The Proposal

New Orleans’ French Quarter enjoys a reputation for rich food, voodoo, Southern charm, and 24-hour decadence. Bourbon Street is the tarnished jewel in the centre of the city’s shoddy Mardi Gras crown. The neon-lit thoroughfare overflows with drunken tourists and shopkeepers who compete for out-of-town dollars. Decatur Street hugs the Quarter’s outer perimeter. Cheap restaurants pop up like mushrooms, only to wither and die a few months later. Servers scuttle from one temporary gig to another, trying their hardest to make ends meet.

During the 80s, I worked at a cafe that offered mostly soup and sandwich combinations. Most customers wolfed their food down, then rushed to the nearby French Market for overpriced trinkets. I scurried about in my black and white uniform, trying to serve everyone at once.

My boss, the café owner, stood behind me, tapping his foot and breathing heavily. “Put those plates down and come back to the serving station immediately. Don’t LINGER. We haven’t got time.”

He was a tall, imposing man with perfectly coiffed hair. His swarthy face wore a perpetual grimace. George’s demeanor had only two speeds—remote or hostile. Employees usually quit after a week or two. But, like most French Quarter servers, I was desperate for work. If I didn’t pay my rent on time, I’d be out on the street.

One morning, George called me into his office. He locked the door and placed his meaty hands on my shoulders. My stomach twisted involuntarily, and I felt a wave of nausea. What could he possibly want from me? I had shown up on time for all my shifts. Was I going to be punished anyway? Had I mixed up too many orders? Failed to smile upon command? Forgotten to apply deodorant?

“I’ve been watching,” George said. “Every time I see you, I get currents all over my body.” He took a step backwards and licked his lips. “I have a proposal. Be my girlfriend, and I’ll pay you a big salary. You’ll have anything you could ever want. What do you say? Sound good?”

I thought of George’s wife, a meek woman who always seemed to apologize for her existence. He treated her like shit. Sometimes, she slunk into the restaurant to check on the customers. A few minutes later, she retreated. Their two spoiled children ran around the kitchen like puppies. George bribed them into submission with ice cream cones.

Trembling, I shook my head. “I can’t possibly do that. I’m sorry.”

Since early adolescence, I had fended off propositions with apologies. If I acted like I didn’t want attention, men became hostile, even violent. My politeness was a knee-jerk defense mechanism designed to keep me alive.

George gaped with bewilderment. “You sure? I can give you a lot of nice things.”

I tried to imagine the “nice things” that my boss had in mind. Perhaps a piece of jewelry, or expensive clothing. Dinners in a fancy restaurant. Maybe even a car. I was tired of taking the bus everywhere. Sick to death of ordering one meal with my boyfriend when we went out to eat, and then asking for two plates.

George was offering an escape route, one with teeth and claws. The price tag would be enormous. Constant demands for attention. His cruel face, hovering above me as he grunted his way towards satisfaction. After a few weeks of such treatment, I wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror.

“I’d better get back to work now.” My voice sounded timid, as if I were asking my boss’ permission to engage in penurious labour. “It’s almost noon.”

George’s trademark sweat/cologne scent seemed even stronger than usual. He placed both hands on the side of his desk and glowered at my breasts. “Yeah, and try to pick up the pace a bit, okay? My customers don’t have all day.”

The rest of the afternoon was a nonstop blur of activity. Bodies crammed into tiny chairs. Screaming toddlers. Constant demands for water refills. Endless repetitions of “just keep the change.” After my shift ended, I pulled a crumpled wad of cash from my apron pocket. Forty-seven bucks. Barely enough to keep my lights on for another month.

Whenever George’s eyes landed on my body, he looked away quickly. Though I hoped he felt embarrassed, I knew that he was too arrogant for shame. My boss’ avoidance seemed calculated. What was he hiding? I didn’t have the time or energy to divine his motivations. All I wanted was to go home and sleep.

The next morning, I arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. A solitary man perched inside his booth, devouring a pile of eggs. George stood behind the counter, flanked by two employees. When he spotted me, his eyes narrowed into slits. “Come over here. I have something to discuss with you.”

I wandered in George’s direction, heart pounding. My shift hadn’t even begun, but I was already perspiring in my polyester uniform. The room seemed much larger than usual. It would take me an hour to get behind that counter, even though I walked towards it every day.

“You’re a common thief.” George’s voice sounded mechanical, like he’d rehearsed his admonition. “I counted the till last night after you left, and it was $200 short. You were the only person here. No one else could have done it.”

Neither employee wanted to meet my eyes. One of them picked up a rag and swiped it across the counter in lazy circles. The room’s outlines looked blurry, as if someone had thrown water at them. “I didn’t steal your money.” My tone sounded timid, like an errant child’s. “Are you sure you counted it correctly?”

“Of COURSE I counted it correctly.” George rose up like a tidal wave and towered over me, fuming. “Do you think I’m stupid and don’t understand money? I know theft when I see it. Get the hell out of here now. Don’t let me ever catch you around my restaurant again.”

My brain spun with bewilderment. Had one of the other, more favoured employees pilfered the money, knowing that George would blame me? Did my boss misplace his $200 without realising it? Surely there was a logical explanation for the disappearance, one that he hadn’t considered.

A moment later, the truth hit me. There had been no theft. No miscount. No inexplicable loss. George was punishing me for refusing him. Humiliating me in front of my coworkers. Firing me without provocation during a molten New Orleans summer. I would need to walk the French Quarter’s noxious streets in search of new employment.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My eyes began to water involuntarily, like someone had turned on a spigot inside my head. Tears rolled down my cheeks and spilled onto my shirt. How dare he do this to me? I’d busted my ass for New Orleans’ pathetic server wage of one dollar per hour, plus tips. Six days a week, with no breaks. And for what?

White-hot fury swelled in my chest, straining for release. I balled my hands into clammy fists. My detestable job was gone, so I had nothing to lose. “I hope you’re satisfied with yourself. You’re a terrible, evil man. I pity your wife and children. Someday, you’ll get what you deserve. It can’t come soon enough.”

George curled his lip in disgust, like I was a cockroach that had taken up residence in his kitchen. “Just get out of here. You’re wasting everyone’s time.” He pivoted and headed towards the entrance, shaking his head. “Crazy bitch.”

The door swung open, and I stepped outside. Decatur Street was already overrun with tourists. The greasy aroma of deep-fried shrimp wafted from an open storefront. Normal people on two-week paid vacations were getting ready to devour gumbo and po-boys. Later, they would enjoy some semi-nude action inside Bourbon Street’s strip clubs. Vapid fools. I despised every one of them.

The noonday sun scorched my bare shoulders. I fished a quarter from the bottom of my purse. Enough for one bus ride, at least. I would need to ration my money until I landed a new gig. The Quarter overflowed with cheap restaurants, and turnover was always high. I’d find a new boss, someone not too different from George.

Nothing ever changed when you were poor.

Leah Mueller’s work is published in Rattle, Best Small Fictions, Certain Age, Writers Resist, The Shallot, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, New Flash Fiction Review, Does It Have Pockets, Outlook Springs, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has received several nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. She’s also an accomplished vegan chef, avid water lover, and tarot/astrology professional. Check out more of her work at substack.com/@leahsnapdragon.

Read another one of Leah’s memoirs published in Mindfork!

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Yours with mischief,

Alexandra Gilbert x