Page 1 of Tiebreaker

One

Olivia

“Shit!”

My hand throbs and I growl under my breath at the stupid milk foamer. There’s a red mark on my the back of my hand, and fuck, it hurts. The last thing I needed today was another workplace injury. My feet are killing me and I feel like I want to commit murder.

Maybe not, but I’m considering it.

Greeeeeeeeeee….

The AC unit above starts whining and I stare out across the counter at all of the patrons gathered in the coffee shop.

Heads brown, blond, and black bend over laptops, their hands casually wrapped around coffees like they’re totally working on their next big screenplays whilst chugging down their third custom-blended beverage of the day and keeping an eye on their phones.

Which aren’t going to ring.

I know because I’ve been here for years now, and it’s always the same. Obnoxious 30-something men living on trust funds trying to make it in Hollywood. Turning their personal finances into professional credentials through all those unpaid internships only the rich can afford to take.

It makes my gut curdle.

I guess I shouldn’t be jealous, but I’ve got nobody. No family to support me, financially or otherwise, and no trust fund. My degree would probably be more useful if I used it as rolling papers to smoke up with and come up with areallife plan. One of these days…

“Are you listening to me? I feel like I’ve taught you this before, and you should know it by now.”

That voice is like a power drill to my brain. I paste a smile across the lower half of my face and ignore my aching feet.

“I know, but can you explain it justonemore time?” I ask.

The computer in front of me isn't doing what it’s supposed to be doing. It’s Monday, which means it’s reports day, and I’ve got to print out all of our sales for the last week. It’s supposed to be my boss’s job, but she spends most of her time on her ass in her cushy little office, texting her boyfriends. Plural. As in, multiple.

Not that I'm judging, except I kinda am. I probably wouldn't think so poorly of her if she actually did her job for once, instead of letting every single weight that drops land onmyshoulders.

Los Angeles is an expensive city to live in and I don't have the time or patience, or frankly the salary, to justify all the work I do around here. It sucks up my energy, and I would even get a second job if I could, but I’m so burnt and exhausted by the time I get home…

But that’s life here. I’m just another under-employed coffee shop girl with two degrees, a mountain of student loan debt, and nothing else to show for it except a tip cup that’s holding fifty cents and a wadded up gum wrapper.

My boss scuttles over to me with a glare and starts poking at the touchscreen around my shoulder, as if I’ve been doing it wrong. She’s uncomfortably close.

I glance outside and try to ignore my throbbing, raw hand.

“I need to go get some burn gel,” I tell her, and she waves at me, ignoring me as I step away, toward the backroom where the first aid kit is. The curtain falls behind me, separating me in a little bubble of solitude, and I take a deep, cleansing breath.

I can do this. It’s not a bad job. I’m just being a baby. I rummage through the first aid kit, looking for the tube of aloe to make the pain go away.

I can hear my boss cursing under her breath from beyond the curtain, and do my best to ignore her. No matter what I do, it’s always wrong. I’ve been wrong ever since I dumped an iced matcha latte all over the front of one of her boyfriend’s shirts. A shirt that apparently cost $500, which is a ridiculous amount of money to spend on a repurposed tablecloth in my opinion. It's half the reason that I only have a couple bucks in the bank. I just made my final payment to replace it a week ago.

“Did you install the updates on this thing?” she shrills, as I lather aloe across my thumb and palm. “I thought I told you—”

I close my eyes. I can’t hear you… Is this seriously my life right now? My hand is starting to feel better and, with an intake of air to brace myself, I push the curtain aside.

“Maybe if you did your job for once and actually installed the updates like you’re supposed to,” she immediately goes on the attack, shotgunning me with her tone. In the shop, I see heads start to pop up, and my cheeks burn as people stare at us.

Screenwriters, coffees lifted half-way to their mouths, are watching us like we’re a couple of animals having a brawl at the zoo.

I just want to be home with my cat, not stuck here, in a dead-end job, hating my life and nursing stupid little injuries every day.

“It’s notmyjob,” I snap back, a sick, crunching feeling of unfairness swelling in my chest. Which is true, it isn’t. It’s hers. I’m here to serve coffee, take money, and clean. Not maintain software. Not take verbal abuse. Not grovel for her many boyfriends and remember which one knows about the others and which one thinks he has exclusive access to herwomanly portalor whatever.

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