Chapter Two
As soon as the clock strikes five, I punch out and head home. Fortunately, I only live a short walk from the diner. It’s a small apartment complex with a beautiful courtyard that acts as a communal area. As I use my key to open the gate, I see some of my neighbours outside having a few drinks, a smoke and just general relaxation stuff.
“Hey, Lani!” greets Amber. “Come have a drink with us and relax after a hard day’s work,” she says enthusiastically. Her girlfriend, Lucy waves me over while keeping herself tucked under Amber’s arm.
“I’ll even bring out your favourite snacks,” says Dijon encouragingly, shining his pearly white teeth in my direction.
Amber and Dijon are my neighbours. Amber lives across the hall from me, while Dijon is across the courtyard, and if you guessed one of them is an immigrant, you’d be correct but it’s not the one you’re thinking. I think most immigrants tend to stick together because we’re all going through much of the same struggles, so we are able to give each other a strong and empathetic support system.
Amber is originally from Indonesia – more specifically Java – and her name is actually Desak Ambarwati, but she goes by Amber because people either struggle with her name or mock her for it. I’ve had that happen a few times and I find it utterly stupid. Provided you don’t have a learning disability, it’s not hard to learn someone’s name. Sometimes people call me Nala, as in the character from The Lion King, which doesn’t bother me too much because it actually makes for a cool nickname, but seriously, if people can remember the crazy names of every MCU villain, I think they can remember how to say a foreigners name. You’re telling me you can figure out ‘Dormammu’ but our names you struggle with? Give me a break.
“That’s really sweet of you guys and believe me I would much rather hang out with you three,” I say appreciatively. “But the workday isn’t over. I’m just going to shower and have a bite to eat before I head out to my other job.”
“How are you not perpetually exhausted?” asks Lucy, sympathetically.
I shrug, “It’s not so bad. I guess hard work is just in my blood. I’ll catch up with you guys soon.”
“Good luck at work!” Dijon cheers, as I make my way into the building and to my studio apartment.
Well, they like to call it a studio apartment, I think that’s overly generous of a description. I turn my key in the door, open it and hold my arms out in anticipation. Within seconds my beautiful baby girl Ily leaps off my bed and into my arms. I hold her close, kissing the top of her head as she nuzzles my neck, greeting me with a soft meow.
“Hello, my sweet girl. Mummy missed you too,” a coo, giving her coat a good scratch as I kick the door shut and toss my bag onto my bed.
Ily is my five-year-old white and black, ocicat. She looks like a gorgeous miniature snow leopard with her white fur and black spots, but the spots around her legs are so big they look like stripes. I bought her when she was a kitten after I’d just moved in because I was lonely and missing my family. She’s become my best friend and greatest companion. I hate leaving her alone, but coming home to her and having her greet me with so much love is the best feeling in the world.
“Have you been a good girl? No parties or horny tom cats?” I ask, earning a sweet meow as she clings to me.
I walk over to the kitchenette, open the cupboard, and immediately she leaps out of my arms, onto the kitchenette, her eyes following my every move as her tail twitches in the air with anticipation. I pull out one of her favourite treats – dried banana – that I always reserve for when I get home and put some of it on a small dish in front of her. She happily digs into her treats as I give her back one more loving stroke and take off my shoes.
My apartment isn’t anything to rave about, but I love it. I’ve kept to whites and soft greys to make it feel more open and bigger than it is, but overall it’s quant and quite cosy in my opinion. The floor is hardwood, but I threw a couple cheap carpets down when I moved in so my feet wouldn’t freeze in the cold weather. Aside from the bathroom, everything is in one room. My bed is by the door but closed off by a curtain and a windowpane with black trim which separates it from my tiny living area consisting of a two-seated sofa and coffee table. I’ve got my humble TV unit and TV wedged between the wall and kitchenette and a small wardrobe by the bathroom door – thankfully, I don’t own a lot of clothes.
Best thing about my apartment is that because I’m on the ground floor I have a gorgeous view of the courtyard thanks to a floor-to-ceiling window wall. I tend to keep the curtains closed for privacy, but it’s nice that when I open them I have the beautiful plants of the courtyard framing my window and making me feel like I’m tucked away in my own little nook. It gives it a kind of cottage feel, which I love.
While Ily enjoys her treat, I take the lasagne I made yesterday out of the refrigerator and put it in the oven to cook, then get undressed and jump in the shower to scrub off the diner grease and any trace that I was ever in the presence of that pervert, Dylan. I swear whenever he touches me or gets too close I feel like I’ve been tainted in some way.
After my shower, I get to work on drying my hair and then I lay out my clothes for work. I’m like most of the working class in this country, working two jobs to make ends meet. With my dinner is cooked, I make myself a plate and curl up on the couch, turning on the TV and catching up on some of my shows while I eat and rest before I have to go into my next job, anxiously glancing at the clock as the time ticks by far too fast for my liking. It always feels like I’ve barely even sat down before it’s time to get back up again.
I look over as the automatic pet feeder releases Ily’s dinner, but instead of jumping at the chance to eat it, she walks across the room, jumps onto the couch, and curls up in my lap, making herself comfortable. I smile, cuddling and smothering her in kisses as she lightly paws at my face making my heart melt. And to think there are people who say animals have nothing in common with humans. I think many of us would skip a meal in exchange for snuggles, I know I sure would.
I pull into the underground parking lot of the Starlight Lounge – one of the most exclusive bars in West Hollywood – pull my visor down and quickly apply a coat of mascara to my naturally long lashes to make my deep, chocolate-brown eyes pop. I then apply a layer of lip oil to my moderately plump limps to give them a little shine. I pinch my cheeks a little – a trick my madre taught me – to give my soft, latte skin a natural flush, then I tie my bust-length, dark brown hair up into a sleek ponytail. I give myself another once over and once satisfied, grab my bag, and get out of the car.
I smooth out my black slacks and tuck in my long-sleeve, white, button-down shirt and tighten my black tie. The club has a strict dress code. All servers must wear black pants, a white shirt, and a black tie. At least I get to wear my Sketchers for comfort, but they’re black so they at least blend in. While my diner uniform is cuter, I like this one much better. I think it’s classy and no one can look down my shirt or up my dress, which is a plus. I also think it appropriately hugs and flatters my thin frame and natural curves. Not saying I want to go to work looking sexy, but it’s nice to go to work and not feel like a frump all the time.
I use my keycard to access the service elevator and head up to the Starlight Loung, residing on the top two floors of this twenty-story building. I step out into the dimly lit, red corridor and use my keycard once again to access the staff room. I toss my stuff into my locker, grab my black apron, tie it around my waist, tuck my pen and pad into the pocket and head out to clock in. I walk into the main lounge/dining area to see the club in full swing – emphasis on the swing.
The Starlight Lounge – like everything in West Hollywood – is a modern club with a 1930s style. The first floor is the lounge and dining area with a live jazz band and lounge singer, while the second floor is reserved for VIP lounges, which they call ‘cigar rooms’ for the sake of nostalgia. The interior is mostly charcoal-coloured upholstery and deep mahogany with soft lighting for a dark and mysterious ambience. It gives it this secret, exclusive atmosphere that almost harkens back to the prohibition era. I guess I have a thing for themes since I work in one place with a 1950s theme and another with a 1930s theme. I really gotta step into the 21st century.
“Lani!” calls out the manager, Lamont, standing by the bar.
I walk over and greet him with a warm smile, “Hey, Monty. Where would you like me to start?”
“If only all my workers were as hardworking as you,” he sighs wistfully. “Would you mind working behind the bar tonight? Marcello called in sick, but I’d much rather have you behind the bar than Karen,” he whispers.
I glance at Karen working behind the bar and lean in to whisper my reply. “Because she’s such a Karen?”
“It’s like parents know what monster their child will become so they name them appropriately, so the world gets an advanced warning,” he says, shaking his head in bewilderment.
I chuckle. “I’ll take care of it. Anything I need to know?”
“Mr Foxx is here tonight, so if you wouldn’t mind preparing a bottle of his favourite for me to take to him.”
“Consider it done,” I say with a smile, giving him a salute.