Chapter 2: Working 9 to 5... Part Two

You know how I said I love it here? I take that back. There is at least one thing I absolutely loathe about this place and it’s currently staring me in the face.

“Lani, I love when you find excuses to come back here and see me,” he teases, resting his hand on the sink behind me, leaning far too close for comfort as I do my best to ignore his lecherous gaze.

“Dylan, I’ve told you before I really don’t like it when you call me ‘Lani’,” I say calmly but forcefully.

I attempt to side-step out of his proximity, but he quickly places his other arm on the sink, caging me in. He leans in closer, and I instinctively hold my breath to avoid breathing in his vape breath. I don’t care what flavours they make for that artificial smoke; his breath still smells like something crawled in his mouth and died.

“You let everyone else call you ‘Lani’,” he argues with clear irritation in his voice.

“I let my friends call me ‘Lani’, you’re not my friend, so I’d prefer it if you stuck to calling me Nalani.” There’s a little more bite to my tone than I intend but this guy is working my last nerve.

Dylan McNamara has been working here for the past year and I swear, the times we’re forced to work the same shift I strongly consider moving back to the DR. He’s not a bad-looking guy. He’s 6’5”, lean, clean-shaven, shaggy blonde hair but in that intentional shaggy way. Minus the hair colour, he looks like a young Milo Ventimiglia. But while aesthetically he might be good-looking by society’s standards, I think he’s the ugliest, most grotesque man I have ever met, and I use the term ‘man’ loosely.

“Come on, Lani. I want to be your friend, but you won’t let me.” He leans in closer, his nose moving close to my neck as I hear him inhale, making my stomach drop in revulsion. “Fuck, you smell good.”

I push my way out of his hold and put some much-needed space between us, the urge to scrub myself clean with a steel wool brush taking over me. I have made several complaints about Dylan’s behaviour and as nice as the owner is, he never takes them seriously. I’ve told him about how Dylan is constantly trying to ask me out and won’t take no for an answer. The way he does shit like this, trying to touch me, smell me, it makes me sick. He’s always looking at me, or down my dress. I try to keep as much of my chest covered as I can when I’m at work just so he has nothing to look at. I shouldn’t have to do any of this shit!

“For fuck sake Dylan, how many times do I have to tell you to leave the woman alone? Now walk away and get back to fucking work or you’ll be meeting with an unfortunate cooking accident,” warns Esteban, the head cook.

“We’re just having a little fun, man. Don’t get your sombrero in a twist,” says Dylan, rolling his eyes as he gets back to work, but not before giving me one final once over with his piercing icy-blue eyes, much to my chagrin. They feel like shards of ice piercing my skin whenever he looks at me and I hate it.

“Don’t worry, Lani. I’ve got your back. This one ever messes with you and I’m happy to toss his ass in the deep fryer,” says Estaban comfortingly, switching to Spanish so Dylan can’t understand us.

I chuckle, feeling my rattled nerves easing just a little. “Thank you, Estaban. It’s nice knowing someone around here isn’t willing to let this shit slide.”

“Nepotism at its best.” I look at him quizzically, not understanding what he means by that. “Oh, did you not know?” he asks in surprise.

“Know what?”

“The gringo is Gary’s nephew, his sister’s son. Apparently, he was getting fired from all his other jobs – can’t imagine why – and she begged Gary to let him work here. So, he hired el degenerado, to work here.”

I stare at him flabbergasted. A whole year and I never knew Dylan was Gary’s nephew! It never clicked because they look nothing alike and they don't share a last name, but knowing Dylan is Gary’s sister’s son clears that up. Now it makes sense why Gary won’t fire him, but that doesn’t make this okay. I’ve been working here since I was twenty-three and I’m a good employee. I have customers who come in just because they like my company. I’m good for business, unlike Dylan, who makes women never want to come back and on more than one occasion has pissed off someone’s boyfriend or father for leering at the wrong girl. Blood is not a good enough reason to let this slide.

“This explains so much.”

“You two better not be talking about me,” Dylan grumbles, glaring at us with suspicion.

“You mind your own business and get back to manning the grill,” Estaban snaps back in perfect English.

Estaban De León reminds me so much of my dad. I miss my family so much, and it’s hard being so far away from them, but Estaban makes it a little bit easier. He’s fifty-five and stands at 5’5” but what he lacks in height he makes up for in attitude. He has tight curly salt and pepper hair that he tends to keep slicked back with gel while he works. He has warm espresso eyes, a gorgeous olive complexion and a thick, warm brown goatee. He’s rather toned, looks physically fit and still very much a looker. His wife is a lucky woman. Because Estaban originates from Guatemala and I come from the DR our Spanish isn’t exactly the same, but it’s still similar enough that we can carry on a conversation just fine. The differences just give us things to talk about or laugh over.

We’re kind of a rag-tag team of immigrants here – not counting Dylan. Áine’s parents are from Ireland, and she inherited every Irish stereotype: red hair, fair skin, freckles, and green eyes. She’s 5’1”, voluptuous as hell, and absolutely gorgeous. She’s only twenty-one, but she has an old soul. There’s also Bernadette whose parents are German, and then there’s Tariq who is from Syria. The rest are all American, but those of us from other countries, or with parents who immigrated from other countries, tend to stick together. Overall, everyone at the diner gets along. Just not with Dylan.

“Lani, you’ve got some new customers,” Áine announces through the server window.

“Coming!” I give Estaban a warm smile and walk out, smoothing out my apron and putting on my best customer service face.

Áine walks over and leans in lowering her voice. “Is everything okay?”

“Dylan.”

“Say no more,” she sneers, only to jump to attention when a patron orders a refill on his coffee.

I grab four menus from the stack, walk over to one of my booths now housing four new customers and grace them with my best smile as I distribute their menus, “Welcome to the Happy Days Diner, what can I get you today?”

***

As soon as the clock strikes five, I punch out and head home. Fortunately, I only live a short walk from the diner. It’s a small apartment complex with a beautiful courtyard that acts as a communal area. As I use my key to open the gate, I see some of my neighbours outside having a few drinks, a smoke and just general relaxation stuff.

“Hey, Lani!” greets Amber. “Come have a drink with us and relax after a hard day’s work,” she says enthusiastically. Her girlfriend, Lucy waves me over while keeping herself tucked under Amber’s arm.

“I’ll even bring out your favourite snacks,” says Dijon encouragingly, shining his pearly white teeth in my direction.

Amber and Dijon are my neighbours. Amber lives across the hall from me, while Dijon is across the courtyard, and if you guessed one of them is an immigrant, you’d be correct but it’s not the one you’re thinking. I think most immigrants tend to stick together because we’re all going through much of the same struggles, so we are able to give each other a strong and empathetic support system.

Amber is originally from Indonesia - more specifically Java  - and her name is actually Desak Ambarwati, but she goes by Amber because people either struggle with her name or mock her for it. I’ve had that happen a few times and I find it utterly stupid. Provided you don't have a learning disability, it’s not hard to learn someone’s name. Sometimes people call me Nala, as in the character from The Lion King, which doesn’t bother me too much because it actually makes for a cool nickname, but seriously, if people can remember the crazy names of every MCU villain, I think they can remember how to say a foreigners name. You’re telling me you can figure out 'Dormammu' but our names you struggle with? Give me a break.

“That’s really sweet of you guys and believe me I would much rather hang out with you three,” I say appreciatively. “But the workday isn’t over. I’m just going to shower and have a bite to eat before I head out to my other job.”

“How are you not perpetually exhausted?” asks Lucy, sympathetically.

I shrug, “It’s not so bad. I guess hard work is just in my blood. I’ll catch up with you guys soon.”

“Good luck at work!” Dijon cheers, as I make my way into the building and to my studio apartment.

Well, they like to call it a studio apartment, I think that’s overly generous of a description. I turn my key in the door, open it and hold my arms out in anticipation. Within seconds my beautiful baby girl Ily leaps off my bed and into my arms. I hold her close, kissing the top of her head as she nuzzles my neck, greeting me with a soft meow.

“Hello, my sweet girl. Mummy missed you too,” a coo, giving her coat a good scratch as I kick the door shut and toss my bag onto my bed.

Ily is my five-year-old white and black, ocicat. She looks like a gorgeous miniature snow leopard with her white fur and black spots, but the spots around her legs are so big they look like stripes. I bought her when she was a kitten after I’d just moved in because I was lonely and missing my family. She’s become my best friend and greatest companion. I hate leaving her alone, but coming home to her and having her greet me with so much love is the best feeling in the world.

“Have you been a good girl? No parties or horny tom cats?” I ask, earning a sweet meow as she clings to me.

I walk over to the kitchenette, open the cupboard, and immediately she leaps out of my arms, onto the kitchenette, her eyes following my every move as her tail twitches in the air with anticipation. I pull out one of her favourite treats - dried banana - that I always reserve for when I get home and put some of it on a small dish in front of her. She happily digs into her treats as I give her back one more loving stroke and take off my shoes.

My apartment isn’t anything to rave about, but I love it. I’ve kept to whites and soft greys to make it feel more open and bigger than it is, but overall it’s quant and quite cosy in my opinion. The floor is hardwood, but I threw a couple cheap carpets down when I moved in so my feet wouldn’t freeze in the cold weather. Aside from the bathroom, everything is in one room. My bed is by the door but closed off by a curtain and a windowpane with black trim which separates it from my tiny living area consisting of a two-seated sofa and coffee table. I’ve got my humble TV unit and TV wedged between the wall and kitchenette and a small wardrobe by the bathroom door – thankfully, I don’t own a lot of clothes.

Best thing about my apartment is that because I’m on the ground floor I have a gorgeous view of the courtyard thanks to a floor-to-ceiling window wall. I tend to keep the curtains closed for privacy, but it’s nice that when I open them I have the beautiful plants of the courtyard framing my window and making me feel like I’m tucked away in my own little nook. It gives it a kind of cottage feel, which I love.

While Ily enjoys her treat, I take the lasagne I made yesterday out of the refrigerator and put it in the oven to cook, then get undressed and jump in the shower to scrub off the diner grease and any trace that I was ever in the presence of that pervert, Dylan. I swear whenever he touches me or gets too close I feel like I’ve been tainted in some way.

After my shower, I get to work on drying my hair and then lay out my clothes for work. I’m like most of the working class in this country, working two jobs to make ends meet. With my dinner is cooked, I make myself a plate and curl up on the couch, turning on the TV and catching up on some of my shows while I eat and rest before I have to go into my next job, anxiously glancing at the clock as the time ticks by far too fast for my liking. It always feels like I’ve barely even sat down before it’s time to get back up again.

I look over as the automatic pet feeder releases Ily’s dinner, but instead of jumping at the chance to eat it, she walks across the room, jumps onto the couch, and curls up in my lap, making herself comfortable. I smile, cuddling and smothering her in kisses as she lightly paws at my face making my heart melt. And to think there are people who say animals have nothing in common with humans. I think many of us would skip a meal in exchange for snuggles, I know I sure would.