Tabs
by River Lee
After the layoffs, my friends went to other factories while I went for a change of pace. I got myself a part-time gig at a café – all paid under the table. I must have been lucky, the boss was standing behind the counter when I walked in. I went up to him, introduced myself, and handed over my resume. Looking at me, he placed a hand under my chin and said, “You start tomorrow.”
Each day, around noon, customers would start trickling in. Most of them were friends of the boss, well-dressed in suits and leather shoes. They would order shots of espresso with grappa and leave generous tips before gathering around a large table, a group that grew as the day wore on, from three, to five, to seven men. They hung around for hours, having colourful discussions in a language that I didn’t understand.
Those were the best shifts. Money for practically nothing, smiling and serving, staying out of the way. Sure, my car was being repossessed, but between the café and my unemployment cheques, I could at least keep my lights on for another month. I could maybe even go to a pub and see a show with that girl, the one who’d never date me, but who’d no doubt let me pay for drinks.
The evening shifts brought different demands, and somehow, I wasn’t fired. I made repeated mistakes, things like snapping at customers, stepping on toes – literally and otherwise – (that’s okay, sweetheart) taking too long to fetch a glass of water (stupid bitch), spilling drinks (sweetheart), dropping plates (bitch), and as the boss loved to say, “making a career out of” little tasks like rolling utensils into napkins. So, when he started dipping into my tips, I accepted it as a rookie tax and thanked my lucky stars for one more day.
I thought it was over for sure when I spilled a beer on someone. I was serving two girls on the patio who’d come in for drinks. A patron bumped into me, causing me to tip the tray, which sent a bottle of Stella Artois cascading down, hitting the table, and splashing onto one of the girls, her white linen dress stained with patches of stinking booze.
I stood, paralyzed by shock, as her friend used a pile of napkins to mop up the puddle on the table in front of them. She was already doing better than me at my own job. My heart pounded while I waited for the girl’s reaction, but she was oddly calm. She said to me, “It’s fine, no problem.”
So, I went back inside to get a new beer, comped it from my own pocket, and the girls stayed. They finished their drinks and after some time, they left. I marveled at their mercy, reflected on how I’d escaped, how I’d managed to hang on. I felt relieved until returning to the scene, when I noticed what they’d left behind – two glaring coins, each plated in copper.
River Lee is an emerging writer from Windsor-Essex, Canada. She now lives in Montreal, where she is completing her debut novel — a queer coming of age story about a musician who is chasing dreams and facing realities. When not writing, River is playing guitar, hiking, or reading the latest book for the Violet Hour Book Club. You can find her on Instagram @riverlee_writer.