Dine and Dash

The Secretary ordered a third margarita much to The Waitress’ delight. Drunk women on their own often tipped more. It was a Friday afternoon, that quiet zone between the lunch rush and Happy Hour. The Secretary had arrived at 2:00 p.m., having just been laid off due to “company cutbacks”. She couldn’t bear the thought of going home to an empty apartment, empty fridge, and empty days ahead. The cheap Mexican restaurant located in the parking lot of a strip mall always had its heavy red curtains shut to the world so its patrons might forget what awaited them as they downed strong drinks and complimentary chips and salsa.

As The Waitress set the drink in front of this woman who seemed to be about her age, she felt suddenly envious of her carefree Friday afternoon. The Waitress had been working several extra shifts in order to save money for her son’s birthday at the end of the month. He was turning six and she wanted to give him his first real party at Chuck E. Cheese, complete with a big ticket gift—his first bike. She was only halfway towards her goal and had less than two weeks to get there. So she wanted to make sure her customer was happy and cared for. Especially this one with her manicured nails and tailored business suit.

The Secretary looked at her drink and tried to rationalise its cost. She decided she was celebrating the end of one chapter of her life and the anticipation of a new beginning. Never mind that she hadn’t bothered saving for a rainy day, that all her salary went to clothes, beauty salons, and drinks. Never mind that she hadn’t seen the axe coming or even noticed her head was on the block. All that stuff about poor performance was bullshit. She’d find a better job and at least she wasn’t a waitress. She took a long drink and reached for the laminated menu sitting at the edge of the table.

The Waitress was in a dark corner near the bar, rolling silverware into paper napkins and chatting with the cook. She saw The Secretary grab the menu and felt relieved. There was a sadness lurking around The Secretary and The Waitress didn’t want to deal with the emotional aftermath of a woman drinking on an empty stomach.  

The Secretary ordered a bowl of chilli con carne and a side of flour tortillas. And another margarita. The Waitress told the cook the order and he groaned, saying the stuff they had was three days old and “getting nasty”. He said he’d liven it up with some extra meat and freshly grated cheese.

The Waitress put down the brightly decorated ceramic bowl of steaming food and the margarita and asked if The Secretary wanted anything else. Luckily she didn’t, as a couple walked in and sat at the opposite end of the restaurant. The Waitress looked at her watch and realised she would be getting the Friday Happy Hour crowd soon with their khaki pants, back slapping, and loud laughter.

The Secretary unfolded the foil and took out a soft steaming tortilla and tore off a bit. She dipped it into the pot of gooey brown and orange and took a bite. At first it scalded her tongue but as she smelled the food, it occurred to her she’d smelled something like it many times growing up. Cat food. To be sure it wasn’t just the sharp contrast with the margarita, she blew on another bit of dunked tortilla and took a bite. Unmistakable. Pungent, slightly fishy, and strangely gelatinous. She took a big drink of the margarita and contemplated what to do.

She’d been wronged. Laid off for no good reason and now served cat food. There was no way she was going to pay $7.95 for a bowl of slop. In fact, she wasn’t going to pay for any of it. What right do they have to charge her double the price in the afternoon while the Happy Hour crowd paid less? Why was she being punished for not having a job during the day? It was totally unfair. She finished her drink.

A couple more tables had wandered in and The Secretary knew The Waitress was in the kitchen filling plastic baskets with free chips to bring them. She made her move. She took out a $1 bill and put it under her glass as though she were settling her bill and quickly left the booth. Outside, she started running despite the heat, her heels, and feeling nauseous.  

When The Waitress saw the meagre bill sitting on the table, she felt her body go hot. She silently walked into the kitchen and in the calmest tone asked the cook to take out the drinks to her tables. She had calculated that The Secretary’s tip would be half a pizza or some tokens for the kids. Now, she was looking at using half her day’s wages to pay the tab the privileged white bitch left behind. Getting into her car, she knew the woman would be headed to the bus stop to get a bus to the trendier part of town where she likely lived.

When The Waitress screeched to a halt beside her, The Secretary stumbled to the car and got in. She didn’t look at The Waitress or apologise. She sat with her hands folded and quietly said she needed to go to the ATM. She withdrew two $100 bills and gave one to The Waitress. She took it, knowing it was twice what was needed and not caring. Rich people always threw money at problems.

When The Waitress later got in her car and saw the withdrawal slip and its balance of $5.16, she felt neither pity nor regret. For the first time in a long time, she felt grown up. Smiling, she drove home imagining the feeling of stuffing the bills into the coffee can and kissing her son goodnight.