Vieux Carre Pizza
Shivers tickles her thick, hourglass frame, as her glove-covered hands clutch the outside lining of her coat; trapping it close, tightly. Though, saying it is freezing outside is an understatement, she couldn't help but think for some unknown reason that it wasn't from the wind. Almost trying to bulldoze her down every ten seconds. It was from this fast-food restaurant she is facing. It taste like a spirit, feels like the devil-sort of. Like voodoo. Well, it is New Orleans, after all.
Definitely a long way from home, where she is originally from; Cuba. Moving to Miami, Fl during her teenage stage wasn't as hard as her parents thought it would be. The two parents back in Cuba believed they were going to feel the wrath of a thirteen year old for sending her away, but never did. Since Lauren didn't have any friends, not even acquaintances, it didn't bother her that she would be leaving anything valuable behind; accept for her parents.
The milk-colored woman fled to New Orleans as quick as she could to escape the passing of her grandmother after her cremation. She decided that she wouldn't be able to stay where she built happy memories, only for them to be brought down by the doing of god himself. She don't think she can ever forgive him. In due time, she believes.
Now, she lives in an apartment with little money in her bank account that her grandmother left her. In order for her to survive and keep a roof over her head is for her to find a job. And standing there in the glacial cold, wimping out is not the way to do it. Not in this life.
The sole of her converse step with courage as she enters the restaurant, briefly eye-sighting someone at the cash register, punching in buttons. Whoever the person is, has their spiral curly hair cascading over their broad shoulders, covering most of their face as it cast down at the register. More steps, and the person actually looks up this time. Lauren doesn't know what it is, but she feel as if she had a momentarily heart attack on the spot.
"Hi," her soft and husky voice greets, then her index finger nervously pushes a few strands behind her ear full of rings. The other woman took notice, noting things to herself. "I am looking for a job," she stated more confidently and more determined. Her fingers ended up tangled together at the end of that sentence. Like a nerd presenting or more likely, showing off their indeed hard-working project.
"...are you?" the woman sensual voice ask, almost sending an invitation to the cuban's body.
"...uhh-yes, I am...I am," the confidence strangles her, as if it went down the wrong pipe, stretching out her throat. The cuban's hand went directly to her neck to try and soothe the forming knots, nonetheless, it still didn't help her. Hershey brown eyes never been so intimating until now, boring back into hers that lack melanin.
"Normani leave that girl alone," an motherly voice scolded from the back, appalling the younger girl.
"I'm not bothering her, ma'," the ebony woman breaks the eye contact afterwards, and drew in a long breath before releasing it. She went back to whatever she was doing. "She came barging in, so really, she is bothering me."
"I-I, that's not ex-exactly what I did," Lauren tries to explain, sputtering out her words. Out of her perip-heral vision, she catch the unknown woman; as Normani, holding in her snickers.
"What are you here for, baby?" she ask and the more she got closer, the more her southern accent became attentive. Her storytelling eyes beamed at the slightly quivering cuban, inching closer to the counter.
"She is looking for a job," Normani beats her to it, and for once she is more than thankful. "Hire her," she commands in authority, setting down the ink-pen next to the register, then straighten up, "You need all the help you can get," she casually commented, earning a whack behind her head that doesn't bothers her in any way. "I'm serious, Ma'. If you want me to stop giving you money every five seconds then-"
"Normani!" the strictness in her voice was enough to make the cuban woman's heart slipped through her organs and fall out her bare ass. "We will not discuss business in front of strangers, or anyone for that matter," her voice softens just at the end before eyeing the cuban, who is definitely watching the scene unfold before her. "What is your name, sweetheart?"
"Lauren," she replied after mustering just enough courage and avoiding the wondering eyes roaming around her face.
"Okay, Lauren," the woman repeated more proficiently, chucking up her shoulders, then folded her arms, "Do you do drugs?"
"No, ma'am," she answered with all honesty.
"Ever been to jail?" she pushes, tilting up her chin.
"No, ma'am," she repeated.
"Have anything crazy going on in your life? Something we should know of?"
"No, ma'am," she replied, lightly tipping back and forth. The two woman spared a knowing look, then the ebony woman shrugged her shoulders, and left from behind the counter. Eyes focus back on the cuban's face and she couldn't help but feel a bead of sweats piling on top of her forehead. Right now, she feels the need to clip her nails with her teeth from the anxiety eating her alive.
"You're hired, Lauren," the woman announces with a sudden grin on her face. The cuban automatically smiles back, her right palm squeezing her left palm; indicating, not bad, kid...not bad. There is nothing wrong with giving yourself a handshake. In all honesty, it felt like being invited into a new family. "Come back tomorrow at an reasonable time, and we can discuss the time and pay."
"Oh, thanks so much," she continues to wear that big award-winning grin on her face, unintentionally reaching across the counter to shake hands. Before she could get awkward about it and sincerely apologize, the woman's hand collide in hers, shaking it. "So much good has been happening in my life so far."
"You just moved here?" was the first question the woman could think of. Lauren nodded almost eagerly.
"Yeah, my grand-" the abrupt pause in her sentence tells the older woman something. And it tells her not to push it.
"Well, welcome. I want you to feel at home as possible," she responds with an assuring nod, not knowing that she doesn't actually wants to feel at home. She is running from it. The two ends up in a short conversation, and since it was getting late, the older woman; whom she now know as Andrea, but people around the city or who knows her, calls her Mama Drea, ends it. "It is getting late, and you know it gets dark around six o'clock na'," both of them chuckles in harmony, as Andrea reaches behind for the broom. "I would ask my daughter to drive you home, but she seems no where to be found."
"Oh, no, that is okay," Lauren reassured her with eyebrows furrowed to some extent. The cuban is not really big on riding with strangers. Or talking to them, either. "I can take the bus home, that is how I got here."
"...well, alright," Andrea says with the slightest motion of her head. She doesn't like young females or anyone walking out late by themselves. Doesn't matter if the bus stop is three feet away, anything can happen under five seconds. But she isn't into peer pressuring people. She hates when people do that to her, and she is not going to start by doing it today, "Just be safe out there. Crazy people everywhere."
"Yes, ma'am," she gift her a small smile and nod, then said, "See you tomorrow evening."
"Alright na'. Goodnight," she says and starts sweeping to the back, as the cuban silently makes her way through the entrance door. Wrapping herself up is useless, but a little warmth can't be harmful. Strolling back to her apartment building was easy. No interruption, no catcalls by some group of guys-because apparently New Orleans never seems to sleep. She haven't decided if she liked the thought of that.
Settling down on the couch after taking a quick shower, she was in the middle of scarfing her left over spaghetti until there was a pleasant surprise of knocking on her door. Anticipation whooshes across the four by four living room, as she eyes the door, placing down her plate. The loud clattering of the plate against the coffee table gave her presence away. She is home, and now the person will never leave.
The cuban felt like she was in her drunken state since the door wavered in her view and the walls, pulses in and out of her focus. The door bangs again and everything seems to stop. The low sound of the television playing came back to normal and the muffled sounds singing in her ear came to a halt, and the door seems like a regular wooden door. Popping up out of her seat, she gulp down her spit and nearly begin to choke as she heads towards the door.
There is no peephole. Cracking the door open; the chain keeps the door from widening saves her. But no one is standing there-
"Hi," A male voice greets without warning, frightened the cuban, then says, "Sorry to bother you, Miss," he said as he squints his eyes to see if his assumption is accurate, "But my name is Harry. Harry Styles. I know this is unexpected and strange...and you probably won't take up my offer. I have traveled from England and have no place to stay," he explained with lenient green eyes, holding some sign of hope. This is the fifth apartment building he arrived to. "You see, I met this guy online and to make a long story short, he turned out not to be who I thought he would be."
He is gay, she thinks, slightly straighten up her position, So he couldn't take advantage of me. But being gay doesn't mean he can't be a lunatic.
"Just please," his voice bleeds with misery, pulling the many strings on the girl's innocent heart. Clasping his hand together in a prayer position, he begs, "Just one night, I'll sleep on the couch. Or-or the floor, I just need a place to stay. Three dollars can't help me survive."
"...okay," the milk-colored woman agrees to put a halt to his begging, "One night, and...maybe I can help you. I don't know how but...we'll try," the fatigue smile on his face was still beautiful and radiant in the cuban's opinion. The way his hand hit the door as it drop made her body ping with slight pain, and since he didn't yelp in pain; tells her he is way too worn out to try anything.
"Thanks, for your kind heart," she nods and her cheek morph into an slightly crimson red at the British accent before shutting the door, and unhooking the chain. The guy hesitantly walked through the door frame, eyes quietly absorbing every small crack and stain. Though, he was the one knocking on an random person door; begging for help, he was still afraid of his surroundings. Someone could killed him, but he is taking a chance. "Thanks, again, love."
"No problem," she shut the door then locked the two locks, hearing the clings of security, "The couch is pretty comfy, and umm...are you hungry?" she didn't know what to say to a random person. One of the reasons why she doesn't initiates conversations, let alone finish them if she does.
"I would hate to take your things," he countered, turning to face the smaller girl, "You've already given me a place to spend one night."
"I don't mind. I would hate for you to go to bed hungry. Please, just take the offer. I want to help in anyway I can," she says, the deafening silence starts worrying her, "Do you like spaghetti?"
He smiles, and his cheeks burns, "I love spaghetti."
•¥•
The past few weeks has been working in her favor; she decided to let Harry stay since he had no money to travel back to England, and no place to lay his head. He promise to find a job and help her provide for them both. Andrea been coming around each and everyday. She senses she is trying to restrain on being friendly, and she doesn't exactly know why, but...she is grateful for her accepting her for the job under the weird circumstance.
Rushing off her knotted apron, it appears to be 7:29; only one minute until she is allowed to leave for good. The new roommate and her have a lot in common, and one of them is binge-watching Teen Wolf.
After clocking out, a wind of air jumped from her chest, through her throat, and paced out her mouth, "Shit," she curses out and immediately regret it since Andrea hates the foul language. But in this predicament, being a girl and being smack in the chest; hurts!
"Maybe you should watch where you're going, little one," the soothing yet, sultry voice summon in the cuban's ear, practically threatening her.
"Sorry, Norm-"
"It's Ms. Hamilton to you," she vulgarly interrupted with a bass in her voice. Lauren lift her head up further, only slightly bucking out her bird chest. Before she could utter a sound, she adds, "I'm here to make you an offer, not to be spiteful. My assistant is quitting soon and I need help. Not exactly Asap, but. Asap." Reaching into her back pocket, the cuban's eyes drifted to her forearm flexing and a brief line of veins shined through, "Here is my business card. If you don't want to be slaving in the kitchen for the rest of your life, little one then I suggest you call. I'll give you time. And if that spot gets taken-there is always a spot for you. Call me. Only for business...I'll be waiting."
She left like the whisper in the wind, leaving a baffled Lauren with a card in her hand, with her name and number. And the only thing flowing in her mind is, she wanted her mother to hire me then ask for me to work for her.
"Mind your business, Lauren," she scolded herself with the shake of her head, then ended up stuffing the card in her back of her jeans. The last thing she needs to do was get caught up in someone else's life or drama. Yeah, she is definitely overthinking the situation.
•¥•
"But it is weird, Harry," she complained after his unbothered answer earlier, strutting out of the cramped kitchen. "First, she acts as if I'm invisible-"
"Well, you're ghost-like," he mumbles under his breath, eyes examining every sweat on the guy's head; presenting on the television. He took a gulp of his beer.
"Then she disappears and reappears as she pleases. Now all of the sudden she wants to offer a job," she blew out a breath of frustrated air, plopping down next to the curly head guy, then pass him the bowl of kettle-corn popcorn. "She walks around like she owns the place," she commented to herself.
"Maybe she does," Harry concurs, glancing at her before lifting off of his propped up elbows that was resting on his knees.
"...what?" she incoherently questioned, her words sounded smudge due to the stuff of popcorn, occupying her mouth.
"She does, Lauren," he stated more so she could understand, "Normani Hamilton? Owner of Roc Nation, CEO for a restaurant. So on, so forth. She is a fucking millionaire," the British man rambles on with a slight smile on his face. A mix of regret and nostalgia. "Her mom just works there. She takes care of it. I heard she gave it to her, so the business is hers...but isn't, as you now know."
"Why does her mom work there? If I was a millionaire my mother wouldn't dare work again," she replied, picking under her fingernails. She hasn't visit her family in such a long time. They call every once and a while but sometimes that isn't enough. Lauren can be pessimistic at times, never taking insight on the good things. Yeah, her parents are far away but they are alive, especially at a time like this. People die everyday, but it shouldn't be as much as it now.
"From what the media tells me, is that she has some personal problems. I watch one interview where she admitted it, and you would think that it would be solved by now but who knows. I definitely don't want to know," he heedlessly shrugs and proceeded to gulp down his beer as Lauren stare down his face. "I'm scared she might hunt me down if I know any little information," he suddenly adds, "Dylan is so sexy."
Her eyebrows creases and let out of laugh of weirdness until it was genuine, then put her focus on tonight's episode. "Harry...you're a mess," she breathes out, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
"And you're absolutely right."
•¥•
"Someone piss in your cereal, didn't they?" the British man taunted with crooked smirk on his face, shutting the front door. He begin to whip the jacket off his shoulders.
Lauren didn't even hear the locks rattling, "What do you mean?" she ask, disordered, her eyes drifting from the business card and to the curly-haired man. From the kitchen, she heard him suck his teeth.
"What do you mean what do I mean?" he appears back with five packs of fruit snacks, and she would smile as usual but she knows those fives snacks were only for him. She purse her lips towards the side as he took a seat at the small round table; they call a dinner table but never eat there. It's their talking station and the living room and sofa is the diner room. Odd, I know.
"You've been staring at that card the last four months," he says with the tilt of his head and squinting eyes; aware at how distraught she has been. Mostly everytime he sees her, she is either procrastinating-which is what she does on a regular basis-or either staring down the card, probably daring the object to blink back at her, "It is almost March...if you're going to call, call."
"But it is something about her," she shook her head, jumbling her thoughts, then push her head on her propped up hand. "I don't know what it is, and I don't know if I want to find out."
"Welp..." his bottom lip started to poke out, as he raises his shoulder, leaning his head momentarily. He grabbed the rest of his fruit snacks, scooting out of his chair. After stretching, he says, "The only way for you to find out if it good or bad, is to call," and then went to the back to proceed his duty on taking a nice, hot shower.
"That didn't help, but increase my curiosity."
•¥•
A week went by, maybe, she wasn't really paying attention. The only thing she has been witnessing is the females and only females, entering in and out of the restaurant. They come in wearing skin-hugging clothing, greet Andrea with a false smile, then cop a squat in a booth facing Normani. Words being thrown around and fifth-teen minutes seems to runs out of time. It is always fifth-teen minutes or less. It wasn't until one day that Lauren curiosity gotten the best of her, and wanted to ask a simple question. Well, who knew a simple question could cause simple enviousness.
"A lot of people came in to visit," Lauren ignite the fire of the conversation, carefully slipping the pizza in the oven. She didn't want to say females. No need to give her the thought of being jealous. She seems like the cocky type. Normani freezes wondering who is speaking to her, jaw still chomping on her apple. Craning her neck to the right, her eyes focuses on the cuban flattening the dough.
"Not a lot," she simply replied after swallowing, and pause, "Only three a day...I'm interviewing them."
"For a spot?" she inquired, massaging the dough; using all of her strength, making finger marks. Like the child she is, she grinned distractingly. That until it was too quiet. So quiet, perhaps you can hear the ocean from the other side of the world, splashing. Her eyes linger out of her peripheral vision, spotting Normani eyeing her while leaning on the frame of the wall. The movement of her hands grew madly slow.
"Yes, the assistant's" she answered unbothered, and the cuban movement pauses and her neck causes her whiplash.
"...the assistant...spot?" she repeated to herself, though the ebony woman could hear her perfectly.
"Yes, the spot I offered you four months and a few days ago," she countered with slight enthusiasm, popping her shoulder off of the frame; making her hands dissolve into her front pockets after throwing away the core of the apple in the garbage.
"I thought-"
"Don't bother. Your face tells me everything I need to know," she interrupted with an astute look covering her face.
Lauren doesn't know why she feels this way-oh, actually she do, and she is hot. Proceeding the process of making the pizza, two other employees showed up and clocked in, chatting along the way. "Well, it has been four months and...some days counting. How come you didn't pick one yet-especially if you need someone asap?"
"You're right, I do need one asap but," she hisses, twisting her bottom lip while squinting her eyes in an thinking manner, later meandering into a dusty chuckle. Inching closer than expected, she tangle her fingers in front of her crotch area, then tilts her head and announces, "None of them are my type."
Lauren didn't even hear, yet notice that the ebony woman left her focus until one of the employees blatantly cackle out, snatching her back into reality. Her hands are molded into the dough and her eyes are peering at the wall. And then out of the blue, that enviousness transform into unease. None of them are my type, kept repeating in her head. It was like a nightmare and that sentence kept going out to get her to wring the blood out of her neck with the bold letters.
And the more she fight to remove the annoying sentence; the more she got tired, and the more she got tired, the words worried her into fear. And just like that. It was suck with her, just like she was suck in her head, procrastinating the rest of the day.
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