Chapter Three
Amanda
“Mornin'. What can I get you?” I ask as the woman steps to the counter.
“Vanilla latte, double shot of espresso, extra foam, extra shot of vanilla,” the woman replies, her tone dismissive and condescending.
She gives me her order without even bothering to look at me, speaking as if she were speaking to one of her maids or something. And maybe, in her mind, that's all I am. Her perfectly styled hair and manicured nails, carefully applied makeup, not to mention her obviously expensive outfit, make me think she's some wealthy suburban housewife – I've seen enough of them come through here to know the type.
Which makes the way she speaks to me make sense – the ones I've had the misfortune of dealing with certainly have a terrible sense of entitlement about them. And this one is no different.
The woman's face is glued to her phone – of course. It looks like she's updating her Facebook – which is one of the many, many things that annoy me about people. Hey, I enjoy my social media accounts as much as anybody – but I never fail to say please, thank you, and to look people in the eye. It's only courteous.
In general, though, people seem to be so consumed with their social media accounts that they've forgotten things like common courtesy and manners.
Or maybe I was just raised differently. My parents taught me to always be courteous and respectful. If I wasn't, I always got a smack upside the head or some other form of unpleasant punishment, so I learned really quickly.
Yeah, my folks didn't win a whole lot of parent of the year awards, but at least I learned some manners from them. It's about the only thing I can be grateful to them for.
“Sure,” I say. “Coming right up.”
I leave the cashier to ring her up as I make the woman's drink, all the while fuming about her lack of manners. It's stupid. I know I should let it go. It's not going to do me any good to let this woman get under my skin. She really isn't worth it and I have better things to spend my energy on.
Taking a deep breath, I let it out and try to calm myself down as I make the woman her drink. I try to focus on something else – like my upcoming test. I work part time at the coffee house to bring in some cash. It's not a lot, but I make do. I also go to school at the local junior college. I want to get all of my general education classes out of the way, so that when I transfer to a four-year school, I can focus on my major and get myself ready for my career.
“Excuse me,” the woman snaps, her tone now irritated. “Are you done yet? I'm in a hurry.”
“In a hurry to go bang your yoga instructor?” I mutter to myself.
“Excuse me?” the woman asks. “What did you just say?”
The woman's tone moves from irritated to flat out angry in the blink of an eye and I realize in that moment, that I'd spoken a little louder than I thought. Whoops. I turn to the woman and give her a small smile.
“I said I'm almost done,” I say, putting on a smile I'm positive looks as phony as it feels. “Just be another moment.”
The woman's eyes narrow and she stares daggers at me. “That's not what you said.”
I shrug. “Sure, it is,” I reply. “You probably misheard me because you're staring at your phone so hard.”
“You are incredibly rude,” she snaps.
“Not the first time I've heard that.”
The woman's face darkens with anger and it's all I can do to not laugh in her face – she looks like she's about to burst. I have zero doubt that her staff at home doesn't speak to her the way I'm speaking to her – and on some level know that I shouldn't either. But I can't help myself. She looks like the kind of woman who'd fire somebody for looking at her wrong – or for looking at her at all.
In fact, I bet she's the type of woman who insists that her “hired help” does not make eye contact with her. Ever. She certainly seems to be like that.
“I want to speak with your manager,” she demands.
I shrug like I don't care – because I don't. “Danny,” I call out. “Somebody wants to speak with you.”
Danny, a tall, gangly guy two years younger than me with thinning hair, pale skin, and coke bottle glasses comes out of the back and walks over to me. Danny's a good guy and we get along pretty well most of the time. He's had my back more than a few times, but I know that I'm on thin ice with him. I know he's getting tired of having to smooth things over for me.
“What's up?” he says.
I shrug and point to the woman. “She wants to speak with you.”
He gives me a look and then a quiet sigh – this isn't the first time he's had to field a complaint about me. Turning to the woman, he gives her his best smile.
“How can I help you?” he asks.
“You can start by firing that little bitch,” the woman snaps.
Danny raises his hands. “Come on now,” he says. “There's no need for that kind of language. What seems to be the problem?”
“For starters,” the woman hisses, “this little bitch insinuated that I'm having an inappropriate affair with my yoga instructor.”
So, she does have a yoga instructor. Figures. And yeah, she's probably fucking him. Danny turns to me, his eyes wide, a look of disbelief on his face.
“Amanda, is that true?” he asks. “Did you suggest –”
I shake my head. “I don't know what she heard,” I lie. “But I didn't say that.”
“She's a liar,” the woman almost shouts. “A goddamn liar.”
I shrug. “I didn't say that, Danny,” I say, looking him in the eye. “She must have misheard me.”
The woman's voice is raised so loud that the other customers are starting to pay attention to the little drama unfolding. Some of them are smirking, others look like they're hoping to see some bloodshed. If nothing else, at least they get a little show while they wait for their drinks.
Danny looks at me long and hard, trying to decide if I'm telling the truth or not. I don't like lying and generally do everything I can to tell the truth at all times. But I also need to keep this job. It's not easy to find work these days – especially work that will be as flexible with my school schedule as Danny is.
“Seriously, Danny,” I say softly. “I didn't say that.”
Danny gives me a small nod and turns to the woman. “I'm sorry for the misunderstanding –”
“You're taking her side?” the woman screams.
He shakes his head. “I'm not taking anybody's side,” he says calmly. “I'm just trying to resolve the situation. I'd like to refund you the price of your drink and offer you another drink the next time you come in, on the house.”
The woman looks at him aghast. “You actually think I'm going to set foot in this place again after the way I've been treated? Seriously?”
“I understand,” Danny says. “And again, I apologize for the misunderstanding. Please, let me try to make it right.”
I feel bad that Danny is taking all the heat for me. He doesn't deserve that. But at the same time, what else can I do? I genuinely hadn't meant to say that out loud – it was supposed to stay in my head. But somehow, it slipped out. And I couldn't afford to lose my job. All I could do was deny the hell out of everything and then try to make it up to Danny later.
“Do you even know who I am?” the woman snaps.
Yeah, an entitled, snooty bitch, I think to myself and then take a quick look at Danny to make sure I hadn't actually said that out loud. He's still focused on the woman though, so I think I'm in the clear.
Danny looks at her a long moment as if trying to figure it out before shaking his head. “No, I'm afraid I don't.”
She actually looks more horrified that he doesn't know who she is than she is by me saying she's banging her yoga instructor.
“I happen to be the wife of the Deputy Assistant District Attorney,” she huffs.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Danny says awkwardly. “I didn't recognize you.”
He's trying to appease her and say something nice, but what he said only serves to infuriate the woman even more. She looks positively apoplectic. But seriously, who knows the Deputy Assistant District Attorney – let alone, his wife – look like? Or even who they are? Talk about arrogant and entitled.
“Screw you,” the woman hisses. “I've never been treated so poorly in my life and I'm telling all of my friends to stop coming here. And I'm going to post a horrible review on Yelp. This business is going to fail. I'm going to destroy you. Mark my words. You messed with the wrong woman.”
The woman turns on her Christian Louboutin heels and storms out of the coffee house. Some of the customers in line are snickering and shaking their heads, discussing the little drama amongst themselves. Danny looks at me, his face grim.
“In my office,” he says as he turns and quickly walks to the back of the store.
It feels like the bottom fell out of my stomach and I'm suddenly feeling queasy and shaky. The look on his face is one I haven't seen before – and I'm worried. It was stupid to say what I said. But I didn't mean for her to hear it. I screwed up.
But I can't afford to lose this job.
Feeling like a condemned prisoner, I turn and walk to the doors that lead to the back of the shop – to Danny's office. All I need is somebody shouting, “Dead Man Walking” to complete the image in my mind.
Dear God, please don't let me get canned.