I hustle away from Lester’s office door, shuffling into the combined smell of burnt coffee and industrial-strength floor cleaner. While I can still feel Lester's “discerning stare” burning a hole in my sunrise-orange polo, I can’t help but wonder why I’m here instead of Hollywood.
Our boss wants standard protocol. He yearns for color-coded spreadsheets. Yes, I am the queerest thing on this planet, but that doesn't mean I’m not deprived of the one thing everyone else seems to have—a safety net.
While Denny’s slinging his four-hundredth pancake of the week, I’m the one tying my apron around a small schlub of fat I’m trying to pass off as a muscle, all while praying my pink Razr vibrates with a message from the only person who makes me feel safe. I’ll take me, flaws and all. But God, I’m tired of being the only one looking out for Kirby Kendall.
If Lester could utter words that are normal to the everyday vernacular, like, ‘How about them Padres, am I right?’ or, ‘Maybe what this place needs is some more color,’ then perhaps I might not be standing here tying an apron behind my back feeling like I’ve done something utterly wrong.
At least smile every once in a while, that’s all I’m saying.
Pink glitter? This nametag serves as my flourish. My confidant. Something that reminds me I’m still special amongst a sea of mundane posers trying to conform, fit in a box, or flat out pretend to simply be. However, one thing’s for damn sure. You couldn’t pay me a thousand bucks an hour to run this franchised greasy spoon. Nuh uh. I’m going straight to the top. Where is that? Well, I haven’t yet found out the answer. But nothing’s keeping me from trying to figure it out when the time finally comes.
Sophia rounds the bar with a shriek of exasperation. Imagine a post-menopausal woman with more spicy hairs than Kathy Griffin and Drew Barrymore put together, who should be enjoying retirement, hoisting a tray of dishes for the poor slum in the pit to wash them. Oh right. That slum would also be me.
“Thank God you’re here, sweetie,” Sophia gasps for air, wiping her brow. “People are already loaded up on tequila and salt and we haven’t even gotten to the main event tomorrow.”
That tracks. This is San Diego’s smaller neighborhood stuffed to the brim with college-aged kids and those flashy hipsters I just mentioned. Blackberries. Pffft. Who cares? The only reason I’m attached to my humble little pink Motorola Razr phone is because there’s a man on the other end texting me from an MSN Chat Room: Daddy and Me. And also because my fourth AOL free-trial ran out.
So when I finally caught a big fish at the end of my digital hook, I couldn’t risk losing access to the most sincere and genuine person I’ve probably ever talked to in my life. And here’s the kicker—we’ve not even met face to face yet.
My mom, bless her soul, she’d probably rattle my bones a few dozen times with warnings about giving my phone number to people online. But, she’s gone. And the only person who’s coming to rescue me? So far, you’re listening to them. Kirby Kendall. Unit of One, master of survival, ruler of their flirtatious, fancy little kingdom where dreams don’t go to die. But they sure as hell don’t stick around long enough to get to the good parts.
Everyone knows a good diner server makes their tips from feigning and acting. I quit college because I had to support my daily aspirations like keeping a roof over my head and some basic essentials in the fridge. But I don’t do Ramen Noodles. Hell no, I won’t go. I still have dietary standards, and I’m not about to threaten my physical health by consuming more sodium than that asswad on “The Apprentice.” Now, that’s a boss of which I’m glad Lester doesn’t mirror their managerial styles.
As for my college education though? You’d be correct if you guessed acting. I’m simply divine when it comes to putting on a show. And my billfold at the end of each shift is bona fide evidence that the method of wooing customers works tenfold. It’s peculiar how complimenting somebody’s gaudy Trolls earrings would instantly increase my tip potential, and staying on top of drink refills is another biggie as well.
Hungry diners get thirsty, and there’s really nothing quite like that feeling when someone raises their glass to rattle the last few ice cubes to catch your attention. Which, by hospitality standards, is failing at a task that should be the number one cardinal rule of waiting tables. Speaking of, I have a seven-top currently seating themselves in the rounded corner booth, and I remember one of them from last week.
“Hey guys, welcome back into Moe’s. What can I get everyone started off with?”
The patrons take their time from left to right, ordering anything from a strawberry shake to Diet Cokes and iced teas. Except the last guy, perfectly bronzed skin that’d even catch Sophia’s attention at her age.
“Hey,” I point with my pen. “Grilled cheese on rye, right?”
He smiles casually. “Good memory, that’s what I’ll be having again.”
Behind the counter, it’s apparent Lester’s been too busy to get the maintenance guy out here to fix our primary milkshake blender. And, section two’s about to have a shit fit because Denny can’t seem to whip up their crepes fast enough.
Nobody said being a server was easy. I work harder for these tips than an exotic dancer down at the club. They shake their ass and I shake my tail. Well, quite literally, actually. That’s the other medical anomaly nobody seems to know about. There’s a stub at the top of my butt crack with hair. It’s not pretty, and possibly the reason I’ve never been able to keep a partner. But it’s me, and I’ll take me any day or night.
Lester shuffles out from his office with a discerning look, as if one of our condiment trays may be missing too few Splenda packets. Not a big deal, I can read his mind. Honestly, I can read most anyone’s thoughts if I work hard enough at it. But there’s something about Lester that I can’t seem to shake. And his thoughts are louder than a bullhorn at a Friday school pep rally.
“Ken,” he says softly. “Keep the nametag as it is. We need a little color around this joint.”
See what I mean? I practically instilled the words in his mouth just minutes before he spewed them. Now maybe I can finally get him to agree about a raise and some more time off. I’m tired. The thing is, my little goose egg seems to be growing at a slow, but steady pace. And the resulting headaches are freaking brutal.
As I pass through the kitchen, I’m caught off guard by Sophia who’s lurching herself forward from the back delivery door, having just finished one of her smokes. She exhales a final cloud of menthol that blocks my windpipe from allowing oxygen to get to my poor aching brain. The lights overhead, bright and furious, flicker with a determination of possibly blowing a fuse.
But the pain, it’s radiating from the lump on my head, forcing my backside to slide down the walk-in freezer door.
Sophia doesn’t gaze backward as she slams the truck delivery door harder than the gates at The Emerald City collapsing in on themselves.
“Stop squinting at the boss like you’re trying to solve a Sudoku puzzle, Sparkles,” she croaks, much like a pound of gravel being shoved amidst a patch of dirt. “Lester doesn’t need a mind reader. He needs a nap and a shot of something that doesn’t appear to be something that’d emerged from a newborn’s diaper.”
She gestures herself with a nicotine-stained thumb toward the putrid green juice in Lester’s glass bottle. With his organization skills and devotion to the planet, I could peg him for one of those anti-plastic types that’s trying to get bamboo paper straws replaced in this joint.
“He’s got that look again,” she continues, moving past me toward the floppy-doors which lead out to the dining area. “You know, he’s always on that phone of his too.”
I slide my Razr phone from the pocket of my apron, checking to see if my online Daddy has responded. Based on Cabrillo Landing and its cell-tower lacking notoriety, this says it’s been received as of right now, but probably because the thick apron’s fabric acts as a double signal barrier. However, my vision’s growing sort of blurry as of the last few minutes, so I’m having issues making out the long-form texts he always sends.
Must be one of those Blackberry types of people.
The message, as I rub on the hump of my crown, reads clearer.
That’s another part of my backstory that I added into a persona when joining MSN Groups. Daddy thinks I’m a hacker hobbyist who lives in the mother-in-law unit out behind the back lawn of their parent’s coastal getaway home in La Jolla. The truth is, I live in a rented bedroom on Lauretta Street down at the base of Rose Canyon.
Since Denny may almost be finished with my large order, I’d best reply to my online Daddy as quickly as I possibly can. Rye Bread may lose their temper if his ravenous fangs are deprived of melted cheese and onions crunching between them.
As I rise to my feet, placing the phone back inside my apron, I hear Lester’s phone chirruping like a fuckin’ finch that’s had three too many sunflower seeds. He’s a busy guy with an overloaded work schedule. If he asks me to fill Andrew’s shoes as a Night Manager, I’m definitely asking for more than I make now. Only then, will I be able to afford my own AOL service without abusing their free trial CD’s from the mail, and a place somewhere so close to the Westfield UTC mall, I could shop for hours and hours with “Daddy” in-tow, holding me safely in his arms while downing a Bay Breeze on the terrace of some swanky Italian restaurant.
Come to think of it, I haven’t technically asked him where he even lives. That’s strange.
My suspicion about the large order was spot on. Denny catches my glare as I swing around the floppy doors toward the heated lamp pass-thru with Rye Bread’s grilled cheese and his pack of collegiate hipsters too cool to probably tip me anything less than seven percent.
“Mijo,” Denny shouts. “Where you been, amigo? Your table’s gonna wonder if ya ran away.”
I shake my head, slowly dismissing the crackled noise of “Makes Me Wonder” by Maroon 5. “Sorry, another headache—Imma have to find a neurologist or something. I could have a brain tumor, God forbid.”
Sophia catches up at the counter. “If Lester doesn’t can your asymmetrical tush before you can afford the copay of a SoCal Specialist in this economy.”
She’s right. I’m overreaching with my dream medical team. If only somebody could tell me why this lump causes me so much pain and agony. I’d swear it’s a sign of magic. But so far all it seems like, has been a major curse my entire life. Loading the plates one by one into my extended arm, I make my slow retreat to the rounded booth offering a smile instead of any sign I’m in this much physical discomfort.
“And Den, I’ve told you a million times,” I hear Sophia reading Denny the riot act. “Ken’s nonbinary, just call them ‘friend’ or ‘Ken’ for starters, yeah?”
Rye Bread stares into my fixed sight as I place the plate directly in front of him, practically taking note of the foam accumulating at the corner of his dimple as if he’s some damn coyote starved of a good hunt for three and a half weeks.
Yikes, thank God he’s not a coyote.
I don’t do too well around predators. Just because I’m a Unit of One, doesn’t mean I’m capable of holding my own in a showdown between four or five starving dogs. And with my stubbled gay ass? I’d be scurrying down the block like Ross Matthews being chased away by someone wielding Walmart chino pants alongside Rodeo Drive.