Tricked

The Chicken Inn is where I work. It’s owned by three brothers- George, John and John. One of the Johns is a cousin, but they tell everyone they’re brothers. I like George and one of the Johns, but I don’t like the other John, and he doesn’t like me. He’s mean to me even when I’m trying really hard to be nice. They never had an employee before me, and he thinks I’m getting too much in the middle of things. He wants to keep it just the brothers, but George hired me and he’s the oldest so he’s the boss of things.

Mean John hates that George hired me and keeps calling me “jailbait” and saying things in Greek about me and then laughing. George said it would be good for business to have a girl behind the counter, but even I was surprised he hired me. Nice John is super cute, and he never makes me do any hard work. I mostly just ring up the customers.

I got the job because I was mad at my mom. We were shopping at the mall, and she wouldn’t buy me the pair of jeans I wanted so I stormed out of the store, and the Chicken Inn was the first place I saw, right across the hallway. I was super mad when I marched in and asked for a job, but I guess to them I just looked extremely motivated. When my mom finally found me, I was sitting on the counter, swinging my legs and laughing with the chicken guys. She acted like she thought the whole thing was funny and started flirting with George.  She always tries to be friends with my friends, so I glared at her and she smiled back at me. She was all “Hahahahaha” every time George said anything. Why does she do that? It’s gross. and I could see him glancing over at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Whatever. Guys always like her, but Nice John is the cutest one and I already have a crush on him.

The chicken guys are from Greece and have thick Greek accents that most people around here can’t understand.  They serve gyros and souvlaki sandwiches along with the fried chicken, biscuits and iced tea to the Southerners who wait in line. Our customers are shoppers, but also construction workers who come into the mall to escape the brutal heat and enjoy the cool mall air conditioning at lunch hour. They mostly point and mumble their orders, unsure of what to make of the menu. Something about the brothers makes them uneasy. They talk fast and like to make jokes with the customers, but I think the men aren’t sure if they are laughing at them, because they don’t understand what they are saying. I do my best to translate, but I think they just don’t like outsiders around here. These are the kind of guys who hang rebel flags behind their gun racks on the rear window of their pickup trucks.

We just moved down here last year, to the redneck outskirts of Charlotte NC, from the liberal suburbs of NJ, where there are lots of immigrants and most people are from somewhere else. Their accents and their sarcasm make me feel like I’m back home.

I already asked them a bunch of times, “Why did you guys move here from Greece?” but I never get a real answer. I hate it here and can’t imagine moving here voluntarily. I guess I also like being around them because I feel out of place down here as well. My first day of school some kids started calling me a carpetbagger- I didn’t even know what one was. They are still fighting the civil war down here, and I had no idea a place like this even existed in the United States. It’s gotten a bit better now, I have a group of friends, but when I first moved down here, the kids at school all hated me. The boys expected the girls to defer to them in… well everything, the teachers expected me to say “Yes ma’am” and “No sir”, everyone was a Southern Baptist and expected me to go to church, and none of those things were going to happen.

George and Nice John spoil me, and they pay me out of the cash register when I’m done working. I don’t make an actual amount- just whatever they felt like giving me- which I always think is more than I should have gotten. I usually spend my money right away. I go out into the mall to buy clothes, and they always want me to come back and model them. Nice John and George like to weigh in on what I’ve chosen.

I’m not supposed to go back behind the grill, because they think I’ll get burned, but I go back there when Nice John is working so I can stand right next to him while I’m flirting with him. I usually think of an excuse to squeeze past him, purposely pressing my hips up against his in the tiny space.  When he takes a cigarette break, I sit on his lap and steal his cigarettes.  He always says fifteen is too young to smoke, but then he gives me one anyway. They always ask me to tell them about my life, like I’ve come from another planet or something, but I can’t get them to tell me hardly anything about theirs.

Sometimes they joke that they only kept me around for entertainment, but I didn’t care. I like being entertaining, I like their attention, and I like having my own spending money.  Besides, most of the time I just sit on the counter talking to them while they work.  Sometimes when I’m bored, I say things just to see how they react.

Mean John has a horrible temper and whenever he has to work behind the grill, he ends up throwing things and swearing so loudly the customers can hear. Sometimes he even punches holes in the wall. Nice John used to patch them up, but then he got tired of it and told Mean John he would have to patch them himself, so now there are holes in the walls that haven’t been patched- the holes aren’t where the customers eat though- they’re just in the back where only we go. Mean John mostly just sits at the back table, chain-smoking and reading the paper while Nice John and George do all the work. Then he stays late to count the drawer, like that makes up for not doing any work. When I complain, Nice John just tells me to stay away from him. I try to, but I don’t understand why he doesn’t like me, or why he has to be so mean.

Whenever Nice John sees me walk into the restaurant for work, he always holds out his arms and says, “Who’s my best baby-doll?”  Once I heard him say “Her boyfriend don’t know what he got” and he and George started laughing. I paid close attention. I want to know what he’s got. But he doesn’t say. My boyfriend, Bird, graduated from high school already- none of my girlfriends date guys who are in high school. It’s better because they have cars and can buy alcohol and other stuff. Mostly we just drive around drinking, or we meet up in this field or some other places. It’s lots of fun except when the guys get too drunk, because they get in fights, and they think it’s funny to shoot their pistols into the air- and I get terrified that someone’s going to get shot. I hate guns. My new stepfather has guns, and he scares me- although I’d never give him the pleasure of knowing that.

This time when Nice John time greets me, Mean John mumbles something under his breath and turns to go back to our table, but George smiles kindly at me and asks me about my mother. “She’s out there somewhere” and I wave my hand behind me toward the mall. She always makes excuses to stop by when she drops me off, even though she knows it makes me crazy. 

At break time I sit down across from Mean John and try to ask him some questions. I want to know if he has a girlfriend, that sort of thing. I’m bored and I just want him to pay attention to me. He ignores me, so I ask him why he’s always reading the paper and when he doesn’t answer, I reach across the table and pull the newspaper down from in front of his face. He yells “Stop It! You fucking idiot!” and I can see his whole face twitching in anger. He’s never gotten this mad before. His beady brown eyes are black with rage, his thick black eyebrows make a perfect V shape, and his beautiful shiny black hair falls into his face. I’m startled but I glare at him and get up without saying a word.

After lunch, Nice John mentions to me that he’ll be leaving early. He says it’s his girlfriend’s birthday and he’s going to make dinner for her. I ask him what he’s going to make, to hide my surprise. This is the first time he’s mentioned a girlfriend. I know it’s stupid, but I’m jealous, and I feel like he’s deserting me. I picture him eating dinner at home with his girlfriend. I wonder if she’s prettier than me. It hit’s me that he’s got a whole different life, a grown-up’s life, when he’s away from the restaurant.  

Just before he’s about to leave, I tell him I want to stay late to make some extra money. He knows I was fighting with Mean John earlier- that we’ve been fighting more and more lately. And he knows I never ask to stay late.

He glances over at the table where Mean John is reading the paper, and then back at me. I can see he’s thinking- that he’s about to say no, but then hesitates and writes down his phone number on a scrap of paper.  He’s never given me his home number before. He’s folding up the paper as he walks toward me, then he slides it into the tight front pocket of my jeans. There is something very familiar and intimate about him just reaching into my front pocket like that. His eyes lock onto mine, inches from my face “Just call if you have any trouble, I’ll come right over” he whispers, “you hear me?” He’s letting me stay, it sinks in. Does he really think I can handle what I’m about to do? Part of me wanted him to say “no”, that I can’t stay, even though I’d do it anyway.

I’m surprised by my sudden sense of betrayal. I smile and laugh a bit, like he’s being silly. I tell him I’ll be fine, and he winks, before turning and walking out of the restaurant into the mall. I just stand there like an idiot and watch him walk away. It’s Friday night. My friends hang out at the mall parking lot at night, or we go into a pub in the mall and drink pitchers of beer. I don’t even need a fake ID. I call my boyfriend to tell him I’ll be working late, so I’ll just meet him out in the parking lot.

When it’s time to close I start wiping down the tables and filling up the salt and pepper shakers, working fast and hard- like I never do. Then I start banging around the silverware and dragging chairs across the floor, getting louder and louder- like I need help cleaning up. Every now and then I walk by Mean John, but he doesn’t even look up at me. He’s handsome in an intense and brooding sort of way, but he’s staring intently at his newspaper as usual. 

Finally, I asked him, “Are you going to help me or what?” but he just rattles his paper and glares up at me from under his massive black eyebrows. So I sit down opposite him, picking up some of his discarded paper, and pretending to read. “Fine, if you aren’t going to work, I’m not going to either” I say. Then I reach for his cigarette pack and tell him I’m not getting up unless he helps me clean.

At first, he tries to fight his hands. He stands up and walks away with them, holding them out in front of himself, as if they were already around my neck. But the hands lead him right back around to me, to where I sit smirking.  “Chicken.” I say, under my breath. 

In one motion he grabs me by the arms and jerks me up out of the booth. Then he turns me and slams me up against the wall.  My feet are dangling above the floor, but he keeps shaking me and smashing my head against the wall. Lots of small jerking shakes, then one big smash, lots of small jerking shakes, and then one big smash, over and over until it is all gone, and we are safe from his hands. I see black spots where his face should be, and my ears are ringing. Politely we turn our heads away from each other as he lowers me back down to the floor.  He has to keep holding onto me, to make sure I can stand. We are locked in an embrace like we’re slow dancing- my forehead now on his shoulder as I gather myself. Then I lean my head back into the wall- just to test out my balance. 

My ears are still ringing and there are still black spots in front of my eyes. I can’t really see clearly, but if I close my eyes, I get dizzy and feel like I am going to pass-out. I can feel the blood start to trickle down my neck. I hate stitches. I’m not getting stitches. I wanted something visible, like purple and red rings around my neck- something to gaze at in the mirror, something to consider carefully from all angles- but not this. Not a concussion and a headache. What made me so sure he would strangle me?

Once I’m standing on my own, his anger returns, and he starts kicking and punching blindly at the wire shelving all around us. Metal bowls full of noise but nothing breaks. He knows he’s been tricked. He never wanted to get that close to me. 

I walk past the empty tables and into the mall, wondering what I look like. I wonder if I look older or more interesting. I like the feel of the blood running down my neck. I walk to the ladies room to look in the mirror and clean myself up. Blood stains if you don’t wash it with cold water right away. I stare at my face for a long time, not sure exactly what I’m looking for.

I had wanted to call Nice John. I wanted to see if he’d really come back and rescue me. I wanted to get Mean John in trouble. But then I changed my mind. It’s mine, this experience. I’m going to keep it for myself.

As I reach the heavy glass doors of the mall, I can see it’s gotten dark. I spot my boyfriend, Bird, standing beside his car, drinking beer with his buddies and waiting for me. He’s got on blue jeans, cowboy boots and a wallet with a chain that hooks onto his belt loop. He’s got a handlebar mustache and his teeth are already stained from tobacco and coffee. He has a limp from a motorcycle accident that gets worse when he’s tired or drunk.

Bird won’t come into the restaurant to pick me up. He says the Greeks are fags and acts like he’s better than them, but the truth is, he’s the one who acts like a girl when he’s around them, staring silently at his boots, dipping his head and looking away when one of them smiles and tries to meet his eyes, or make conversation.

I take a deep breath, open the door and step outside. It always feels good, leaving the mall- feeling the fresh air hit my face. As I walk across the parking lot toward Bird’s car I hear clap clap clap- my sandals neatly strike the warm pavement of the parking lot. Clap clap clap- my own secret applause. I reach down into my front pocket and feel for the phone number. I pull it out and crumble it into a ball but then instead of throwing it on the ground I shove it back into my pocket. Maybe I’ll save it. A receipt? An IOU? A memento? I’m not sure.

I pull my hair out of the ponytail, letting it hang loose down my back again. When I get to Bird’s car, I grab a cold beer from his outstretched hand and then I lean into him, tilting my head up to kiss him, exposing my pale unmarked neck. Then I lean against his car, his arm on my shoulder, and gaze up at the stars and the clear night sky. I tell myself not to forget this moment, but I’m not sure why.