Page 2 of A Malicious Menagerie
“I don’t know,” she admits. “I’ve never seen them. All I know is that anytime he needs someone to take the previous caretaker’s place, he calls Mr. Drennan—that’s my boss—and Mr. Drennan tells me to offer the job to the right person.”
“The right person being… desperate?” I offer cheekily.
“Motivated,” she corrects. “And young and fit. I remember you from when you moved Darla into the facility.”
I don’t know that I would call my skinny body with its matchstick arms ‘fit,’ but I can certainly lift heavy trash bins into the dumpster and walk five miles with a herd of hellhound poodles. “How often do you find yourself needing to recruit someone to fill this position?”
She hums thoughtfully. “Maybe… every six months?”
“That’s some high turnover,” I point out. “Do you know why they left?”
“Maybe they weren’tmotivatedenough,” she quips.
“Rebecca…” I rub my bleary eyes with a sigh. “This is a very generous offer.Toogenerous, honestly. What kind of animals could warrant that kind of pay?”
“Does it matter?” she retorts. “For that kind of money, it could be a tank full of sharks.”
She’s not wrong. Still, I did just recently apply for a job as a vet tech at the only practice in the city that told me I could qualify without starting as an assistant. I could consolidate my hours and work two jobs instead of three. Granted, that job doesn’t paythiswell, but it’s also significantly less shady. “Can I think about it and call you back?”
“Sure, but don’t wait too long. I’m supposed to offer it to someone else if you don’t want it. My number is—”
“Trust me, Rebecca, I have your phone number,” I interrupt dryly.
“Suit yourself,” she replies. “Talk soon either way.”
As I hang up and give my phone a bemused look, it dawns on me that she means I’ll either call her back about the job… or she’ll call me about another late fee.
* **
The clatter and bang of falling plates is loud even in the crowded diner, and I cringe down at the mess of food scraps and glass shards littering the kitschy black-and-white tile. Meanwhile, the customers at nearby tables go quiet, and dozens of eyes fall on me. I duck down to start tidying my mess while internally berating myself.
It’s not the first time I’ve broken glassware at Chucky’s Diner. I am, after all, a terrible klutz. Ask anyone. But it is the first time I’ve broken plates when the eponymous Chucky himself is here. He’s not here often, but when he is, he tends to have a short fuse.
“Anna!” Sure enough, here comes my irate boss, his round face and balding scalp red with anger. “What the hell happened?!”
“Sorry, sir,” I mumble, feeling my face blanch and redden in quick succession. It feels like a serious grudge match—embarrassment versus horror. Who will win? “It was an accident. I’ll clean it up.”
“You’ve been distracted all shift,” Chucky huffs, hands on his hips. And I can’t even defend myself because he’s right. I’m supposed to hear about the vet tech job today, and I’ve been focused on my cell phone. Chucky demands that we leave our phones on silent, and I was worried I’d miss the call. It was the sensation of my phone vibrating in my pocket that startled me into dropping the laden tray in the first place.
“Sorry,” I say again, blinking back the tears that flood in. The last thing I need to do is cry in front of him. It would probably only make him angrier.
Though apparently, he can’t get much angrier. “You’re about to be real sorry. You’re fired. Clean that shit up and go.”
I twitch at his words and nick my finger on a sharp bit of glass. The pain barely registers. All I can do is gape up at him and stammer, “W-what?”
“You heard me. You’re fired. Get out.”
Slowly, I turn my head to look up at my coworker Barb. She winces but offers no support, her eyes flicking from Chucky to me and away. I can’t even blame her for not wanting to face Chucky’s wrath.
Slowly, I push to my feet, feeling again like I’m old beyond my years. Without a word, I tug off my apron, toss it on the counter, andwalk toward the door.
“Hey!” Chucky yells after me. “What didn’t you understand about ‘clean that shit up?’”
I barely hear him, too numb to process the words. I just keep hearing the words ‘you’re fired’ over and over again.
Outside, I duck around the corner of the building to a side alley and plant my back against the grimy brick wall. A tear escapes, but I dash it away impatiently. It was a shock, sure, and I’ve never been fired before. But crying over a waitress job I didn’t even like seems like a poor use of energy. Especially when I might have something better on the horizon.
Suddenly, I remember what started this whole incident, and I hastily dig my phone out of my pocket. Why would I be upset about losing this job if I was going to quit anyway? And for a job doing something much closer to what I always dreamed of doing?
