Maggie stares at him. Lately, each time he opens his mouth he makes her love him less and less. She is trying to decide if he is doing this on purpose or if she is just now realizing for the first time how much he sucks.
Nothing wrong with a little hard work, she says. You can’t argue with that.
SHE TOOK THE lunch shifts that summer, waiting on the wives and children of the members who were too lazy to cook their own grilled cheese sandwiches at home. The wives, some older, some younger, were sharp-tongued and particular, and most days operated with a fierce sense of entitlement. Maggie was someone to do their bidding (Never fast enough, never perfectly, they would sigh, as she brought them their food), and consistently neglected to thank her. Their children were better mannered and more respectful—they at least occasionally thanked her for her service—but Maggie still found them wasteful; they ordered food just to take one bite, they heaped out gobs of ketchup they would never use, and they often ordered sugary drink after sugary drink, until Maggie was certain their teeth would turn brown before her eyes. She was silent throughout all of this. She already knew how to keep her mouth shut, keep her thoughts inside. Now she was learning how to focus those thoughts into a particular kind of rage.
She also learned how to fold napkins in the shape of swans and fans. And she learned how to carry large trays loaded with hot plates flat on her palm. She would glide elegantly through the spacious main dining room, stare out through the wall of windows at the view of the golf course she wasn’t welcome to visit, and never drop a thing. She never spilled when refilling water glasses and coffee mugs, as much as she would have liked to sometimes, right on their spoiled laps. Instead she totaled bills quickly and got people out the door so that they could enjoy their day on the links or at the pool.
Have a good game, she would say. Don’t forget to use sunblock.
She was also instructed to memorize everyone’s names so that she could greet them properly. Hello, Mrs. Pollack. Good afternoon, Mrs. Greenhill. Iced tea, Mrs. Hornstein? She was horrible at this, but they never remembered her name, either, and she was the one wearing a name tag.
Her boss, Eugene, noticed her poor memory, and called her into a meeting one day after her lunch shift. Eugene terrified her. He always put his arm around her and acted like they were buddies, but deep down she knew he hated everything about the country club, including the people who worked for him. At any moment he could turn on you.
He had a shaggy porn-star mustache and wore three-piece suits in crazy colors like maroon and honey. He thought he was psychic. He always asked everyone what their sign was and when they told him, he would say something like, “You are such a Scorp!” He claimed his boyfriend was psychic, too, so look out, world. Maggie wondered if they even needed to utter any words out loud at all when they were together, or if they just sat there, reading each other’s minds.
In his office, he was gentle with her.
“Not everyone has that skill set. You have other talents,” he said.
Maggie pictured herself shaving off his mustache with a straight razor. She was nicking him, and blood was slipping forth from his skin and dripping down his face in tiny droplets.
“You are charming and have a lovely smile. And I’ve noticed when you calculate the checks, you do most of the math in your head. That’s very impressive. Not everyone can do that. We definitely don’t want to lose you. So this isn’t a warning or anything, just a suggestion. If you’re not sure of a member’s name, just say ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ instead.”
“Thanks for the feedback,” she said, lying, lying, lying. Being the nicest girl in the world. “I just want to do a good job.”
But even though it wasn’t a warning, he asked her to switch a few of her shifts to breakfast instead, which meant she had to get there at 6:00 AM instead of 10:00. It was obvious someone had complained.
Probably Mrs. Pollack. Her husband was the frozen-food king of the Midwest so she thought she owned the place. Maggie never forgot her name, but once had mixed up Mrs. Lowe with Mrs. Kahn, both of whom were Mrs. Pollack’s best country-club girlfriends. They all ordered the same egg-white omelets and side of fruit for lunch every day, wore the same light cotton windbreakers in varying shades of pastels, and had the same hair, short and puffy and vaguely thinning, so that their skulls shined through in the afternoon sunlight. They took turns sending their food back, every day a new problem. The egg whites weren’t cooked enough. The egg whites were cooked too much. Are you sure these are egg whites?
You try telling them apart, thought Maggie.
It was probably best that she get out of the lunch shifts. She was starting to fantasize about putting razor blades in the food.
YOU WANTED to kill them?
I wanted to wound them.
I just don’t believe you, he says. You don’t have a mean bone in your body.
Oh, I’m sure I have at least one, she says.