Diner Girl! (IN THE PROCESS OF EDITING!)

Chapter One: That's me, Diner Girl.

Diner Girl

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Chapter One: That's me, Diner Girl.

I work nine to five and wear a checkered apron. My salary is less than I should be earning and my wage slip still hasn't paid off for these skates I'm prohibited to wear around Maxwell's. That's me, diner girl!

Maxwell's Diner isn't the worst place to work. I mean, it's bad if you want to be loaded with thousands of millions of dollars to spend on trashy clothes and plasma screen TV's. That's not my style though. I guess I'm more down to earth than most people. I actually quite like my job in an odd and slightly unconditional way. I have a family here. They know me, I know them. This is my life.

So there I was, taking orders from the 'popular' gang at school when it so immensely happened. Saturday mornings were undoubtedly the worst part of the week, dedicated to earning as many tips as I could father for my epic trip to Kenya with my best friend Aaron the next month. Sometimes I got tips from the rich kids, but only when I promised I'd feature them in the next issue of the college newspaper - I was the co-editor - in the most optimistic light possible. I faced Deirdre Hopkins who had jet black hair that always looked sticky and greasy, Spencer James, her doubtful sidekick who consistently wore bracelets up and down both of her tanned arms, flaunting them, and lastly, Drew Collins, the sarcastic boy who always followed Deirdre around as though he had nothing better to do than hold her handbag while she mingled, become her personal slave and practically praise her. Really, it was rather comical.

Drama, that's what I'd been dealing with ALL morning.

I eventually managed to escape from their unfunny and frankly ridiculous humour and swerve behind the counter, talking to one of my distant colleagues as they practically shot me death stares. The saying 'if looks could kill' retorted through my mind. If only it were true. In fact, I'm pretty sure that if it was half the world would be dead by now.

But then I saw him, strolling through the doors the way celebrities would stroll into the Ocsars - with dignity and self-importance. He wore the same Gucci glasses I'd read about on the internet last month, the ones which cost $300 per lense - in fact, at the end of the article I was cracked up laughing, unlike I was now - and wore a knapsack over his pristine shirt and denim jeans. After eyeing his slim figure up and down numerous times, I stifled a laugh at my complete daftness. It isn't him, it isn't him, I thought on a continuous loop. But some sense of diverse thought revolved around my mind. In fact, two precise words - Fate and Destiny - seemed to circulate around my confusion. To come here, one of those two things would have had to have been at least slightly influential. Right? I shook my head, chuckling to myself. What a twat. As if it's him. As I'd famous music producer Larry Matthams would come to remote, little Maxwell's Diner in Hatansplace, Texas.

I served one of my regular's, Dan Coppers, who was a major comic book fanatic, but today as he spoke about the newest addition to his collection, I couldn't help but become a little distracted, not only by the disorientation with the Diner but with the remembrance of what happened last February, and how the occurrence that happened this time last year started off with widespread social disorientation - exactly what characterised the Diner today.