Last Olive Bistro ✓

Chapter 6: Change of clothes

Once at home, locked in the bathroom, I slithered my clothes off and hopped in the shower as fast as I could. Angela informed me of an 'early start' tomorrow, which meant I had to report for the opening shift at 11 a.m.. It was her way of being 'kind' and letting me make up extra hours in exchange for a much longer day. At least I would make my portion of the rent.

With shampoo lathered all throughout my thick hair, it hit me—the tip.

I left the shower running, as it still hadn't heated up to my preferred temperature of a hellish sauna, and stepped out and grabbed my pants. I couldn't wait until I finished bathing because my mind was so fried yet so abuzz, I would have forgotten later.

I dug into the pocket of my work pants as the shampoo dripped down my face and pulled out the folded up bill, that was right where Jacob put it. My soaking wet fingers unraveled it to reveal the amount. Time froze when my eyes caught the first glance of it. I read it again. And again. I counted the zeros.

$100.

This can't be right. His drink was less than $20; even a $10 tip would have been too much.

The broom-closet size of a bathroom steamed up in that short time. I placed the bill on the edge of the sink, in easy sight for me to remember it. Perhaps I'd go over it once more and make sure that I was seeing it correctly.

~ ~ ~

I got to the restaurant twenty minutes early, which was late according to Angela's standards. Payton was already standing in her place at the front, aimlessly tapping on her hostess computer screen.

"Morning," I greeted her with a casual smile.

"Hey," she said in an unusually meek voice.

For a moment, I was concerned why she seemed down in the dumps and was about to ask her what was wrong, but Angela's blood curdling screams that erupted from the kitchen answered it all for me.

"What the hell is going on?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Something about orders from last night. I guess too many came back, but who's surprised any more? She's been doing this for ten minutes already," Payton explained. She lowered her head and tugged at the black strings securing her apron. "If I didn't need the money, I'd walk out right now."

Tony appeared from the kitchen and strode towards us. "What a shit-show," he remarked.

"Who is she screaming at?" I asked.

"First it was the chefs but now it's the new kid, Yu-jin. Food prep wasn't finished last night for today, and even though it's not his job, she's having a conniption fit and taking it out on him."

The screaming was so high pitched that it would have been impossible to recognize Angela's cigarette-burned, scratchy voice. Instead, she sounded like a banshee.

Just then, a young couple stepped inside and looked around with curiosity. I didn't have the heart to tell them they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Good morning, how many today?" Payton asked, her mood zipping from zero to sixty faster than a Ferrari.

Angela's screams blew up again, now dotted with colorful curse words, and the three of us could only hold our breaths. The couple's eyes bugged out and they unanimously spun on their heels to exit.

~ ~ ~

The evening rush happened early due to it being a picturesque Friday evening. Temperatures had dipped to a comfortable, mild heat, and the restaurant was packed with hungry people ready to celebrate the weekend. However, plates kept going back to the kitchen with complaints.

"How can I help?" I asked a man who waved me down. His server wasn't anywhere in sight, so I had no choice.

"This needs to go back. I don't want a new one and I don't want to be charged," he demanded. The food on the plate he held up was three quarters of the way eaten.

"Sir, it looks like you've eaten most of it. I won't be able to take it back," I told him, trying not to upset him further. His brow was sweating profusely, his skin was flushed, and his eyes were glossed over from all the alcohol he consumed. I wasn't going to push it by asking him the reason for his complaint.

"I said I don't want it, and you better not charge me for it," he repeated.

I sighed, though it was drowned out by some rowdy, drunk patrons. "The best I can do is offer a complimentary dessert—,"

"Take it BACK!" he shouted and shoved the plate into my chest. "I don't want your damn dessert." A few of the nearby customers quieted and glanced over.

I scoffed and spun around. My feet were aching from not sitting down in almost eight straight hours, and lack of food for myself caused me to be running on fumes.

In a hustle, Jill and I collided in the middle of the dining hall. Her lanky body was nimble enough to react and jump to avoid the crash, but it was too late. The soup from her tray spilled down the entire front of me. It stung but wasn't excruciatingly hot. The thin yellow broth stained my white top, and soaked my apron and pants, embarrassingly. Several of the noodles clung to the fabric.

"I'm so sorry!" Jill shouted over the crowd. "Let me get a towel!"

"No, Jill, it's fine. I'll—I'll just change," I said.

Her face fell, sympathetic. I pat her on the shoulder and gave her a reassuring smile. Payton scrambled to get a mop and assist in the clean up. I rushed for the basement, beyond a set of steps hidden just off the bar area.

I grabbed a menu and maneuvered through the crowd, clutching it at my chest to hide the disaster on my clothes. Someone bumped into me recklessly, and he was startled backwards.

"Excuse me," I apologized, not seeing the man's face. I looked up.

It was Jacob.

"Pardon m—Oh, Chloe!" he seemed semi-relieved to see me. "Busy night, huh?" His face seemed unsure as if he didn't want to be there. I could relate.

"You could say that," I replied and removed the menu from shielding my stained top. He gasped and placed his hand on my shoulder.

"Are you alright? What happened?" he asked. A few people pushed past us as we stood in the right of way.

"Just a soupy mess," I answered, feeling helpless about the situation. I looked like a disaster in front of the dashing person I was trying to impress. Over the years I've learned to accept my misfortunes.

"My dear, are you going home?" he asked.

The rapid beat in my chest stopped momentarily at his discreet pet name, although he only meant it in a casual way.

"I have a change of clothes downstairs, so I'll be back up," I said. I couldn't help a narrow smirk that pulled at my lips.

His dark eyes looked warmly at me with utmost sympathy. "Well then, when you come back, you know what I would like." His tone was sensual, and it made me confused if there was an underlying innuendo to it.

Quit imagining things. He's just a nice person. You've served other friendly customers before; they weren't $100 tips-friendly, but kind nonetheless.

"Of course," I replied, finding the breath in my lungs. Our eyes lingered on each other for a brief moment, then we awkwardly danced around each other to get by. Payton was right—his cologne was incredible.