Sunday, March 24

Watching my god-brother cough as he opens the fridge without so much as an attempt to cover his mouth nearly pushes me over the edge. 

But I say nothing because God forbid I give constructive criticism to an unemployed man who can’t clean up after himself. Chewing the last corner of my sandwich, I’m practically chomping as I recall the last time I asked him to do anything–return cold items to the fridge–and how my mother yelled at me for being rude. 

‘You know he has depression. Why would you make him feel worse?’

‘I have depression too, Mom. Yet, I’m not being an ass to those I share a space with.’

‘I did not raise you to be so callous! He’s struggling to get back on his feet,’ she stage-whispered. 

‘Two things can be true at the same time!’

As I come back to, I wish I had kept dissociating. Junior reaches into his shorts absently, scratches his groin, and, with the same hand, reaches back into the fridge. 

I’m done. 

I go back to my room to grab my stuff for the day. I stuff my backpack with my water bottle, after-work clothes, a novel to read during my break, trail mix, and my keys. It’s instinct to lock my snack container mini fridge and scramble my safe before exiting. I can’t afford to let Junior, or my mom for that matter, ransack my room again.

“I’m heading to work,” I yell, hurrying to the front door. 

“Finally,” I hear Junior mutter as I pass by the kitchen opening. 

The urge to go over there and verbally rip him to shreds is strong. 

But if I address him, this will escalate, and I'll be blamed. I won't call walking out the door the high road, but instead delaying the inevitable because I can't do this for much longer.

“Sweetie, you gotta git your own place,” Ger sighs after hearing today’s latest shit show. 

We’re restocking the to-go bar while the restaurant is dead. Gerry, whose name is Geraldine, is my work bestie. Fifty-four, jaded, and working two jobs because she has custody of her twin granddaughters, she’s a force to be reckoned with. This is her evening job, but her main one is being a medical receptionist at some doctor’s office downtown. It’s like she shapeshifts when she dons our uniform, from candy-carrying granny to the ultimate mean-mug cigarette nana: salt and pepper hair twisted in a lazy, ever-poofing bun, a clearly fake grin and wiry frame that lets you know she can scrap. It fits with the diner’s vibes.

“Ger, how the hell am I supposed to do that when Lucifer keeps cutting my hours and, worse, giving extra shifts to the minor she’s fucking,” I try to whisper without moving my lips too much.

“He’s legal now.”

“Ger!”

“And haven’t ya been saving for, like, the past four years?”

“Yes, but did you forget about the credit stuff?”

“I forgot about your mama doing that cunt-move. You shouldn’t have to pay it off.”

“Yeah, well even though I proved fraud on the ones from when I was a kid, I’m still in the middle of a dispute with a couple of issuers because she made a few cards in my name when I turned eighteen. They’re only going to forgive, close, whatever the fuck it is when I pay more of it off.”

“A bunch of bullshit,” Gerry mutters right as the front door tings. “Oh, wait a second. I got just the thing to cheer you up.”

The harpy has the audacity to guide a six-top of people in scrubs to my section. 

She comes back, grinning like a damn Cheshire cat. “Hope you like your eye candy,” she taunts as I slip past. 

“Hag.”

“Heifer.”

I try to mask my annoyance with a smile as I walk up to the six-top. Please let them be good tippers. I make a show of searching for my pen, trying to calm myself down with the reminder that these people probably had a worse day than me. I start my song and dance by flipping to a new page in my order pad. 

“Hey, y’all. My name’s Keisha. I’ll be your waiter today. What can I,” I begin, but quickly find myself frozen as I finally notice Mister Man from the store. He looks so good in his navy scrubs that my brain resets. 

Why is he here?! I think he can hear my internal screaming because his eyes become little crescents the longer I gaze at him. Breaking the spell but still locking eyes, he tilts his head inward, and I see his hand gesture at the table. 

Shit. I am at work. And he’s not the only one at this table. Yes, there was a group of them, and they're still here. Jolting back to reality, I find myself the object of a few questioning gazes between Mister and Me as they try to figure out why the hell I’m being so weird. 

“I’m so sorry, I zone out sometimes. It’s just one of those days,” I try to laugh off as I play up being embarrassed. “I’m just gonna rewind this back a little bit.” Making a relatively decent human equivalent to a VHS tape going backward, I place my pag back in my waiter apron and literally restart. 

“Hey, y’all. My name’s Keisha, and I’ll be your waiter today.” I begin again as I pull out my pad. “I know y’all are probably starving, so let’s go ahead and get your drink and appetizer orders if you have any,” I somehow manage to say with a small smile as they all stare at me with slightly open mouths. “I know, guys. You’re basically getting a free show of me embarrassing myself with your dinner, but I tryna get ya fed, so work with me here.”

Of course, Mister has to break the seal and lets out a belly gut buster in the middle of the diner. His coworkers don’t hesitate to join, and I roll my eyes as a little chuckle escapes. 

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh at me again like last time,” I mutter, going ahead and grabbing a nearby fresh pitcher of ice water and bringing it back to the table. The laugh is thankfully dying, but a few brows raise again. 

“I saw the water bottles, so I figured a few of you need some hydration.”

The three nod vigorously, already opening their bottles. 

“Now, what can I get started for y’all drinks and apps wise, 'cause I know y’all didn’t look at the menu yet.”