Rags, Rage, and Riches

Andrea had just finished his shift at the car shop. He had been working there since morning. As he was leaving, he saw Wrench—the only person there who cared enough not to call him pathetic—still working on a car. “Bye, man,” Andrea said as he stepped out of the store. He was already running short on time for his next job, something he was counting on for his future plans. He found his bicycle and started riding as fast as he could. Missing this job wasn’t an option. The agent who got him the job had strongly stressed how crucial it was for him to be punctual during their conversation. “Listen, boy. I went out of my way to score you this gig. One mistake and you are out. You hear me? Out!” He had said. Sure, the man had done a lot—but he had also taken a cut from Andrea’s pocket. Andrea didn’t mind, as long as he got enough in the end. As he pedaled down the broad road, he was hit with a frustrating surprise: a roadblock. Construction was underway on the usual route he took, and it had led to a massive traffic jam. Of course waiting would mean arriving late. He had to think fast. There was another way—a shortcut through an alley that led to the main road. It was risky; that area was known to be dangerous. But Andrea did not care care. The risk was worth it. Today was Sophia’s birthday. He was determined to give her the very best. He wanted to prove he had capable hands—that he could take care of her. So, he made the turn. By the time he neared the restaurant, he was drenched in sweat. He didn’t even bother to park his bike properly—just left it at the corner and rushed in through the staff entrance. As he hurried toward the changing room, he saw the other waiters already leaving the space. “Look who is late on the first day of his job,” one of them teased. “Don’t mind Pookie here,” another scoffed. “He probably has a stash of cash somewhere and doesn’t realize this job means a lot to us less fortunate.” Another said. If Andrea had a stash of cash, why on earth would he be here doing this? He ignored the jabs, entered the room, and changed as quickly as he could. Then he rushed to the kitchen—only to meet the stern glare of the head chef, who looked anything but pleased. The other waiters were already picking up orders and going to serve them and then he was just showing up. “Well, well, what do we have here? Shouldn’t you be gone already? Why are you late?” the chef barked. His beard looked like it had been carved specifically to intimidate. Andrea couldn’t blame him. He was supposed to have been here on time, heck he had left the car workshop on time however thanks to the roadblock—but still, he felt guilty. “I’m sorry, Sir. There was a roadblock, and I tried to cut through—” he began to explain but the man cut him short. “Save it for some fool who actually cares,” the chef snapped. “You’re the new boy, right?” He demanded. “Yes, Sir,” Andrea replied. “No etiquette either. It’s yes, Chef to you, not just yes, sir. You’re fired!” The man yelled. Andrea froze. His mouth fell open from the shock of what he had just heard. Just like that, all his hopes were dashed. He fell to his knees pleading. “Please, Chef. I really need this job. Don’t fire me.” The chef turned away, seemingly done with him. Just then, the manager burst in. “Who’s serving table 27? They’ve been waiting too long and they’re getting irritated.” The manager said angrily. “The waiters were supposed to take care of it,” the head chef replied. “Then why is the dish still sitting here? Who’s this boy?” the manager asked. “I’m really sorry, sir. Allow me to handle it,” the head chef said, quickly trying to take control. Then, turning to Andrea, he added with feigned generosity, “Well, lad, looks like today’s your lucky day. But I’m deducting a dollar. Table 27.” Andrea didn’t waste a second. He grabbed the platter like someone might snatch it from him and rushed out into the restaurant. He just had to send this food to the right table and serve others meals. He was glad that his luck had not yet run out as he entered the restaurant. Guests were already seated, so he scanned the room, looking for the table. He spotted another waiter approaching him and quickly asked, “Hey, man. Where is table 27?” “Oh, right after the one I just served. The one with the blonde lady sitting there,” the waiter said, pointing. “Thank you,” Andrea nodded, spotting the woman’s blonde curls. She had her back to him, but something about her reminded him of Sophia. That was not possible—It couldn’t be her… right? There were plenty of blondes with curls. He started advancing towards the table. But as he got closer, his stomach dropped. It was Matteo—from school. That arrogant jerk, the heir to a fortune, who always acted like the world belonged to him and he could do anything he wanted. The moment Matteo saw Andrea approaching, he smirked. “Well, well, look who it is. Our very own servant,” he mocked. Andrea ignored him, placing the platter on the table. “Took you long enough, fool,” the woman sitting across Matteo said—and just then, Andrea recognized the voice. It cannot be, right? There was no way Sophia was seated with Matteo right now because she was at her piano lesson. “Sophia?” he asked in shock. “Oh, it’s you, moron,” she called out coldly. “Moron? Sophia, I do not understand, I am your boyfriend! And what are you doing here with him?” he asked, pointing at Matteo. This drama caused everyone to start staring their way and this seemed to have pissed Sophia off so much that she rose up, grabbed her glass and splashed the contents right into his face. “Are you stupid? You’re going to embarrass me here?” she snapped. Andrea was stunned. This was the girl he’d cared for, the one he was working so hard to impress. “Sophia… what happened? What did I do wrong?” He asked her. “Yes, You have done plenty wrong! First, you humiliated me by deliberately refusing to serve us food. Then you assume I would actually stoop so low as to want to date a broke, church-rat loser like you? You’re unbelievable!” She yelled. “But… we are dating,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. “Dating? Oh, sweetheart, if you can’t tell the difference between a boyfriend and an errand boy, then poverty isn’t your only problem—you might have a mental illness. We’re done!” She exclaimed. “You’re breaking up with me?” he asked her in the most shaky voice. “I wouldn’t even call it a breakup owing to the fact that we were never actually dating. But if it makes you feel better—hell yes, I’m breaking up with you.” she declared.