Rebelonging

Chapter 35
Brittney smirked. "I've just got to be rude to people. How hard can it be?"
"Funny and rude aren't the same thing," I told her.
"Why not?" Brittney gave a toss of her golden hair. "I've seen you do it. And you get good tips, right?"
The uniforms aside, there was a reason my tips were good, and it had nothing to do with rudeness. The place was like a dinner show, with everyone playing a part. As for me, I played a big-haired, big-mouthed waitress with attitude.
"Attitude and rudeness aren't the same thing," I told her.
"Oh shut up," she said. "You're just trying to sabotage me."
"I'm serious," I said. "You can sass them, but you can't insult them."
She frowned. "Now you're just trying to confuse me."
"It's not that complicated," I said. "Sass them too little, and they feel cheated. But sass them too much, they'll get insulted."
"Oh whatever," she said. "You're not the boss of me, so stop acting like it."
I wanted to strangle Keith. It was bad enough he'd hired Brittney in the first place. But to assign me as her trainer? It was sheer stupidity.
I should've shrugged it off. But this time, there was more to it. A lot more. He was goading me, plain and simple. It was just one more thing to drive me out. Just like his constant nitpicking.
Keith's game wasn't exactly subtle. I'd seen it before. That weasel wasn't going to fire me. He was going to make me quit, the same way he'd gotten rid of my favorite cook.
Now, I was stuck training Brittney. I wanted to blow it off, but I couldn’t afford to. If she gave bad service, it would hurt me a lot more than it hurt her, at least while she was under my guidance.
We were sitting at a tiny table in the back room. I'd been reviewing the job duties, along with the basic customer service procedures.
"Listen," I said. "I'm telling you, you can't be mean to people. That's not what this job is about."
"Sure it is," she said. "I've eaten here. Lots of times." She shrugged. "You come up, you say something funny, and then deliver the food. What's so hard about that?"
I gave her a look. "Have you ever even waitressed before?"
"Oh please." She raised her eyebrows. "Do I look like a waitress?"
I gave her appearance the once-over. Somehow, she'd missed the mark entirely. The look was supposed to be retro, with big hair, bright lipstick, and dark eye-shadow.
Somehow, Brittney had gotten it all wrong. Her long blonde hair was too sleek, her lips too pink, and her eye shadow far too subtle.
And then, there were her clothes. She'd opted for spiked high-heels instead of the low-slung saddle-shoes the rest of us girls wore. On her tight white blouse, she'd skipped the top two buttons, opting to show an amount of cleavage that was borderline obscene, even by the diner's dubious standards.
"Well?" Brittney gave yet another toss of her hair. "Do I?"
I shook my head. "Definitely not."
She grinned. "Got that right."
"You look like some bit player in a porno."
Her eyes narrowed. "Bit player?"
"What? You wanna star in it?"
"Well, I sure as hell wouldn't be a bit player." Her lips curled. "I've got standards."
"Yeah?" I said. "Is that why you're doing Keith?"
A hint of color rose to her cheeks. But then she leaned forward and lowered her voice. "He's not the only one I did."
I felt my own cheeks grow warm. I knew exactly who she was referring to. Lawton. "Yeah, but you're ancient history," I said, looking down to sift through the training procedures.
For the next half hour, we reviewed every step in the waitressing guidebook, from greeting the customer to delivering their bill. Through the whole process, it was pretty obvious that Brittney was only half-listening.
She studied her nails, touched up her makeup, and at one point, even pulled out her cell phone to tap out a series of texts to who-knows-who.
At last, something got her attention, the tip-splitting arrangement while she was in training. Hearing the details, her eyes snapped to attention. "But that's not fair!" she said.
I shrugged. In truth, I'd felt the same way when I'd been in training. But now that I'd been working here a few years, I had a totally different perspective.
"Look," I explained, "it's just the way it works. You. You're in training. So you're getting a regular wage, just like the cooks. Me, I'm not in training, so I'm getting the waitressing rate, which as we all know, is a lot lower."
She pouted. "But Keith said I'd be getting tips too."
"Yeah," I said. "And you will. Once you're out on your own. But until then, your trainer, whoever that is, gets the tips. It's just the way it works."
She gave me a dirty look. "What a total crock."
Honestly, I could relate. When I'd been in training myself, it had hurt like hell to watch my trainer scoop up all that cash while I got nothing except the hourly wage.
But now, I totally got it. Even with tips, the trainer took a huge pay cut when working with a new girl. Saddled with someone who didn't know the ropes, the trainer couldn't get nearly as many tables, especially if she had to stop every five minutes to explain things along the way.
Training was a major bummer. But we all had to take our turns. Unfortunately, my turn was with Brittney.
"That's just the way it is," I said. "Someday, you'll see."
"Now you sound just like my mom."
I raised my eyebrows. "So you're mom's a waitress too?"
"Hell no," Brittney said, straightening in her seat. "She's a bank president."
"Right," I said.
"She is!"
Regardless of what her Mom did for a living, I had Brittney pegged right from the get-go. She was just another star-struck girl who thought the job was all fun and no work. If she lasted more than a week, I'd be surprised.
Later that night, my worst fears were confirmed when Brittney greeted our very first table. Seated at that table was Mr. Bolger, a regular customer who had requested me personally.
He was a squat, middle-aged man with two ex-wives, wandering hands, and more money than class. I'd been waiting on him for a couple years now. I knew his quirks, and I knew his tipping habits, which in truth, were pretty darn impressive.
As I watched, Brittney plopped down beside him. "Hiya Tubs," she said, looking down at his stomach. "Lemme guess. You want one of everything, right?"
Mr. Bolger set down his menu. "What?" he said.
"Oh Brittney," I said, keeping my tone light. "Stop teasing the man." I gave him my best flirty smile. "Brittney's in training," I told him, adding just a little more spice to my voice than necessary. "So you get both of us for the price of one."
The innuendo was obvious, and I felt just a little dirty using it. But it didn't take a genius to know that calling a customer fat wasn't gonna make them feel all warm and fuzzy, especially when it came time to leave a tip.
Mr. Bolger leaned back in his booth. "Oh yeah? I'm liking the sounds of that." His gaze dipped to Brittney's cleavage. "So tell me, Blondie, am I gonna be your first?"
"Hell no," she said, giving a playful slap to his arm. "I've had lots of guys." She eyed his hairline. "But none with a toupee before."
His face froze.
"So," Brittney continued, "when you shower, do ya take that thing off, or what?"
As it turned out, I didn't need to worry so much about the tip-splitting arrangement, because there wasn't a whole lot of money to go around. Even Mister Bolger, who usually tipped like a mogul, ended up stiffing us.
I guess I couldn’t blame him. He had no idea who was getting the tip. For all he knew, it was going to Brittney, who'd insulted him from one side of the restaurant to the other.
And it wasn't just him. Brittney had this annoying habit of calling customers by nicknames based on their appearance. Over the course of the night, we'd waited on Horse Face, Thunder Thighs, Chicken Lips, and too many others to count.
I couldn’t tell if she was truly that dense, or was doing it on purpose because she knew it would hurt me a lot more than her.
When I complained to Keith, he said it was my fault for not training her better. And when a disgruntled table of two, also known as Bucky and Snaggletooth, refused to pay for their meals, Keith threatened to dock my pay to compensate for it.
I thought of all the things I could've been doing tonight instead, naked things with the guy of my dreams. I should've called in sick, because when push came to shove, I'd been screwed tonight after all, just not in the way I wanted.
The next afternoon, as I headed to my Grandma's house, I was feeling even more screwed. But this time, it had nothing to do with Brittney.
It had to do with three official letters I found waiting when I checked my post office box.
Bad news. Surprising news. Whatever kind of news you called it, it had me cursing all the way to Grandma's house.