Treasured Yet Discarded

“Order up!”

The dinging of a service bell pulls me from my reverie, and back to reality. I walk over to the order window, grab the two plates on the ledge and carry them over to one of the booths by the window.

“One, Richie’s Cheeseburger and one, Howard’s Hot Dog,” I announce as I place the plates down in front of the customers. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Actually, yeah. Could I get a strawberry milkshake and a cola spider for my son?” the young father requests, causing the young boy’s face to light up with excitement.

“Coming right up,” I say brightly, walking off to work on their drink order.

“Lani, can you help me? I can’t for the life of me read my own friggin handwriting,” groans Áine in frustration, her warm Irish accent making her groaning sound more adorable than it should.

“And you think the non-native English speaker is going to have a better time?” I tease.

“Pleeease,” she begs, “You’re just better at this stuff,” she says, holding up her order pad, a sad exaggerated pout plastered on her freckled face.

I look closely, trying to decipher the scribble that bears a striking resemblance to a child’s doodle more than anything I’ve ever seen in any of the languages I speak.

“I’m pretty sure you wrote down an iced mocha and an iced latte, but I didn’t take the order so I can’t be sure. Why don’t you just go to your table and ask?” I suggest, continuing to work on my drink order.

“Because…” she hesitates, nervously playing with a loose strand of her long, curly, red locks that are otherwise secured in a bun on her head.

“Because…why?”

“Because I might have already gotten their first order mixed up and I really don’t want to embarrass myself again,” she confesses.

I sigh. “Áine, I can’t handle your tables and mine. You need to toughen up and just go and confirm the order. If you don’t, you risk screwing up another order and then chances are it’s going to have to get comped, and Gary is already in a foul mood today.”

She takes in a deep breath and squares her shoulders, “You’re right. I just need to s*ck it up, confirm the order and then there’s no issue. I can do this.”

“You can do this,” I encourage her.

“I can do this,” she chants like a mantra as she walks towards her table.

I shake my head. Poor thing. Áine is a lovely person, but her elevator just doesn’t go all the way to the top. It’s like the building has ten floors, she stops at five and then she has to take the stairs the rest of the way. She’ll get there eventually, but it’s going to take her some time. I still adore her though.

Áine Hayes and I are both waitresses at the Happy Days Diner in West Hollywood. It’s this amazing 1950s-themed diner that takes more than a few creative ideas from the famous TV show Happy Days. The owner, Gary Belafonte – no relation to the singer – is a huge Happy Days fan and even put a lot of his collected memorabilia into the décor. It’s one of the most popular spots in We-Ho and is always busy. I’ve been working here for five years, ever since I moved to the United States from my home in the Dominican Republic.

I came into this diner by chance one day to rest my feet and get something to eat. Gary saw I was struggling and was very kind to me. I explained I was trying to find work and was still adapting to a new country, so he offered me a job and I’ve been here ever since. I know it’s not common for people to say this about their place of employment, but I love it here! The customers are usually really nice and it’s a super fun atmosphere. I even love the uniform. A true 50s-style baby pink waitress uniform with a white collar, white trim around puffy sleeves, and white tennis shoes. I suppose we could wear any shoes we like, but these just make the outfit look so cute and vintage.

When I started working here, I tried watching that show 2 Broke Girls, for tips on how to be a waitress. Bad idea. I don’t know any woman, rich or poor, who is working eight to twelve-hour shifts at a diner in high heels. I know it’s a sitcom but come on. What woman hates themself enough to put their feet through that kind of torture?

I finish making the drinks and take them over to the table with a pleasant smile. As I walk back to the counter, I see a mother trying to tend to her toddler when the toddler tosses its teething rattle on the floor. I quickly walk over and pick it up.

“Thank you,” says the mother appreciatively.

“If you like I can go and wash this out back for you; try and get the floor germs off,” I kindly offer.

“Would you? That would be so wonderful, thank you” she says, looking touched and surprised.

“It’s not a problem; will only take me a moment. I’ll be right back,” I smile at her.

I quickly go into the kitchen, wash the teething rattle under the hot water with some soap, make sure it’s perfectly clean and dry, and then return it. The toddler looks happy to have their rattle back and the mother looks relieved and grateful, and I feel good for doing a good deed. Everyone wins.

I see a few empty tables, so I go to pick up their bill. I try not to look as disheartened as I feel when I open the receipt book and find my table generously graced me with a one-dollar tip. I take in a deep breath and walk over to the till to settle the bill and my “tip”. One of the downsides of this job is that it relies so heavily on tips and customers just aren’t interested in tipping. I can’t really blame them, especially in this economy. Everyone is struggling and can’t afford to part with a dime, but such a small tip still stings.

I go back to the table, load the plates and glasses in my arms and make my way out to the kitchen, using my butt to push open the swinging door. I carry the dishes over to the sink and stack them, ready to be cleaned. I scrub my hands down my apron as I turn to leave the kitchen, but I almost jump out of my skin when I find myself face-to-face with the diner’s line cook.

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. “F*ck, 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 sh*t 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 sh*t!

“For f*ck sake Dylan, how many times do I have to tell you to leave the woman alone? Now walk away and get back to f*ck*ng 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 *ss 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 sh*t 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 p*ss*d 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