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Episode 13: The Anger of Cindy
The 5:00 AM alarm didn't just wake Cindy; it assaulted her. Her head throbbed with the rhythmic pulse of a brutal hangover, and the air in her room felt thick with the ghost of last night’s tequila.
She had to be in the main dining room for the breakfast rush, followed by a lunch shift in the Remote Dining Room—a drafty, high-ceilinged hall on the far side of the camp—and then a dinner double.
By the time the breakfast dishes were cleared, Cindy was vibrating with resentment. She marched up to the small, cluttered office of the Dining Room Head.
Mrs. Gable, a 65-year-old woman with hair the color of steel and eyes that could spot a smudge on a spoon from fifty paces, didn't even look up from her clipboard.
"Mrs. Gable, I can't do the remote shift today," Cindy began, her voice brittle. "I’m physically exhausted, and honestly, after what Ted put me through last night, my mental health is—"
"Save it for your diary, Cindy," Mrs. Gable snapped, finally looking up. Her voice was like gravel over silk. "A number of people are out sick today.
We are skeleton-crewed. You’ll work the breakfast, you’ll trek over to the Remote for lunch and dinner, and you’ll do it with a smile or you’ll find yourself at the unemployment office in Tillamook."
"But—"
"I’ll give you another day off next week sometime, but we need to staff these jobs," Mrs. Gable cut her off, already hauling a massive tray of industrial-sized juice pitchers toward the floor. "Now get moving. Those tables won't bus themselves."
The day was a blur of back-breaking labor. Between shifts, Cindy didn't even have the energy to plot. She spent her one-hour breaks slumped against the cold stone exterior of the Remote Dining Room, watching the clock.
Worse yet, she found out through the kitchen grapevine that Ted had the day off. While she was hauling heavy stacks of linens and scrubbing dried oatmeal off high-chairs with only three other exhausted co-workers, Ted was out there somewhere, free of her and free of the grind.
Every time she wiped down a table or reset a place setting, she imagined she was scrubbing
Ted’s face. The physical work was a special kind of hell; the "Lifers" on staff didn't talk to her, and her co-workers were too tired to listen to her lies. Her poisoned words about
Ted "harassing" her fell flat against the reality of Mrs. Gable’s relentless pace and the sheer volume of work.
Across the grounds, in Dorm Seven, the atmosphere was a world away.
Allyson was humming a light, airy tune—something she’d heard on the radio—as she stood on a chair to pin up her posters. For the first time, she didn't have to ask permission.
On one side of her doorway, she taped up her glossy boy band fan clips from '98; on the other, she proudly displayed her heavy rock icons, from Metallica to Korn. It was a messy, glorious contradiction that was purely her.
She stepped down and looked around the room. The air felt lighter here. It wasn't just the space; it was the lack of Cindy’s suffocating judgment. She wandered into the communal bathroom, marveling at the luxury of it.
"Three showers," she whispered to herself, testing the spray of a showerhead. "And two toilets."
No more waiting for Cindy to finish her hour-long sessions in the sink. She stood before the wide, expansive mirror that stretched over two sinks.
It was perfect—the kind of space where a girl could actually take her time with her makeup or fix her hair without feeling like an intruder.
Allyson felt a surge of genuine, unadulterated joy as she picked up another box of her belongings, her movements quick and energized.
After the final, grueling dinner shift, Cindy finally dragged her feet back to her old room.
Her back ached and her pride was in tatters. She pushed open the door, ready to unleash a torrent of vitriol on Allyson, but the words died in her throat.
The room was hollow. Allyson’s posters were gone, her bed was stripped bare, and the silence was an insult. With no one left to vent to,
Cindy changed out of her stained uniform and headed for the staff lounge. She pulled her heavy brass key from her pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped into the dim, flickering light.
Three permanent staff members were slumped in the mismatched armchairs, their eyes glued to the large, boxy television. They were midway through Titanic. On the screen, the grand staircase was being swallowed by the Atlantic.
Cindy didn't care. She flopped onto the end of the sofa, letting out a loud, theatrical sigh.
Cindy: "You guys wouldn't believe the day I've had. Mrs. Gable is a total tyrant, and I’m pretty sure Ted is the reason I’m being targeted.
He’s been poisoning the supervisors against me just because I wouldn't let him crawl back to me on the beach. It’s pathetic, really—"
The oldest of the three staffers didn't say a word. He just reached for the remote and hit Stop. The blue screen flickered to life. He stood up, walked to the VCR, and pressed Eject.
With slow, deliberate movements, he slid the tape back into its case. The other two staffers stood up in unison, not even glancing at Cindy.
Staffer: "Some of us actually worked today, Cindy. We don't have the energy for the fiction."
They filed out of the lounge, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. Cindy sat alone in the blue light, the silence of the room ringing in her ears.
She was boiling—red-hot, skin-prickling angry. She had been dismissed like a child, and the isolation felt like it was finally closing in for good.
