Rebecca Hussein

Rebecca Hussein is a waitress

Rebecca Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (thisdistractedglobe.com)

As I stared into the broken shades of glass upon the floor, I wondered what had gone wrong. I watched the remains of the milkshake as it spread towards the tables in a puddle of pink goo, much resembling the current state of my brain.

It had all started so well. His name was Dave, expect his name wasn’t really Dave; I just don’t want to slag him off on the internet and give him another justification for murder. My murder. He owned a quaint little cafe near me. Perhaps he still owns it, but after one afternoon of employing me, I doubt it. Like Rome, Dave’s cafe wasn’t built in a day, and yet a day was all it took to destroy.

It all seemed so promising when I handed him my C.V, the place was so filled with optimism and light. Better still, he was Turkish. “I’m Turkish!” I screamed at him, beginning to jump over the counter and shake him with joy. “This will be the start of something beautiful, we’ll fill the place with evil eyes, we’ll plant an fig tree outside, we’ll get married and run the cafe together, would you like that Dave, would you? We’ll have goats and chickens and many children and we’ll marinate ourselves in olive oil and live forever!” Well, needless to say, he wanted me to start as soon he finished his court case against me for harassment.

I’ve always wanted to be a waitress, I mean I did want to be a writer but then I realised that good things don’t happen to people who do a theatre degree, so, in conclusion, I’ve always wanted to be a waitress. Of course, I had to be realistic, my life as a waitress was in no way going to resemble the life of Amelie, the Parisian waitress of the 2001 French film of the same name. No way. For one thing, Amelie was a fictional character and I, as I remind myself every day, live in a dimension otherwise known as reality. I’ve no time for whimsy, because I live in the real world. I’m simply too busy to embark on a delightful romp because I am real person and I do real things. “It won’t be like Amelie, it won’t be like Amelie,” I repeated to myself.

“This is going to be just like Amelie!” I shrieked as I burst through the doors on my first day. And, right until I had to take someone’s order, it was. Dave had told me too be quick, so quick in fact that as soon as the first customer poked her foot through the door, I was running towards her with my notepad and pen. “I’ll show him who’s quick,” I sniggered to myself. “What do you want?” I barked, shouting as loud as I could in order to convey urgency. “Errrm, can I have a second to decide?” the woman asked.

“No seconds!” I screamed back, didn’t she understand that Dave had asked me to be quick?

“Oh right, I’ll just have a cappuccino then please.”

“I don’t speak Italian.”

After a long explanation and an interesting diagram on the back of a napkin, I attempted to make a “cappuccino,” only to cover myself, Dave and the entire counter in white foam from the milk. By the time I had managed to create a convincing cardboard cut out of a hot cappuccino to present her with, the woman had gone.

My banter with the local customers was lacklustre at best. “How’re ya doin today love?” a kindly cockney asked me.  “Well, I slept terribly last night, “I sighed, pouring tea into his lap. “Nervous, was you?” he asked sympathetically. “Not especially, I just had this dream that I pulled the wings of off a black bird and I tried to stick them back on but when he tried flying, he had blood raining down from where I’d torn them off and the blood rained down all over me and I was screaming, oh how terribly I was screaming!” Apparently this was not the banter that the dear old cockney was expecting and he made a rather hasty exit.

The day progressed and more and more things went wrong, like apparently it’s not cool to forget to charge people sometimes, and then try and make up for it by overcharging other people. Who knew! I got eaten by the dishwasher and, by the time I had clambered out, poor Mr. Wilson who comes in every day for tea and toast, had rotted away to a skeleton on the corner table. I would have cried, as I swept up Mr. Wilson’s remains, but the hours spent in the cafe had made me numb, I floated around as if in a nightmare, tearing at my hair and constantly, constantly shaking, so that several small children had drowned in the flood of tea I had spilt. It was only the crash of the milkshake glass, matched with Dave’s ferocious wails of, “Geeeettt ooouutttt!” that awoke me from my trance like state. I ran and I ran until I reached my house and dived under the bed. I am still under the bed and dare not come out in case Dave finds me. Or the police. Because of all those people who died.

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This entry was posted on October 26, 2011 by .
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