Heists and Vengeance

Thirty

Cole

"Table four has been waiting for their food for about five minutes now, Carl. Go attend to them," one of the managers said. Cole didn't respond from where he was filling up cups of coffee. "Carl. Carl? Carl!"

Finally, Cole raised his head and saw that the man was staring straight at him. "Carl!" the manager said in a very disapproving tone. "Why are you ignoring me? Those are grounds to get you fired!"

Confused, Cole pointed at himself as if to say Who – me? The guy sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Yes, Carl. Of course, I'm talking to you."

"Uh, sir...my name is Cole. That's why I didn't respond."

The man waved a hand dismissively. "Carl, Cole, Costa Rica, whatever your name is. Just get to the table!"

Cole sighed and headed towards the people he had to wait on. It was breakfast time, and according to other staff members, it was one of their busiest hours. Turns out, people are crankiest in the morning and more likely to complain – a fact that he already knew thanks to Erin.

He made his way through the bustle of other waiter arrived at the table, and plastered the biggest, fakest grin he had. "Hello! I'm Cole, and I'll be your server this morning! Are you ready to order?"

The couple looked up at him with a disinterested air. The man was on the broader end of the spectrum, with a handlebar mustache and hooded eyes. The woman next to him – his wife, presumably, judging by the excessively large rock on her finger – was slender and square-jawed, her auburn hair tied up in an elegant knot.

He recognized them vaguely – probably from some event that had been broadcast by the media. He didn't keep up with American news much – or the news of any country really - because he felt like it was always the same things repeated over and over again. A politician lied. A celebrity was caught in a scandal. A school shooting occurred, or a natural disaster struck. Always the same old things. The reporters themselves weren't much better either – never giving famous people the privacy they'd needed, and taking bribes from hotshots just to make extra cash.

He'd told Lana about this one time – they'd been in the kitchen drinking hot chocolate one evening while the others were busy. They'd been talking, and at some point, Lana had mentioned her job in journalism, causing Cole to grimace. She'd noticed, and asked him about it.

"I dunno," he said. "I just find the whole media just...toxic. People keep blaming other people for things, and you never really know what's true or not. Just seems too tiring to keep up with, and honestly? I don't really see the point."

To her credit, Lana hadn't gotten annoyed or try to tell him he was wrong – she'd just nodded solemnly as she pondered over what he'd aid. "True. But...without the media, no one would know what was happening in the world," she pointed out.

Cole had agreed with her, and hurried to explain himself. "It's not that the media is bad, it's just...most of it is bad."

Lana had frowned. "How do you mean?"

He'd begun to talk about the hush money and the invasiveness of reporters, before Lana'd interrupted him by throwing her hands in the air and making a loud exclamation.

"Sorry for cutting in," she said, a little sheepishly. "It's not that you're wrong – you're absolutely right. And that's the thing. There are journalists that do those kinds of things, and they're the ones that give the rest of us a bad name." She leaned forward, a serious look in her eyes. "Not all reporters are bad like that, I promise."