There’s nothing worse than being dirt poor on Christmas.
Actually, I take that back. Working a double shift on Christmas Eve at a diner in the Bronx is pretty bad too. But if I don’t do it, I won’t be able to scrape together enough money to pay the rent this month. And if there’s one thing decidedly worse than being dirt poor on Christmas, it’s being dirt poor and homeless on Christmas.
Working the double shift today might not be as bad if it were at some respectable diner, where people came in with their families on Christmas Eve and left nice, hefty tips that I could use to supplement my insultingly, crushingly low salary. But no. I work at Stevie’s, which I’m convinced must have a sign on the door saying, “Come in to order coffee and nothing else.” At any given time, I am pouring refills for half of my customers, who then tip in coins only, many of them copper.
Have you ever picked pennies out of a mostly empty coffee cup? I have. Every day.
The only good thing I can say is that the shift is almost over. Stevie’s is closing for the night at eleven p.m., three hours earlier than its usual closing time, and then I get to go home to my husband, Justin, to enjoy what we have left of Christmas Eve.
“I can’t wait to get out of here,” my coworker Bessie tells me. She is sitting at one of the empty tables, organizing a pile of clean silverware, and I am sitting at a table a few feet away, waiting for the last few stragglers to finish up their damn coffee. “The second I get home, I am going to get right in the bathtub and soak till the sun comes up.”
I grunt in agreement. I’ve been on my feet for the last twelve hours. Even my blisters have blisters. That’s not an exaggeration—I found a blister the other day that had another blister growing from it. They should write me up in a medical journal.
Bessie raises her eyebrows at me. “How about you, Stella? You got plans with Justin?” She lets out a raspy cough, which she has had since I’ve been working here for the last two years, and seems to get worse every day. “Maybe a bath with him.”
“I’ll just be happy if we have hot water,” I say. We were late paying our heating bill, so we had to do without heat for a little while. It’s supposed
to be back on today though—a nice little Christmas present.
“Well,” she says, “you got your honey to keep you warm.”
Justin and I have spent a lot of time cuddling on the sofa to take advantage of body heat since the actual heat got shut off. He’s also been spending more time at the law school library. He is in his second year, which is why I am mostly paying the bills. Waitressing is my second job, the first being a preschool job that allows me to utilize my early childhood education degree, all at minimum wage. Four years of college, tons of debt, and I need two jobs just to pay the bills. I should have majored in Not Being Poor.
Bessie lets out a yawn, rubbing her eyes, which smears her heavy mascara. She’s twice my age, and she wears twice as much makeup. “What do you think it would take to get everybody to leave right this minute?” she whispers to me. “I mean, what kind of psychopath wants coffee at a quarter to eleven?”
I let my gaze sweep over the dreary diner. Even though Bessie and I have scrubbed down all the tables, they all have a layer of thick grime that we can’t get off. Even in broad daylight, Stevie’s never looks bright or cheery—but at night, it sometimes feels like being in a morgue. The overhead lights keep flickering, but the two remaining patrons don’t seem to notice. One is a man who hasn’t taken his coat or hat off the entire time he’s been here sipping coffee, and the other is an elderly woman all the way in a booth in the back.
Fifteen more minutes. Fifteen minutes, then we can officially throw these two people out on the street, and I can go home.
I grab a hair elastic out of my purse and gather my blond hair back into a bun behind my head. Most of the waitresses wear their hair up for their shift, but I have found that my tips are at least twice as high when I keep my hair down. (Of course, twice practically nothing is still practically nothing.) My hair is the color of corn silk and is my best feature by far— people constantly compliment me on my hair and occasionally reach out to try to touch it. I haven’t done more than trim it in the last decade, so it runs all the way down my back, silky and shiny.
I skimp on everything else. I hardly sleep. I skip meals. I’m wearing the same winter coat I’ve had for the last five years. But I always take care of my hair. I have very ordinary features, and without my hair, I would be
very plain. When people call me pretty, that’s why. It’s certainly not because of my thin lips or eyes that are too close together.
After my hair is out of my face, I pull out my phone to distract myself. I scan through the news reports for interesting stories. This guy won the Powerball lottery last week with a huge jackpot, and now there’s a new story about that same guy—apparently, he dropped dead of a heart attack the very next day. Crazy.
I don’t see any messages from Justin, so I send him one of my own:
I can’t wait to celebrate our first married Christmas together.
Three dots appear on the screen, and after a minute, his reply appears:
Can’t wait either. When are you getting home?
Justin and I got married over the summer, after being together for the last two years. It was a beautiful ceremony, even if it did rain that day. This is our first Christmas as husband and wife, which makes it special. He’s been very stressed lately with school, and things have been a bit tense between us, so that makes me even more determined for us to have a great holiday together. I tap out a quick reply:
I’ll be leaving at 11.
His response appears almost instantly:
I’ll be waiting. I think we should exchange gifts at midnight.
My stomach sinks. I’ve always been really into Christmas presents, but this year, I’ve come up short. When you can’t even pay your heating bill, you’re not getting anyone a nice present. It’s just not happening. For example, I got my mother a hat and matching gloves from the dollar store. I got my father an iPhone charger, also from the dollar store. The dollar store was my best friend during this holiday season.
But I couldn’t bring myself to get Justin a present at the dollar store. He means more to me than that, and I want him to know it. A candle that smells like apple cider just doesn’t say I love you.
Except how do you get the perfect present for the man you love when you have no money?
“What’s wrong, Stella?” Bessie asks. “You got a troubled look on your face.”
I grimace. “I never got Justin a Christmas present. And he wants to exchange presents tonight. Even if I could afford to get him anything, all the stores are closed.”
“Well, maybe something from the diner…” Bessie snatches up a piece of silverware from one of the piles she’s made. “Here ya go. Nothing says I love you like a fork.”
“Bessie…”
She picks a napkin up from another pile on the table. “I bet you could turn this into some sort of origami crane.”
Great. I should have gotten him a gift from the dollar store while I still could. “I wanted to give him something really special this year,” I tell her. “I mean, it’s our first Christmas as husband and wife.”
Bessie looks unimpressed. She has been married three times, so she doesn’t get it. “It’s just a present. I bet he’s not putting as much thought into it as you are.”
I’m not so sure about that. Even though Justin and I agreed not to spend too much on presents for each other, he has made a big deal over this being our first married Christmas. He’s probably got some incredibly thoughtful gift, and I’m going to look like a heartless grinch when I show up with nothing.
The guy with the eternal hat and coat finally shuffles out of his seat. He tosses two dollars on the table, which barely covers the cost of his coffee, then he pushes past us without saying a word. The bell on the door jingles as he leaves, taking with him the vague odor of urine.
“Merry Christmas!” Bessie calls out, even though he’s already gone.
I check my watch—two minutes left until eleven o’clock. The old lady in the corner is still sitting there, and she’s making no move to leave. I’m not sure if she realizes that we’re closing, and I need to tell her. I have a bad feeling she is going to be one of the many customers who suddenly realizes she has misplaced her wallet. If she has, I guess we’ll just let her leave. It’s not like we’re going to call the police on Christmas Eve to report a little old lady who can’t pay for her turkey club and fries.
“I’m going to tell the old lady we’re closing soon,” I say to Bessie. “Does she have her check?”
Bessie raises a shoulder. “How should I know? You’re the one who waited on her.”
“No, I didn’t. That was your table.” “Nuh-uh. Corner table was yours.”
“No.” I grit my teeth. “I think I would know if I waited on her.” “And I wouldn’t?”
I glance over at the old woman, sitting at that booth all alone. “So are you saying nobody waited on that woman the whole time she’s been here?”
“Since it’s just the two of us here, I’m thinking no.” I frown. “How long has she been sitting there?”
Bessie looks down at her fingernails, which are sharp enough to maul someone if she needs to. She says they’re useful protection during her walk home. “At least an hour. Maybe more. Every time I’ve looked, she’s been sitting there.”
I pat the bun on the back of my head. “Let me go talk to her.”
My chair scrapes against the linoleum floor as I get to my feet. My blisters—adult and baby—scream in pain, but I comfort myself with the knowledge that I will soon be home with my wonderful husband. And no, I don’t have a present for him, but I will find a way to make it up to him. If I can ever get out of this place.
My footsteps echo through the diner as I make my way down the aisle to the booth at the very end, where the old woman is sitting. The cheap leather on the booth has ripped in several places, exposing yellow foam. Sure enough, the woman doesn’t have any food in front of her. She’s got a napkin with a fork and knife, but nobody has even served her a glass of water.
I don’t understand. If she’s been sitting here for over an hour, why didn’t she try to get our attention to wait on her?
As I get closer, I can make out the wrinkled features on her face. She has a broad nose, and her lips seem to be swallowed up by her gaping mouth. Her gray hair is twisted into a bun as thick as mine.
But the most noticeable thing about her is her eyes. They look like they were once a penetrating black color, but they’ve grown cloudy from cataracts. And as I walk toward her, they don’t blink. They stare forward as she sits in the booth, slightly slumped, unnaturally still.
“Ma’am?” I say.
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t turn in my direction or say a word. “Ma’am,” I try again. “We… uh, we’re closing soon.”
Once again, it’s like she’s not even aware that anyone is around her.
Her body is completely rigid.
Oh my God.
I think she’s dead.
