Bunny

Seems like I am the only person here who knows how to refill the coffee maker. It’s not brain surgery, right? So out of six waitresses, how come I’m the only one who ever seems to be taking the old filter out, banging the basket on the side of the garbage, and setting it all back up again?

Thirty-eight seconds. That’s all it takes, and I know because I timed myself. Thirty-eight seconds! I guess I’m the only person here who has thirty-eight seconds to spare for fresh coffee.

Which is extra weird, since people drink coffee all day long. That’s what diners are for, right? You get your regulars, who line up at the counter and just drink cup after cup all day long. It’s their daily habit, sitting on the vintage stools with their elbows propped up on the Formica, dirty plates pushed back so the busboy can scoop them up. They expect to be able to enjoy five or six hours of bottomless coffee and chitchat with the other old fogies.

They expect their cups to be refilled when they’re down to about 25 percent. They don’t want to ask, and they don’t want to think about it. I’m sure they drink about a pot each while they are comparing war stories and bitching about lawn care or whatever.

That’s all fine by me. The diner counter is an American institution, and a good one at that.

And I like it when I have the counter as my station. All I have to do is sweep along, refilling cups as I go, smiling and winking at the old farts. It’s totally worth that seventy-three-cent tip they’re going to leave me at the end of the day, when they have to shuffle on home to watch Judge Judy. Totally worth it.

In the rest of the dining room, we’re just about evenly split between ladies with their book clubs and people stopping in for lunch from local businesses. Once in a while, I’ll get a hipster or something, but somehow we are not that trendy. This is still very much the old-fashioned greasy spoon it’s always been, and while the doughnut shop two blocks down has a bunch of bearded weirdos hanging out all day, we still just have mostly old dudes. Mostly.

Which is why I figure everybody knows the coffee pot needs to be constantly remade, and why I’m mystified that I’m the only person who does it. Seriously mystified!

After a quick jog down the counter, refilling cups as I go and dazzling them with my smile, I go ahead and start the process all over again. After thumbing the orange button, the machine bangs and hums, heating the water up to flash boiling for yet another go-round.

My manager sidles up to me, turning around to lean his ample butt against the stainless steel counter and crossing his arms. He squints at the dining room, nodding to himself.

“Yeah,” he sighs, finishing the conversation that started in his head, “you could just go on home, Bunny. Take the afternoon off.”

I take a quick breath and hold it, forcing myself to smile.

“But, Nick? Are you sure? The fence guys usually come in for lunch in just a couple minutes…”

I grab a towel out of the bucket of sanitizer and squeeze it, wiping the counter that I already cleaned.

“Yeah," he says again. I watch his profile as he checks out the room, mentally calculating which waitresses he can cut to save money, and which ones he has to keep.

“I think it’s actually Misty’s turn to go home early,” I offer helpfully. “Nick? She’s probably expecting it. Wouldn’t want to let her down.”

I have no idea if it’s actually her turn to go home early. What I do know is that I just bought a new pair of Frye boots, and if I don’t make fifty-three more dollars by Saturday, my cell phone will magically transform itself into a mediocre paperweight.

“Misty’s got kids,” he sniffs.

Shit. Again with the kids? Can’t a single girl get a break? A single girl with really cool boots?

“Come on, Nick,” I groan, taking a step backward and relishing the heavy sound of my boot heel against the ceramic tile floor. I pout and puff up my chest, noting the way his eyes dart down into my cleavage.

He’s always checking me out when he thinks that I’m not looking. I noticed. Of course I noticed. I’ve even considered letting him slobber all on me the way that Tiffany says that he does when he manages to trap her in the deep-freeze. I mean, I don’t think I’m quite that desperate yet. But it’s good to know it’s out there, assuming I would ever really want to have to freeze my ass off and let him smell my hair or whatever his kink is.

Not the worst thing to have done to you in a restaurant, is what I’m saying. There are all kinds of characters. And while I am usually up for sexy shenanigans of most sorts, Nick is… not my type. But could I make an exception for posh footwear? I could.

He twists his lips to the side, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tries to squint his way past the barrier of my waitress uniform. These are the old-fashioned type that zip up the front. They’re very cleavage-friendly, almost “sexy nurse” in their own way. Like Halloween costumes, but I have to wear it almost every day.

“Yeah,” he says with an air of finality, as though he doesn’t want to say it again. “You’re on the schedule tomorrow anyway. Go ahead and clock out.”

“Nick, that’s not fair!” I blurt out, unable to control myself. “It’s not my turn. I’m sure it’s not my turn. Can’t you just pick somebody else?”

I feel the guys at the counter all go silent, swiveling on their counter stools to watch. The meaty parts of Nick’s seriously large ears go red, and I know that he can sense we are being watched too.

“You know what your problem is, Bunny?” he growls, the threat clear in his voice. “You don’t know when to shut up. You don’t know when you got it good.”

I cross my arms and just stare back at him, figuring I might as well go for it now. If I’m going to be in trouble, what’s a little more?

“Oh, is that my problem?”

He licks his teeth under his upper lip, inflating his mouth.

“Yeah, among other things,” he continues. “A girl like you should be glad you got any job at all. Now go ahead and clock out.”

“Well, you want to know what your problem is, Nick?” I challenge, raising my eyebrows at him. I feel everybody’s eyes on me for sure now, and it just sort of inspires me. What can I say?

He narrows his eyes, pausing for two beats.

“Just clock out, Bunny,” he says in an unnervingly polite way. I hear that he’s actually talking some sense, but somehow I can’t make myself listen.

“Your problem,” I continue, building up even more steam, “is that you are nasty. Nasty food! Nasty attitude! You’re worse than the cockroaches in the kitchen!”

Rocking back, he almost looks like he’s floating, like I just disturbed the surface of the water that he’s in or something. His eyes are wide and frantic, clearly shocked that I would talk to him like that.

“Clock out!” he bellows. “And don’t come back! You’re out of here, Bunny! I’ve had enough of your smart mouth!”

“And I have had enough of your shitty coffee, Nick!” I yell right back at him. I glance over at the old guys and see them nodding in agreement. See? They know. It really is shitty coffee. They’re on my side; I can feel it.

“Out of here!” he says again.

“Fine!” I yell right back, stabbing at the button of the time clock to punch out. Part of me knows this is a huge mistake. I should apologize. He’s kind of right about my big mouth, and I know it. But I can’t do it now. I’m just riding the wave.

“And you gotta return that uniform!” he blurts out.

I glance down at the uniform, somehow surprised at this new information. Return it? But, I kinda love it. I feel like a sort of vintage vixen in this thing. I do not want to return it.

“Yeah… well... you gotta shave the inside of your ears, Nick!”

There is some kind of sound behind me, a sort of choking noise that means I have got people laughing at him. While that feels exceptionally good, I also know that means that my opportunities for a future apology have just dwindled significantly.

“Get out!”

“I am getting out!”

I make sure to give everybody a little smile on the way out, trying to make sure that they’re on my side, at least for now. I know as soon as the door closes behind me, their allegiance is going to shift, but for now I need this. I need to know that just for a second, I’m the hero of the story, even if I’m the jerk that started it.

Once I’m out on the sidewalk, I realize I’ve got another problem. I don’t have a ride home. My mother said she would pick me up after her shift, but that’s not for another four hours. My best friend, Dahlia, used to do it for me, but that was before she got all married up and knocked up and whatnot.

Squinting down the street one way, then the other way, I check out the sparse traffic. There are a few people walking aimlessly under the elm trees in the tiny park. A post office worker rolls a cart from shop to shop in her cool safari hat and blue uniform.

It’s early afternoon. A perfectly respectable time of day to be walking down the sidewalk in a waitress uniform, right? Sure.

Perfectly normal. Nothing to see here.

Even though it’s probably not my best idea, I head for the warehouse district by the railroad tracks. I don’t know where else to go. Dahlia and August’s place is within walking distance. I’m sure they’re up for a friendly visit from their old pal Bunny.

Or I suppose I’ll find out if they’re up for a visit, after the half hour it will take me to walk there.

Maybe was Nick was right. I really should learn to keep my mouth shut sometimes.