Chapter 8 #2
Mairead appears to be having trouble holding still. Back to her exuberant self, she rolls up on the balls of her feet before rocking back to the heel of her buckled shoe. Maybe caffeinating her was a bad idea.
We gather our items and head out, saying our goodbyes outside the coffee shop.
“There has to be at least one company looking for an entry level seamstress,” I accidentally wonder out loud.
She suddenly squeals and begins hopping from foot to foot. “I loooooove clothes! I didn’t know you sew!”
Confirmed. Just like from the movie Gremlins, I will not be hydrating Mairead after dark again. Especially not with coffee.
“Yeah… I actually went to school for fashion.” I check the time, realizing I have a mere twenty minutes to get across town to The Black Sheep.
“Here!” She places the colonial hat on my head she five-fingered, just hours prior. “It’s going to be a trend; I can feel it…” she promises.
I give her a tight smile in return.
“Let’s get together later this week. We can do each other’s makeup ooooor go to Copley Place to shop! I’ll text you now that I have your new number. We’re going to have so much fun together! Just you wait and see.” She pulls me into a tight hug before skipping off down the street.
Jesus, I was ready to sleep for an entire week after the day we just had and it still wasn’t over. My body is exhausted… Mairead’s idea of fun was inconceivable.
“Nice hat!” Jada calls out upon me entering the bar.
Schooling my features, I bring a slightly opened hand to my face, before closing fingers together beside my mouth, signing shut up.
When I started here, my coworkers were eager to learn some basic sign language.
It made it easier to communicate on busy nights from across a room.
Of course, they were more interested in learning curse words like bitch and pussy.
Purely so they could talk shit about problem customers, without them being ever the wiser.
Jada blows me a kiss in response.
Brittany has warmed up to me over the past few months, but Jada can be downright unpleasant at times. I hope she’s more bark than bite and with time, she’ll learn to like me too.
I head straight to the ladies’ room to get changed.
I’m glad I brought an extra outfit with me in my bag today.
Between rage quitting and sightseeing as a local, there was absolutely no time to run home before my second shift.
I set my bag on the edge of the sink, pulling books and clothes out one by one, just as something topples to the floor.
I crouched down to pick up the lost item.
Turning the earbud in my fingers, I can’t help but consider a different course.
No matter what I do… this little piece of plastic will not stay away.
I’m accustomed to accepting horrible things at this point.
From losing my ability to hear without assistance, to losing my brother, then Brodi, just up and vanishing. Why should this be any different?
“Why do you get to call the shots?” I say to the petite microphones.
Maybe Mairead rubbed off on me a bit today or possibly poor judgment from lack of sleep, but I was done. Is this me dancing in the rain?
“Give me your worst,” I proclaim, as I switch out my hearing aid for the small earbud.
After I change into green, crushed velvet pants, and my weathered Nine Inch Nails shirt, I tug on my trusty combat boots.
I just manage to fit everything back into my bag, including the ridiculous hat.
Eat your heart out, Mary Poppins. I toss my bag in the backroom before joining my coworkers on the floor.
Unlike Star Mart, I’m allowed to have my phone on me, while on the clock.
If you’re playing on your phone, you're not making good tips, so there’s no use in making a rule about it when money talks.
We’re not open yet, so I audited my phone for any messages.
One message from the contact: It's Eamon actually.
I saved his information earlier, when I was waiting for Mairead to finish tallying headstones.
It seemed like the most appropriate contact, plus it made me smile.
It’s Eamon actually: I’m glad I had a chance to see you today. I guess I’ll be visiting Star Mart a lot more for groceries.
My smile from his text quickly turns into a frown.
Cindel: Feel free to shop, but I won’t be there.
A question mark comes through.
Cindel: I quit today. My manager was an asshole.
I was being vague. I didn’t feel like expanding upon the whole, ‘blackmail’ and ‘boner’ part.
It’s Eamon actually: I’m sorry, Cindel. Can I help?
My smile returns.
Cindel: No. It’s okay. I’m at the bar tonight. Maybe swing by and say hi?
Dots appear, dancing across the bottom of the screen for long moments before a message pops up.
It’s Eamon actually: Sorry. I have a big event tonight at my club. I wish I could come and watch you work.
I wondered which club he meant, so I asked. His expensive suits and confidence screamed businessman.
It’s Eamon actually: It’s a boxing club. I own a few different businesses around the city.
Cindel: Any I would know?
It’s Eamon actually: I guarantee it.
A winky emoji was added.
“Cindel!”
My name rings out more clearly on my left side.
“Can you help by chopping the limes? I need to go grab a lager to stock the mini fridge before we open.” Brittany is a hard worker and is kind of amazing at delegating tasks.
Slipping the phone into my back pocket, I head to the small chopping board to take over garnish duty.
Jada was by the front, spraying and wiping away last week’s drink specials on the A-Frame sign.
I scanned the room, anticipating Cassie taking inventory with a clipboard or high up on a ladder changing a lightbulb, but instead she was sitting.
I’ve been here almost six months and not once have I seen that woman sit.
Even on her smoke breaks, she stands in the back alley.
Literally, her motto is: “If there’s time to lean. There’s time to clean.”
I walk over as she starts to cough uncontrollably. She curls into herself, attempting to cover her cough. It looks like she’s truly unwell.
“Cassie… can I get you anything? Water perhaps?”
Unable to speak between fits of coughs, she just manages to shake her head no.
“Would you like to go outside and get some air?”
She shakes her head vigorously again, unwilling to accept any help I offer. My manager is a chain-smoker, but I’ve never witnessed her struggle like this.
Connor, the barback, appears at our side a moment later. He snakes an arm around her back, helping her to stand.
“I’m going to drive her to her house. She needs a breathing treatment,” he states, as if it’s no big deal.
Cassie continues coughing, appearing even more pale than before.
“Can I do anything to help?”
He shakes his closely shaven head. “Naw… I should be back in about an hour or so. I called in help with coverage tonight.”
Looking between Jada and Brittany, we all look slightly stunned. We open in minutes with just the three of us.
After they leave, we pick up the bar menus from the tables. We collectively agree that we weren’t going to serve tables tonight. If they want to order, they will need to come to one of us at the bar. Luckily, it is the middle of the week. That fact alone could make this undermanned shift doable.
The hour goes by and still no Connor. Jada and I stay behind the bar while Brittany runs the room, cleaning up discarded drinks and spills.
By ten o’clock we accept that it is just us for the rest of the shift. The reasonable flow of weeknight customers becomes increasingly busier by the hour.
Did a bus let off a bunch of people in front of The Black Sheep? What is going on?
We are having trouble keeping up with collecting and sanitizing the glasses before a new drink gets ordered.
Brittany, being the superstar she is, runs the dishwasher in the back.
Jada and I improvise, using martini glasses to serve drinks that have no business in that glassware. It is so busy, I’m amazed when I notice two familiar faces at the end of the bar. One chews the usual toothpick, while the other just looks offended to be here.
“What can I get you?”
Adjusting the toothpick to the corner of his mouth, the chatty brute answers, “Two Guinness, doll.”
“Is it okay if it's in a copper mug? We’re a little short on glasses.” I ran another customer's card while taking the duo’s order.
“Like a mule? You can’t serve me Guinness in that! What about them, over there?!” He points to a stack of dirty glasses off to the side.
“Sorry, those are unwashed. We’re a little short on help today.”
His friend remains quiet, typing away on his phone as if he could care less if he even had a drink at all.
“Then pop-off and wash ‘em, doll. I’ll wait.” He leans back on his stool, chewing on the tiny sliver of wood.
“Look! You can either have your beer in a shiny mug, or you can get it somewhere else,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not going anywhere!” The wisecracker leans forward onto the bar, attempting to grab a bottle of whatever is within reach.