2010-06-29: Headaches and Bad Attitudes

Starring:

Zelda_V5icon.pngStefano_V5icon.png

NPC: Jimmy

Date: June 29, 2010

Summary:

Why's everyone in a bad mood all of a sudden?


"Headaches and Bad Attitudes"

Fly By Night, Midtown East

Tuesdays are not really a bar night at the Fly By. There are those who are at the bar getting their drinks and talking over business deals, and a few other of the type scattered about. It's been the only place, really, that Zelda has been able to find a job that hasn't asked her too many questions. As long as she gets drinks and doesn't drop them, they'll keep putting her on the schedule. Just, at slow times such as these. Dressed up in one of the cocktail dresses that the cocktail waitresses, the woman winds through the tables and sets a drink carefully down at one of the tables.

"'bout time!" the man on the near side of the table snaps, grabbing the glass so quickly that he nearly knocks it onto the floor instead. "Jesus, what do we pay you for?" After draining half of it at one go, he turns his attention back to the guy sitting across from him. "Hey, you gonna order something? Look like you need something to take the edge off. Trouble with the missus again—?"

"I told you, Jimmy, I got a headache is all." Indeed, Stefano has the fingers of one hand pressing into his temple, but glances up long enough to shoot Zelda a resigned look. "Just get me a beer. —And the missus is none of your goddamn business," he adds, turning away again and leaning one arm against the back of another empty chair nearby.

While the customer may always be right, Zelda is under no contract and her manager isn't the kind of person who thinks that waitresses should kowtow to all the drunks. Which is good, because the former baker is not the sort of person who really would take that from anyone, gives Jimmy a very fake smile and replies brightly, "Oh, I don't know sir, except for the fact that you aren't paying me. You're paying the bar, which I am a separate entity from. I am, actually, a walking talking person underneath on the other side of your glass."

Then, glancing over at toward Stefano, not letting him off the hook all that easily, as it is his friend that's being so rude, she adds, "Would you like something on tap or a bottle? Domestic?"

"Yeah, well, say goodbye to your tip, then," Jimmy retorts, not missing a breath. "Fuckin' co-eds— am I right, Stef?" And there's the other half of the drink gone, and he slams it down for a refill. Wincing at the noise, Stefano looks up again. "Bottle. Not that 'drinkable' crap— look, whatever's top of the list, all right?" It's the same sort of frustration often heard at a Starbucks when someone just wants a coffee, not to have to think about twenty different choices. Except, you know, with beer instead.

"Yeah, I'll really miss your one dollar tip for a twenty dollar bill," Zelda snorts in reply under her breath. As she gets the order form Stefano, she turns away to roll her eyes. Great. It's going to be one of those nights. She's just trying to get through her shift so she can go home and work a few more things out, do more research. But, no, she has to suffer through these people.

It's not until Zelda is well clear of the table that Stefano pipes up again, pulling out a napkin so he has something to point at. His voice is lower than before, lost in the hubbub to anyone except his snippy companion. "Anyhow, it's over here somewhere, so we need to get in and out this way. Mike'll have the hardware. And for chrissake don't get Emilio riled up again, we gotta keep this on a schedule— cut it too close last time."

This is a lie. Last time went as well as it ever has… but since then, his personal little edge went and broke down. Around the time of that solar eclipse— which almost makes sense, it must have shorted out or something. But he can't tell Jimmy that. He'd trust the man with a dead body, but with a story that would make them both seem stoned or crazy? He doesn't trust anyone that much.

It's not very long before Zelda returns with Stefano's order, the first bottle that was at the top of the menu - a Budweiser. Classy. Dropping a napkin on the table, she doesn't either let on or know what the two were discussing mere moments before she got there. The bottle is placed on top of the napkin and she asks the obligatory, "Need anything else?" She waits only for a few seconds because she really doesn't care if they have everything they need. They've already forfeited their rights to good service. "Great. Enjoy." No one ever said that Fly By Night isn't all about the friendly staff. With a turn of her heel, she's off to go wait on a table with better prospects.

Stefano picks up the bottle and glares at it. Didn't he just say—? Okay, fine, his fault for not being clear enough. He's having a bad day, all right? "C'mon, let's get back to work," he mutters, picking up the bottle and heading for the exit. No tip from him either, unless you count his failure to trash any of the furniture out of spite on his way out.

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