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Chapter 4: Freudian Sizing Issue.
"That's it, we're going to the cops." Faye announces with finality.
I roll my eyes at her drama-queen streak, "No, we're not. They won't take it seriously." I tell her, "I don't know the guy nor have I ever met him before. The police will ignore it just like they did with everything else."
A man has been leaving me twenty dollar tips with cryptic messages on it written in black sharpie. The first one was about a week ago, with the words 'I know about you'. Then three days later, it was 'get the hell out of dodge'. Yesterday, it was 'You fooled them but not me' and the reason Faye is freaking out is because today's is 'Better watch your back'.
These tips were delivered to the other waitresses, somehow I always managed to miss the man in question. The one time I caught sight of him, he had a hoodie, a baseball cap and shades. The definition of creepy, basically.
"So what? We're supposed to walk home alone, now?"
"Relax," I tap her back, pocketing the creepy twenty dollars, "if he were to be an actual a killer, he'd want you to see his face just so that later when he hangs you up in his mother's basement while wearing one of her dresses, you'll be all like 'I didn't realize it'."
"Glad to see all that binging on police TV series has finally paid off." Faye says dryly.
"Come on, Faye," I laugh, "He's probably your typical stalker, scared of his own shadow, owns a shrine and if you look him in the eyes he'll pee in his pants."
Faye doesn't move, instead she squints her eyes at me, "You have really been sucked into the 'Brooklyn experience', haven't you?" she crosses her arms, making fun of a hipster term.
I smirk at her, "Hey, If anything my supposed third Mexican eye will save us."
"You can't just disregard your safety because we buy groceries from the one-dollar-store and we go 'thrifting' instead of shopping." she states.
