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"Knees"  is a re-telling of an experience from this summer; the style was inspired by European films and the format of scripts.

Knees

Hairspray.  Door opens, door shuts.  Door opens, door shuts.  Key in ignition.   Fast-forward 45 minutes:  Door opens, Door shuts.  Two black high-heels click on pavement, short dress swishes back and forth; dress code.  Door opens, door shuts. 

“Morning, Ben.”

Response: “It’s not unheard of to get fired on your last day, so don’t fuck this up.”

“Yes, Ben.”

Door opens, door shuts. Two black high-heels click on the tile.  Spray bottle, paper towels, elbow grease.  Spot free Glass doors.  Typing.  Click. Tables for lunchtime guests assigned.  VIP notes updated.

Ben’s Voice: “I just got my hand print on the glass doors, clean them again.”

“Yes Ben.” 

Two black high-heels click on the tile.  Spray bottle, paper towels, clean again.

Ben’s voice: “I have a project for you today, then I want you out.”

Conscience: “I’ve never had a ‘project’ here…”

Ben:  “Get down and scrub all the shit off these kick plates, inside and out, and when you’re done polishing those, polish the threshold too.”

Conscience: “He’s never asked any of the girls to do that…”

Response: “Yes, Ben. Even with the guests already in the restaurant this morning?”

Ben: “Hurry up too. I want them to sparkle.”

Knees meet tile, one hand follows, other hand begins to scrub.  Front of the restaurant, for all to see.  Eyes, watching.  Faint laughter.  Shame. 

Male voice: “It’s kinda hot to see you down there.”

Comment ignored. 

Conscience: “Is my dress staying down?”

Scrubbing.  Back and forth.  More eyes, watching.

           Conscience: “It’s your last day, then it’s over.  Hurry up.  Guests are watching.  You’re not dressed to be on your hands and knees.”

Guest walks toward entrance.  Two black high-heels planted on tile once more.  Strange look from guest.  Door opened. 

Guest: “Thank you.” Door closes.

“You’re welcome, would you like to be seated inside or on the patio today?

Guest: “Inside. A table not a booth, please, and in a quiet spot, we are having a business lunch.”

“Of Course, right this way, please.” 

Two black high-heels are muted by carpet.  One hand pulls out chair.  Guest seated.  Other hand delivers menu; forced smile.  Eyes meet Ben’s.  Quickly now.  Knees meet tile once more.  Scrubbing, back and forth.  Eyes, watching.  Front of restaurant for all to see.  Whispers.  Humiliation.

Conscience: “Speak up.  This is not your job.”

Conscience: “You will be fired.”

Glistening bronze faintly emerges from underneath a dark layer of filth.  Hurry up, guests are commenting.  The cooks are laughing.  The servers are eying.  Ben is smirking.

Done.  Two black high-heels are planted on tile once more.

Conscience: “A real woman would have stood up for herself.”

Conscience: “You are not a real woman.”