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"Ahoooh . . boy, where do I even start?"
My eyes stared at the camera in front of me, and I let out an exaggerated breath.
Well, it sounded exaggerated, but I can assure you that it's all natural.
"Who should I start talking about first?" A soft giggle escaped my lips after I began talking to the camera man. "Myself, I guess?" I questioned my own reflection, perking a neatly plucked brow upward curiously.
I wasn't taking this as serious as I should have been. This job was extremely stressful, and this was no laughing matter.
Gordon Ramsay, yes, fucking GORDON RAMSAY, was coming in to inspect us.
OUR RESTAURANT.
It was embarrassing, I can't believe we had to even call him in for help. What he's going to see, will blow his mind, I'm sure.
"Uhm, my name is Charlotte Jackson, I am . . twenty one years old, and I'm a waitress at the Basil Palm, Italian family restaurant, here in Brooklyn. I have . . been here for two and a half years, and the staff is like my family." I shrugged. "No pun intended."
Saying it felt so normal, it felt like it was like a normal sentence that came out of my mouth every day.
"The main problem is the boss. Our crew doesn't respect him, because he doesn't respect us." I trailed off to my own thoughts and memories of the countless amount of times he's treated us like shit.
"Tony has literally thrown things at us. He needs to get his shit together, man up, and run his restaurant. Maybe Gordon Ramsay can teach him what a real man is." A laugh escaped my lips, and I shrugged again. "But part of me thinks he might just be wasting his time."
