Verwandte Artikel zu Love Me Back

Love Me Back - Softcover

Tierce, Merritt

 
9780345807137: Love Me Back
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0345807138 ISBN 13: 9780345807137
Verlag: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2015

Inhaltsangabe

"Sharp and dangerous and breathtaking.... A defiant story about a young woman choosing the life and motherhood that is best for her, without apology.” —Roxane Gay, bestselling author of Bad Feminist

Marie is a waitress at an upscale Dallas steakhouse, attuned to the appetites of her patrons and gifted at hiding her private struggle as a young single mother behind an easy smile and a crisp white apron. It’s a world of long hours and late nights, and Marie often gives in to self-destructive impulses, losing herself in a tangle of bodies and urgent highs as her desire for obliteration competes with a stubborn will to survive.

Pulsing with a fierce and feral energy, Love Me Back is an unapologetic portrait of a woman cutting a precarious path through early adulthood and the herald of a powerful new voice in American fiction.  

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Merritt Tierce, a National Book Foundation 5 Under 35 honoree, was born and raised in Texas, and graduated from college at the age of 19. She received her MFA in fiction writing from the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where she was named a Meta Rosenberg Fellow. In 2011, she was a recipient of a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers' Award and in 2019 she received a Whiting Award. Merritt lives near Dallas with her husband and children.

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The Olive Garden

I'm a hard worker, I tell the manager. We are sitting in a booth. His name is Rajiv George and he is short and portly and has kind eyes. He laughs often. Great, he says. In a restaurant that's really all you need. We'll teach you everything else.

Does that mean I'm hired? I ask. The Olive Garden is the fourth restaurant to interview me. I filled out applications at thirteen.

I think so, he laughs. Congratulations. Are you sure you don't want a breadstick? He gestures at the basket of fluffy wands between us on the table. They glisten with garlic butter.

No thank you, I say. I ate earlier.

Well, you could use some meat on your bones. He twinkles so I try to twinkle back. Employees can have as much bread and soda as they want, he says.

Okay, I say. When do I start?

Now? he asks. It's only three thirty. You can learn how to make salads and help out tonight. The salad girl called in sick. Word to the wise, if you're gonna call in, do it as early as possible. Actually--the wise don't call in. Find someone to cover the shift. Right, Kendall? He says this to a tall, stunning man who walks past the booth, then pauses to tie on a black apron with three pockets across the front. His white shirt is unbuttoned and I see a leather necklace with a pewter cross that hangs so it just touches the beginning of his chest fur, visible over the top edge of a wife-beater. His sleeves are rolled up and he has snakes tattooed around both forearms.

Right, boss, he says. Who's this?

He is facing Mr. George, but means me. He pops up his collar and buttons the top button, then takes a blue tie out of one of his apron pockets and ties it with quick aggressive movements. There is a grease spot he is careful to hide within the knot.

This is Marie, says Mr. George. She's new.

No shit, says Kendall. How old is she? Twelve?

Excuse him, says Mr. George. He was in Desert Storm.

I was in fourth grade during Desert Storm but I don't say this. I won a lot of mental math competitions that year including the regional title and I didn't pay attention to the news. But we had to write letters to the soldiers, and the math team coach made us tie yellow ribbons on our competition pencils. Kendall extends his right hand to me while rolling down the sleeve with his left.

Christopher Kendall, he says. Marie, I say, shaking his hand. It is warm and dry and strong. He has a silver Celtic knot ring on his thumb.

You ain't got a last name, Cabbage Patch?

Cut it out, Mr. George says to Christopher. I just hired her, don't run her off yet. At least not before she fills in for the salad girl tonight.

Young, I say to Christopher. Yes you are, he says. Did you give her the tour? he asks Mr. George.

No, says Mr. George. Are you volunteering? Don't think it gets you out of opening sidework.

Why do you think I want a little helper? says Christopher, and to me, Come on, doll, I'll show you around.

Don't forget what we talked about last night, says Mr. George as we walk away from the booth toward the swing door that leads into the kitchen.

Fuck your mother, Apu, Christopher says under his breath. Raj is harmless, he says to me. But don't eat the bread or you'll wind up like him and that would be tragic. He gives me a blatant up-and-down as he says tragic.

This is the back station, he says. We are standing in front of a soda machine and a computer screen. He continues, By the bar is the front station. Over in the twenties is the side station. Back station is safest. Ring at the bar and somebody's gonna ask you for change, or when the dingbat hostess leaves the door you'll end up seating. Side station is right between two big-tops so somebody is bound to need something, and there's always a fucking kid throwing crayons on the floor. Parents think you're a prick if you don't stop everything and pick em up for Johnny. Nobody can see you here.

Okay, I say. He takes a clear plastic cup from a stack by the soda machine and plunges it into the ice. Plastic for us, glass for them, he says. Always use the ice scoop. Georgie sees you doing this you'll get yelled at. It's unsanitary. Plus if you break a glass in the ice we have to burn it. Where is the ice scoop? I ask. Fuck if I know, he says. He fills his cup with Mountain Dew and takes a straw wrapped in paper from a cardboard box on the stainless-steel shelf above the soda machine. He tears the paper about an inch from the top of the straw, throwing away the long part and leaving the short part on like a cap. He stabs the straw into the cup. This is how you serve a soda, he says. Make sure it's full. Fuckers drink it like it's fucking crack. Put a straw in it. Leave the top on the straw so they know you didn't put your nasty paws all over where their mouth goes. Always have extra straws in your apron because some lazy asshole in the section next to you won't give his people straws, and when you walk by they'll ask you for one, and if you don't have one you gotta find dipshit or get it yourself. He takes the paper cap off the straw and flicks it into the trash. The fizzing head on the soda has settled so he tops it off and then takes a big suck. I recommend a straw for your personal consumption as well, he says. Never put your mouth on anything in a restaurant if you can help it. Shit doesn't get clean. Ever.

Okay, I say. Yo, is that all you say? he asks.

No, I say, but I'm here to work. He raises his eyebrows at this and says, Oh! He looks around. She's here to work, he says to another server who walks by with a gray plastic tub of silverware. Great, says the other server, I need help with these rollups.

Sorry, Dave, I called her first, says Christopher. This way, honey.

He takes my elbow and guides me toward the kitchen. Dave's a faggot, but he's a good guy, he says. I heard that, says Dave.

Outside the kitchen door hangs a broom and dustpan. There's the broom, says Christopher. Somebody breaks a glass use it. Don't pick it up with your hands. Tell one of the busboys you're busy and make them do it.

He kicks open the kitchen door and points up at a circular mirror hanging from the ceiling. Coming out, check that or you'll knock somebody down and then people will think you're stupid. Going in, look through the window. First time you bump a tray out of somebody's hands is not gonna be pleasant for you, or them, and if it's me you're doing all my sidework for a week. Trays, tray jacks, he says, gesturing toward a stack of big brown ovals and wooden stands with black nylon straps. You can carry a tray, right?

I don't know, I say. He gives me his full attention for the first time. Wait, he says. You ever worked in a restaurant before?

No, I say. I fucking knew it, he says, I could tell the second I saw you. He shakes his head slowly, looking around the kitchen. A skinny boy in a white coat is chopping onions. He looks up at us. A tear slides down his nose and he raises his shoulder to rub it off. Don't cry, Jose, don't cry, says Christopher. Jose says I'm sorry, Chris, it's just so sad how ugly your mom is, but Christopher doesn't answer because another server comes into the kitchen through the door at the opposite end. Sup Chris, says the new server, then Sup Kelly, Tare-Bear to two women who are standing in a corner talking while they do their makeup. Hey Josh, says Christopher, guess what we got here. Josh is punching in on the time clock by the office. Mr. George sticks his head out and says Don't punch in unless you're working. I'm working, I'm working, says Josh. What do we got, Chris?

A fucking virgin, everybody. Chris grabs my hand and yanks it up into the air like I won a boxing match. This is Marie, and today's her first day in a restaurant. Welcome to hell, baby. He laughs a sadistic laugh. He has beautiful beautiful...

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Verlag
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2015
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0345807138
ISBN 13 
9780345807137
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
224
Kontakt zum Hersteller
SC
https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/

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