Double shift
by Megan Neary
Bridget is late for work. She turned off her alarm, somehow. Turned off three different alarms, actually. She set so many because she knew she’d be exhausted and she was afraid of sleeping through them. How did she manage to turn them all off, roll over, and return to her dream? Her dream about work. Even her dreams were about work. The horror of it should have woken her up, but it didn’t. Instead, it was Rick that did. Her manager on the phone where are you? Is everything okay? We’re fucking slammed. Yeah, I’m sorry. Overslept. On my way now. She gets up, splashes cold water on her face and armpits, pulls her greasy hair into a messy bun, dresses in her dirty jeans and t-shirt and soup-stained apron. Sprays some perfume on it all, hopes it will cover the greasy, old-food smell of the clothes. It doesn’t. Just mixes with it. Makes a cocktail of roses and french fry oil. She grabs her keys, her purse, her coat, runs downstairs. Starts the car. The engine turns over and dies. She tries again, praying, begging the god of old cars and the patron saint of winter to intercede for her, to spark her engine to life. It sputters into being. She speeds off, aware that she should have wiped the snow from the car, hoping the ancient windshield wipers will do the trick. She slaps foundation on her face at one red light, adds crooked lipstick and too-bright blush at another. She gets to work. Parks her car in the lot. Hopes Rick won’t notice. Runs inside, slipping and sliding on the ice, goes in through the kitchen door, the cook glares at her. You’re late. Rick’s driving me crazy. I know, I’m sorry. She goes to the computer, clocks in. Races over to a table where a man in an orange shirt and a purple tie is waving his hand in the air as if he’s being swarmed by wasps. Yes, sir? I need a refill. Yes, sir. What did you have? She picks up the empty glass. How is it possible you don’t know what I had? What kind of service is this? Sorry, sir, I’m not your waitress, just trying to help out. I’d be happy to get you a refill if you would just tell me what you had. The service here used to be good. You know, I’ve been coming here for thirty years. Longer than you’ve been alive, I bet hahaha and the service used to be good. Now, I wait and I wait for my eggs, my bacon isn’t crispy, I can’t get a refill to save my life. He had a diet coke whispers the pale woman sitting across from him, before dropping her head to her cup of black coffee and giving it a good, utterly pointless, stir. I’ll be right back, sir, she says and she runs off with his glass, drops it back on his table filled with diet coke, sorry about that, sir, runs off to another table before he can tell her the diet coke isn’t what is used to be, spends the day apologizing. Wonders how many times she apologizes. To Rick and Mario for being late. To customers because their coffee is too hot and their oatmeal is too cold and their over medium eggs just aren’t quite right. The breakfast rush dies down, she gets a minute to swallow a coffee and a piece of toast. Then, it’s time to get ready for lunch. She sweeps crumbs and broken crayons from where the baby sat and soiled napkins from where a group of men in suits sat and empty sugar packets from where the ladies’ bridge club spent all morning and ordered only iced tea except for the woman who drank seven glasses of water and lemon. Lunch begins. She serves, greets, refills cups and delivers food. A man tells her the prices are ridiculous and she wants to tell him she doesn’t make the prices, knows they’re high, wouldn’t come here herself, maybe he should try the diner down the street, the food’s good and the prices low, says instead, yes, sir, I understand, but we do use the finest, freshest ingredients and he seems a little mollified, doesn’t storm off, anyway, she wonders what he’d think if he saw the kitchen, saw the plastic bags sitting in the hot water, saw how the cook cuts them open, pours them in a bowl or on a plate, tosses on a little parsley and tada! Freshness. The man eats and pays, doesn’t tip. That’s one way to make up for the high prices. Lunch becomes dinner. She drinks another coffee, steals a plate of french fries, wishes she hadn’t agreed to a double, remembers her rent is overdue. Dinner ends. She cleans up. Puts the chairs up. Sweeps and mops the floor. Counts her money. Refills the salt and pepper shakers. Eats a leftover piece of cake. Today was its last day, just gonna get thrown away, anyway. Walks out to her car, clears the day’s snow away. It won’t turn on. Not even after three tries. Not even after a directionless prayer. Goes inside. The cook comes out, gives her a jump, tries to kiss her, she pushes him away, thanks him for the jump, pretends she didn’t notice the way he angled his face toward hers. Drives home. Walks through the snow on aching, freezing feet. She’ll have to buy some boots. Her socks are soaked through. She made rent though. She’ll pay it tomorrow. She’ll pay it, then she’ll start saving for next month’s. The due date’s coming fast, isn’t it? The boots will have to wait.
Megan Neary is a writer and teacher living in Columbus, Ohio. Her work has appeared in Rejection Letters, Near Window, and Flyover Country, of which she is a contributing editor.