Chapter 9 - The Rent Was Due and I Couldn't Afford to Cry
I didn't turn the kitchen light on all the way when I got home. I left it on the dim setting over the stove because the full fluorescents hurt my eyes after the chandeliers. It was almost midnight. My uniform shirt stuck to my back, and my wrist throbbed under my sleeve where I'd kept it tucked all through service.
My name is Emma. I was twenty-three and counting ones on a Formica counter.
I dumped my apron pocket out and smoothed the bills flat. Forty-seven in cash tips, plus the nine dollars in coins I didn't bother to stack yet. I separated them into piles with my left hand while I held a bag of ice wrapped in a dish towel against my right wrist with my chin. The cold bled through and made my teeth ache.
The front door to the bathroom opened and Jess came out in sweatpants, her hair wet from the shower. She stopped when she saw me.
"Hey," she said. "You okay? Your eyes are all red."
I hadn't realized I was still crying until she said it. Not real crying. Just that leftover leak at the corners that wouldn't stop since the dining room. I wiped at it with the back of my hand and tried to smile.
"Long shift," I said. "Double service."
She came closer and nodded at the ice. "What'd you do?"
"Burned it. Kitchen ticket spindle," I said. It came out too fast. "It's fine."
Jess didn't push, but she pulled the rent envelope off the fridge where we'd taped it. October, with both our names on it in Sharpie. She set it down next to my tip piles like she didn't mean anything by it. She meant everything by it.
"Landlord texted," she said. "He wants it by Friday, no late this time. You got your half?"
I looked at the piles. After gas and my phone bill, I would. Barely. Only if I worked the brunch tomorrow and the dinner Friday. Only if I didn't get cut early. Only if I didn't get written up.
"Yeah," I said. "I'll have it."
She sat across from me and watched me count again. The ice was melting through the towel and dripping onto a five. I moved the bill.
The employee handbook was still in my tote from orientation. Thin, stapled, the cover soft from being folded. I'd never actually read past the dress code page. I pulled it out while Jess heated up leftover noodles in the microwave and stood there half-asleep.
I flipped to the back where it said Questions or Concerns. There were three lines. Report to your immediate supervisor. I read it twice. Immediate supervisor: Mr. Doyle — kitchen lead / service manager. There was his cell. No HR number. No second name. No office address except the staffing agency downtown that only answered nine to five.
I stared at that page until the words blurred. The microwave beeped.
"You ever call them?" I asked Jess. "For anything?"
"Who?"
"The agency. For a job thing."
She shook her head and twirled noodles on a fork. "I tried once when my check was short at the coffee place. They told me to talk to my manager." She chewed. "Why?"
"No reason," I said.
After she went to bed, I sat there with my phone open to Notes. My wrist had gone numb in a good way and then a bad way, and I switched the ice to the counter.
I typed: He grabbed my wrist in the kitchen when I dropped the sauce. I typed: He said if I cried in front of guests he'd send me home. I deleted the second sentence. I typed: I don't want to cause problems I just want to work. I read it back and hated how small it sounded. I deleted that too.
I tried saying it out loud once, quiet, so I wouldn't wake Jess. "Mr. Doyle hurt my wrist in the kitchen." My voice shook on his name. I tried again, flatter. "There was an incident in the kitchen." That sounded like her. Like Vivian in the red dress with her glass held in both hands. Little mishap in the kitchen, that's all. I pressed delete until the screen was blank and put the phone face-down.
The apartment was so quiet I could hear the fridge hum. Forty-seven dollars. Rent due Friday. No other number to call but his. A man at a dinner table saying, Did someone upset you? And me saying nothing.
May you like
I put the cash back in the envelope, set the handbook back in my tote for the morning, and threw the melted ice in the sink. My wrist was red and puffy around the edge of the burn. I ran it under cold water and made the decision without even saying it in my head.
I'd go back tomorrow. Keep my bun tight. Keep my eyes down. Keep my head down and get through brunch.
