“Good,” I said. “You should stick to torturing servers uptown.”
“’Ay! Not in my restaurant,” George bellowed. His third chin vibrated with rage. If I didn’t get out now, I might cause a coronary, and I didn’t really want that on my conscience. I also really didn’t want to have to give this guy mouth-to-mouth. Wisely, I zipped my lips.
“I really think this is an overreaction,” the woman said smoothly.
“No. It’s not,” George and Charming said together.
They could get Team Asshole jerseys.
“Ollie, get your things. You’re fired.”
The son of a bitch wasn’t even going to let me close out my tables. I had at least another thirty bucks in tips coming. Maybe I should burn his mother’s house down. But the woman made a hell of a cannoli and caught me up on General Hospital when she came in. I’d burn down George’s house instead.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” the woman said.
“Yes, it is,” Charming snapped.
“She’s fired, and I’ll bring you another pizza. On the house,” George insisted. “Good?”
Charming, still looking at me but now with the slightest, victorious curve to his snarly lips, nodded briskly. “Fine.”
I already knew George would be taking the cost of the two pizzas out of my last paycheck. Jackass.
Without a word, I headed back into the kitchen. I grabbed my coat off the rack, scooped the money out of my apron, keeping my bank and the tips and throwing the rest on top of George’s primavera. Take that.
“You fired?” The cook called from behind the stainless-steel worktop where he was rolling out dough.
“Yep,” I said, shrugging into my coat.
He nodded. “Good for you.”
I gave him a wry smirk. “Yeah. Fingers crossed, you’ll be next. George would love to have to make and serve his own pizzas.”
He gave me a floury two-finger salute as I slipped on my backpack and went back into the dining room. I could have gone out the back door into the alley, but I was already fired, so there was no harm in making a scene.
“You two could learn something about how to treat people,” I said, pointing my finger in their direction.
Physically they couldn’t have been more different. George with his barrel-shaped body, greased hair, and too-small polo shirt. Charming with his tailored suit and fancy boots. He probably got manicures and facials and then accused the spa staff of looking him in the eye.
“This might come as a surprise to you both, but we’re all people. We’re not here just to serve you. We have lives and families and goals. And your lives might start looking a hell of a lot better if you remembered that.”
“Get outta here, Ollie,” George hissed. He made a shooing motion with his beefy hands.
Charming was smirking at me.
“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there’s no hope for you,” I said to him. I knew his type. Well, not personally. But from a safe distance where I could armchair quarterback it. “Rich, miserable, empty. Nothing and nobody ever lives up to your expectations. Including yourself.”
That chiseled jaw clenched, and I knew I’d hit a bullseye. Good.
“Get out!” George screeched. “And don’t come back!”
“Don’t even think about stiffing me for my paycheck, buddy,” I told him. “I know where your mother lives.”
He turned a worrying shade of purple, and I decided it was time to exit. I swept toward the door and felt pretty damn good about my speech.
“Here. You deserve this.” The girls at Table Two pressed a crisp twenty into my hands. “We used to work in food service.”
I wanted to not need it. I wanted to sweep out of here with my dignity intact and my head held high. But I needed every damn dime.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
The young couple from Table Twelve held the door for me. “Here. We were going to the movies, but you earned it,” the guy said, holding up a few crumpled dollars.
“Take it,” his girlfriend insisted. She beamed at me. And I realized that them giving me their last seven bucks was going to make them feel better than me refusing it.
I couldn’t afford to have any pride.
“Thanks, guys.”
“Pay it forward,” the guy said.
I swallowed down the rage, the fear, and that bite of Stromboli I’d managed an hour ago.
I would. Someday.
3
Ally
I gave up my seat on the steel bus bench to a shaggy guy in a puffy red ski jacket with the size sticker still on it and a dog in a pink turtleneck sweater.
I had three hours to fill before my next shift. A night gig on the bar at a mediocre hotspot in Midtown. It was mostly tourists buying fifteen-dollar Cosmos, but the tips were good. It wasn’t enough time to run home to Jersey and take a nap like I wanted to. But I could hit the library and look for a new server gig or check the freelance site and see if I’d landed any projects.
Pretty please, sweet baby Jesus.
When I’d first arrived here, I thought landing a job as a graphic designer would be easy. I’d run my own small business back in Boulder and done well. But it turned out New York firms didn’t enjoy taking a chance on a self-taught designer who needed a flexible schedule for “family emergencies.”
Restaurants and bars, however, didn’t give a shit what hours you took as long as you showed up when you were on the schedule. I took freelance projects when I got them and held down five regular part-time gigs.
Make that four. Thanks, Charming. And George.
I indulged myself in a little fantasy.
Mogul Entrepreneurial Me storming into Charming’s corner office, because of course he had one, and firing him on the spot because I’d just purchased the company after he pissed me off. If I were wildly wealthy, I’d do shit like that. Sure, I’d give back. Rescue dogs. Eradicate cancer. Take care of the elderly. Buy nice interview outfits for women who needed better jobs. I’d start a spa where women could get massages along with gynecological exams, mammograms, and dental cleanings. With a bar.
And for fun, I’d buy up corporations and fire assholes.
I’d wear a Satan-red dress and heels and have security drag him out of his chair. Then I’d give everyone an extra week of paid vacation just for dealing with him.
Fantasy complete, I put my mental energy into picking out the best bus route to the library. I needed to replace my pathetic pizza income ASAP.
The wind stabbed at my exposed skin like a thousand tiny daggers.
It was effing cold. My righteous anger kept me as warm as it could. But January in Manhattan was arctic. And depressing. The last snow had been pretty for all of five minutes. But the traffic snarls and gray slush defied whitewashing. Plus, it had made my commute into the city an even bigger nightmare.
I shifted the straps of my backpack, hiking it up higher. My ancient laptop had the dead weight of a sleeping toddler.
“Excuse me?”
I debated pretending like I hadn’t heard her. New Yorkers didn’t strike up conversations at bus stops. We ignored each other and pretended we lived in soundproof, eye contact-proof personal bubbles.