My Amish Love

Where My Feet Wander

Another day, another dollar.

That's what I told myself every day before I headed into work. I loved working, but sometimes I needed a little motivation. Money was my motivation. I worked at an Italian restaurant and I was the only employee there who wasn't Italian at all. I had an almond skin complexion with a 4a hair curl. I was short and petite, only standing at five feet two inches tall. I'm pretty sure I only got the job because of how desperate I looked when I came in. My hair was disheveled, my clothes were raggedy, and I hadn't slept in weeks. It was a family restaurant. Nevertheless, I was happy that I had a job. I've grown close to the owner and her children.

The owner's name was Abrielle. After her husband left her, she took her four daughters, moved from Lucca to LA, and opened her own restaurant. She was the true definition of an independent woman who didn't need a man. She knew how hard it was to live in a world and have nothing. Abrielle treated me like I was her own daughter sometimes. It was nice having a motherly figure around, even if it was only at work.

I looked at the clock on the wall and the time read 10:49 PM. Only eleven minutes until closing time and I had no customers. I loved nights like that; no customers and little to no work. On nights like that, I could put my headphones in and dance around the restaurant like I was in some type of Italian music video.

"Casey," Abrielle called from behind the counter, "do you need a ride home?" Her accent was so thick and heavy. It was very soothing. It made me feel warm.

As far as Abrielle was concerned, I lived in LA with a few roommates. I guess she assumed that because I was so young when I came in and I clearly had no paternal figures in my life. Yet, that couldn't be further from the truth. I lived in Inglewood, in some old, run-down apartment complex. I had a roommate named Tiffany who was a stripper. Sometimes she would give me rides on her days off, but not without me giving her ten dollars for gas. I'd use Lyft if I were richer or actually lived in LA. When I'm desperate, sometimes I'll even walk home. Inglewood was a twenty-five-minute drive from LA, though. Imagine the walk. I tried not to walk home too often. The bus was the best way for me to travel. I was saving up to buy a car soon. I had about forty-five hundred saved up. Five-hundred more and I could buy a good, used car from someone online.

"Oh, uh, no. Tiffany is supposed to pick me up from the gas station down the street."

"Okay," she smiled. "Well, you can leave. I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Thank you, Abrielle."

"Oh, you're welcome. Please be careful out there."

I took off my apron and hung it up in the back. Telling everyone goodbye, I headed out of the front door and down the street to the gas station. It was only a four-minute walk. Usually, Tiffany picked me up around 11:15 so I killed time by hanging around the gas station. There was a homeless man there named Mr. Thomas. I bought him something to eat and drink every night. In exchange, he was good company.

"Hey, Mr. Thomas," I said, bending down to hug him.

"Hello, Casey. How was work tonight?" He asked as he stood up. Mr. Thomas was probably handsome before he became homeless. He was very tall, around six-five or so. He had a full beard that was peppered with black and white hairs. His head was shaved down somehow but it only made him look better. Before he lost his mind due to his wife leaving him for his father, Mr. Thomas was very successful. I'm not entirely sure how successful he was or how his wife and father began their fling. He doesn't like to talk about it, and I don't push. 

"Oh, it was fine. Not too busy."

"Good then."

"I'll be right back, okay? I'm going to get you something to eat."