This Diary Isn't Read By Anyone But Me

Hey! It’s me.                  

I’m back, sadness mingling with my ink on these pages of never-ending words. I just keep writing. Don’t worry; I drink water. I’m not dehydrated. Just tired.           

I don’t want to work at the lowest rated restaurant in town. I mean, I’d rather live in a dump of an apartment than this failure of a place. Unlike this diary, in which I started writing five years ago.      

Oh, and Susannah points her paw, accusing every waiter and waitress of poisoning our customer’s food. What’s so bad about serving a few other lynxes in this African Savannah desert? They’re the only ones who really come (other than hitchhikers and roustabouts).               

So, Savannah, you can save your sarcasm and critiques for another cat. I don’t need someone telling me what to think, say or do when I went to culinary school myself. I have a degree in the culinary arts (thank you very much!), so I don’t need some Savannah woman telling me how to work my job!

I do admit I was out with Brett, Jackson, Michael and Nans last Friday, ordering wine and beer a mile away. No one drank heavily, but some zebras got drunk and fought hard—like punching in the face and getting kicked out of the bar hard. But that’s a story for another day. Anyway, my friends and I are completely on our game when we put plates of broccoli, cauliflower and chicken onto our customer’s tables. They thank us and then leave, some sandy money behind for us to collect as tips.

So—I don’t see why Savannah needs to be so critical. She never thinks before she speaks—which I don’t understand, as she is our boss—but I’m not sure how she is even our boss. Been our boss from the beginning (seven years ago) and still is.

“Hey, Jussie, got that plate of baked beans, potato and honey-baked ham on for table 4?”

“The plate across from the drinks!”

“Yeah!”

Uh-oh. I hear two of my friends, Caleb and Maxine, yell to Jussie across the restaurant about a lousy service. Soon, I hear yelling at lions—Savannah’s raspy voice—and some customer’s grumbling over the disturbance. I sigh, thinking I hope she takes it from the customers to calm down. I mean, no wonder this place doesn’t kill it when it comes to service—the boss is always agitated!

Jussie just said he’d do better, and Caleb and Maxine rushed to his defense, saying he wasn’t trying to trip and fall, almost spilling the dinner. But a coldness I’ve heard before rose from Savannah’s usually stern muzzle set on a firm face, lecturing two waiters and a waitress because the dinner wasn’t tip-top shape.  

I put down my pen, and picked myself off the bathroom tiled floor. Its sticky floors went ignored as Savannah’s harsh words echoed in the back of the restaurant. Some retorts were met with words stabbing my friends with icy indifference! I whipped the door open, fleeing out of there as if the toilet paper itself was after me. Rounding a bar table and stools underneath it, I came to my friends’ aide. But Savannah’s reddish purple head fur and brown eyes narrowed at me, making me calmly breathe and ask whether everything was okay.

“No! Of course not.” She stormed out, telling every other server to make every customer an ice cream sundae as an apology for this unnecessary foolishness. Then she went to the kitchen, I saw, disappearing to prove herself better than we.

I stood there, frowning. Then I closed my eyes, turned to Caleb, Maxine and Jussie. Talking to them in slow tones, I told them I couldn’t be prouder of them as waiters and a waitress working under such a tyrannically frustrated boss. They expressed I needed to stop hiding in the bathroom writing my diary. Then they also said they’d become better friends should they see me hang out with them more instead of Michael, Jackson, Brett and Nans. They didn’t understand why they were half-friends (that is, sometimes here, sometimes there, but never always invited to the parties on Fridays and Saturdays).

I was about to say that I never saw them as less than the other four when Savannah, her eyes wide and mouth open, was frozen hanging with a hand clutching the kitchen swing door. I startled, running out from the back of the restaurant, hurrying to do as Savannah’s sharp tongue commanded me left and right. Soon, when the lights dimmed and the last of the customers paid their bills and got up to leave, I turned to Savannah. But her long dirty claws had already collected the dirty dishes and walked strongly to the kitchen. A loud crash sounded from the kitchen, and I ran to see whether Savannah was okay.

“No, I’m not!” She huffed as she strived to wipe Hawaiian Punch from her arms and cheeks. Giving up on doing it by literal hand, she grabbed a dishrag, making every drop disappear. I jammed my paws into my pockets, but when my mouth opened, words flew out of hers so fast I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and nodded patiently.

Soon, I had Maxine, Jussie and Caleb in here defending me, me having turned around and seen them come in to rescue me from Ms. Wrathful. But I threw my paws up in the air and waved them all around, Savannah stood there with clenched fists, but I’m sure my rigid face and hard words were stiffer.

“Ma’am, I don’t see the need for such a harsh critique if we’re the best waiters and waitresses around. Why all the crap?”

Savannah told us to follow her, and she entered the Women’s bathroom. Looking underneath the stalls, she then took something from underneath one of them. 

I bit my lip as she whipped open the cover. A blank page. Did she want to read more any of it? I clenched my paws, preventing the sweat from trickling down them. And I ignored my beating heart. Then I remembered—my friends would freak. I needed to save them from humiliation. So I took a deep breath, and charged.

“Ma’am, that’s mine. I understand you’re mad that I write in a diary at twenty-three years old, but I keep my personal thoughts in there.” I threw my hand out and grabbed it, clutching it to my breast with all my strength. Or heart. Whatever it was, I met Savannah eye to eye.

“Please, ma’am, I’m just—”

“Defending your friends, ignoring this dilapidated place called a restaurant and writing in a pathetic thing called a diary. I expect better from you, Rockefeller. Besides, you paint, right?” She threw her paws on her hips.

“Yes.” I nodded, my black head nodding viciously. Why was I scared of this lynx?

“Well, if you are, then paint more pictures.” She left, but I was not alone.

I unfolded my arms, looking at my diary. It was full of mistakes and past experiences I have been through. I grew up in the inner city, always getting teased because of the color of my fur. It was darker than a Hershey’s kiss, and I always smiled wide when I remembered my wedding day. Painting that picture of my gorgeous, loving husband and me hugging each other on that special day had filled me with such a joy I could not give to this book. But I needed to tell Savannah to cool it. 

I walked out, obviously making my friends laugh and sputter with excitement as they all stood there, their eyes gleaming with mischief as squeals of fun escaped their mouths. Shaking my head, I rolled my eyes (amidst more laughter), and went straight to Savannah as she cleaned the bar table with dust polish and a rag.

“Savannah, I’m sorry. I have something special to me. I understand we’re not always following your rules, but, please. Hear me out. You’re constantly critiquing us, controlling our ways of serving and telling us we’re never going to become a five-star restaurant. I have a husband I’m crying on the shoulder of every night because of your accusations. We’re near a divorce—he’s tired of the complaints. He’s fed up with the sour attitude you display towards me, and the frustration I throw at him like paint against a wall. I paint, but my blue period has been the best one of all. I cannot continue to paint joy and fun and love if my paintings are all black—blacker than I. So—please, I beg you, please know we’re just waiters and waitresses—not your slaves.”

I looked back, the laughter gone and mischief disappeared. They were all nodding, gazelle hooves and elephant trunks and lynx paws jammed in pockets. I smiled, telling them they didn’t have to do what they were doing. They interrupted, retorting that I was telling Savannah off. One by one, each server critiqued Savannah this time.

I watched all of them file away to go clean tables and help each other in the kitchen. Savannah, I turned to her, was standing there, blinking. She seemed she was about to cry, but she held her own, looking at me. Eyes turned to cold slits, and she hurried away.

To the Women’s bathroom.

I didn’t dare follow her, but what I did do hopefully changed her for good. I gathered everyone for a picture, and we snapped ourselves a good one. At home that night, I grabbed my canvas, paint and paintbrush, getting to work. Over the weekend, I worked hard, striving to create the picture perfect picture to hang above the bar diagonally across from our front double doors. Soon, I was done, a huge grin on my face as my cheeks hurt with excitement. I expressed to a shocked, amazed group of servers that I had no idea now that Savannah would allow it to represent Coolie and Jet’s.

She was always so cold—cold as a cooler pack. The next day, one friend suggested, rubbing his arm with a hand, looking diagonally down as if he doubted whether the plan to cheer Ms. Frost up would work.

Yeah, another quipped. Just plain awful like rotten lettuce.

You got it!

All my friends broke free from the group, leaving me with a canvas. Savannah came by and hauled it out of her restaurant. I chased her, saying it took me four days to paint that masterpiece to-be. As she lugged it to the humongous trash bin behind our brick and beige stucco building, I retorted that she needed to think about what she was doing. That was my hard work all being dumped!

Savannah chucked it into the trash, it clanging mockingly. “Rockefeller, if you want to be good, I suggest you start now.”

I gaped at her. “You just threw my painting away. You…” I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to blow up at her. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to write you an apology letter?”

She snorted. “Out of your diary? As if!” As she hurled more dangerously subtle criticism my way, I did the impossible. I grabbed Savannah by the shoulders, straightening her and turning around myself. Looking her dead in the eye, I set my face and firmly stated I’d like that painting back. If I didn’t, I’d go after it myself to hang up above the bar. Savannah glared at me, her eyes telling me a million things were streaming through her mind. I didn’t care. All I wanted was respect.

That night, I fished with a flashlight and received my reward—the painting! But it had yuck on it, and even if I peeled the rotten banana off and wiped it of greasy sausage, it still smelled like trash. I blinked, trying not to cry.

Suddenly, a call from across the parking lot grabbed my attention. Whirling around, I stared as Savannah hiked herself over here. Stopping in front of me, she told me she threw her servers’ dreams away just like she had thrown her own children’s dreams of becoming culinary creatives down the toilet. She insisted I make this place a five-star restaurant. I pursed my lips and then opened them, saying I’d be better off painting this building. It was ugly to begin with, but at least I’d be working hard at my love.

She shook her head and headed inside, telling me that if I wasn’t ready to be her server, I wasn’t going to put any painting up on that wall. I shook my head, smiling to myself. “No thanks.”

Yes, diary. I had quit. My friends were cowards. They didn’t have the guts to stand up to someone only professionally superior—that is, higher up on the social ladder. But I did. Let’s hope the next painting was better.

My husband loved it. It hangs above our bed headboard.

No courtroom was attended. Instead, I attended an interview.

Did I get the job?

Well, I painted something that just won a competition.

Guess what it was. 

Give up?

Well, it had to do with restaurants and construction.

I’ll say that much.

And me, as the head manager of the new diner.

Yep, diary, you heard that right.

Writing to you as I please on the floor of the bathroom stall. Just, please, diary, don’t say anything to anyone. I’ll throw you away. For good—

“What the heck?”

With clenched paws, I shot up, glaring at the restaurant owner. She, with her long dirty claws, jabbed me physically and verbally. I stared at her, but she continued, her sandy blond ponytail swinging viciously, distracting me. I looked down, breathing in, my composure calm.

“Ma’am,” I stretched out my hand, “please let me see my diary.”

“No!” Savannah jerked a claw at my book. “I don’t understand why I had to suffer failure and repetitive threats of future failure at jobs and happiness. I just…a childhood full of constant hopelessness and frustration. A home of a dump in an apartment that never got any paint or cleaning lady to come and pick up all the trash. The pieces were never cleaned up. I had to do all the scooping up poop.”

I shook my head. “Ma’am—”

“My name isn’t ‘ma’am’! It’s Savannah. And you know pretty well that you just escaped this job as a waitress because you didn’t want to deal with my ugliness. You were pretty ugly to leave, you know, Rockefeller?”

She glared at me, but I saw hurt shine in those eyes. “Stop pretending, Rockefeller. Just like your painting dreams are going to get thrown away, my trust in you has been soiled. Completely.”

“Savannah,” I sighed, “I understand you’re—”

“No, you don’t. You have no idea. I haven’t talked to any of you except you, Rockefeller. But that’s because I secretly believe in you. But,” she wiped her nose, “I just wanted to escape my pain. My past. My stupid idea of starting a stupid restaurant that’s failing. That’s why I was so icy.”

I reflected on my own attitude. I did ignore Savannah’s attitude, never really seeing past the icy temperament. I nodded sympathetically. “That’s why I left. To get away from hippos who lashed out at others because they had crap thrown at them. That’s why I never wanted to even serve. Serve someone like you.”

Savannah looked at me. “Yeah—what I thought.”

I grabbed her shoulder, stopping her. “No—I was so focused on impressing my friends, hiding with my diary in front of me and becoming the best so you would see me that I didn’t care to take time to notice others’ hurt. Writing allows me to pour all my hurt and troubles out. But I never understood why others couldn’t comfort me. Because I never did them.”

“Never mind. It wasn’t something I need to explain. I just…”

“Look, I understand. I don’t have friends. Especially at your restaurant—”

“Which is really why I treated you poorly. I took pride in being a restaurant owner. I just…don’t know how else to say it.”

“Yeah—me neither.”

“I was bullied all my life—elementary through high school. My parents were workaholics, so they never comforted me or supported me in any way. I just…” I shrugged. “I didn’t know how else to suppress that pain other than ensuring I knew what I was doing—just by ignoring others’ pain, I thought I would be better than you. Pride dominated my life. I secretly empathize with you.”

That night, I wrote her a letter. Then, I waded it up, shaking my head. Whatever. It’s not like Savannah ever really cared.

And that, diary, how I knew she didn’t mean anything she said. I couldn’t keep helping her for her only to stop me in my tracks.

I woke up that morning, smiling assuredly. “Darius, you know why we’re still married?”

“Why?” He wanted to know, grinning up at me.

“Because I’m free of this jerk!” I smirked, shaking my head. “Whatever. She’ll have to manage all on her own.”

But, diary, I wrote, tears spilling down my cheeks, why? I’ve failed. I’m not a manager. I’m sitting on the ground of the women’s bathroom. Please—help me. I looked up towards the ceiling. I guess—all that self-emulating self-pity has cost me. Cost me everything.

I picked myself up and exited the stall. I thought, but not my art. Maybe I’ll start over. Or rather continue. Continue being the best. Because no painting was going to be done without my paws working hard. No restaurant was going to go without my artwork displayed above the bar or some other special place.

Several years later, my very first painting for which I made a livable profit was placed above the bar in Savannah’s restaurant—her own five-star restaurant. I was grinning—and so was she. Real smiles from really successfully lynxes!