Going South: New Girl

I take a quick look around the restaurant in search of an excuse to start immediately. That's when I realize there are no waitresses, no bussers, just a long line of customers waiting for their food. In a split second, I've made up my mind.

“You look like you could use the help now. I'll work until closing without pay. If you think it will work out for both of us, I'll come back tomorrow morning to settle the details.” I'll worry about the money tomorrow. Tonight, I need to secure a job.

Both John and the young cashier stare at me, my mind still whirling to find a place for me here – right now without training ...or trust. In the few minutes I've been here, I understand the system. Take the order, submit to kitchen, take payment, call number, hand over food. Simple.

“I'll take orders while she handles the register,” I say with a nod towards the girl after what feels like a five minute stare-down and before I remember I don't know the menu.

“Liz, the register will be easier for her. You take the orders and let her cash.”

A sigh of relief is not enough to express my delight. I am elated ...and in disbelief. Without waiting for further instruction, I step behind the counter. John is already back in the kitchen. Liz is taking the next order.

“4.95, .99, 1.50,” she says with each item the customer orders.

After a momentary setback, she points out that I need to hit the food button after each amount. After that, I'm good to go. Total, payment method, count back change. Easy. The line begins to move again – a family, eight teens, a couple, a mother and her young daughter.

John returns to check on me, tossing a t-shirt at me. “Put it on over your clothes. You need to look like you work here.”

I slip it on quickly, ignoring how hot I already am with just one shirt on. John sticks around for a moment, watching, assessing me. It should make me nervous but I am surprised to discover my own confidence. I am doing well, sweating bullets but doing well. His absence after inspection almost goes unnoticed.

“Special, side cheese,” Liz yelled to the kitchen, shoving the order slip into the spinning stand.

“66.95,” I say to the tall guy who is overdressed in a collared shirt and suit pants, smiling at me with a dimple in his chin. Then I realize I've made an error. I immediately blush, searching the register for a cancel or void button. Nothing.

“I've only got twenty,” he says, obviously trying to relax me with a joke.

“Sorry. It's only 6.95,” I say, shrugging. I can't find any way to cancel the order and Liz is busy with the next customer. So I hit the cash button and give him 13.05 in exchange for his twenty. “Sorry, we're out of tens,” I say, handing him two fives instead. Could this transaction go any worse?

He hands a five back to me. I look up, confused.

“For you,” he says, perfect teeth revealed through full lips. “You look like you need it.”

Five dollars closer to paying the motel... I think about it as I hold it suspended over the pooled tips bin – the pooled tips I gave up for tonight.

“I'm sorry. Tips are pooled here,” I say, making up rules I'm not sure exist just to cover my butt. “Do you still want to leave it?”

His gaze drops to the bucket below my hand. “Yes. Keep it.”

I drop it in and turn towards Liz to see where we're at. She'd been watching me, curious to see what I'd do, I'm sure. Tall guy is still in ear shot so I can't discuss it with her. We move on.

I have no idea when closing is but a couple of hours into working, when the line has dwindled down, I pause to stretch my back and realize it is almost 10:30. Helping Liz seems silly now as people trickle in two at a time. The other two girls working in front near the register are wiping down the counter and reloading the napkins. Some tables inside the restaurant are littered with trash, plastic trays, cardboard french fry boats, spilled ketchup.

“Should I clean up those tables?” I ask Liz. She has become my unofficial manager.

“Sure,” she says, without much expression. Is she happy I offered? Or is she laughing behind my back now? Either way, I'll keep working until John says to go home.

Using the scattered trays, I pile up the trash and dump it in the garbage can. The larger trash on the floor I pick up with my hands and toss onto another tray. I'm sure there's a broom around somewhere. I walk past the register and past the kitchen for the first time. Beyond the kitchen stands a mop, two brooms and some rags. I head straight for it, pulling a rag out of a bucket of soapy water and ringing it out.

I pass the kitchen again on my way back out, peek across the grills at John and two other guys. They nod as if they know me, as if I've worked there for months and I momentarily have a flashback to my teens when I waitressed in downtown Boston. It was a different kind of restaurant, different menu, different prices, but the atmosphere behind the front counter seemed just the same – hot sweaty workers flipping meat on a grill, metal tools clanging, sizzling, spattering, frying.

I use the wet rag to wipe off the empty tables and smile at a boy entirely too young to be out past 10:30.

“What's she doing?” the boy says to his mother while he watches me.

“She's cleaning,” mom answers in a pampering voice.

He continues to watch me.

“That's some ice-cream sundae you got there,” I say, a subtle reminder to eat instead of watch while making a friendly gesture.

Reminded, he looks down at his ice-cream which is half melted and mostly chocolate sauce. “It's my present,” he says.

I move one table closer and wipe it clean. “Ah.”

“I was a good boy today,” he says, quite proud of himself.

Mom gets nervous and ushers his attention back to her. “Eat your ice-cream now. It's late.”

I sense there's more to the story than she'd like me to know so I move away, heading back through the kitchen to get the broom.

At 11:20, when the last guests leave, John peeks out from the kitchen and says, “Clean up,” to Liz who is leaning against the register grooming her cuticles with her teeth. Liz looks sideways at me across the room. John's gaze follows.

“Oh,” he says, making a full appearance by the counter. “You did that?” he asks me, gesturing to the clean restaurant.

“Yes. I hope that was okay.” For a moment, I think he'll be mad I cleaned while customers were still here.

“Yes, it's okay.” He looks back at Liz as if he's about to ask her something. Then he looks back at me. “How'd it go tonight?”

I join him on the opposite side of the counter. “Good,” I say with surety. My lower back has a piercing pain and my mouth is dry as cotton.

“Great,” he says.

“Oh,” I'm reluctant to add. “There was one thing.”

“What?”

“I rang up an order wrong but Liz was busy so I left it and just counted the change back.”

“Oh.” He moves to the register. Liz reluctantly moves out of his way, dumps the tip jug over and begins counting it. “Tell me what happened,” he says, eyes on the register. I can't tell if he's angry or not.

“It should have rung up as 6.95 but came up as 66.95.”

“So what did you do?” He pushes several buttons now.

“I hit the cash button, took his twenty and gave him change.”

“Okay,” he says, hitting one last button which begins a long printout. “No problem.”

No problem? Really? “I hope it was alright. There was a long line and I wanted to keep it moving.”

“It's fine. You handled it well.” He waits for what I assume is an end of night report from the register. “What's the total?” he asks Liz as she finishes counting the tips.

“523,” she says. He makes a note on a paper log.

“Give Mollie a hundred. Split the rest between you three.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief. My heart leaps in my chest.

“She cleaned, Liz. So you're getting out of here half an hour early with less work. Give her a hundred.”

Liz counts out a hundred and hands it to me.

“Thank you,” I say to Liz modestly and then to John, “I really appreciate it.”

“Come back tomorrow morning at 11:00 so we can make this official.”

“Great,” I say, my stomach flickering with hope.

It's almost midnight when I get back to the motel. I'm exhausted and need to cool down. A hot bath would sooth my aching muscles but a dip in the ocean would be refreshing and therapeutic. I pick up my duffel bag from where I left it earlier and drop it on the bed. Unfortunately, I failed to pack a swimsuit during my escape. There's always the birthday suit.

I go to the back window, pull the drapes back and peer out at the ocean just hundreds of feet away. It's dark and looks deserted. I’ve never skinny dipped but I feel… empowered.   

~~ Should Ana go skinny dipping? ~~

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