Page 4 of Miles & Mistletoe

“No one’s called me ma’am in a long time. I mean, not like …” She trailed off, her eyes cast downward. “It’s just been a while since a stranger has regarded me in such a respectful tone.”

Giving her a sympathetic smile, I leaned closer so only she could hear me. “It’s not your fault other people can’t see your worth. You keep your head up.”

She gave me a watery smile and nodded before moving down to the next part of the line. I watched the woman and her daughter. A lump formed in my throat, and instinctively, I removed my gloves and plucked my phone from my back pocket. There was a text message from my mother that read “Missing you” with a picture of the table spread. I swallowed the lump in my throat, missing her as well but refusing to type back a response. Instead, I went back to the line and continued handing out mashed potatoes and gravy.

“These people need to hurry up. Isn’t there a more efficient way to do this?” a deep male voice sounded just behind me. A disgruntled voice that I was all too familiar with, having heard it a lot on the five hour flight earlier today.

I turned my head to look over my shoulder, and out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a sour looking Ian Zerlinger, peering down at the woman named Jamie.

“This is bullshit. I could be doing much more important things with my time than handing out fucking food to these … people.” He spat the last word out as if he could barely manage to call actual human beings people.

“Asshole,” I muttered a little louder than I’d intended.

I only realized I’d spoken too loudly when I heard, “Excuse me?”

My eyes widened and I pivoted to see Ian staring at me angrily.

“N-nothing. Excuse me.” Pasting a fake smile on my face, I scurried off in the direction of the kitchen to pick up more mashed potatoes for the seemingly endless crowd. My chest ached with sadness in seeing how many people needed this type of service on a national holiday. There would be a couple thousand people who’d pass through the doors of the homeless shelter on Thanksgiving, many of them children.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head at remembering the disgust in Ian Zerlinger’s voice. The last thing these people needed on a day like this was his condemnation. I pushed those thoughts loose and proceeded to hand out smiles and mashed potatoes, every so often moving between the kitchen and the counter line to restock the food as needed. I would often catch Ian or his assistant moving around the shelter, in between tables, shaking hands with some of the local politicians and restaurant owners who were catering the night’s dinner. Ian was constantly followed by a cameraman who took every opportunity for a photo op. Why seeing him and his obvious marketing ploy bothered me, I didn’t know. But I wouldn’t let him distract me.

As the night began to wind down, I traded in my serving spoons for a bin to collect the dishes and a dish rag to wipe down the tables as needed. I smiled and began singing along to the Christmas music that played in the background, remembering old times as a young girl. Again, I found myself pulling out my phone to check for any new messages or calls. None came, as was to be expected.

After placing my phone back in the pocket of my jeans, I continued wiping down the tables and waving to people who were on their way out. The shelter was closing for the night after dinner. That made me wonder where the homeless people who lived around the city would stay for the evening. Another pang of sadness in my chest.

“Fucking do-gooders. Did they at least agree to serving Zerlinger craft beer in their restaurants?” Ian snarled, standing only a few feet away from me, in the middle of the nearly empty dining space.

I had almost completely forgotten about him. Almost.

“They haven’t given a yes or no just yet, but I’m sure your presence here tonight will go a long way in their decision.”

“It fucking better. I’ve got a ton of other shit I could be doing other than hanging around serving food to people who can’t be bothered to get off their asses and get a damn job.”

My breath damn near caught in my throat.

“Ian, I’m sure—”

“What type of parent has to bring their kid to a homeless shelter on Thanksgiving for a free meal?”

“Asshole!” I grunted while slamming the bin of dishes on the table I’d just been wiping down. I was seeing red at that point.

“Did you say something?” That snarky question had come from Jamie, who stood next to Ian. I’m sure her incredulous eyes were planted on me, but I was too transfixed on the jackass standing next to her.

“I said you’re an asshole,” I stated firmly, looking Ian Zerlinger directly in his eye. My anger grew even more when that one dark brown eye narrowed on me. “They are people, human beings, like you and me. At least, like me, I’m not even sure you are human. You have no idea what these people are going through. You think any parent wants to bring their child to a homeless shelter on Thanksgiving for a hot meal? You think anyone wants to tell their child they have no idea where they’ll be sleeping that night? But I’m sure those type of thoughts never even crossed your mind. These people are doing the best they can, and you nor I get to judge any of them. Any one of us could be in their situation. You were just lucky enough to be born with the right last name. Too bad actual human decency and a sense of empathy didn’t come with it. Jerk.” I spat that final insult at Ian before snatching the bin of dishes from the table and sauntering off toward the kitchen.

I was sure I’d regret my little outburst in the morning, but at that moment, it felt damn good to have gotten that off my chest. Damn good.

****

“Oh shit! My job,” I grumbled to myself as I was startled awake at three in the morning by my ringing phone. On instinct, I grabbed my phone and instantly the mental fog from sleep cleared my brain when I saw it was my employer calling.

“Shit!” I cursed, remembering every bit of what I’d said to Ian Zerlinger the night before. I was certain that being the douchebag he was, he’d called my employer and insisted I’d be reprimanded or fired. His type wouldn’t care that I actually wasn’t on company time when I’d told him off—just that he’d been put in his place by a peon such as myself.

“Hello,” I answered, fear peppering my voice.

“Stacia Langton, this is Doria from crew scheduling.”

“Yes?”

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