!"
Middle finger raised, I threw my head back in laughter and got back to work.
