Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“Or pretend that they weren’t the ones begging for this shit in the middle of August during a heat wave,” Dr. Cait Cooke, the big-toothed, long haired, brunette that’s in the running for Chief Medical Officer next year, comments from her place that’s across from mine. “Every year the same people who bitch about the heat are the same ones who whine the snow came too early.”
“Truth,” Crue Vann, the dark-haired, scruffy faced, ER nurse who goes to the driving range with Daniel on random occasions, pipes up from his chair on the other side of my ex.
I settle into my seat the same time I state, “I wish I would’ve known this is where you all wanted to go for dinner sooner.” They changed locations four times in fifty-six minutes. “I would have had us sit with my boyfriend.”
“Oh, he’s dining here with colleagues as well?” Craig Oldenburg, head of Assembly Required’s accounting department inquires, position the opposite of Crue. “What a coincidence.”
“No,” undoing my cloth napkin occurs during my explanation, “he works here.”
Silent appall shifts around the table to no surprise.
Yeah.
This happens more often than I care to admit.
While I’m not ashamed whatsoever that the love of my life waits tables, many others find it embarrassing on my behalf and are quick to ask what he “really” wants to do or why hasn’t he “done more” with his life. The ugly truth I’ve learned over these past few months is that so many people look down on those who work in service jobs, assuming they couldn’t cut it doing something else or aren’t intelligent enough or are merely so desperate that they’re willing to do anything for a few bucks. Funny thing is, if they put their own assumptions in the recycle bin and simply ask, they’d know how wrong they were.
Like Gladys who not only makes more money running the bar than she did as an early childhood educator but typically gets to spend the days with her young daughter, working mostly when she’s headed to sleep or already there.
Or Abel who graduated with a BA in art and works here to help save for his tattoo shop he’s planning to open with his brothers next summer. He likes the hours of sleeping late, doodling when he first wakes up, and getting the time to work with his siblings who have less flexible hours.
And of course, you have Tate who loves the fact he never brings the stress of the job home.
Does he have shitty nights?
Who doesn’t?
But his are easy to brush off with a hot shower and cold beer. He doesn’t have to give extra time or thought to someone who was a dick to him because he may or may not ever see them again unlike all of us who have patients or families, we see regularly for various reasons that we have to figure out how to work with or for or keep connected to.
In ways, I think its them who pity us.
They have a different type of freedom than we do.
“Hey, it’s an honest living,” Daniel casually defends from his seat beside me. “Besides, the guy probably makes a shit ton of money with the way we all tip like David Bowie out on a world tour.”
Warm laughter fills the table smoothly smothering out the tension, and I toss a look of gratitude his direction.
The slight nod on a half-cocked smile is given so inconspicuously that unless you were an expert in his body language you wouldn’t think twice about the subtle action.
Daniel doesn’t actually have any problem with Tate. No, he doesn’t know him – other than the stories I’ve told – however, he isn’t opposed to changing that. He’s even offered to take him for a round on the green to clear the air and try to build a bridge so that Tate and I fight less about my friendship with him, but the idea is unsettling to me. It’s not that my boyfriend is a violent psychopath that I feel will beat him to death with a golf club on hole nine, it’s just that I wouldn’t put it past him to “accidentally” swing the club around to nail him in the dick.
Call it instinct.
“I see our last guest has arrived,” Abel warmly states upon his approaching of the table. “My name’s Abel-” the rehearsed speech is cut short and swapped for a genuine one the instant he settles his stare on me. “Oh, hey, Harper!”
Offering him a huge grin is mindlessly done. “Hey, Abel.”
“Didn’t know you’d be here tonight. Tate must’ve forgot to mention it.”
“Can’t mention something I didn’t know,” his voice unexpectedly states from over my shoulder, summoning my gaze up to him. “Why didn’t I know?”
“Is this the boyfriend you mentioned when you arrived?” Dr. Rue Young, the retired swimsuit model, Japanese American neurosurgeon sitting across from Daniel inquires.