August 3, 2002
Resident Kenevil
Last night was a strange, strange night.
I arrive at work and am thrust into a server's apron. They were short handed, so I consented to serve. It was an experience, to say the least. One I never wish to repeat, if I can help it.
I was placed in station six, which was a horrendous mistake. That is one of the busiest stations in the Buffet, and, considering it was Friday night, not the place for me who had zero training. My station was full all night, and I was just totally overwhelmed. I hardly ever got a chance to clean my tables, what with fetching refills and hot sauce and crab crackers and extra napkins and taking up plates and dropping things on the floor. I spilled a tray of six drinks.
Grant, one of the other servers, shouts, "Intiation complete!"
But I had one of the midnight girls come in for me at about nine, so I hurried and finished my sidework and was out of there at a quarter after ten, my pocket fat with roughly sixty-five dollars.
Mike and I hastened to my home, I grabbed clothing, and we were back on the road.
He made me watch a Thundercats video, as this was his near-obsession as a child. He knew the plot so well that he put it on fast-forward and gave me a rather choppy, hysterical rendition of the events unfolding.
We also watched Resident Evil, which fucking rocked. It scared the shit out of me. There is a big difference in a horror movie between being merely killed and being eaten. I could never play that game, but I watched my brother play it for hours, for weeks, until he beat it. Needless to say, the movie was as creepy and bad-ass as was the video game. I could see it again. I could, in fact, own it.
Mike and I sort of started a conversation concerning my trust issues, but it was postponed in hopes of later coherence. I managed to say that I'm worried that I'll be played, that I'm worried by the comfort I have when I am with him. I'm anxious to hear what he has to say. I'm just anxious.
This is such a delicate balance.
I didn't get home until about twenty of five. I hurried out of my clothes, I pulled the blinds, I screwed my eyes shut tight and wished I had his body to warm away my chills.
It was 4:46 when I shut off the light.
It was 4:47 when my Dad started shuffling around the house.
Just in time.
Someday, some lovely hopefully-not-too-distant day, there will be no more venturing out at four in the morning to drive me home. We'll just retire, and he'll wrap his arms around me and I'll be careful not to squirm so much and we'll sleep. It's okay that his body is like a furnace. Mine is like a freezer.
In more ways than one.
astera at 12:19 p.m.