Page 4 of Five
“Whatever you say.” This time I do speak between gritted teeth, and as I turn to leave, my mother calls me over to where she’s chatting with another guest.
“Here he is. This is our Remi.”
“Mom, I need to…”
She looks from me to the plates of snapper, and then over to the Barkers with a small frown. “Nonsense. If you’ve finished serving the doctor, then I know you have a little time. Nancy…” She calls to one of the waitresses who comes in for us when we’re busy and indicates for her to take the plates. Reluctantly, I give the woman the steak order. Flame grilling is my father’s area of expertise.
My mother turns her attention back to the guest she just introduced me to. She’s dining with a man I assume is her husband, and a guy about my own age who’s looking me up and down with what I can only describe as a sneer.
“I’ve just been telling Julia what a good boy you are.”
“Oh yes, I’ve been looking at your photos,” the woman says, and that’s when I notice the pictures in her hand. “Such a credit to your parents.”
Heat suffuses my face as she displays the photographs for anyone close enough to see.
Me standing on a stool, dressed in just a tee-shirt and a diaper, aged about two, stirring a mixing bowl.
One where I’m aged about five, up to my elbows in soapy water as I scrub pots.
Another, taken a few years later where I’m collecting the dirty plates from the empty restaurant and carrying the stack back to the kitchen. You can’t tell from the photo, but it was about midnight in that picture, and I was only about eight years old.
Finally, there’s a photo from a couple of years ago, of me cooking when I first took over in the kitchen.
The adults are all still chatting, so they don’t hear when the boy sitting with them coughs to cover the words, ‘Pussy’ and ‘Mama’s boy’, but I do.
I’m already struggling with my mortification, and as chill as I normally am, I’m not standing here listening to this shit.
“Sorry, Ma’am,” I excuse myself. “But I have to get back to work.”
She coos and exclaims about how polite and conscientious I am, while her son coughs ‘ass-licker’ as I escape to the kitchen.
Not that there’s any reprieve when I get there.
“What have you done to upset the Barkers?” My dad asks, a scowl on his face.
It’s the last fucking straw. I’m normally respectful, but shit, I can only take so much.
“Seriously? What have I done? I’ll tell you what I’ve done, Dad. I’ve given up my night off. I’ve missed going out with my friends, and why? All so I can make something some asshole demanded, just so he can mash it all up with his fork, and then send it back because it no longer looks ‘appetizing’ after he’s finished mauling it. That’s what I’ve done.”
I drag off the apron I’m wearing and throw it on the counter.
“And you know what else? I’m done with all this. I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”
The unspoken words hang between us.
I don’t get paid at all.
I stalk off, to the sound of my dad calling my name.
Tough shit.
I can’t live like this any longer.
When I get to my room, I open my laptop, only pausing a moment before I click on the ‘send’ button of the application I’ve already filled out.
United States Navy.
I’ve got to find some freedom before the life I’m living stifles me completely.
