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.
"So, as well as being immortal, the Wiserton family are also superheroes and-"
I blocked Dan out, concentrating on the context of here and now, rather than some wholly mythical world which, though proving ideal, would disillusion me. Imogen, one of my colleagues had her eyes fixated on something. As I twisted, I realised that Deirdre and Spencer had removed their shades and started gossiping really loudly, as if they were trying to gather unnecessary attention from the rest of the Diner. Drew Collins and Spencer's boyfriend, Harry Pastor, both shook their heads and aggressively eyed up the same thing as Imogen. It wasn't until I turned that I realised this 'thing' was the Larry Matthams lookalike. He sat sipping a cup of black coffee absently, unaware of the disorientation he'd so severely caused. I heaved a sigh of relief, realising that it wasn't another unsafe citizen of Hatansplace. It was quite comical really; this Larry-Matthams-lookalike was in his own little bubble of naivety and innocence whilst everyone pointed, commented and gossiped. Wait - pointing, commenting, gasping. Why would they do that, unless-
Was this man Larry Matthams?
As if sensing my intrigue about this lookalike, one of my fellow diner colleagues Imogen Carris, started to talk to Dan beside me. "Did you hear about that new Marvel comic? It's supposed to be, like, totally epic." I smiled, both at how well Imogen knew me and also at the fact that Imogen had gotten the word 'epic' from me. I always used it, and she used to hate it, but she eventually gave in and used it jokingly. As the years went by, it became as generic and conventional as fallen leaves in autumn. I always liked it because it reminded me of my mother. Wait - I'm going off topic. Yes, this was my chance to approach him. Imogen had just given me a queue.
As if prompting me, Imogen flung her braided ponytail over her right shoulder and adjusted her work uniform, so much that every seam and pocket was exactly where it was supposed to be. "Hey, could you just check on that customer why I talk to Dan?"
I smiled knowingly in appreciation and she grinned back, as if saying, you're welcome.
"Sure. I'll be right back, Dan."
Dan, a coy, reserved and somehow fragile nineteen year old nodded. "I'm happy to wait, as long as you'll be back. I need to tell you about the rest of the Wiserton family."
With a smile and a promise, I steadily proceeded towards the Larry lookalike, considering how I would approach him. Would it be awkward. Surely. But could I prevent it? Should I be covert and secret or completely overt and honest? God, I was so indecisive.
"Hello," I blurted out suddenly, so much that I mentally cursed a billion times.
The man absently stared up at me but then it seemed like something occurred to him. I wondered if I knew him somehow, but had recklessly forgotten who he was. What on earth was I talking about? Of course I didn't know this man. "Are-are you Lola Haster? Forgive me if I'm sadly mistaken, but I think I recognise you from your profile."
I don't know how much time passed after that, but it felt like my mindset had complicated itself for eternity. "Err, yes my name is Lola Haster, but I-I'm not entirely sure what you're talking about. Wh-what profile?"
Was this creepy? Surely taking about some sort of 'profile' meant a profile on social media. Surely that meant he'd stalked me online or something. Didn't it?
Shuddering at the thought, I stood, waiting for his response.
"Erm, duh, your YouTube profile, Lola."
I narrowed my eyebrows, resisting the urge to nervously giggle. "But I don't have a YouTube account."
Larry stared at me in disbelief, the golden tinge in his brown eyes glittering under the lamplight. "Then who the hell is this then?"
Larry pulled out his iPhone and started to play some video on YouTube. It wasn't until I saw my split ends, baggy clothes and the posters of Bob Dylan on my wall that I remembered.
"Oh my god," I uttered, watching as the sixteen-year-old-me sang Rascal Flatts Life is a Highway at the top of her lungs as she played her archaic-styled guitar. "I can't believe I forgot about this." It almost seemed crazy to forget. I'd made an account for my friend Mia almost three years ago and for about a year I posted my own covers of songs by artists like Oasis, Blur and The Beatles. It was embarrasing to watch, and almost surreal that this one man had recognised me. It wasn't until this man minimised the video view from max-view to a smaller window that I fully realised how many people had watched this one cover - 3,000,000 people. With a gasp, I held one hand over my mouth and tried to resist the temptation to jump up and down. I loved music, and never really expected that I'd achieve any sort of place within its industry. Okay, perhaps I was getting a little ahead of myself. Or a lot.
I didn't even realise anyone watched these videos," I responded. I hadn't checked the account in one year or so - views must have picked up since then. Heck, I hadn't checked it in two years!
Beaming, I turned to the man and said, "Is there anything I can order you to celebrate? I've never even-"
"Yes," the man interrupted, "You can get me another black coffee, a slice of your finest carrot cake and-"
I sniffled, writing down his order.
"And confirmation so that I, Larry Matthams can take you, Miss Lola Haster, to LA so that you can record to feature on an album of singles of covers of upcoming artists."
My mouth dropped open like a baby who awaited it's dummy.
"Yes, Lola Haster, I'm signing you."
I didn't even feel as the pad in my hand dropped to the ground. I didn't even feel a thing as my heart stopped beating. I didn't even utter a word, not for another eternity.
"Just grab me that coffee and cake and I'll explain everything," he uttered, sharing his award-winning smile.
I nodded. I wasn't going to hesitate. I wasn't even considering it.
Questions to think about/answer in the comments section:
{what do you think of Lola/Larry/Imogen?}
{what would you do if you'd just been told that someone was signing you?}
{have you ever posted a YouTube video, covering a song?}
VOTE/COMMENT/FOLLOW!