Cracked

“Lana! You’re fired!”

“What!” Marc must be on drugs. He’s firing me? I’m behind the counter pouring coffee into a downsized cup. I work my butt off in this grubby café, which caters to the inconsiderate class. Jerk!

“You heard me, Curtis!” he barks even louder.

“Hey--watch it. You’re spilling coffee all over the place,” the grizzled, bespectacled old man sitting in front of me pushes out. He cuts me down to size with his hard eyes.

My eyes go to work on him. “I’m cool. It’s cool. Did I burn you?” I mutter, glaring at Marc Jonas, my picky boss. He’s glaring at me. I’ve slaved long and hard in this place and this is the thanks I get. He’s firing me. Where’s the justice? The customer’s cup is full, and I focus on Marc again. “What did I do? I always show up, whether it’s freezing rain, shine or snow. I’m a trouper, and you know it. You tell me to work overtime; I work overtime. You tell me to serve with a smile. I smile. Seriously? You’re firing me?”

“You sure know how to be rude,” Marc snaps. He scratches his bald head. He crosses his eyes. “I’ve had it. My customers have had it. You’re done here.”

“Looks who’s talking, Mr. Sweetness and Light. You curse lots of your precious customers out daily.” I’m boiling mad, shaking. The coffee pot I’m holding could go upside his head. A lot depends on what comes out of his mouth next.

“Clear out!” he decrees. “You’re history!”

“Whatever!” flies out of my mouth. I rip my puke-green apron from my body and fling it at the counter. I collect my less than trendy backpack, and blow out of the café, shaking my fist at Marc, who looks relieved. Fat Loser! Slime with a face! Good riddance! I duck into the alley behind the café to blow off steam. Guess assaulting Marc with the coffee pot wouldn’t have been the brightest idea. He’d probably press charges. Jail isn’t fun. I’ve had friends who know.

Working at Marc’s wasn’t the premier job of my dreams, but it paid my bills. Yeah, finding work soon is a top priority. Before I do though, I’m in need of a little commiseration. I call my best friend, Zoe Chango. She’ll meet me at our favorite diner, Dappy’s, which in no way resembles the dump I used to work in. Dappy's is close to where I live, not too far from my school's campus.

Minutes later, we’re sitting at our usual booth. She starts in with the sympathy. “Cheesecake. I’m buying.”

“Works for me since I’m between jobs now,” I crab.

Our waitress, a honey blonde with a professional smile takes our order, and promises to return with our glasses of lightly-sweetened ice tea. Lilly, that’s her name, is back in a jiff.

“So, kiddo, what happened with you and Marc?” Zoe asks, giving me her best indulgent face. She’s sipping her tea through a pink straw.

“I got canned for rudeness. It’s been a rough day. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t little Miss Sadie Sunshine for my shift. A couple of customers complained to him about me, and I’m history.” I blow bubbles in my tea through an orange straw. My straw is prettier. “That’s the thanks I get for being a faithful employee.”

Zoe is quick to point out, “Hey, you have a voice. You never hesitate to use it. Your boss is minus a backbone. His problem. Not yours. Hey, if or when you need me to float you some funds. Let me know. I’m not a trophy wife for nothing. Danny dotes on me.”

“Must be nice,” I humor. Zoe is total aces; has always been since we became friends in high school. She married her successful rich guy, an entertainment executive, who could be Brad Pitt’s brother. I attend Seton Hall, inflating my student debt, in the hopes of becoming a journalist some day. “Thanks much, Zo. But, you know me. I prefer pulling my own weight.”

“Yeah, girl. That I know.”

Our hefty cherry cheesecake slices are here. We waste no time digging in.

“Go consult the corkboard,” Zoe suggests, licking shiny cherry gel off her fork.

I give her ‘that’s a good idea’ look, shaving more off my cake slice, savoring, and shaving a bit more off. I leave the booth, off to see what employment I might find. I peruse, seeing how thin the pickings are. I skip sketchy offers, unwilling to wind up dead. There’s nothing here I want to get into.

“So?” Zoe has her eyes fixed on me as I reseat myself.

“Zilch.”

“That’s just one avenue. Knowing you, you’ll find something to your liking in short order. And, in the interim, you’ve got me.”

I nod, not feeling as glum as I’d felt when we came in. Sighing, I say, “I’m beat. Think I’ll head home. Chill. Jump on job searching early tomorrow. I don’t have class.”

“That’s the spirit, Champ. You’ve got this.” Zoe gives me two thumbs up.

I sit a bit taller, raise my head. “Uh-huh. Go me...”

Zoe drops me off in her snow white S-class Mercedes, a present from Brad--I mean Danny. She’ll call me tomorrow; we could see a movie. If we’re in the mood. Ah...home sweet home. I have my own apartment on campus. If I want to keep it, I’ve got to work.

Far from making me restless, that thought lulls me to sleep.