Three O' Clock Cocktail, (In The A.M.): A Literary Compilation By Joleen Ray

Chocolate Cake

Wake up, and inhale. Realize you're not dreaming. Let the feverishremnants of last nights dreams wash away. Two more minutes. Just two more minutes, puh-leeeease, and you'll get up. Get up. Smoke a cigarette. Don't fall back asleep or you might burn something. Sit up. Bend over. Pick up yesterday's socks and throw them on. Maybe a little too stiff. No. They'll work. Stand up. Put on your shirt, and choose a tie. Not yesterday's tie. Choose the one with the peace signs. Colorful. People will like it. Even you'll like it. Walk to the front room. Open your chest of plastic drawers. Fetch your bottle of prescription narcotics. Down, like, ten of them...for now. And think of him, the most precious love of your past. Just brush it off.

Keys. Check. Apron. Check. Cigarettes. Check. Lighter. Check. Two dollars for the city bus. Yup. Walk out the front door. Begin your day.

Snow. Snow on the ground. Must have snowed last night. Cold. Burr!! Crunch to the corner. Fucking burr!! Wait. Still waiting. Check the time. Waiting. Here it is. Don't trip. Hold onto the rails as the driver...

...lowers the stairs...?! Whaaah? Why is this happening? Is this because you're just fat? He only does this for fat people...and the elderly, and the disabled, and FAT people! Yes, you're fat. Just resign to the fact. No...instead, just think of work now, 'cause you'll be in that hell soon enough. Ugh. What a hell hole.

Arrive.

"Valderie Valderah" bellows over the entryway music speakers. You mosey in, reluctantly, of course, and ask the hostess, "Which section?" Your section aligns the back wall of the restaurant. Great. A horrible spot. A belated punishment? Who knows? Then, they all stream in. The arrogant adolescents from hell. Oh the irony. Brats. You immediately hate them.

Already they write, FUCK PIGS, (for reasons all of their own), with the courtesy crayons onto the butcher paper covering their table cloth, offered by, yours truly, the decadent "Pasta Prevail." Your workplace, a dreadfuldead end to any fool who wont heed your fair warnings - The famously termed, "Jewel of casual dining." Oh no! Did they say, "Jewel?" Ick. Gross. Indubitably.

Their party of nine sits there and stares at you with their gleamy little dagger eyes. You're a peasant. There to serve, and believe it - that IS all. Finished at last, you add gratuity, and, of course, miscalculate the damn thing. They immediately call it out...only naturally. Jesus. FUCK this day.

No! Compose yourself. Adjust your attitude. Reduce trips. Consolidate. Take orders. Don't linger. Don't hover. Don't scream out obscenities at your guests, calling them ungrateful and demanding, smarmy little shoe scum. Some do like your tie though, so don't get dirty. Mourn him, the love of your life who once loved you. Be personable. Be reliable. Be efficient​. Do it to it. Done.

Today has reached a long awaited end, so count your piddly ass tips. Anticipate spending some hard earned wages on drugs...Nooo! No. No. Be productive instead. Save for rent. Save for bills, for toilet paper, for dog food. No, fuck it. Go buy you a rock. Well, that was easy! Relax. Unwind. Smoke some crack. Drink a beer. Pop a few Klonipin. Fade away. Dream of him. Yes...him. Always him. Sleep.

Wake up. Hit snooze. Close your eyes. Hit snooze again. Get up. Smoke a cigarette. Time for school. Roll out of bed. Swallow pills. Swallow your pride. Want him, the love of your life who can't be replaced. Go to school...

...and done. Routine as usual. Uneventful. Time to go home. Your bus is parked without its driver. Notice a backpack on the bench beside it. What could be inside? Don't look. People are watching. Don't look inside. Itch with curiosity. What's inside? Thousands of hundred dollar bills? Amputated body parts? A foot, an arm, a hand? God forbid a head. A bomb? Guns? A dead baby? What could be inside??? The absentee driver now approaches, passing the bag along the way. The nerve he has...he peeks inside.