Ketchup and Resentment

This is the first year I didn't request my birthday off at work. When I was younger, I’d always reserve this day for fun shit; maybe shopping or getting a manicure or walking around some sort of Asian-themed garden. But this year, I figured I might as well distract myself. 

The diner is an interesting place. By “interesting,” I mean depressing and sexist. My boss seems to only hire disgruntled twenty-something women, mostly with degrees. We all have to wear white blouses and pretend to be nice to the rich old men that come in and ogle our breasts anytime we place Denver omelets in front of them. But it’s my 25th birthday, and I apparently have nothing better to do.

“I’m never going to find another job,” I say to my co-worker, while violently shaking a bottle of ketchup. We’re uncomfortably close to all of our customers; I can practically smell Mr. Banks’ tuna breath. 

“You? What about me? I still haven’t finished school,” she responds, rolling knives and forks into napkins. 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything. We’re both here right now, aren’t we? At this rate, I’m still going to be a diner wench when I’m 65. Except by then, I’ll have a cigarette dangling from my lips, and probably a moustache. Reeealllyy glad I have crippling student loan debt just so I can serve hamburgers.”

Suddenly I realize how loud I’m talking, turning around to notice a diner full of people peering up at me. Quickly they return back to their conversations and mediocre ham sandwiches. 

“June, can you finish the ketchups?” My old lady boss asks me. In her ancient language of passivius aggressivius, I know that means “shut the fuck up and work already.” After three years, I feel confident in being her anger translator. 

I go to the dingy little back room, feeling like Quasimodo being sent to the tower. Maybe I’m Quasi-Urban-Modo.

“Hey, June-” my co-worker Monica says, stepping into the lair.

“Sup.”

“Some of my friends and I are going to the Lion’s Den tonight, if you’re interested.”

“Isn't that the karaoke bar on eighth?” I ask, watching the Heinz bottle I placed on top of the other bottle pour ketchup all down the side.

“Yeah. It’s just going to be a few of us. And drinks are really cheap.”

“Well, you just said two of my favorite words, so I’m in.”

“What, drinks and cheap?”

“Yep.”

I already know this is a bad idea.

Shake, Rattle, and Robe

“So…what are you up to today?” He asks.

I really don’t want to answer that. “Uh, I don’t know. It’s sort of my birthday, so…”

“It’s your birthday? Happy birthday, dude!” (yep, he calls me dude), “Why didn't you tell me?”

I shrug, taking a sip of coffee. “I don’t know. I guess I’m not that excited about it this year.” I smooth my bangs against my forehead. “I didn't think this was what twenty-five was supposed to look like.”

“Huh?” he responds.

Unnngghhh. “I just thought I’d, you know, be playing in a band, or working in some hip office with exercise balls instead of chairs. Or I’d be writing copy and sleeping with my weirdly attractive older boss.”

“Exercise balls?”  

“I also thought I’d be taller, and wear more professional outfits, like pencil skirts with button-ups.”

“What’s stopping you?” he asks, his mouth wadded with eggs.

“I can’t wear my nice shit to work- it’ll get covered in ketchup, and my tears. I just thought I’d have started a real career, and have a lot of friends. I’m a fucking server, and I’m not even sure if I have friends; I just know a lot of people that’ll drink with me.”

“You have friends, c’mon.”

I feel my next sentence bubbling out of me, like a river of acid rain: “I thought I’d be in a serious relationship by now.”

Todd suddenly looks like he’s really got to be at the dentist right about now, but thanks for a lovely breakfast.

“Not with you, dingus,” I say. “I mean, sleeping with you is swell, but-”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I get it. I mean, I always thought I’d end up with my high school girlfriend.”

The few times he has shed personal details, they always strike me like a tether ball, and I’m the kid on the playground with bad eyesight.

“Yeah? Why aren't you?” I ask.

“I don’t know, it didn't work out. We just broke up before I moved to Portland. She’s back in Indiana, with some other guy.”

Todd’s face sags into his omelet and suddenly I feel something I've never felt for him before- pity. I've felt just about every inch of him maybe 100 times- but this is the first time I've felt this.

“Anyway, I’d be your boyfriend, June.”

He scarfs down his last few bites, and I picture us at my parents’ house, having dinner, him saying something about Asians and the look on my mom’s face.  

“Yeah, but that’s not really what you want.” Or what I want. “You couldn't handle me. You don’t even like crossword puzzles. What would we do together in bed on Sunday mornings, when I’m wearing glasses and some sort of silk robe?”

“You have a silk robe?”

I shake my head. “No, it's just a fantasy." I'm sinking. "Anyway, it’s sweet of you to offer, but we both know it wouldn't work. You just feel bad for me because…you know…” I can’t look at him, so I look out the window. Some small part of me suddenly wants to cry, but I push that feeling into a dark corner. “Birthday shit.”

He smiles at me. “Sure.”

We don’t say anything for what feels like a day, while I push my eggs around my plate with my fork. Then he asks, “Can I see your silk robe sometime?”

Really?

Breakfast is, objectively, the best meal of the day. It’s the first meal, dictating the tone and expectation for all proceeding meals and events. In my world, all great experiences and life choices begin and end with a moist muffin or veggie pesto scramble. But even my favorite meal of the day at my favorite breakfast spot can’t make me forget it’s my birthday.

As is with usual Portland weekday brunch, the restaurant is packed full of service industry hipsters, chowing down on Bloody Mary’s and ironic conversations about mid-90s PBS shows. With your coffee, your hot sauces, your jam, and if you’re feeling zesty, your fresh-squeezed mimosa, it’s easy to forget that you have virtually nothing in common with the guy you’re boning.

“Do black people know they’re black?” says stupid Todd.

“Excuse me?” I ask, halting mid-chew.

“Well, like, do they look in the mirror every morning and go, ‘Hey, I’m black’?”

I look at him for a moment and laugh. “It’s a good thing you have a great penis.”

“Whoa. What?”

“Nothing, nevermind. Just don’t say shit like that.”

“Okay, jeez.”

We eat in silence and I’m increasingly bummed that he’s my breakfast companion. Is this the only guy that will sleep with me? Suddenly I feel my usual sense of cloudiness and my stomach churns.

          “Hey- you okay?” Todd asks.

          “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie.

25

Twenty-five is a quarter of a century. It’s George Washington’s head, and the number of bang hairs that go rogue on my forehead every morning. Twenty-five is an angry mob, an average amount for Buzzfeed lists, and a substantial amount of potatoes. Now it’s me. I’m twenty-five. Fuck.

I know I must be 25 because I just woke up from a dream where I was being chased by hungry wolves. Turning to look at my bedside clock, I see that it’s 7:25am; another twenty-five I’m not ready for. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see dirty blond Todd next to me in bed, emitting snores. A river of spit flows down the side of his face, and as I gaze up at him, I can see straight into his nose, into a swarm of boogers. I have been sleeping with him for nine months.

I press his nose with my finger, hoping it’ll shut him the hell up. Todd groans and opens his eyes, peering at me, making me wonder what he’s thinking. He smiles his sweet little boy smile and just as I wonder if I’ve been misjudging him, he says, “Will you give me some head?”

Happy fucking birthday to me. “No,” I respond.          

“Aww c’mon. You give such good head.”

“Oh, do I? No.”

He gives me a pouty face and I wonder if I'm his lover or his baby-sitter.

“Sorry. I just woke up. And my stomach feels like it’s full of lead.” “Lead” is code for “whiskey-induced gas.”

He doesn’t say anything. Sometimes I wish I was still in high school, when guys were so grateful that you were even having sex with them at all. 

“Fine.” He rubs his eyes. “Want to get some breakfast?”

At least he knows my favorite question. “Yeah, sure.”