Bambi - Chris Pratt Fanfiction

The (Kinda) Fat New Friend

"Good morning! My name is Lily, and I'll be your server today. What can I get you?"

Pretending to be happy is really taking its toll on me.

Working at Starbucks is hellish, because it is literally my job to be cheerful as soon as I step into that wretched place. I have to take orders for pretentious-sounding drinks from pretentious-sounding people, 9 hours a day, 4 days a week, all while pretending to be as bright as the sun. God, each day fake smiles tear at my cheeks until I wish I could rip my mouth clean off.

There was a time when I enjoyed my job, and a time when I enjoyed getting out of bed. I used to have a real passion for life because I had a person who provoked my passion. A person who made me feel like my smiles weren't forced, because he'd put them there himself. I don't have anyone anymore. I'm all alone. Let me tell you, loneliness kind of sucks. In fact, that's a lie. Loneliness sucks a lot.

But I guess I should quit complaining, it's not all bad. It's not like I'm all alone, right? I have my mom and dad, but they live in New Jersey so I guess I only really see them at holidays, birthdays and through a webcam. I have my colleagues who I guess I could count as having, and my homeless friend. Then there's my best friends, Eli, Joshua and Sarah, but Sarah works for a newspaper and is always pretty much unavailable to hang. And I can't spend time with Eli and Joshua either because they are on their honeymoon. They're gone for 12 weeks backpacking across Europe, which depresses me because the closest I'll ever get to Europe is watching an episode of Sherlock on Netflix.

I have my dog too, and he means the world to me. Herbie is a little Shiba Inu pup, and he - much like my darlings Ben and Jerry - is one of the few males that I will ever need in my life from now on. He sleeps right next to me in my bed, so it doesn't feel as empty. Only, he was a gift from Nathan, and sometimes when I look at Herbie my heart feels heavy because I remember that such a joyous creature was given to me by such a jerk.

I hate pretending not to be lonely. I'm a liar.

"That'll be $6.50, thankyou ma'am." I chirp as though butter wouldn't melt, sickly sweet sunshine practically trickling from my smile as I overprice this poor, unsuspecting customer.

My put-on pleasantness works, and I get a buck tip. Mediocre, really. If you're willing to spend nearly 7 dollars on a fracchiato and a butter cookie, I personally think you've got the sort of money to tip hardworking and (borderline) depressed baristas such as myself. That sounds like I'm really selfish and money driven, but I don't care that much about money. All I'd do with it is waste it. So I don't keep my tips, I donate them to the homeless Slovenian man that sleeps under the bridge near my apartment. I like him a lot.

The lady I just served was my last of the day, thankfully, so I proceed to wipe down the work surfaces, hang up my apron, say my goodbyes to the other baristas (most of whom I don't even know of their names despite working here for 8 months and them all having name tags). Then I seize my tip jar, and I do it all whilst sporting that signature toothy grin of lies.

And then I'm out, out of the store and out of the facade. Phew. Feels good. My face settles back into its comfortable position of a frown as I start to rummage through my jar. Really? $3.25, most of it in cents? Poor Aleksander, that won't get him much. I'll make it up with some of my wages, I guess.

The Cali heat used to be something I adored. Now, I'm sweaty and gross and I honestly cannot wait to get out of it and be reunited with my shower, my bed and my shibe. But I've got to power on, and walk the long way so I can find Aleskander.

He sleeps under the highway bridge in a tattered sleeping bag, his only possessions being the bag, his tin of money and a doll his mama knitted him before they got seperated in WW2. Aleksander is a very brave and fascinating person who is grateful just for the fact that he is alive, but he only speaks in broken English and only ever refers to his childhood, so I don't know that much about him. He reluctantly accepts my earnings, and when I offered him my living room to crash in he refused, saying he hadn't earnt it. I've asked him about why he is homeless and in California today, I asked him about why he never asks for money, I even asked him if he ever had a wife. But he just shakes his head and says: "It not important, Lillian. It just sad."