The Day(s) I Died {Book 1 - Completed}

19

latibule

(n.) a hiding place; a location of safety and comfort

***

I have worked many jobs over the course of my multiple lives.

Many aspects about them vary from place-to-place and career-to-career: Shifts are different, bosses are different, rules are different, customers are different, pay is different, benefits are different, and so on.

However, there are some things that don't ever seem to change, regardless of where I am or what I'm doing: There is always a shift I prefer most, there is always one person who hates me seemingly on principle alone (it's usually a mutual hatred), and there is always, always a crap-ton of gossip to go around.

The rumor mill, I have decided, is a constantly shifting beast that adapts and mutates but never dies.

(Sometimes, I wish more than anything that it would.)

Since I rarely get involved with coworkers besides a brief half-smile and a polite, "Hi," I have never been caught up in much drama, nor have I paid much attention to the gossip that goes around.

At my current workplace, Lo Scoglio, my usual routine proves to be a bit difficult.

The staff here is made up of approximately thirty-seven people, including both the front-of-house and everyone in the kitchen. Between these thirty-seven people, gossip is like their form of a community blunt—they're always sharing it, and they're beyond addicted to it.

Everyone gets to their shifts at least fifteen minutes early, just so they can catch up on anything they might have missed in the eight-to-ten hours that they weren't working. Even worse are the surveys, actual slips of paper that are passed around with nimble fingers and quiet snickers before the start of the next shift, with a single question for the day.

Yesterday's was boring: Of those who work here, who would you bang and why?

When the answers are written, they papers are passed around once more, allowing everyone to see the responses and gasp, giggle, or sigh at what they find.

I have never written a reply, nor have I ever bothered to turn in my paper; I usually glance at the question, roll my eyes, and then stuff it in my apron pocket and throw it away when no one is looking.

Today was not a usual day.

I only had to work lunch and the start of dinner, so when I stepped inside the restaurant at half-past twelve, I was hoping for a quiet day and no gossip. What I got was a slip of paper, a pencil, and a hushed, "Don't forget to turn it back in," from one of the main gossipers—a girl whose name I still hadn't bothered to learn.

I had tilted the paper up, expecting another silly question, but halted when I read it.

What helps you calm down after a stressful day? Stared back at me, and my brows had furrowed.

This question, for whatever reason, stuck to me and wouldn't let go.

I had quickly stuffed the paper into my apron before darting into the dining room, but the words followed me throughout the rest of my shift, hovering in my thoughts like some kind of virus.

As I stop outside Selah's workplace now, I reach down and pull the paper out. I was careful not to crumple it like I have with the others, but it is still creased, so I massage a single finger over it, rereading it as I do. "What helps . . .?" I hum, considering it.

Before meeting the two members of my pseudo-family, I would probably say alcohol and a run.

Now, both those things are useful, but even beer is proving not to be nearly as effective as it once was.