Watch, Wait, Take

Chapter 1. The fight for survival begins

I can feel his icy stare penetrating my back. I can feel the cold shards of ice piercing my skin as all the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. All my senses on red alert and ready to flee. Prey and predator once again in the fight for survival, freedom, and dominance. I dare not face him. I want him to think I am unaware of his presence, make him think he has caught me off guard. This way he will not want to face me if I am not ready for him, he will see me as an unworthy opponent.

I finish serving the Italian family in the restaurant and they leave me a big tip. I rush behind the bar where I feel safe and hidden in a shelter that only exposes my head. I am like a meerkat peering over the top of the bar, surveying my surroundings. The punters wanting yet more alcohol, the busy people on the street outside, and the few still dining in the restaurant as the lunchtime rush begins to quiet down. I will be more vulnerable now. Less people to hide behind. He can watch every move I make. All I can do it wait for him to make the first move, feeling him watching me getting more and more anxious as I wait for the final attack. He has the higher ground now.

"Are you serving or what!" yells a drunken man. He is obviously middle aged judging by his round, hairy potbelly. It looks as if he can't find a shirt long enough to cover the ginormous beast and has resorted to the comfort of elastic, grey tank tops. The grotesque image of his bulging stomach makes me want to vomit. The grey stubble on his face tells me that he hasn't shaved in a long time. The grease in his thin, grey, bolding hair tells me that he hasn't showered either. My gaze goes back to his grey tank top that must have once been a crystal white and I notice the mustard stains down the front, the old sweat patches under the arms, and the new ring of sweat that starts to soak this gruesome shirt. He could possibly be a trucker; his shabby black cap makes me think so.

"Yes, sorry. What can I get you, sir?" I replied politely, thinking of the tips. Even though I doubt this man would tip me a penny, I remain optimistic.

"Large double whisky" he booms back. "Not too much ice. Takes up too much alcohol room" he slurs at me over the bar before falling of his stool.

Sighing, I grab a glass and fill it with two large cubes of ice and pour in the whiskey, making sure I leave a decent sized gap from the top.

I turn to the man, place a small black napkin in front of him, and carefully set the drink on top of the napkin and add a thin black straw for decoration. I smile at the man before collecting his empty glass.

"$8.50 please." I say in an overly cheerful tone smiling at him.

He throws the money towards me, grabs his glass and downs the lot. As he drains the last dregs, I can't help but despise him. Is it jealousy because I can't afford to drink like he does? Is it because he didn't tip me, but still taunts me by throwing his cash around the bar? He bought others drinks, food, and even paid for one night in a hotel for another couple there on their honeymoon, but not even a penny he would consider to give me, his servant for the night, and I would have nothing but resentment to show for it.

After he has drained the last drop from his glass he slams it down, shaking the old, rickety wooden bar. The ice chimes in the glasses the other punters have on the bar. He turns and walks out of the bar and into the summer heat. I watch him for a few moments. Stumbling and swaying unsteady on his feet, shuffling along to his truck for the long night he faces alone. How easy it would be to rob him of anything he has left in his wallet after his spending spree into his drunken stupor.

I could do it. I could run out after him and do it quickly. No one would notice. No one ever does round here. The drunken trucker wouldn't remember tomorrow. He would think he spent it all on booze. I watch him stumble and fall up the opposite curb. He dusts himself off before continuing along on his path.

"Oi! Daydreamer!" yells an angry woman at the bar.

"Hey Josie." I reply with a smile.

"Any work in here for me tonight." she asks winking at me.

"Nah, sorry Josie. None that I have seen. At least none that would pay you for anything anyway."

"Ok, thanks. I'll be off over the road looking for work in there. Give us a shout if you think someone here might be interested in my services." she winks at me. She swans out of the restaurant with a smile on her face and walks over to the other bar where the drunken trucker is propped up against the wall throwing up.

As she enters the bar, I notice the drunken trucker seems transfixed by her, as every man always is. He follows like a puppy, spilling into the bar behind her.

How does she do it? Little Josie. Little, pretty, weak Josie. She never gets hurt or discouraged by anything. A dangerous game to be in especially without any protection. Prostitution.

I snap back into the room when all my senses spring to alert, slapping me in the face. I glance around the bar where nothing has changed. I look over at the tables; a few ready to be cleared and one ready to be served. He will be the last of the dinner hour to be served.

I grab my pen and notebook, heading over to his table. I scribble down in short hand his large order. I head back to the kitchen to shout the last order through.

I glance back over at the table and see the paraphernalia I need to clear up. I quickly make up his pint of Coke, no ice, with a slice of lemon and a straw. 

Placing the drink in front of him, I smile at him. He gives me a thank you nod.

I turn to the other tables I have neglected and ignored, I clean the dishes away, wipe the tables and set them up for the next service. I carry my heavy bowl of dirty dishes into the kitchen to be washed. I set them down heavy by the sink and walk back out to the bar.