Holy Grail (discontinued)

I. Bella Luciana

“Come on, come on! You’re late…again! When are you gonna get your sh!t together, figlia?” Oh how touching; he greets me with a term of endearment whilst cursing me out.

“I-I’m sorry, but my bus got held up coming from --” I try to defend myself.

“Save it! Just go get your G-d damned uniform on; you have a table waiting,” he points to the large booth in the corner completely full with at least 10 guys. Great.  “Now I’ve already given them the drinks, so you just need to take their food orders. And be polite, for Christ’s sake. Sell yourself figlia, that’s the only way to get a tip.”

Because yes, it’s all about the money. Bella Luciana has been in business roughly 20 years. And to say it’s been successful is an understatement, considering how it hasn’t been around as long as some of the NYC classics.

She stands next to him, just giving me the look; her fearful eyes trying to tell me to just do what he says without question. And I do because I know the consequences all too well.

I hurry along to the restroom, putting on my black slacks and black button up shirt (that looks less than up to his expectations since I didn’t have time to do laundry last night. But it’ll have to do for today.)

I make my way over to the table of boys. They seem to be my age, maybe a little bit younger-but not by much. “H-hi, my name is Luciana. I’m going to be um, you’re uh, waitress today. Sorry for the wait,” I stutter as a force of habit. He always says to apologize, so that’s what I do.

“It’s fine, love,” one of the boys with the curly hair says, his English accent fairly strong. I’ve always wanted to go to England, but I don’t see that happening any time soon. “We’ve already got drinks, so I think we’re set to order, right lads?” He looks around the table and they come to a consensus. I scribble down the orders; they basically all want pasta; a few want pizza. Not surprising really, when you work in an Italian restaurant. 

I rush the boys’ food, mindful that I’ve kept them waiting long enough (and luckily, pasta and pizza don’t take that long to make.)

“So you wouldn’t happen to be the famous Luciana, would you?” A boy with purple hair speaks with a smile. I find myself stuck on the color of his hair though. “Don’t worry, it’s not always purple,” he jokes when he notices my eyes flicker to the slightly unruly mess on the top of his head. I just look down at the table.

 “Ok then. So I take it you live here in the city?” the boy continues on before taking a bite of his pizza. Why is he trying to make small talk? We’re never going to see each other again after this, so there’s no point really. “And wow this is amazing. Like, seriously, probably the best I’ve ever had,” he winks.

“Can I get you anything else?” I ask, focusing on the unpolished table below me. To say I am not really up for conversation would be putting it lightly. I’ve had a pretty crazy morning; I don’t want to be here, so if I can just take care of them and get them out, all will be well.

I glance up to find the rest of the boys eyeing the purple haired boy curiously as they practically devour their plates in front of them.  

 “Yeah, your phone number would be ace,” the boy states nonchalantly. I look up at him with my eyebrows raised, more than likely having misheard him because no one ever asks me for my phone number. But he gives me a sly smile as his buddies chuckle-all but one, who pulls his lip ring between his teeth, watching me curiously; like’s he’s on the edge of his seat, awaiting my answer.

“No,” I snip, beginning to walk away. They need to eat and leave. Who are they anyway?

“What a b!tch,” I hear the boy not so subtly call after me. Well, that’s great. I’ve never in my life had someone call me that- except him when I’ve done something, but other than that, no one.