2. Lucy
Lucy
“Craig, I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear.”
I stand in front of my boss, trying my hardest not to cry. My head is throbbing from not getting enough sleep for the past five nights in a row, but I try to ignore it. I can’t be worried about a headache when I’m getting chewed out by my boss.
“This is unacceptable, Lucy,” he says, his voice on the verge of yelling.
“You’ve worked here for a month, and every other day it seems like you make a mistake.
You forget to check the expiration dates, or you forget to restock the toilet paper in the restrooms, or you mix up the non-dairy milk with the regular milk.
That’s serious stuff. You could end up serving the wrong ingredient to a customer and making them sick. ”
I open my mouth to speak, but I quickly close it. Because he’s right. I’ve screwed up a lot at this job.
I almost tell him why. Because I’ve been living in my car for the past year, and when you’re trying to sleep in a vehicle stuffed to the brim with all your worldly possessions, constantly on the go, in search of a place to spend the night, it’s impossible to wake up rested.
So you function like a zombie most days and try your best.
But he probably wouldn’t care. Craig’s not the kind of boss who asks his employees what their lives outside of work are like. He just wants us to show up on time and do a good job.
And I can’t even manage that because I’m so sleep-deprived most days that I can’t think straight.
My eyes burn with tears, and I bite down on my wobbly lip. “I’m sorry,” I say again.
He just sighs and frowns. “You’re done, Lucy. I have to let you go.”
“But…” My voice cracks before I can say more.
“Leave your hat and apron in the hamper in the back. You’ll get your last paycheck direct deposited into your account in two weeks.”
When he starts to turn around, I try to stop him.
“Craig, wait. Please. Just give me another chance? I need this job,” I beg.
Panic shoots through me. Losing this job would destroy me.
This was my ticket to stability. After months and months of struggling to find steady work, I finally found this gig.
It paid halfway decent wages and offered full-time hours.
I had it all planned out. After three months of paychecks, I’d have enough money saved for a studio apartment in a cheap part of the city.
Then I could finally get Wally back from the shelter…
My throat tightens with the urge to sob. If I lose this job, I’ll never get him back.
My head spins as I try to think of a way to make this right. I think about the guy whose drink order I messed up.
When Craig started yelling at me a couple of minutes ago, he gestured to the customer standing in the lobby, and I saw him. He was this tall, muscled guy with dark hair who looked like he was a college student at nearby Hollis University.
Irritation swoops through me when I think about how he tried to stop Craig from yelling at me, then just walked off.
Customers like him are the fucking worst. They complain about something, and then when they see an employee actually getting punished for the complaint, they try to backtrack so they come off like the good guy. So they come off as if they care.
But they don’t. They just want to feel important and powerful over someone like me—a low-wage worker who they look down on.
“I’ll apologize to the customer whose drink I screwed up,” I say. “I’ll pay to fix it. You can take it out of my paycheck. I’ll make it right with him, I swear.”
“It’s too late for that, Lucy. I doubt that guy is ever coming again, thanks to you.” He checks the time. “I have a meeting with a supplier. You need to be out of here before I get back.”
He walks off, leaving me standing there alone in the back, tears streaming down my face.
I glance through the open door to the front counter, where the rest of the baristas are, busy helping customers, ignoring me. I swallow back the urge to cry. That’s it. I’m done.
I take off my hat and apron, drop them into the hamper, and grab my purse. I’m about to head out the back before my gaze lands on a tray of scones on the back table. I was about to take those out to the display case in the front before Craig yelled at me.
My stomach growls. Usually, if there’s leftover food after a shift, employees are welcome to it. My mouth waters. I won’t have much to eat today. Just some carrot sticks and an apple that I have tucked away in my car.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab two scones from the tray, stuff them in my purse, and head out the door.
Guilt rattles me. I know it was wrong to steal, but I’m so hungry.
I silently promise to come back someday when I’m on my feet and drop off some cash. Yeah, Craig was kind of a jerk, and I’m upset that he fired me, but it’s still wrong to steal.
I cross my arms as a cold burst of wind whips around me. It’s early autumn, which means the frigid temperatures and snow are just around the corner.
I zip my jacket all the way up to my chin, but the thin, worn fabric does little to keep me warm. In my head, I add “heavy coat” to the endless list of things I need.
My tear-soaked cheeks turn cold from the wind. I make my way to the beat-up Honda sedan a few blocks away, unlock it, and fall into the front seat.
I grab one of the scones from my purse and devour it. Tears fill my eyes again when I think about how I should have eaten only half of it to make it last, but I’m just so hungry.
That familiar wave of helplessness washes over me once more. It feels like I’m swimming against a riptide and getting pulled under constantly. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I paddle or fight, I’m drowning.
I think about that guy whose coffee order I screwed up—what he said to Craig.
You should really hire better people. People who know how to throw away rotten milk instead of serving it to customers.
Frustration brims inside of me. But then, a second later, I stop myself. He had every right to be mad. Because of me, he choked on rotten milk.
I let out a sigh, my head still pounding. I close my eyes and rest my head back against the seat, aching for a nap. But I don’t have time to rest or sleep. I need to start job hunting.
I open my eyes and start the car. I’ll look for a new job later. First, I need to make a stop.