On the fifth night, before the rush of dinner, Babs calls me to the back, near the cold room. He's drinking a bottle of vodka, which is what he does before the avalanche starts. Her lipstick leaves smudges on the edge. For a second, I think this is it, that he's going to fire me. But instead, he hands me a wad of documents.
“Tax forms,” he explains. “I pay minimum wage, but you will receive tips. Which reminds me. You keep forgetting to pick up yours. Look under the counter for an envelope with my name on it.
I open the envelope. There's a wad of cash there. Easily a hundred bucks. "This is mine?"
She nods. “We share tips. Everybody gets a cut."
I run my fingers over the money. Bills get caught on my broken fingernails. My hands are more than destroyed, but I don't care because they ar
