Chapter 2 Bitsy
Bitsy pushed through the heavy glass door, the bells chiming a weak, tinny greeting. The smell hit her instantly—a thick, permanent layer of old grease, burnt coffee, and the faint, chemical tang of the industrial-grade cleaner Frank bought because it was cheap, not because it worked.
She headed straight for the back, her worn sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. She didn't look at the clock. She knew she was exactly three minutes early, just like every other day. If she was early, she could breathe for a second before the double shift swallowed her whole.
"Morning, Jake," she murmured as she reached the kitchen line.
Jake didn't look up from the flat-top grill he was scraping down with a brick.
He was a mountain of a man with faded tattoos crawling up his forearms and a permanent scowl that didn't mean anything to Bitsy. To the rest of the world, Jake looked like he’d kill you for a nickel; to Bitsy, he was the only thing that made this place bearable.
"Too early for talking, Bits," he grunted, though he reached over and slid a thick, ceramic mug of steaming coffee toward her. "Drink it before Frank gets out of the office and starts counting the beans."
Bitsy took the mug, her small fingers wrapping around the heat.
She was a tiny thing, her frame made even more delicate by the way she kept her shoulders hunched, but her eyes—a startling, piercing blue—were wide and alert.
Her hair, black as a crow’s wing and straight as a razor, was pulled back into a tight, practical knot at the nape of her neck.
She took a sip of the coffee, letting the heat settle in her chest. It was bitter and tasted faintly of the copper pipes in the basement, but it was fuel.
By 5:00 AM, the first of the regulars started trickling in.
The Brig sat right on the edge of the industrial district, a haven for the men who kept the city moving while everyone else slept.
There was Old Man Miller, who always wanted three creams and no sugar; the dock workers who came in smelling of salt and diesel; and the occasional night-shift nurse looking for a slice of pie before heading home to sleep through the sun.
Bitsy moved between the booths with a ghost-like efficiency.
She didn't talk much, but she remembered who liked their toast burnt and who wanted their eggs over-medium.
It was safer to be a ghost. If people didn't notice you, they didn't ask questions.
And Bitsy had spent the last few months making sure no one had a reason to ask where she went when her shift ended.
The diner filled up quickly, the air growing thick with the steam from the dishwasher and the sizzle of cheap bacon.
Bitsy’s apron was already stained with a splash of orange juice, but she didn't have time to worry about it.
She was carrying three plates of the "Brigadier Breakfast"—a greasy mountain of potatoes, eggs, and gray-tinged sausage—when the door to the manager’s office swung open.
Frank walked out, adjusting his belt over a stomach that seemed to be losing a battle with his stained button-down shirt. He had thin, greasy hair combed over a scalp that always looked red, and eyes that spent too much time lingering on the wrong places.
"Move it, Bitsy," Frank barked, his voice cutting through the morning chatter like a dull saw. "Table four’s been waiting for their check for two minutes. Time is money, and you're wasting mine."
Bitsy didn't look at him. She just nodded, her jaw tightening as she slid the plates onto the counter for the dock workers. She felt Frank’s eyes on her back—that crawling, itchy sensation she’d perfected the art of ignoring.
Frank was seedy, the kind of man who’d steal from his own mother if he thought he could get away with it, and he took a particular delight in leaning over Bitsy’s shoulder whenever she was trying to punch in an order.
The morning rush intensified, a blur of "more coffee, hon" and the clatter of silverware. Bitsy’s feet were already beginning to ache, the thin soles of her shoes offering no protection against the hard floor. She was heading back toward the kitchen with a stack of dirty dishes when it happened.
The floor near the swinging doors was slick with a spill someone hadn't bothered to mop up. Bitsy’s foot went out from under her, and she stumbled. A heavy ceramic mug—one of the thick, white ones that felt like a brick—slid off the top of the pile and hit the floor with a sharp, echoing crack.
It didn't just break; it shattered, white shards skittering across the grease-slicked linoleum.
The diner went quiet for a heartbeat, the only sound the steady sizzle of Jake’s grill. Bitsy froze, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"What the hell was that?"
Frank’s voice didn't come from across the room; it came from right behind her. He’d been hovering again.
"I'm sorry, Frank," Bitsy whispered, already dropping to her knees to grab the largest shards. "I slipped. I'll get it cleaned up right away."
"You're sorry?" Frank’s face was already turning that ugly shade of beet-red.
He stepped into her space, his heavy shoes crunching on a piece of the broken ceramic.
"That’s coming out of your tips, you clumsy little bitch.
Do you have any idea what those cost? You're useless.
I give you a job, and you reward me by breaking my equipment? "
Bitsy kept her head down, her black hair falling forward to shield her face. She was used to this. Frank’s outbursts were as much a part of the diner as the smell of old grease. But today, Frank seemed to have a particular edge.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he sneered, reaching down to grab her arm. "You think you're too good for this place? You’re a dime a dozen, Bitsy. I could replace you with a girl who actually knows how to walk without falling over her own feet in five minutes."
"Let her go, Frank."
The voice came from the back door. Jake had just stepped back in from his smoke break, the smell of tobacco clinging to his heavy flannel shirt. He didn't look angry; he looked bored, which was much more dangerous.
Frank didn't let go. He turned his head, his lip curling. "Stay out of this, Jake. This is a management issue. She’s costing me money."
Jake walked over, his heavy boots making a much more solid sound than Frank’s. He stopped three inches from Frank’s face, his massive frame towering over the smaller man. "I said, let her go. Now. Before I decide that the grease trap needs a deep clean with your face."
Frank’s hand dropped from Bitsy’s arm as if he’d been burned. He stepped back, his face twitching with a mix of fear and indignation. "You can't talk to me like that. I own this place."
"And I'm the only reason people eat the food in this place," Jake rumbled. "Clean up the mess, Bits. Frank, go back to your office and play with your calculator. You're blocking the line."
Frank muttered something under his breath—something ugly and small—but he beat a retreat toward his office. The door slammed, and the diner slowly returned to its low-level hum of conversation.
Jake reached down, his large hand surprisingly gentle as he helped Bitsy back to her feet. "You okay, kid?"
Bitsy nodded, her throat tight. "Yeah. Thanks, Jake."
"He's a coward," Jake said, picking up the broom. "He only picks on people he thinks won't bite back. Don't let him get under your skin."
Bitsy took the broom from him, her fingers shaking just a little. "I'm used to it. Really."
And that was the saddest part. She was used to it. She was used to being yelled at, used to being invisible, and used to the constant, low-level fear of losing the only source of income she had.
The rest of her shift passed in a blur of exhaustion.
She worked through the lunch rush, her legs feeling like lead, and then stayed for the slow afternoon dip, wiping down the counters and refilling the sugar shakers.
By the time her double shift ended at 4:00 PM, the sun was already starting to lose its bite.
Frank didn't come out of his office again, which was the only mercy of the day.
Jake met her at the back door as she was clocking out. He handed her a heavy brown paper bag, the bottom already turning translucent from the grease of whatever was inside.
"Leftovers," he said shortly. "Kitchen's closing for the shift change. Throwing it out anyway."
Bitsy knew he wasn't throwing it out. Jake made sure there was always "extra" when she was working. "Thanks, Jake. See you tomorrow."
"Be careful out there, Bits," he said, his eyes lingering on her for a second too long, as if he suspected where she was really going.
Bitsy stepped out into the Bridgeport air, the cooler temperature hitting her like a slap. She walked to the far end of the parking lot where her silver Honda Civic sat.
She climbed in, the interior of the car smelling like her—diner food and cheap vanilla body spray.
She tossed the bag of food onto the passenger seat and just sat there for a minute, her forehead resting against the steering wheel.
Her feet were throbbing, a dull, rhythmic ache that seemed to pulse in time with her heart.
She was tired. Not just the kind of tired that a night’s sleep could fix, but a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that felt like it had taken root in her soul.
The silver Honda Civic groaned as it lurched out of the diner parking lot, the muffler scraping against the uneven asphalt with a sound that made Bitsy wince. She hated the noise; noise drew eyes, and eyes were the last thing she wanted.
She didn’t head "home." She didn’t have a home, not in the way other people did. She had a rented locker at the bus station for her few valuables, a library card, and a black-fiber connection she’d siphoned from a man who lived in a glass tower—a man who probably didn’t even know she was there, breathing his bandwidth like oxygen.
But before she could pull into her "bedroom" for the night, she had to handle the basics.