Cop's offspring x Mafia member [ROOSHE and BOWELS]
“I’m sorry about that, sir,” she bit her bottom lip, “I really am! Tell you what—since I messed up your order, how about your next round of drinks is free of charge?”
That certainly won them over, and after exchanging glances with one another from across the table, they all came to a tacit agreement. Eleanor flashed them a polished, indebted smile, and with a curt nod turned on her heel and walked the complete other direction. With a relieved sigh, she wiped the imaginary bead of sweat from her brow shaking her head. Not even she knew how she did it, but she always seemed to worm her way out of those situations; she’d become notorious for getting orders wrong, and some people she’d failed every time they came into Johnson’s Pub. She could see it now; someday, she’d get what was coming to her, and some customer would stand up and punch her out cold before she could see what was coming.
In the meantime, she was going to enjoy just scraping by her patrons.
Her amber eyes darted to the digital clock, which was barely readable through the dark and cigarette smoke that shrouded the innards of the little pub. 10:32 in the evening—32 minutes past the end of her shift.
She shook her head. Where had the time gone?
“Where you goin’, sweet cheeks?” a saucy woman asked through a wad of ‘Zebra Stripes’ bubble gum.
A careworn smile crossed her lips, replacing the previous one—this time, very thin. Deftly, her hands worked the knot into nothing and freed herself of the seedy, navy blue apron, and liberated, she slammed it down onto the hard countertop of the bar.
“I’m going home!” Eleanor replied, proudly.
The other, Darla, frowned. “Ya still got customers.”
“Yeah—customers who won’t tip good.”
Before anything else could be said, Eleanor nodded Darla a cheap farewell, and walked her way out of the backdoors of Johnson’s Pub, her strut having lost its luster. Over the 8 hour shift, her poor, tiny feet had lost circulation within the three inch heels which, while sometimes earned her good money, hurt more than tromping through a valley of Legos. Once she’d punched out and crossed the threshold of the bar, she kicked off her bright aqua heels and sighed, relieved. The jagged gravel which paved the way to her car was more favorable than her shoes.
The rest was routine. She rummaged through her purse, found her keys, threw her shoes on the ground near her feet in the car, and drove off through the suburbs of New York City—which, as her father always told her, she was lucky to do.
Ideally, this wasn’t the life she’d pined for. 2 years ago, she’d dreamed big; she was going to attend a fine arts college in L.A., get a bachelor’s in something involving art (ergo, fine arts college), and become a self-grown artist. Unfortunately for her, though, life hadn’t planned things for her that way. Instead, she became weighed down with payments before she could even leave for school, and she came to the sore realization that, without financial help (which she certainly wasn’t getting), she wouldn’t be able to chase her dreams of a higher education. Therefore, tail between her legs, she searched for a job, desperate for anything that could stimulate her practically inexistent cash flow and help her save quickly.
Now, here she was; 20 years old and working as a very low-quality waitress.
Everything was muscle memory. One thing her father had provided for her (being the worrywart he was) was a car—a very old, dingy car that had a rattling heat guard and some dings, albeit, but still a car. When she began to grow a social life in her younger years, and she was of age, her father had decided that he’d push her through Driver’s Ed and get her a license, seeing as taxis were always unreliable. While her father could be suffocating, Eleanor truly appreciated him, and could understand where he came from; after all he’d seen, he probably knew of what could go wrong.
She hung a left. Absentmindedly, she glanced into her rearview mirror, beginning to fiddle with her ruddy-red hair. Through the duration of her shift, her bangs had become tousled from their bobby pins, and with her knees guiding the wheel she pinned them back of her hairline once again.
When her eyes flickered back to the street, she sighed, comforted by what she saw: a street without cars, save one in front of her. It was rare to come by in NYC, but this network of roads didn’t seem to exist to taxi drivers; it was nothing but an enclave of long-since conquered buildings and a few charity foundations, and was overall quiet.
A stop sign without purpose came into sight. The car in front of her, naturally, came to its tender halt, abiding to the rules of a large red octagon that said ‘STOP’. Alas, when Eleanor went to follow, she didn’t get the same desired reaction.
She shook her head, and began to panic. When her bare, size six foot pressed against the brake, she found it was stuck, as if shoved up against something. By the time she realized the problem, it was too late, and she had no choice but to crash into the back end of a fairly nice car with her old boat of an automobile.
Cursing under her breath, and her car having come to its complete stop (with the help of the car in front of hers), she kicked the heel out from under the brake pedal, threw the car into park, and shook her head. The last thing she needed was more bills.