I choke a little, put the coffee down on the pass, and try to compose myself. In the first few months that I was here, I used to get angry when she spoke to me like this. Now, I barely even notice.
I pull my long brown hair up into a messy bun, the ends crunchy and dry as they slide through my fingers. I used to visit this hairdresser on Rodeo Drive every four weeks when I was back in LA, get my roots done and my ends trimmed, conditioning treatments, the works. I was sad in the beginning, after I’d lost everything, after all the money was gone and the best I could do was a package of dye from the supermarket that promised chocolate brunette but delivered dull black strands that looked oily all the time. Since then, I’ve barely bothered. The black has mostly faded. I don’t even care anymore. When you’ve already lost everything, you eventually get to this weird place where you’ve got nothing left to lose, and no good reason to try and get anything better. I guess that’s why I’m here, slinging coffees and waiting tables with my split ends and the ten pounds I’ve gained since my agent stopped passing me coke to help me starve myself. The camera adds ten pounds, they’d all said, but there were no cameras pointed at me anymore. Coke’s an expensive habit, and I’m a poor bitch these days. I drink vodka, and I take as many Oxycontin pills as I can afford. It’s better than fastening bricks to my feet and throwing myself in the Hudson. I think.
The first twenty minutes of my shift are predictably dull. The place gets busy. I smile until my face hurts, pocket my tips, duck off to the bathroom for a shot of the good stuff, keep my eagle eyes on both Sylvia’s sticky fingers and the fingers Serge wishes he could get sticky in my pants, and then shit. Gets. Interesting.
The girl runs in first. Or rather, she bursts in, all wild blonde hair and too-large sunglasses. She rips the glasses off her face, her pale green eyes wild as she scans the diner. She’s pretty, at least conventionally. She looks young, but like she’s already had some work. I can spot it a mile off. Nose job? Definite. Lips? Filled with collagen to the hilt. I’m still not sure about her eyelids.
When she bursts in, I just happen to be the closest to the register up front. I’ve just started to feel a pleasant buzz from the vodka I drank in the bathroom, and her sudden entrance crashes right through the dulled edges of my morning.
“Can I help you?” I ask, irritated by her for some reason I can’t put my finger on.
And then she starts to cry. Jesus Christ, I do not need a crying girl today. “I’m being chased,” she whimpers, fat tears sliding down her face.
“Chased?” I’m so far unaffected. This is New York City; I’ve seen my fair share of crazy.
“Please,” she says, stepping closer to me, and it’s then I notice the bits of glass in her blonde hair. Her hand’s bleeding, too. Shit. My concern kicks in, better late than never, as I study the rest of her. Torn shirt. Cuts and scratches on her face and arms, her knee purplish and bloated below her skirt. I return my gaze to her face. Her lips have seen some work, but the top one is swelling even bigger, the part below her nostrils turning a nice shade of yellowy-blue in front of my eyes.
“I’ll call the police,” I say, turning to grab the phone from next to the register. Before I can, a wet hand clamps down on my wrist and tugs forcefully. I turn back, suddenly pissed. I hate it when people touch me. Ever since that night, I can’t stand it when people fucking touch me. The blonde must see the look on my face, because she drops my wrist like it’s made of lead. I bring it up in front of me, finding a nice smear of her blood around my wrist. I’m both worried and revolted at once; this chick could have hepatitis or worse, and she’s gone and bled on my fucking arm.
“I’m sorry,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “Please, these guys have guns. These guys are going to kill me! Don’t you have a back exit or something I could just sneak out of?”
A thrill shoots down my stomach before landing unpleasantly in my gut, where it churns away, mixing together with the bitter coffee and vodka I just drank, cheap caffeine and alcohol and fear bubbling through my veins. Suddenly, I want to be sick.
I look around the diner uneasily. What do I do? Do I help this girl? Is she telling the truth? I can’t handle this shit so early in the morning.
I need another drink. Or a pill. Or both.
“Come with me,” I say finally, taking her elbow and pulling her toward the ladies’ room. She follows obediently, struggling to keep up as I march toward the bathroom and shove the door open.
“In here,” I say. She hesitates for a moment, scanning my face, and I realize she probably thinks the toilets don’t have an escape path.
“There’s a fire escape in here,” I say, tugging her arm again. “You want me to lose my job or what? Hurry up.”