If You Don't Know Me By Now. A. Michael L.
pub had been bad at first, too, she had to remind herself: the shouts of ‘oi darlin’’ and the bum pinches, the insinuations that she’d sleep with them and the comments about her boobs. But no one had ever made her feel like an idiot before. The pub lot had never shaken her.
She took a deep breath, fanned her eyes and stepped back outside again.
A small woman with owl-like eyes behind square glasses stared up at her.
‘I need the bathroom code,’ she demanded.
‘X4093,’ Imogen rattled off thoughtlessly.
‘And what if it doesn’t work?’ The woman crossed her arms.
Then you try it again until it does? Imogen raised an eyebrow.
‘If it doesn’t work, madam, feel free to come and bother me with it.’
‘Excuse me?’
I won’t complain, I won’t complain. I said he could fire me on the spot if I complained.
‘Oh so sorry, madam,’ Imogen sighed and hated herself for what she was going to do, ‘my English not very good. Come get me if there’s a … problem? Not bother, I meant no bother to you. I wouldn’t want to cause you bother, you see?’
The woman raised an imperious, thinly drawn eyebrow, but seemed satisfied and walked away.
‘You’re English is not very good?’ Emanuel smirked as she returned to the bar and commenced making her tenth espresso of the shift.
‘Of course not, I’m foreign.’ She rolled her eyes and threw back the shot.
The nights in the little flat were starting to get to her, too. She’d lie there, still hyper from all the caffeine she’d ingested that day, her mind going over and over the horrible things the customers said:
Are you stupid?
How did you even get this job?
Is there anyone here who isn’t completely incompetent?
What colony are you from?
What is wrong with you people?
Was it worth it? Was it worth it, just to have enough money to live in a tiny box room where the walls were starting to cave in? She was exhausted, too stressed to write anything. The only creative work she was doing was imagining all the witty remarks she’d wished she’d made to those horrible people. But what was left for her back home? Going back to her dad and Babs, cuddled up on the sofa while she tried not to remember her mum sitting in exactly the same spot? Watching as her home slowly became their home. She’d needed to get out before that happened; it was too hard to watch all those memories get painted over as if they didn’t matter.
‘It’s not so bad,’ she told her cousin, holding the phone with her shoulder as she watched bright blue lights chase across her dark room. She held her breath – seconds later the ambulance sirens blared. She hadn’t thought to check if her ‘perfect London flat’ was on a main road.
‘Then why are you calling me at midnight?’ Demi yawned. ‘Happy people tend to call to comment on their happiness when it’s light out. Unless you’re waking me up to purposefully gloat, in which case: fuck you.’
Imogen sighed. ‘Okay, it’s crap! It’s horrible! The flat is awful, I’ve eaten toast for dinner every night this week, and I’m getting fat from all the paninis and cake I’m eating at work just to give me enough energy to get through the day!’
She heard her cousin stifle a laugh. ‘Go on.’
‘The job is bad, worse than bad. People are mean! And it’s not like they’re sad because they have sad lives! They’re rich and have everything and are still dickheads! This woman screamed at me today, actually screamed in my face because I forgot that she wanted extra whipped cream. I gave her a normal amount and she freaked out.’
‘We all scream for cream,’ Demi laughed, ‘but at least you know they’re ridiculous. How’s the writing going?’
‘Too exhausted. And emotionally deadened.’ Imogen stretched, rotating her shoulders to release the kink in her neck. She lifted up a hand to her neck in dread, wiping it. ‘And I’ve just found mocha sauce on my neck.’
Strangely, it was this that made her almost burst into tears.
‘Dirty bitch. You’re wasting your time being single if that’s the fun you’re getting up to.’ She could hear Demi’s wicked grin in her voice, and suddenly missed home fiercely.
‘Maybe I made a mistake,’ she said quietly, as if the London Dream that had brought her this far could hear her failure.
‘Nope.’ Demi’s voice rang out too loudly, and Imogen winced. ‘You, Imogen Cypriani, are a freakin’ badass, and if it’s too hard for you, then it’s too hard for me. And seeing as I need to escape this hellhole, I refuse to accept that. Pick yourself up and go kick some arse.’
Imogen grinned to herself, tugging on her dark braid.
‘Besides, it’s been weeks. Maybe all this talk of home and work and careers and creativity is putting you off your game. Find some pretentious London wanker to have sex with, and everything will fall into place.’
‘Oh yes, you’re so wise. I’m a run-down exhausted mess of a human.’
‘I thought you said you had chocolate sauce on your neck, you smelled like coffee, and you had free access to whipped cream? Start playing to your strengths, bitch.’
Imogen was feeling surprisingly chipper. Things could be worse. She didn’t have to hear Babs’s nasal whinnying every night (as well as worse noises) from her father’s bedroom any more. She had free access to caramel macchiatos, and Agnes had patted her shoulder this morning when she weighed her cappuccino to assess the foam-to-milk ratio.
‘Passable,’ Agnes nodded and marched off to the back office with her tiny espresso cup swirled up with cream like a mini Cornetto.
‘That was a big deal,’ Emanuel winked at her. ‘She doesn’t give away such praise every day.’
‘Passable is praise? What happens if she says I’m good?’ Imogen grinned, refilling the espresso machine.
‘I will fall down in shock,’ he snorted, then pointed at the twitchy businessman walking up to the till. His tie was askew, his jacket creased and his face crinkled with strange lines. ‘Prep his usual – a red eye.’
Imogen raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not on the menu.’
‘Black filter coffee with a shot of espresso in it,’ Emanuel replied, going to put it into the till wordlessly, nodding at the zombified businessman.
‘Two shots today,’ the man yawned, and Imogen pressed the button, wincing at the anticipated taste. She passed him the drink and he saluted her with it.
‘What’s it called when it’s got two shots of espresso in it?’
‘A black eye,’ Emanuel said, deadpan.
‘Really?’
‘Why not? It’s the same as a punch in the face, no?’
All in all, not a bad day. Customers had been rude, but unmemorable. There had been a lot of tourists, which meant a frustrating number of gesturing, umming, and awwwing, as well as some mis-made drinks, but she’d made it until three p.m. and there wasn’t a wobbly lip in sight. The sound system, which usually repeated the same African-themed versions of Paul Simon songs all shift, had a new CD, and Chuck Berry’s ‘You Never Can Tell’ came on. Emanuel even jived with her behind the bar when there were no customers around. She was just cleaning the filter machine, planning what she would write when she got back to the flat,