I have a routine – the moment I wake up, before I can even shake off the cobwebs of sleep, I reach for my phone and check for messages from Brody. Of course, I see nothing.
Still, I check every half hour just in case he decides to violate the restraining order and hit me with a text. Then I debate with myself – should I text him instead of waiting for him to text me?
Something casual: Im sorry, didn’t mean to get u in trouble with the cops.
Or something more heartfelt: I miss u.
Then I decide against it, and with a long sigh, I put my phone down, throw off the covers and get dressed for school.
However, I dive for my phone every time Katy Perry’s ET goes off, snatch it and with my heart racing like the bullet-fast Superman rollercoaster ride, I read the message. But, as usual and to my disappointment, it’s always Laura or Tina bitching about something trivial, like the amount of chores they have to do at home or how they fell asleep and weren’t able to complete their homework on time.
Not Brody.
God, how I miss him!
I can understand why some girls stay with their cheating ass boyfriends – I mean, breaking up with someone you love is the hardest thing to do, no matter what they’ve done. It cuts like crazy.
But, I guess staying in a toxic relationship is worse. Especially one that changes your personality – makes you wish you were someone else.
****
The Pizzeria is packed.
I have to work ten tables and they keep me on my feet.
“Ben, hurryyuuup! Hurryuuup!” Tong Carlos chants. “People is wait for service, Ben.”
“Coming, coming!” I say.
Trying to please everyone at the same time and taking good care of my tip, which I really rely on, is no easy task.
Plastering a smile on my face, I weave my big ass between the tables. As I walk, I feel someone watching me. Like a piercing kind of stare. I look up into the face of the dreadlocks guy. The one who pulled a gun on Brody. My smile dies.
Oh fuck! Fuck! Fuck! He’s probably gonna shove my head into a pizza oven and cook me Hansel and Gretel style.
If you saw his tattoos, you too would be scared. He’s wearing a short-sleeve Tee so I cannot miss them. They’re multicolored and extend from fingertips to his thick neck. Some have writing on them. I’m almost sure those tatts contain a cryptic hit list. I’m positive my name’s in it. If those tatts were done purely to intimidate people, boy is it working!
Does he have to wear that many chains at once? Maybe it’s what he uses to strangle people. A great way to carry a weapon. As for his grill – gold and probably diamonds. Don’t think he’s the type to wear Swarovski crystals or cubic zirconia.
He’s with at least thirteen other fellow tattooers, most of whom I recognize from our last free-for-all bottle-throwing, gun-pulling, abuse-hurling encounter. The one that turned Brody into a turbinator, remember?
Right now, I’m a loss for words, at a loss as to how to react. I mean, he’s staring at me with a poker face – don’t know if it’s “So this is where you work, bitch?” or “You did not see me pull a gun, bitch.” That’s telling, not asking. And … and this is a big “AND”, he’s sitting at one of my tables. Am I supposed to serve my murderer before he whacks me? That’s plain cruel.
I take a deep breath and summon my gift. “Hawk! Erro!”
No answer.
“Haaaaawwwk!”
Still no answer.
I desperately need to hear his thoughts, but as usual, my gift is AWOL.
Am I scared? Duh. Thirteen of them and one of me so that would make me a teeny tiny bit outnumbered.
The last time he called me a sellout, remember?
“Hawk, can you be on standby, please?” Hawk, the mother-fucker, is missing-in-action as usual. Maybe I should pretend that I’m taking money for my gift from someone? That will bring them running.
After procrastinating for a while, I take a deep breath, drag my feet over to their table, pen and writing pad in shaky hand, heart in dry mouth, fake smile plastered on my ashen face. “H … hi there my name is Burn. What can I get you?”
“Well, well, well, look who we have here,” a girl next to Dreads says. His girl, I’m assuming.
She’s pretty alright – banging body, brown-skin, long extensions, tons of eyeliner, humongous lashes, fake double-Ds. Like Barbie with a hell of a tan. If I had to name her, I’d call her Overdone Barbie.
All eyes are now on me.
“What can I get you guys?” I ask, ignoring her.
“Can you smell that?” she says wrinkling her nose. “I smell bitch.”
Everyone laughs.
I say nothing, but I suddenly remember her – she was there the night of the brawl and she was the one who flipped me the bird.
“Yep, it’s bitch I smell.”
I don’t like to be disrespected like this. Especially when I didn’t do anything wrong. “You gonna order?” I ask in a steel voice.
She wrinkles her nose again. “Smell that? It’s shit.”
“Take your nose out of your ass then,” I even. I’m going through a painful breakup, so the last thing she should be doing is fucking with me.
A collective gasp, followed by an unnerving silence.
Her smile vanishes. She grabs her drink and flings the contents at me.
The table roars with laughter.
“Don’t be messin’ with me, li’l mama,” she warns, standing up and waving her finger at me. “Don’t be messin’ with me. Don’t be messin’ with me.”
I stand with Coke and whatever dripping down my face, while the rest of the table laughs. Then, I grab the drink nearest to me and fling the contents into her face. “Drink’s on me, bitch!”
The laughter turns to a shocked roar.
She kicks back her chair and lunges at me, but the guy next to her grabs her and stops her coming at me.
Carlos, horrified out of his Chinese skull, hurls himself at me and leads me away, while Melinda, another waitress, steps in for me and tries to broker peace.
“Ben, why you do that foooor?” Carlos says. “Why you fight with customerrrrrs, Ben?”
“She started it, Carlos. She threw a drink at me.”
“It no matter, Ben. You must not fight with black peoooople. You fight with black peoooople, they come back with gangster, they shoot everything, no business left, Ben. How I pay you then, huh? With noodles?”
“Sorry, Carlos,” I mutter and glare at her. Fucking bitch!
“You don’t see Boy in the Hood movie? They shoot everythiiiing, Ben.”
Overdone Barbie is still mouthing off at me. I give her the finger.
Carlos grabs my finger and clutches it with both hands, a look of absolute horror on his face. “Ben, why you do that foooor? I fire you. Now!”
“But she started it, Carlos.”
“You must not fight baaaack, Ben. I tell you that.” He looks really stressed.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever!” I say furious and humiliated.
He runs to the table and apologizes to them while I take my bag and storm out of the restaurant.
Fuck! Now I have no food for Angel tonight and I’m down to my last five bucks. I was expecting to take home some pizza.
Fuming, I make a turn at the local supermarket and buy some bread and tuna with my last money.
As I walk home, reality bites – I’ve lost my income. I need to find a job ASAP or Angel’s gonna starve.
Dreads didn’t get a chance to whack me or shove me into the pizza oven. For that I should be grateful, I guess.
****
I get up at 5 AM, unable to sleep. I stress about losing my job, so much so, that I don’t even check my phone for Brody’s messages.
Then at around 7 AM, my phone rings. I dive for it. To my absolute surprise, it’s Tong Carlos offering me back my job!
“How … come?” I ask.
“He black man, he tell me last night to give you back your job. He say I must do it or else.”
“Or else … what, Tong?”
“I don’t know what ‘or else’ mean, Ben, but he big black man, he got tattoos, he got chains, he got black friends who wear lot of chains and lot of rings and stuff in their mouth. He tell me what to do, I not Jackie Chang, so I do it. Now you come back and you work and you be good and don’t fight back with black people. And white people. And Chinese people. Everybody. Don’t fight with nobody. But please, you come back, no? Today, okay?”
The only big black man with tattoos was dreadlocks. Could he have been the one asking Tong to give me back my job? Nah, can’t be. My statement got him cuffed, after all.
Anyway, I got my job back. I suddenly feel like I’ve had several cups of espresso.
Carlos seems desperate to get me back so I decide to try my luck. “Gee thanks, Carlos,” I say. “But I need a raise.” Pushing it, sure, but it’s worth taking a chance.
“Okay, you come, we talk.”
Wow! I’m amazed. Maybe I should have asked for a company car, holiday pay, free parking …
Wonder who exactly threatened Carlos into giving me back my job?
After school, I walk out of school to find Overdone Barbie, the bitch who threw Coke in my face, waiting for me. She leans against a four-wheel-drive wearing a pair of leopard print shorts, strappy heels and a pink tube top. On her ears are pink hoop earrings, the size of her head. Her hair extensions are dark blonde and long. She’s got rings on every finger and her nails are pink leopard print.
She’s brought two of her friends with, one Hispanic and one black, both also dressed like they came straight out of an episode of Jerseylicious – big hair, bright clothes, smoky eye, wearing probably every piece of jewelry they probably own.
“You!” she says, pointing to me. “Bitch, I got beef with you.”
I don’t react, I just look at her.
“Shit, Burn! She’s calling you,” Laura whispers and hunches further.
“Yeah?”
She nods and takes a step forwards. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”
“My ass?”
“Yes ho, your fat ass.”
I know the score right now -- back down and whimper like I’m scared and she’ll chew me up and spit me out. And … and this is a big “AND”, the whole school has milled around us and are watching. Every girl will try to bully me if I don’t fake it.
“Bitch, I don’t know what your problem is,” I say, “but I suggest you keep walking.”
Her friends snigger at my bravado.
“You know who you talking to, bitch?” Overdone asks, her head cocked to one side.
Harjoon suddenly appears in my line of vision, wearing blue-on-blue and red sneakers. “You know who you’re talking to, ho?” Harjoon asks. “She gon whip yo black ass, ho!” He flings out his arms as he talks, acting all hood. I resist the urge to backhand him across the mouth.
Overdone’s eyes turn huge. “That a fact, smurf?”
“Smurf?” Harjoon looks puzzled even though he’s wearing blue with red shoes.
Overdone presses her lips tightly and looks at me with narrow eyes.
“You game for a punch-on, Mr?” Harjoon asks. ”Or you chiiiicken?” He flaps his arms and clucks.
Overdone smiles. “Bring it,” she says, flexing her fingers and ignoring his gender confusion. “Or are you chicken?”
“Me chicken? D’ya see me running scared, bitch?” I ask with such false bravado, even I am impressed.
Her friends laugh at my Kamikazeness.
“Tomorrow, you me – Cain Park, 4 o’clock,” Overdone says. “Don’t be late, don’t be chicken, bitch. You don’t show, I gon come lookin for yo ass.”
“I won’t,” I say with all the bravado I can possibly fake. “Don’t you be late, bitch.” Mental note to myself: choke the fucking daylights out of smurf at the first available opportunity and flush his dead body down the toilet.
Then Nick, Bud and their crew drive up, screech to a halt, hop out of their ride and head straight for Overdone and her friends. “You lost, hos?” Nick says, a baseball bat in hand.
Overdone and her friends scramble to get into her four-wheel. “Fuck you, white boy!” Overdone says as she shifts the car into gear. “You don’t wanna be startin’ nothin’ you can’t finish.”
“Yeah?” Bud says and runs towards her, baseball bat poised to swing.
“Trust me,” she yells and screeches off.
Bud flings his bat at her four-wheel-drive, but it misses by inches.
“Punch on! Punch on! Punch on! Punch on! Punch on! Punch on! Punch on!” People crowd around me and slap me on the back, congratulating me for being so brave. I want to scream at them to shut up but I gotta play it cool.
That low, anguished groan you hear? That’s me. She’s gonna kick my ass from here to Timbuktu tomorrow. Fuuuuuuuck!
“Well, she asked for it,” I say in what I hope is a cocky voice.