Mic Drop

Chapter 3

      Tillie was on autopilot as she wound her way between tables during dinner rush. Margella's was busy everyday; this Wednesday was no exception. Her section was slammed and her guests were needy.
      She had spent the last few days editing her set and reworking her material. She was so focused on perfecting her set for Laugh City, which she had to keep reminding herself was a true manifestation in her reality, and not some hallucination from the different strain of weed she bought from a new dealer Jason had connected her with. Jason's comedy was low quality, but his taste in marijuana wasn't.
      She smiled to herself as she entered in orders on the POS, imagining different delivery methods for her ending punchline. After she sent in the orders, she remained at the server station and glanced around the packed Margella's dining room.
        She frowned at the way she could barely make out the patrons' faces under the dim, burnt-yellow light bulbs that hung from thick black chains from the steel, black rafters of the ceiling. She never thought when she picked up a serving job at a locally-owned establishment with a well-endowed reputation for its overpriced dishes and high-end facade, that it would be the only place to give her a call back.
      Upon graduating, she planned on using her broadcast journalism degree to land her a job on the set of an entertainment news show, and was willing to start out as a production assistant or script writer until she was able to climb the entertainment industry ladder and secure a career as the host of her own show. All of her applications to show biz were denied or overlooked, and it had been Margella's ever since.
       Tillie's gaze went blurry as she fell into a dissociative state, internally cursing herself for not getting a business degree so she could've had a more expansive set of career options. But she hated office spaces, and gagged at the thought of having to use bullshit corporate slogans like "this isn't just a team, we're a family", like hell we are.
       Tillie was a one-woman show and always preferred to keep it that way. The thought of a unified, yet controlled workplace working to fill capitalist's pockets made her want to light herself on fire. On stage. And do a set about it. While she was burning alive. Dark maybe, but true. And don't even get her started on the bullshit oppressive fashion forced upon women in those corporate spaces–no skin-clinging outfits or you might earn yourself a visit to HR to discuss what is and is not appropriate workwear and how visible curves are a distraction and a lack of professionalism. God forbid you let it be known that you have natural, universe given assets-
       "Waitress!"
        Tillie whipped her head up, knocking her hazy vision back into clarity. It took her a few seconds to download the fact that she was indeed, at work, and not physically present in her imaginative scenario where she was shitting on corporate settings while she lathered herself in gasoline and dropped a lit match on her head.
       "Hello?" the man waved his hand in the air, his palm's movement felt like a metaphorical pop to Tillie's forehead. He followed up the waving motion with a beckoning "come here" motion with a scrunch of his pointer and middle finger. That motion felt like a man's metaphorical controlling, fingering motion inside her vagina, smiling smugly as she rolled her eyes in boredom and feigned appeasement. She squeezed her thighs together and took a deep breath.
        She took her time walking to the table where the beckoning man sat with three other men, all of them sporting thick, gaudy watches that distracted from their less lavish business suits.
      Tillie had one of two experiences with business men while at work. One scenario: the men loved her, complimenting her quick wit and always tipped more than twenty percent due to the way her curves filled out her black work pants. She didn't know how they were able to finish their meals and didn't have motion sickness by how their eyes constantly followed her as she delivered various blends of disgustingly expensive glasses of wine to the tables surrounding them.
      The alternative scenario: the men viewed her as their subordinate, harnessing their wealth and metaphorically whipping her with it as she served their table. When her feet halted in front of this specific table, she instantly knew which brand of corporate cock-faces she was dealing with.
       "How can I help you?" Tillie asked, forcing the pitch of her voice higher, mentally bracing herself for whatever obnoxious scoffing statement was going to spew from his tight-chapped lips.
      "This steak," he pointed down to the pricey cut that perched between oiled asparagus and a dollop of thick mashed potatoes on the white, caved plate. "It's well-done. I asked for medium-well. There's not a streak of pink anywhere in this thing. I'm paying sixty-five-fucking-dollars for a sirloin at this-" the man furrowed his brow and pulled his stare from his plate, and frowned as he surveyed the interior of the restaurant. "At the best attempt of fine dining Atlanta can offer."    
        He rolled his eyes. "I better get a medium-well steak when I ask for it. And you should have double checked that it was cooked correctly before giving it to me. I mean, seriously, is it so hard for you to do your job? It's the easiest, most simple job- " He turned his head and faced both of his business partners. "Well, if you can even call it a job. No benefits... insurance...401k," he laughed and shook his head. "No PTO either. Guess she won't be able to join us on our trip to Cabo next month," he sneered.
      He held up the plate and thrust it toward Tillie. "Have them re-make it. Fast. I need to be out this door in ten minutes. No less."
       Tillie allowed his hand to hover above the white table cloth, staring at its wobbly shadow tremble due to the heaviness of his flamboyant watch and the plate. Her eyes darted to the cut-up steak. Streaks of pink called up to her: we're here, he's fucking lying! Tillie smirked.
      "It will take about eight to ten minutes to cook. I don't think we can have you out the door in ten minutes. Do you want it to go?"
      "I'm sure you aren't suggesting that I won't be able to formally dine with my investors," he snapped, he jolted the plate forward causing one of the asparagus to roll over. His eyes were daggers trying to cut through Tillie's invisible boundary bubble, but she stood her ground.
       She didn't give a shit if she caused his male-centric ego to deflate around the men who were funding his next business project. She didn't give a shit at all. Matter of fact, she was in the mood to see a male meltdown. She already received an automatic twenty percent gratuity on every table's check, thanks to fine dining formalities. Fuck any extra tip, she wanted to see what lengths this man would go to to save his ass and prove his strength at swaying situations to his favor.
      "I'm just saying that-"
      "I'm sure you're not suggesting I'll have to bring this absurdly priced, let-down of a steak into the company black car and risk getting grease on the cream leather interior," he demanded. His eyes focused on Tillie's when he wasn't quickly checking his investors' reactions in his peripheral.
      "I know a good detailer-" Tillie began.
      "And surely, you are not intending on making me search for a refrigerator to store it in once we return to my office–which is on the 50th floor mind you-" he glanced at the providers on either side of him and smirked.
      "Don't you have assistant's for tasks like that?" Tillie responded cooly, calmly, with silent, malicious intent.
     "The assistants' work days end at 5."
      "What about the ones that work for you under the table?" Tillie countered, lowering her voice.
      He went to respond, but noticed the investors lock eyes, and paused.
      "You know, the ones that double-check your schedule..." she rotated her head to her left. "And bring you your lunch..." she rotated her head to the right. "And badge in the sex-workers and escort them up to the 50th floor-" Her head returned forward and she grinned at him slyly.
      His eyes went wide and he dropped his plate on the table. "That's quite enough!" His chest rose and crashed with heavy breaths.
      Tillie gracefully picked up his plate and smiled. "The steak will be out in eight to ten minutes."
       She delicately removed his fork that his dropped plate had knocked askew before him. She stabbed a piece of cut up steak and raised the meat to inspect it. "Hmm." She twirled the fork in her fingers. "This piece is almost as pink as your cheeks right now." She led the fork to her mouth and slid the meat between her teeth and dramatically pulled the fork back. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully. She swallowed. "I heard steaks are seventy-dollars in Cabo."
       She turned and began walking away and tossed her head over her shoulder. "Eight to ten minutes!" The man's cheeks turned as red as the cabernet in the glass his business partner frowningly sipped from.