Night of the Decaffeinated Dead

"Alright, dessert is out. Take out the coffee. Lets move, people," Steve ordered the servers.
The coffee run was the hardest part of any wedding night for Patricio. Sure, the coffee pots were easy enough to lift when they were empty, but they were a massive strain on this wrist when they were full, wrists he would need later. Then he had to walk out the door into the hoard of energy deficient zombies, each with a distant look in their eyes and a single arm outstretched holding a porcelain teacup.  The only way to get these zombies to die down was to fill those teacups with coffee.

One of the better dressed patrons decided that snapping at Patricio was a good idea. In response, Patricio decided to serve everyone else at the surrounding tables, making sure to chat with everyone he served along the way, until all he had left was half a cup's worth. Patricio finally made his way over to the table with the snapping man. As he made his way over, he overheard the man say, "I hate it when waiters can't speak English. If you are going to be in our country, you should know our language and that snapping fingers mean come over here, now." The statement cut right through Patricio. He could have laughed at the irony of the man thinking he spoke no English despite having received a major in it; however, his desire to laugh was overshadowed by his desire to smash the pot of coffee into his face. His limbs did not seem to stop carrying him over to the table and begin pouring.

Patricio had been eyeing her all night. He felt a great emptiness in his gut. Why did the girls always go for the bad guy? Seeing her made him a bit soft, but the man she was with set his brain on fire.
Patricio felt this great longing for this blonde, artistic beauty and resolved to tell her. As he finished pouring the coffee, he couldn't help notice the sleeves of his uniform randomly covered in caked splotches of food that had been cleared off of plates. He immediately felt disgusted with himself, there was no way she would find him attractive looking like someone who was at the epicenter of a food fight. 

"Discúlpeme," Patricio started," eres tan bella que no tienes porque perder tu tiempo con un culero."

Her large blue eyes stared at him, eye brows raised. Maybe she would understand it, he thought as he walked away, but he knew deep down that that was a stretch. Patricio headed back to the server's hallway, behind the banquet hall to fill up his coffee pots. On the way, he began formulating a story in his head. Everyone agreed that smashing the coffee pot into that douche bag's head was a great decision. The hero then received a check for a full-year's pay and then promptly quit his job. It wasn't a story that would win Patricio any awards, but it did made him feel moderately better about his position.

It was while he was lost in this flight of fancy that a small child decided to dart out toward the dance floor. The child's head had performed a rudimentary head-butt to Patricio's pelvis. Patricio flew forward. It all happened to fast for him to block his fall. He tumbled over the child, falling onto his back. For a brief moment the room seemed entirely quiet. Of course, Patricio thought, it had to happen between songs. He sat up, pain surged through his left side. He looked down. The coffee pot in his left hand had shattered, leaving a large piece of glass in his forearm. The other coffee pot had somehow stayed intact.

It's not that bad, he told himself. He stood up and blood dripped down his hand. Shit! It is that bad. Then came the sound, that horrible, condescending slow clap. He turned around to see the date of the pretty blonde grinning and clapping. Patricio couldn't bring himself to look at her, his face was hot. Deena rushed up to him, "Are you ok?"

Through gritted teeth, Patricio responded, "I'm fine."

Deena looked down and gasped. "That looks really bad, you might need to fill out an incident report and get some stitches."

"I said I'm fucking fine, God damn it!" Patricio stormed off, clutching his left arm close to him.

He was not fine.

The Working Dame

The two main doors slid open. One strappy black heel clacked on the peach tile floor. The heels were carefully strapped onto a pale, slender leg attached to a pale slender body. I can’t believe I am actually doing this, she thought. She made her way over to the front desk and asked the young gentleman where the restroom before heading down the adjacent hallway.  She escaped into the tile-floored bathroom from the artistic abortion that was the hallway carpet, a smattering of dark-hued flowers intertwined. Ashley looked under the stall doors. She was alone, just what she needed. Ashley set her small, black, clutch purse down on the sink counter and looked at herself in the mirror. Her long, blonde hair had been curled and it hung down to her chest. My hair looks like shit. She moved the golden mass behind her. Now it looks more like shit. She moved her hair back in front of her. A pale arm raised in the air. The mirror reflected the hem of her dress under her arm was lightly adorned with white remnants of Lady Speedstick. Damn it! She grabbed a few paper towels, soaked one, and dabbed at the stained area.

Ashley had been very specific on asking Julio what being an escort entailed six months ago when he first mentioned the job to her. He had assured her in his typically sassy voice that it was only a dating service and that no one did anything they didn’t want to. He never mentioned that women were given the option to do more. At least, he didn’t mention it until he knew she needed money and money was in short supply as of late. She tossed the paper towel into the trash and opened her small, black, clutch purse and searched around. She pushed aside her driver’s license and had to pull out a small tube of red lip stain, an eyeliner pencil, and her cell phone to find a joint nestled between two condoms and a petite BIC lighter.

            I don’t have a problem. She honestly didn’t have a problem with smoking pot; she had trouble affording it. The cost of charcoal pencils and oil pants was ridiculous. In addition to her to her rent and utility bills, she didn’t really have much money for much else. Her friends used lend what ever bud they had in good spirit, but, in recent months, had become less apropos about sharing even skunkweed. Sure, anything could be art, but not everything was “good art.” Pot helped her regulate the difference and alleviate her stress. I could either smoke it now or smoke it later. If I smoke it now I will be relaxed, but I will smell awful and be out until my next paycheck. If I don’t smoke it now, I will have to save it. Damn it! She begrudgingly stored her supplies back into her purse and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked at her cute dress and how it showed off her milky calves. The dress was the only piece of nice clothing she had that wasn’t covered in paint. Her mom got it for her two years ago to wear under her graduation gown. This is definitely not what this dress meant for. It was all too much to deal with. She clutched her purse under her left arm and walked out of the bathroom back toward the main desk.

She pulled a small slip of paper out of her bra. The slip read Room 333. Ashley hooked a left along a row of black lamp poles set out along the front edge of the bar. A sea of people seemed to be seemed to be flooding out from somewhere behind the elevator toward her.  Lost in that cadre of wedding guests, her eyes moved from face to face. Tight. Wrinkled. Porous. Babyish. Mustached. Shaven. Please let him be cute, please let him be cute, please let him be cute. She passed through the group of guests and entered the elevator. Looking through the glass back wall of the elevator, she looked down upon the atrium. It was lovely, horrible for painting.

The elevator jerked to a halt and the doors opened smoothly. She followed the door numbers down the hall. Three-forty-four. Three-forty-three. Three-forty-two. They counted down to her starting to lose self-respect. She rounded a corner into the poorly lit hall. In the darkness, the maroon plaque read Room 333.  The sight was horrible. Vomit started to crawl up her throat. Her knees trembled. The scene was perfect for painting, horrible for living. If she wanted to further her art career, she would have to suck it up and follow through. It’s just for the money, just this one time.

Any names or likenesses in this story are completely coincidental.