Arthur never thought he'd be so delighted to be handed a black apron and told to get his ass moving wiping down tables. Though certainly not the glamorous life any immigrant would've envisioned on their trek across the pond, the fact remained that he was here in New York with a livable apartment and a paycheck on the way. Not to mention far, far away from his dear old family.
Yes, Arthur was delighted.
He'd applied for job after job at nearly every establishment in the goddamn city, and only one had even acknowledged him. It was a classy but run-down place, boasting the highest quality authentic Italian cuisine in the neighborhood. It was run by a pair of charismatic Italian brothers, who happened to be immigrants themselves. He liked to think that had nothing to do with their reluctant decision to hire him.
"You'll be taking orders and clearing tables starting right away. Just try not to fuck up," admonished the elder of the two Vargas brothers. "We're low on funds as it is, so if ya end up costing us, you're out," he said, sliding a foreboding index finger across his neck. "And you're English, so I want you no where near the kitchens."
"Right. I'll keep that in mind, sir," Arthur said, ignoring the jab. He turned to go tend to his new job when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"One more thing." Vargas gestured toward the far corner of the restaurant, where a polished cherrywood grand piano sat atop makeshift stage. "You don't touch the piano. Don't even go near it. That thing cost an arm and a leg, got it? And I'm sure Alfred could easily manage to take that from ya if you mess with his one and only."
Arthur allowed the warning to sink in, briefly wondering who the hell Alfred was, before answering. "Of course, sir."
"Good. Now get yer ass moving!"
With that warm welcome out of the way, Arthur got to work cleaning, letting a curious gaze sweep the periphery of the restaurant, taking in his new workplace. It was a sizable joint, though dimly lit and with furnishings that had obviously seen better days. The only exception, he noted, was that piano. It seemed to be in pristine condition, not a scratch, dent, or blemish to be seen on its sleek crimson exterior. Who here plays that thing, anyway? he wondered. And when? He looked around at the different wait staff that passed him as they served table to table.
Then he looked left.
And immediately locked eyes with another server, standing closer than he'd realized. He was short and young, with silver-gray hair and rust brown eyes that were, he noticed with a jolt, intensely focused on Arthur.
The boy wasn't moving about like the other workers. Just standing. And staring. Trying to combat the cold rush of intimidation that ran down his spine, the Englishman put on what he hoped was a friendly smile. "Hello there, I'm Arthur. I'm a new waiter here."
'Tony', his nametag read.
The young waiter stared a moment longer before narrowing his eyes and scowling. "Great, they finally hire someone new, and it's a fucking limey," he said at full volume, not even bothering to disguise the disdain in his voice. Then he abruptly turned and walked away.
Arthur blinked. Warm welcome indeed…