Overheard in New York
Title: Overheard in New York
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Disclaimer: The only things I own are the original characters. Anything from or dealing with “Heroes” belongs to Kring, NBC, etc. Thanks to ladyanne525 for beta help and the title :)
Written for the Ridiculously Specific prompt table: # 13. I know the prompt said to write from the POV of the busboy, but I alternate between the waitress’s POV and the busboy’s. Sorry. Bonus brownie points to anyone who figures out the incorporated song lyrics :)
My hair’s escaping from my ponytail like rats from a burning ship. My back hurts. My head hurts, like someone’s splitting it open with an ax, but there’s still a smile on my face, since no one tips a surly waitress. My feet no longer hurt, as I think they fell off two hours ago. What once was a crisp white shirt is now damp with sweat and marinara sauce with a dribble of red wine from an unfortunate glass accident at table 10. And I’ve still got five hours to go until midnight, when I get to go home, and make sure my mom’s tucked the kids into bed, and then I get to get up at six in the freakin’ morning and do it all over again.
I’m not complaining, I’m not. It is what it is, and I’m just commenting on it. I’m one of the lucky ones, and I know it. I’ve got a roof over my head, and a decent school for my rugrats, and a steady job with good pay at a pleasant little family restaurant. Okay, okay, so when I say “family restaurant”, I mean - yeah, it’s a place you can bring your kids and grandma - but I really mean “Family” restaurant. They take care of me, and I don’t see anything, I don’t hear anything. Total amnesia about everything. Not a problem. I always was forgetful, even before I had to be. All I know is what my customers order, since that’s all I need to know.
Like the clam spaghetti in the corner booth. Cute little blonde; I’ve never seen her before in my life, unless maybe I bumped into her while I was shopping. Of course, I shop at Wal-Mart and Filene’s, and she’s the type that would go out shopping with the girls, tromping up and down Fifth Avenue. But yeah, if I seen her before, it’s been out. She’s certainly never been here before, and neither has her father, the Senator. Not that I know who her father is, I mean - how could I?
And she’s certainly never been here before with that man, the steak marsalla with linguine, hold the parsley. I’d definitely remember him, even if I ended up sleeping with some nice little fishies because of it. No, she seems to me like the type that would run around with governor’s sons and senator’s brothers. Not that she has, I didn’t say that. Why would I?
Damn it, that rat-fink little busboy’s got his rat-finky little hands all over another one of my tips. I’m going to kill him! I mean it this time!
- - - - - - - - - -
Saturday night, and I’m downtown in one of the best Italian joints around. Of course, I’m not dining here with some long cool woman hanging on my arm. It sucks.
I hate my life. I really do. I’ve got a master’s in criminology, and what am I doing? Bussing tables. Really fucking hate my life. Of course, I’m just doing it until the boss says we’ve got enough evidence, but still. I’m a junior agent with the FBI, and I’m stuck scrapping dried alfredo sauce off plates and bleaching stained tablecloths. I live such an exciting life, really, I do.
Johnny the Gambler just left a hundred at his table; I better go grab it before that ditzy waitress gets her grubby hands on it. Bitch doesn’t understand the difference between “nice tip” and “evidence of the State”.
- - - - - - - - - -
I really freakin’ hate this job sometimes. Two of my regulars have brought their kids with them tonight. My kids? I love ‘em, but that’s because they behave. Those kids? Freakin’ monsters, like half-trained chihuahuas. I don’t know why they brought the out-of-control brats with them - probably because they’ve scared off another babysitter - but why me? Why my section? Why couldn’t they have sit in Lucy’s section? Oh, why me, God? Why are you punishing me, or is this a test of my faith?
I hide my grimace behind a (completely fake) smile and bounce over to their table, making sure to have extra full glasses of red wine with me. I may have no clue who these people are - and why they look so much like the assistant mayor and his wife - but I know what they like.
One of the little monsters spots the bread basket; I know what’s going to happen next.
“Heads up, Frank.” I tip off the maître d' as I head back to the kitchen to check on some orders. “We’ve got a food fight brewing at table 14.”
I don’t even hear his response as I duck into the safety of the kitchen.
- - - - - - - - - -
The guy at the back table is highly suspicious, with a capital SUS. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, constantly checking out the place. I know, ‘cause I’m doing the same. It’s my job - but what’s his excuse? He’s got a hot number with him; why is he not entirely wrapped up in her?
He’s vaguely familiar too. Six-four, somewhere between one-fifty and one-eighty. Hair and eyes, dark. Fucking restaurant thinks that candlelight gives the place some “ambiance” and “romance” (read: makes it harder for our cameras and agents to spot the scumbags), so I can’t get an exact make on the guy. I’ve seen him somewhere - and I’m thinking the somewhere was an APB or an arrest file. Still, dude’s not one of the ones I’m looking for - he obviously doesn’t belong to this Family - so that means he’s not my problem.
He doesn’t touch his girl much, and they’re both acting nervous. Not sure if this is a first date, or just an awkward dinner. She’s smiling, but not overly so; a bit guarded, if I had to guess. He keeps crossing his arms over his chest, and frowning, but that might just be his style.
She says something that makes him laugh, and I can see the ice melting between them. It’s more obvious now that they’ve been together for awhile, because the only time I see first dates this at ease with each other is when they’ve either been drinking heavily or when one of them’s a paid escort - and I can tell, she’s not a whore nor is he a gigolo. She reaches across the table to hold his hand, and the sparks between them are visible. These are definitely established lovers.
Shame. I was hoping for a bad first date, since there was a chance I could have picked her up. I could have, I know it.
Thunk.
I really fucking hate kids. Especially the ones that start food fights. Not only do they hit me in the head with stale bread, but I’m the one that’s going to have to clean up their mess.
I wonder if the boss would be really upset if I shook ‘em up a little. I wouldn’t actually shoot ‘em. Probably.
- - - - - - - - - -
Houston, we have a Problem. A big ole Problem. The terrorugrats have sprung full war on the restaurant, and they’ve just hurled a giant bowl of chicken cacciatore at the couple in the booth, and got a perfect hit on the girl. Right in the back of the head, and now she’s got stewed tomatoes dripping from her hair. She’s going to be hard to forget; I’ve never seen a customer look so ridiculous before.
The man’s going ballistic, and she’s trying to calm him down. I don’t think it’s going to work, but when she manages to get him back in the booth, I sneak over closer so I can listen in. I need to learn how to control a man like that.
“Sit, Sylar. It’s okay, it’s just some bratty kids. No harm, no foul. Well, fowl, but I’ve yet to be killed by a bit of chicken. It’s not like they were throwing rocks or hand grenades.”
Sylar, what a cool name. I think there was a psycho serial killer by that name a few years ago; hmm, that makes two Sylar’s I’ve heard of now. Maybe it’s the new “it” name.
“They will be in a few years, if someone doesn’t teach them some manners.” He growls out.
He’s right, but what are you going to do about it?
The monsters’ mother (penne vodka, hold the penne) chooses the worst possible time to butt in. “One… Ryder, put that knife down! Twooooooo…. Destiny, no! Don’t throw that soup at that nice lady! Threeeeee… and you going to make me count to four?”
Oh, God, she’s counting again. I swear, the woman doesn’t know how to count higher than five.
It’s obvious that the blonde’s man is about to lose it.
“Kids, what are you going to do with them?” The mom shrugs.
He goes off like a rocket, and before I can blink, he’s holding the kids by their ankles and shaking them. I want to applaud.
“Sylar!” The blonde shrieks, and I wince. “Put them down! Now!”
He shakes them again, then lifts them so that he’s eye to eye with them. “Now listen here you little punks…”
She rushes over and grabs his arm. “Sylar!”
He growls, but drops them. I swear to God, I was expecting them to fall to a little heap of rottenness on the floor, but they somehow flipped in midair and landed perfectly in their chairs. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen them seated correctly - and silent. Did I mention that that they were no longer screaming like banshees?
If it wasn’t for the fact that blonde’s obviously got her nails sunk deep in him, I might have to marry this Sylar man.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Sylar, you can’t treat kids like that!” The hot number at the corner booth’s ranting as she guides Mr. Suspicious back over to their table. I make my way closer, since they’re almost done with their meal - my services are going to be needed soon. That, and Big Joey Marducci’s just taken the table next to them, and I need to be close enough to see him slip the drugs to his partner.
“Why not?” He crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at her. “They obviously need a little discipline.”
“Are you going to treat our kids that way?”
Dude - run away. Do not answer that question.
He answers it, moron that he is. “No, because we’re not ever having a passel of irritating brats.”
Her eyes narrow, and the idiot’s not back-tracking like he ought to. Maybe I was wrong about them being together for a while, since well-trained men rarely make that sort of monumental mistake.
Just when I think she’s about to start ranting and raving, she surprises me by bursting into tears.
“What?” Mr. Sensitive obviously doesn’t realize what sort of trouble he’s made for himself.
“Nothing.” She hisses, ice cold. I’ve got frost bite from thirty paces.
“Well, it’s obviously something.”
“I said, it’s nothing.”
“Claire, you’re lying to me. Stop crying, damnit, and talk to me!”
Oooh, three strikes, and he’s out. You can’t call your girl a cry-baby liar at the same time you yell at her, you just can’t. Dude’s not getting the nooky anytime soon.
She doesn’t say a word, just calmly hurls a fork at him. I don’t know how she saw through the tears, but the girl’s got good aim. I’m amazed at the cool way he just tugs it out of his arm and drops it on the table, never once making a sound. He just out-machoed John ‘Macho Man’ Wayne (no, not the movie star, minor mafioso infamous for… I can’t even think about it, it’s so horrible, but involved a weed-wacker and a willie and he didn’t cry once.)
“What? Why are you getting so upset? What the hell is wrong with you?!?!? Stop crying!”
Dude must be trying to cock-block himself for the next century.
She just cries even harder before she screams at him again. “I’m pregnant and you don’t want kids, apparently! That’s what my problem is, Sylar! You! You’re my problem! You and your damned ‘oh, it’s okay just this one time’ and your fucking super-sperm!”
I make a mental note to buy more condoms. I never want to hear “You knocked me up!” yelled at me in the middle of a fancy restaurant - even if it is full of useless social types and mafia types - while everyone watches.
- - - - - - - - - -
She might have well as screamed “You knocked me up, you jackass.” Got to give her points for style though. I just handed my ex a pee stick and told him the rabbit done died. Last time I ever saw him, but her man’s still standing there, dumbfounded.
“What?”
He’s so eloquent, like Cary freakin’ Grant.
“I’m pregnant.” She says it again so quietly, a little whisper, that if there had been the tiniest bit of noise in the restaurant, we wouldn’t have heard it. Instead, everyone there heard it very clearly.
“Claire…” He reaches out for her, and gently pulls her into a kiss. I want to swoon. Or gag. Gagging’s an option, but it would do horrible things for my rep as a tender-hearted romantic.
- - - - - - - - - -
I’m going to gag. First the screaming, then the crying, then the clichéd love baby, and now the kiss. The violinist is playing something sappy; I would say it was the theme music from “Titanic”, but the Agency would probably make me turn in my gun and my dick if I admitted I watched chick flicks like that.
“Waitress!” He calls out, snapping his fingers. Cheryl’s going to love that. I edge a bit closer in case he’s calling for the bill, but no, he just wants a dessert menu.
“So, now that you’re eating for two…” Dude cocks his head to the side, and then grins the biggest shit-eating self-satisfied grin I’ve ever seen. “… eating for three, you need to eat more!”
“I hate you right now.” She comments. “I’ll have the tiramisu.”
“No, that has coffee in it! Caffeine’s bad for the twins!”
Dude obviously has no clue how many corners our kitchen cuts; the closest the tiramisu has come to coffee may have been a picture of it at some point, but probably not. And he’s definitely not talking about the twins I’ve been staring at all night.
“Fine. The cannoli with amaretti cream.”
“Claire, that has alcohol in it! Think of the children!”
They’re still arguing over the nutritional content of dessert when I spot the drug exchange, and I have to sneak into a back corner to text the boss.
- - - - - - - - - -
I doubt they’ll notice, but I still sign my name to their bill - Tiffini, spelled with three hearts and a smiley face, since Tiffini gets a lot more tips than non-smiley Cheryl gets - and wish them a pleasant evening.
He throws a handful hundred dollar bills at me - more than enough to cover their meal plus a two hundred percent tip and a new pair of sneakers - and wraps his arm around the girl. I quickly pocket the money before the rat-fink realizes what sort of tip the man left. It’s mine, all mine.
I think it’s nice to see a couple so in love, but then I hear them arguing again before they even get to the door. And then I don’t think about them again. I don’t even remember them. What couple? What are you talking about? I didn’t see anything. Not me.
And then I hear the sirens, and the cops come rushing in, and in amongst the running and the screaming, I hear someone shooting a gun, and then that busboy’s grabbing my arm and pulling me out, and I really do forget that couple. For real. Honestly.
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Disclaimer: The only things I own are the original characters. Anything from or dealing with “Heroes” belongs to Kring, NBC, etc. Thanks to ladyanne525 for beta help and the title :)
Written for the Ridiculously Specific prompt table: # 13. I know the prompt said to write from the POV of the busboy, but I alternate between the waitress’s POV and the busboy’s. Sorry. Bonus brownie points to anyone who figures out the incorporated song lyrics :)
My hair’s escaping from my ponytail like rats from a burning ship. My back hurts. My head hurts, like someone’s splitting it open with an ax, but there’s still a smile on my face, since no one tips a surly waitress. My feet no longer hurt, as I think they fell off two hours ago. What once was a crisp white shirt is now damp with sweat and marinara sauce with a dribble of red wine from an unfortunate glass accident at table 10. And I’ve still got five hours to go until midnight, when I get to go home, and make sure my mom’s tucked the kids into bed, and then I get to get up at six in the freakin’ morning and do it all over again.
I’m not complaining, I’m not. It is what it is, and I’m just commenting on it. I’m one of the lucky ones, and I know it. I’ve got a roof over my head, and a decent school for my rugrats, and a steady job with good pay at a pleasant little family restaurant. Okay, okay, so when I say “family restaurant”, I mean - yeah, it’s a place you can bring your kids and grandma - but I really mean “Family” restaurant. They take care of me, and I don’t see anything, I don’t hear anything. Total amnesia about everything. Not a problem. I always was forgetful, even before I had to be. All I know is what my customers order, since that’s all I need to know.
Like the clam spaghetti in the corner booth. Cute little blonde; I’ve never seen her before in my life, unless maybe I bumped into her while I was shopping. Of course, I shop at Wal-Mart and Filene’s, and she’s the type that would go out shopping with the girls, tromping up and down Fifth Avenue. But yeah, if I seen her before, it’s been out. She’s certainly never been here before, and neither has her father, the Senator. Not that I know who her father is, I mean - how could I?
And she’s certainly never been here before with that man, the steak marsalla with linguine, hold the parsley. I’d definitely remember him, even if I ended up sleeping with some nice little fishies because of it. No, she seems to me like the type that would run around with governor’s sons and senator’s brothers. Not that she has, I didn’t say that. Why would I?
Damn it, that rat-fink little busboy’s got his rat-finky little hands all over another one of my tips. I’m going to kill him! I mean it this time!
- - - - - - - - - -
Saturday night, and I’m downtown in one of the best Italian joints around. Of course, I’m not dining here with some long cool woman hanging on my arm. It sucks.
I hate my life. I really do. I’ve got a master’s in criminology, and what am I doing? Bussing tables. Really fucking hate my life. Of course, I’m just doing it until the boss says we’ve got enough evidence, but still. I’m a junior agent with the FBI, and I’m stuck scrapping dried alfredo sauce off plates and bleaching stained tablecloths. I live such an exciting life, really, I do.
Johnny the Gambler just left a hundred at his table; I better go grab it before that ditzy waitress gets her grubby hands on it. Bitch doesn’t understand the difference between “nice tip” and “evidence of the State”.
- - - - - - - - - -
I really freakin’ hate this job sometimes. Two of my regulars have brought their kids with them tonight. My kids? I love ‘em, but that’s because they behave. Those kids? Freakin’ monsters, like half-trained chihuahuas. I don’t know why they brought the out-of-control brats with them - probably because they’ve scared off another babysitter - but why me? Why my section? Why couldn’t they have sit in Lucy’s section? Oh, why me, God? Why are you punishing me, or is this a test of my faith?
I hide my grimace behind a (completely fake) smile and bounce over to their table, making sure to have extra full glasses of red wine with me. I may have no clue who these people are - and why they look so much like the assistant mayor and his wife - but I know what they like.
One of the little monsters spots the bread basket; I know what’s going to happen next.
“Heads up, Frank.” I tip off the maître d' as I head back to the kitchen to check on some orders. “We’ve got a food fight brewing at table 14.”
I don’t even hear his response as I duck into the safety of the kitchen.
- - - - - - - - - -
The guy at the back table is highly suspicious, with a capital SUS. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, constantly checking out the place. I know, ‘cause I’m doing the same. It’s my job - but what’s his excuse? He’s got a hot number with him; why is he not entirely wrapped up in her?
He’s vaguely familiar too. Six-four, somewhere between one-fifty and one-eighty. Hair and eyes, dark. Fucking restaurant thinks that candlelight gives the place some “ambiance” and “romance” (read: makes it harder for our cameras and agents to spot the scumbags), so I can’t get an exact make on the guy. I’ve seen him somewhere - and I’m thinking the somewhere was an APB or an arrest file. Still, dude’s not one of the ones I’m looking for - he obviously doesn’t belong to this Family - so that means he’s not my problem.
He doesn’t touch his girl much, and they’re both acting nervous. Not sure if this is a first date, or just an awkward dinner. She’s smiling, but not overly so; a bit guarded, if I had to guess. He keeps crossing his arms over his chest, and frowning, but that might just be his style.
She says something that makes him laugh, and I can see the ice melting between them. It’s more obvious now that they’ve been together for awhile, because the only time I see first dates this at ease with each other is when they’ve either been drinking heavily or when one of them’s a paid escort - and I can tell, she’s not a whore nor is he a gigolo. She reaches across the table to hold his hand, and the sparks between them are visible. These are definitely established lovers.
Shame. I was hoping for a bad first date, since there was a chance I could have picked her up. I could have, I know it.
Thunk.
I really fucking hate kids. Especially the ones that start food fights. Not only do they hit me in the head with stale bread, but I’m the one that’s going to have to clean up their mess.
I wonder if the boss would be really upset if I shook ‘em up a little. I wouldn’t actually shoot ‘em. Probably.
- - - - - - - - - -
Houston, we have a Problem. A big ole Problem. The terrorugrats have sprung full war on the restaurant, and they’ve just hurled a giant bowl of chicken cacciatore at the couple in the booth, and got a perfect hit on the girl. Right in the back of the head, and now she’s got stewed tomatoes dripping from her hair. She’s going to be hard to forget; I’ve never seen a customer look so ridiculous before.
The man’s going ballistic, and she’s trying to calm him down. I don’t think it’s going to work, but when she manages to get him back in the booth, I sneak over closer so I can listen in. I need to learn how to control a man like that.
“Sit, Sylar. It’s okay, it’s just some bratty kids. No harm, no foul. Well, fowl, but I’ve yet to be killed by a bit of chicken. It’s not like they were throwing rocks or hand grenades.”
Sylar, what a cool name. I think there was a psycho serial killer by that name a few years ago; hmm, that makes two Sylar’s I’ve heard of now. Maybe it’s the new “it” name.
“They will be in a few years, if someone doesn’t teach them some manners.” He growls out.
He’s right, but what are you going to do about it?
The monsters’ mother (penne vodka, hold the penne) chooses the worst possible time to butt in. “One… Ryder, put that knife down! Twooooooo…. Destiny, no! Don’t throw that soup at that nice lady! Threeeeee… and you going to make me count to four?”
Oh, God, she’s counting again. I swear, the woman doesn’t know how to count higher than five.
It’s obvious that the blonde’s man is about to lose it.
“Kids, what are you going to do with them?” The mom shrugs.
He goes off like a rocket, and before I can blink, he’s holding the kids by their ankles and shaking them. I want to applaud.
“Sylar!” The blonde shrieks, and I wince. “Put them down! Now!”
He shakes them again, then lifts them so that he’s eye to eye with them. “Now listen here you little punks…”
She rushes over and grabs his arm. “Sylar!”
He growls, but drops them. I swear to God, I was expecting them to fall to a little heap of rottenness on the floor, but they somehow flipped in midair and landed perfectly in their chairs. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen them seated correctly - and silent. Did I mention that that they were no longer screaming like banshees?
If it wasn’t for the fact that blonde’s obviously got her nails sunk deep in him, I might have to marry this Sylar man.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Sylar, you can’t treat kids like that!” The hot number at the corner booth’s ranting as she guides Mr. Suspicious back over to their table. I make my way closer, since they’re almost done with their meal - my services are going to be needed soon. That, and Big Joey Marducci’s just taken the table next to them, and I need to be close enough to see him slip the drugs to his partner.
“Why not?” He crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at her. “They obviously need a little discipline.”
“Are you going to treat our kids that way?”
Dude - run away. Do not answer that question.
He answers it, moron that he is. “No, because we’re not ever having a passel of irritating brats.”
Her eyes narrow, and the idiot’s not back-tracking like he ought to. Maybe I was wrong about them being together for a while, since well-trained men rarely make that sort of monumental mistake.
Just when I think she’s about to start ranting and raving, she surprises me by bursting into tears.
“What?” Mr. Sensitive obviously doesn’t realize what sort of trouble he’s made for himself.
“Nothing.” She hisses, ice cold. I’ve got frost bite from thirty paces.
“Well, it’s obviously something.”
“I said, it’s nothing.”
“Claire, you’re lying to me. Stop crying, damnit, and talk to me!”
Oooh, three strikes, and he’s out. You can’t call your girl a cry-baby liar at the same time you yell at her, you just can’t. Dude’s not getting the nooky anytime soon.
She doesn’t say a word, just calmly hurls a fork at him. I don’t know how she saw through the tears, but the girl’s got good aim. I’m amazed at the cool way he just tugs it out of his arm and drops it on the table, never once making a sound. He just out-machoed John ‘Macho Man’ Wayne (no, not the movie star, minor mafioso infamous for… I can’t even think about it, it’s so horrible, but involved a weed-wacker and a willie and he didn’t cry once.)
“What? Why are you getting so upset? What the hell is wrong with you?!?!? Stop crying!”
Dude must be trying to cock-block himself for the next century.
She just cries even harder before she screams at him again. “I’m pregnant and you don’t want kids, apparently! That’s what my problem is, Sylar! You! You’re my problem! You and your damned ‘oh, it’s okay just this one time’ and your fucking super-sperm!”
I make a mental note to buy more condoms. I never want to hear “You knocked me up!” yelled at me in the middle of a fancy restaurant - even if it is full of useless social types and mafia types - while everyone watches.
- - - - - - - - - -
She might have well as screamed “You knocked me up, you jackass.” Got to give her points for style though. I just handed my ex a pee stick and told him the rabbit done died. Last time I ever saw him, but her man’s still standing there, dumbfounded.
“What?”
He’s so eloquent, like Cary freakin’ Grant.
“I’m pregnant.” She says it again so quietly, a little whisper, that if there had been the tiniest bit of noise in the restaurant, we wouldn’t have heard it. Instead, everyone there heard it very clearly.
“Claire…” He reaches out for her, and gently pulls her into a kiss. I want to swoon. Or gag. Gagging’s an option, but it would do horrible things for my rep as a tender-hearted romantic.
- - - - - - - - - -
I’m going to gag. First the screaming, then the crying, then the clichéd love baby, and now the kiss. The violinist is playing something sappy; I would say it was the theme music from “Titanic”, but the Agency would probably make me turn in my gun and my dick if I admitted I watched chick flicks like that.
“Waitress!” He calls out, snapping his fingers. Cheryl’s going to love that. I edge a bit closer in case he’s calling for the bill, but no, he just wants a dessert menu.
“So, now that you’re eating for two…” Dude cocks his head to the side, and then grins the biggest shit-eating self-satisfied grin I’ve ever seen. “… eating for three, you need to eat more!”
“I hate you right now.” She comments. “I’ll have the tiramisu.”
“No, that has coffee in it! Caffeine’s bad for the twins!”
Dude obviously has no clue how many corners our kitchen cuts; the closest the tiramisu has come to coffee may have been a picture of it at some point, but probably not. And he’s definitely not talking about the twins I’ve been staring at all night.
“Fine. The cannoli with amaretti cream.”
“Claire, that has alcohol in it! Think of the children!”
They’re still arguing over the nutritional content of dessert when I spot the drug exchange, and I have to sneak into a back corner to text the boss.
- - - - - - - - - -
I doubt they’ll notice, but I still sign my name to their bill - Tiffini, spelled with three hearts and a smiley face, since Tiffini gets a lot more tips than non-smiley Cheryl gets - and wish them a pleasant evening.
He throws a handful hundred dollar bills at me - more than enough to cover their meal plus a two hundred percent tip and a new pair of sneakers - and wraps his arm around the girl. I quickly pocket the money before the rat-fink realizes what sort of tip the man left. It’s mine, all mine.
I think it’s nice to see a couple so in love, but then I hear them arguing again before they even get to the door. And then I don’t think about them again. I don’t even remember them. What couple? What are you talking about? I didn’t see anything. Not me.
And then I hear the sirens, and the cops come rushing in, and in amongst the running and the screaming, I hear someone shooting a gun, and then that busboy’s grabbing my arm and pulling me out, and I really do forget that couple. For real. Honestly.