The Waitress's Story:
[X] What was Jamelia Belltower's birth name?
-> [X] Illiyeen al-Hallaq
[X] And what's her story?
-> [X] Write-in
(Why does she think she's here)
"Illiyeen. Table 11's order," says the owner. He's a man with skin a touch darker than hers, and she doesn't think he's Lebanese. His accent isn't right. But he's the one employing Illiyeen al-Hallaq at the moment, and if he wants people like her to add more authenticity to the place, she's not complaining.
She takes the salatah arabiya harra, bastorma, water and Coca-Cola and deposits them at the table, carefully placing them in front of the two strange women. Some of the people at this cafe are... uh, quite peculiar. One of them is almost colourless, with pale grey hair and marble-like skin and grey eyes, like she's from a black and white film, while the other looks Iranian apart from her long red hair which reaches down to the floor.
They might be actors. Actors are strange people.
"Is everything fine?" she asks. "Do you want anything else?"
The red-haired woman looks up at her. "Can I also have a glass of water? With ice?" she asks breezily, fiddling with the flower in her hair.
"I'll go get that," Illiyana says, smiling, and gets a smile in return.
She thinks she's in Los Angeles. Not knowing what city you are in is quite a big problem, but she doesn't want to ask someone. That's not a normal question you ask someone. This certainly isn't Beirut. It looks sort of like it in some ways, especially close to the cafe, but - no, it's not. Not at all. She's fairly sure from the accents and the way that most of the signs are in English, that she's in America. At least there's a lot of Arabic speakers around here, so... hmm. They probably have Little Lebanons in the US, right? She knows of some people who've emigrated there.
Her English is... well, minimal at best, just enough to take orders and know when to take complaining people to her manager, but at least most of the people who come to her work speak Arabic. And for the others, she can muddle through. The menus are bilingual, so if they point to it, she can read it. She can handle things there.
What she's less sure about is... uh, what she's doing in the United States. She was... she was home and she'd decided to do
something big and then everything becomes a blur. Next thing she remembers, she's waking up in an unfamiliar apartment in this strange city, feeling ill and aching all over. Like she's just had a fever. She's still not one-hundred percent. But her bills are paid for the next month, apparently by her, according to the documents she found tucked in a drawer. And she's working in a cafe, according to a reminder she'd apparently left scribbled on a table reminding her to get up early because it's her first day.
That was four days ago.
Did she emigrate? She thinks she must have emigrated. She certainly remembers planning to do something big, and - hah - it's not like she had anything tying her to Lebanon. Maybe things might work out better here in the US.
But why doesn't she remember anything about... about the move or anything?
She must have been
really
ill. Really, really, really ill. Ill like she's never been before. She certainly knows that she doesn't want to remember what happened when she was ill. There are a tiny few fragments of memory and they're enough to tell her how horrible it was. The coldness, the pain, the misery, the way her mind wasn't working right - but that's in the past. Now she's back to her normal life and back to the usual problems of meeting the rent and finding time for herself.
Stopping by another table, she takes the order of a coffee (black), and goes to make it.
But she's used to the problem of short term work and grabbing jobs where she can find them. They come and go. Sure, she doesn't have any papers, but she's never had papers. It just means she earns less than someone who's legally allowed to work - and praise be, Americans tip like crazy. She's worked out that she could probably live just off her tips, even if they stopped paying her entirely.
Everyone here in Los Angeles is crazy about working in films. Everyone here seems to either have a role, want one, or be writing a screenplay. Sometimes several at once. She's only been here a few days, but she's already decided that she's better off here in a cafe. And even though she thinks she's been ill, maybe it was something more suspicious. Until she remembers how she afforded the trip, she should be wary. Someone might have less than benign intentions directed towards her. Many of the women here dress so indecently - there's no way she could bring herself to do that! And it's not like it's benefiting them. She's always been perceptive, and she can tell straight away that most of the 'actresses' who come here are earning less than her.
And no doubt they can't make a coffee half-way as good as she can, she thinks as she makes it and serves it with a smile. Being able to make a good coffee is a much more
reliable skill than having a pretty face. Especially when you - like her -
also have a pretty face and know how to handle customers to make them feel better. Happy customers tip better.
No, she thinks looking out the window at the cars zooming by, the recent past was very unpleasant, but now that's in the past. She just needs to work on her English. She's fine for the moment, working at
CEMAL'S
Killjoy! And Jamelia's not a bitchy old woman! She's just realistic and ...experienced! She's just more mature than cheery young goofs like Sykes or children of the 90's like Rosario!
.
