Amelia pressed urgently on her brake pedal as the clumsy furniture delivery truck swerving in front of her skidded to a grinding, ponderous halt. The truck driver apparently decided halfway through the intersection of La Cienega and Wilshire Boulevard that he couldn’t beat the red light after all, and had stopped with the hulking vehicle awkwardly, uncomfortably blocking half the crosswalk. Pedestrians crossing Wilshire in both directions gave the driver—a sad, not unpleasant looking older man in a blue work hat—disapproving looks as they made their way around him.
“Slow,” sighed Amelia in answer to the How’s My Driving? sticker on the truck’s rear bumper. “Slow, and clumsy.”
She was supposed to be working the breakfast shift at Café Claire, one of the trendier upscale restaurants in Beverly Hills, but she had begged off coming in today from her boss—a pompous, thirty-five-ish little man named Cyril—telling him that she had gotten a big modeling job and would lose it if she couldn’t have the morning off. Cyril had told her she could indeed have the whole day off if she wanted, but she would have to give up her Friday night shift—the best night to get good tips—to Janice, a girl who had worked at the restaurant a few weeks longer than her, and who was one of Cyril’s favorites. Amelia seriously wondered if Janice and Cyril had slept together. Janice certainly flirted with him a lot. Cyril could be such a jerk.
Cyril-the-jerk probably didn’t really believe she had a big modeling job, but Amelia didn’t care. She probably wouldn’t believe it herself if she were in his shoes, though Amelia would never want to be an officious, five-foot tall, balding man from Whittier who tried to fake a French accent and a savoir faire with women.
She had told him she was a student and also a part-time model when she first interviewed for the waitress job seven months ago, and he had feigned credulity then — mostly, Amelia now realized, because he wanted sooner or later to get her into bed. Once it became unmistakably clear that it would happen neither sooner, later, nor ever, Cyril promptly found any and every excuse to nip and tuck at her hours so that she had the least of all nine girls who worked at the restaurant. Cyril was, to his credit, smart enough to do all this in such a way that it appeared perfectly natural and not the least bit punitive. Amelia told herself she would file for harassment or quit, but, like many things she promised herself, she didn’t follow through and she always showed up her next scheduled day.
“I’m a masochist,” she once told herself in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth, bracing herself to endure eight hours of Cyril’s high-pitched, nasal flirtations. “A masochist, or at the very least, a coward.”
At least today, sitting in her car driving straight down Wilshire Boulevard from Korea Town to Beverly Hills, the four-times-a-week self-torture routine was broken, if only for one day. Maybe more, if it all worked out as she hoped and the whole thing wasn’t as crazy as it sounded over the telephone.
Traffic, while interminable, still allowed time for reflection. In the absence of anything on the radio beyond inane commercials for cars she couldn’t afford and songs she couldn’t stand, her thoughts drifted to last night, and how one phone call had set in motion a chain of events that might yet allow her to tell her boss to go fuck himself.
It was just a plain, black and white letter-sized ad tacked onto the coffee shop bulletin board—Amelia stopped there almost every day after work or school to buy a nonfat cafe latte and to engage in a harmless flirtation with the owner—next to a plethora of flyers for concerts, fitness clubs, and missing pets. Sometimes the sugar and creamer table was so crowded with such flyers that one couldn’t find the sugar and creamer anymore, but with her steaming latte in her hand, Amelia was glad this time that she
“Slow,” sighed Amelia in answer to the How’s My Driving? sticker on the truck’s rear bumper. “Slow, and clumsy.”
She was supposed to be working the breakfast shift at Café Claire, one of the trendier upscale restaurants in Beverly Hills, but she had begged off coming in today from her boss—a pompous, thirty-five-ish little man named Cyril—telling him that she had gotten a big modeling job and would lose it if she couldn’t have the morning off. Cyril had told her she could indeed have the whole day off if she wanted, but she would have to give up her Friday night shift—the best night to get good tips—to Janice, a girl who had worked at the restaurant a few weeks longer than her, and who was one of Cyril’s favorites. Amelia seriously wondered if Janice and Cyril had slept together. Janice certainly flirted with him a lot. Cyril could be such a jerk.
Cyril-the-jerk probably didn’t really believe she had a big modeling job, but Amelia didn’t care. She probably wouldn’t believe it herself if she were in his shoes, though Amelia would never want to be an officious, five-foot tall, balding man from Whittier who tried to fake a French accent and a savoir faire with women.
She had told him she was a student and also a part-time model when she first interviewed for the waitress job seven months ago, and he had feigned credulity then — mostly, Amelia now realized, because he wanted sooner or later to get her into bed. Once it became unmistakably clear that it would happen neither sooner, later, nor ever, Cyril promptly found any and every excuse to nip and tuck at her hours so that she had the least of all nine girls who worked at the restaurant. Cyril was, to his credit, smart enough to do all this in such a way that it appeared perfectly natural and not the least bit punitive. Amelia told herself she would file for harassment or quit, but, like many things she promised herself, she didn’t follow through and she always showed up her next scheduled day.
“I’m a masochist,” she once told herself in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth, bracing herself to endure eight hours of Cyril’s high-pitched, nasal flirtations. “A masochist, or at the very least, a coward.”
At least today, sitting in her car driving straight down Wilshire Boulevard from Korea Town to Beverly Hills, the four-times-a-week self-torture routine was broken, if only for one day. Maybe more, if it all worked out as she hoped and the whole thing wasn’t as crazy as it sounded over the telephone.
Traffic, while interminable, still allowed time for reflection. In the absence of anything on the radio beyond inane commercials for cars she couldn’t afford and songs she couldn’t stand, her thoughts drifted to last night, and how one phone call had set in motion a chain of events that might yet allow her to tell her boss to go fuck himself.
It was just a plain, black and white letter-sized ad tacked onto the coffee shop bulletin board—Amelia stopped there almost every day after work or school to buy a nonfat cafe latte and to engage in a harmless flirtation with the owner—next to a plethora of flyers for concerts, fitness clubs, and missing pets. Sometimes the sugar and creamer table was so crowded with such flyers that one couldn’t find the sugar and creamer anymore, but with her steaming latte in her hand, Amelia was glad this time that she
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