Chapter 4 Angel is Angela

Angela 's Point Of View

"Table five! Then table six! Angel, you are needed at table five opposite table eight. Move it! Today is crowded. No sluggishness, please!" The supervisor's sharp voice echoed over the clinking glasses and murmurs of conversation.

Can't I even pee in peace? This has to be the most stressful job I've ever encountered on this app. What the heck is going on here? Look at this place-jam-packed, chaotic, with everyone frantically moving.

'Angel this.'

'Angel that.'

'Angel, Table One!'

'Angel, Table Four!'

When does Angel rest? Just when? I've been on my feet since morning, running around like a hamster on a wheel. If Angel can't rest, Angela certainly won't either.

The job description had painted a very different picture. I'd imagined myself calmly stationed behind a counter, smiling at customers and taking orders. Instead, I was playing the part of a frantic table server, crisscrossing the floor in an endless cycle of urgency.

I trudged over to Table Five, where a girl-barely in her teens, by my estimation-sat beside an older man. Her dress was tight, clinging uncomfortably to her frame, and the unease on her face was as clear as day. Meanwhile, the man beside her-a grinning, shameless creep-couldn't keep his hands to himself.

"Ahem. Hem," I cleared my throat loudly to announce my presence. "Umm... what's your order, please?" I asked, making sure to meet the girl's eyes. Her discomfort screamed, Save me.

What kind of parent lets their little girl wander off to a bar at night with a man old enough to be her grandfather? What the hell is going on in this world?

"So, Grandpa," I began, a forced smile plastered on my face, "should I bring soda for your granddaughter?" My eyes narrowed slightly as I stared at him in disgust.

He had the audacity to smile right back at me, his tone smug as he said, "She isn't my granddaughter. She's my baby." He turned to the girl, his hand resting on hers possessively.

My stomach churned. I wanted to hurl right then and there.

"Oh my gosh! My bad! I never would have guessed," I replied, feigning innocence.

"But your... 'baby' and you need drinks, I suppose? What will it be?" My voice dripped with sarcasm as I glared at him, my patience thinning. What kind of twisted person takes a young girl to a bar and acts like it's normal?

"Will you get us that?" His smug tone dragged me out of my seething thoughts.

"Get you what?" I asked, pulling out my notepad and pen to jot down his order. I prayed he'd say something dumb enough to give me an excuse to tear into him.

"Why weren't you listening?" he demanded, his voice irritated.

"Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. Just give me your order," I said, forcing a polite tone.

"You know, you're too rude," he remarked.

"Too rude or so rude? Either way, it's up to me to decide," I shot back, unable to resist. "Your order again?"

He glared at me before finally saying, "Two Bloody Marys," then leaned over to whisper something to the girl, who smiled nervously.

I stood there, unmoving, staring him down.

"Didn't you hear me?" His voice rose slightly, his annoyance clear.

"I heard you," I replied coolly, "but I've got a question. Why Bloody Mary? I get why you'd drink something like that, but for her? Vodka, tomato juice, and seasoning all mixed together? Nah, no way. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke," I said, sticking my tongue out in exaggerated disgust. The girl's face twisted slightly, like she agreed with me.

"How is that any of your business? Just bring us the damn drinks," he snapped, his voice drawing attention from nearby tables.

"Please keep it down; you're disturbing the other patrons. Look, I can't in good conscience serve this poor girl a Bloody Mary. Choose another drink," I said firmly.

"Like seriously? Whatever! Fine, how about two Screwdrivers?" he barked, his eyes fixed on the girl.

"Oh, so you can 'screw' her all night, huh?" I said pointedly, my tone laced with concern. I knew I was pushing it, but I didn't care. Not with someone like him.

"You've got a real attitude problem," he hissed, his face flushing red as he leaned forward. "Whatever I order is none of your business. Your only job is to bring it to me."

"Okay, okay!" I raised my hands mockingly. "How about this: rum and Coke. She gets Coke, and you, 'Grandpa,' get rum. No arguments, no opinions, just what's best for you."

I jotted it down and turned to leave when he grabbed my arm roughly.

"What the hell is wrong with you? I'm not a fool, and I know what's best for me! Bring me what I ordered!"

"You're not a fool?" I snapped, yanking my arm free. "Then why are you sitting here with a girl young enough to be your granddaughter? Are you sure you're not fooling yourself?"

His face darkened, and before I could react, he grabbed my shirt, his voice rising as he shouted obscenities. The commotion drew the attention of nearly everyone in the bar.

The supervisor rushed over, prying him off me. "I'll handle this table," he muttered, shooting me a sharp look before turning to calm the furious man. He sent me off to another section-the so-called 'loser's table.'

I approached the next table, where a man sat hunched over. His black face cap hid most of his features, but the silver hair peeking out beneath it hinted at his age. Dressed in all black, he radiated an air of quiet despair.

"Mr. Black, what can I bring you?" I asked softly, trying to gauge his mood.

He didn't respond, his head still bowed.

"Mr. All-Black, what's your order? Something to match your mood? Or maybe something to mend what's broken? I've got the perfect drink," I teased lightly, though he remained motionless.

I placed a glass on the table anyway. "Here's a drink for you," I said. He grabbed it without a word, gulping it down in one go.

"More," he said, his voice low and chilling.