Chlorine and coconut shrimp punched my nose. I checked my phone for the millionth time. No messages. No missed calls. Just the glaring reminder that it was 5:37 PM on a Saturday night, and I was still stuck at the Rainforest friggin’ Cafe.
“Excuse me, where’s my mojito?” a woman in oversized sunglasses and a sunburn barked at me. She looked like a lobster that had raided Paris Hilton’s closet.
“I’m not your server,” I said, but she was already back to swiping through her Instagram feed. Probably searching for the nearest emergency room to treat third-degree tanning bed burns.
I hated this place. The fake trees. The animatronic monkeys. The ten-dollar kids meals that came with a souvenir plastic parrot. It was all so kitschy and soul-crushing. But most of all, I hated the fact that I needed this job.
I glanced outside where a group of hipsters loitered, vaping and making plans for the night. Plans that didn’t involve wearing stupid khaki shorts or dealing with tourists. I was going to drown in a sea of ironic Hawaiian shirts and vape pens.
“Ty, you’re still here?” Enrique, one of the cooks, poked his head out of the kitchen. His face was a greasy sheen of sweat, and he held a Mexican Coke bottle, lime wedge already jammed in the neck. “Thought you were off an hour ago.”
“Waiting for Tiff to show. She’s late. Again.”
Enrique shrugged. “You can cut if you want. We won’t tell.”
Tempting. So damn tempting. “Nah, I’ll wait.” If I left and Tiff ratted me out, I’d be even more screwed.
I slunk back to the host stand where Mandy, the hostess, was chewing on a piece of bamboo. At least, I hoped it was bamboo. “How’s the green meanie?” I asked.
Mandy took the makeshift chew toy out of her mouth and examined it like a jeweler appraising a gem. “It’s organic,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Good for the environment.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You know that chewing on plants doesn’t make you a vegetarian, right?”
She shrugged, noncommittal. “It’s better than smoking.”
“Since when did you quit?”
“Yesterday,” she said, then added, “for now.”
I glanced at her fingers, yellowed from years of nicotine abuse. Mandy was one of those perpetual burnouts who looked like she’d been thirty-five since high school. “I’m sure your lungs are grateful for the brief vacation.”
She rolled her eyes and stuck the bamboo back in her mouth, gnawing on it like a panda with an attitude problem. “Don’t worry about me. How’s Tiff?”
“Still MIA,” I said, leaning on the counter. “But I’m sure she’ll stroll in right as I’m about to leave, like always.”
“You could just bail, you know. It’s not like she’d cover for you if the roles were reversed.”
She had a point, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “I need the hours,” I lied. The truth was, I needed the job more than the hours, and screwing up my already precarious position here wasn’t an option.
Mandy took the bamboo out of her mouth again and twirled it in her fingers. “You know, if you ever need a reference, I could talk to my buddy at the vape shop. They’re always looking for help.”
“Thanks,” I said, though the thought of working in a vape shop wasn’t much more appealing than staying at the Rainforest Cafe. At least here, I had some history. Some familiarity. Plus, the idea of inhaling fruit punch-flavored clouds all day made me slightly ill. “I’ll think about it.”
She flipped her turquoise hair and smirked. “Vegan as fuck.”
I didn’t dislike Mandy. In fact, there was a time when we were closer. We once made out in the parking lot after a staff meeting, back when she still ate burgers and smoked unfiltered Camels. We even watched Half Baked together and laughed at the same parts. That was before she went full herbivore and started dating a dude named Sky or River or some other nature-themed first name.
I leaned in. “Remember in Half Baked when Dave Chappelle does the Jamaican accent? ‘Right near da beach. Boy-eeeee.’”
Mandy’s face hardened. “You can’t talk like that, Ty.”
I blinked. “What?”
“That’s cultural appropriation.”
I laughed, but Mandy didn’t. “You’re serious?”
She crossed her arms, which in her case was a feat of athleticism given the size of the gauges in her earlobes. “Totally.”
Cultural appropriation? Seriously?
I threw up my hands. “It’s a movie quote!”
“It’s offensive.”
This from the girl who once told a customer to “shove a meatball up his ass” during a particularly heated spaghetti incident. I bit my tongue. No point in arguing with someone who believed kale had feelings and that smoking “organic” anything was better for you.
“Whatever,” I said, turning away. I grabbed the tacky wooden parrot that served as our reservation list and started to walk toward the bar. Maybe the lobster woman had a point; a mojito sounded pretty fantastic right now. Hell, I’d even settle for one of those overpriced, non-alcoholic smoothies with a paper umbrella.
I paused and glanced back at Mandy. We’d had some good times, once upon a time. Like the night we all got sloshed after the Christmas party and she dared me to jump into the bay. Or the time we formed an impromptu staff soccer team and played against the Pier 39 workers. She used to be fun, before she got so... righteous.
I sighed and looked at the bar again, the temptation growing. Drinking on the job was a fireable offense, sure, but if I was going to be stuck here indefinitely, I needed something to take the edge off. Besides, Enrique would cover for me. Probably.
My mind drifted to the stack of bills on my kitchen counter, the kindling for a bonfire of debt that threatened to consume me. Could I really afford to get fired? Could I afford not to? The thought of coming here every day, of dealing with Mandy’s holier-than-thou attitude and Tiff’s perpetual lateness, made my stomach churn.
I stopped and looked back at Mandy. “You know, I could just quit. Would make everyone’s life easier.”
She gave me a once-over, her eyes briefly softening. “You won’t.”
She was right, damn her. I couldn’t quit, not until I found something else. Something that didn’t involve appropriating cultures or delivering coconut shrimp to sunburned fashion victims. I opened my mouth to concede, maybe even thank her for the offer about the vape shop, when Mandy’s eyes flicked over my shoulder and widened.
I turned to see Tiff strolling in, completely unhurried, like she was taking a leisurely walk on the beach. “Sorry, traffic,” she said, not even aiming the apology at me but in the general vicinity of my face. “Can you believe the Giants game let out right as I was getting off the freeway?”
My anger had a hair trigger at this point. “You live five minutes away, Tiff. And there’s no game today.”
She shrugged, completely blasé. “Must’ve been a concert or something. Anyway, I’m here now, so you’re good.”
“Are you serious?” I said, incredulous. “I’ve already stayed an extra hour. I have plans.”
And then the ground beneath us started to shake.
The faux jungle canopy above us rustled as if a giant had taken hold and given it a vigorous shake. Diners screamed. One of the animatronic gorillas let out a mechanical bellow. I grabbed the host stand to steady myself, my heart doing its own set of jumping jacks in my chest.
“Earthquake!” someone yelled, stating the obvious.
Tiff froze like a deer in headlights, her eyes darting around the room as if the walls were about to close in on her. I took a step toward her, then hesitated. Why was I always the one to save everyone else? Couldn’t she just...
“Get under a table!” I shouted at her, but she didn’t move. I cursed under my breath and lunged, pulling her down just as a decorative glass sphere fell from the ceiling and shattered where we had been standing.
The whole restaurant was a scene from a disaster movie. Families huddled under tables, clutching their overpriced souvenir cups and each other. The floor undulated like a funhouse attraction, and the sound of crashing dishes mixed with the shrieks of terrified children created a symphony of chaos.
I looked over at Mandy, who was crouched behind the host stand, her hands covering her turquoise head. “You okay?” I shouted.
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She nodded, but her face was pale, almost green in the dim, jungle-themed lighting.
I turned my attention back to Tiff, who was trembling. “It’s gonna be okay,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed it. The quake showed no sign of letting up, and I started to wonder if the building’s gaudy, faux-rainforest structure could withstand this kind of punishment.
“Ty,” Tiff whispered, her voice small and scared. “I’m sorry.”
“Save it,” I said, but gently. “Just save it for later.”
The giant Atlas statue in the center of the restaurant, a grotesque piece of kitsch holding up a mock globe, began to sway dangerously. I calculated the trajectory in my head; if it fell, it would take out at least three tables and whoever was cowering beneath them.
“Shit!” yelled Enrique from the kitchen. His Coke hit the floor with a crash.
San Francisco: beautiful views, ridiculous rent, and the occasional life-threatening earthquake. This one felt big. Not 1906-big, but enough to ruin someone’s evening.
I ducked under the host stand and motioned for Mandy to join me. She stood frozen, a fluorescent statue of herself, right down to the piercings.
“Mandy, get down!”
She snapped out of it and dove beside me just as a large ceramic toucan dislodged from its perch and shattered on the floor. The whole restaurant swayed like a drunk toddler.
“Mommy!” a kid yelled from the front of the restaurant. I peeked out and saw a young boy pointing at the huge Atlas statue that dominated the entrance. It wobbled on its base, threatening to topple.
“Help!” screamed a woman, presumably the mom. She was pinned under a stroller, unable to reach the kid.
Without thinking, I sprinted toward them. The floor shook harder, and I nearly ate shit twice. I grabbed the kid just as Atlas took a nosedive.
I saved him.
***
The next day at work I was applauded a hero and given a year subscription to the Safari Club where I could get a free appetizer with a purchase of an entree.
Jesus.
"Another Mai Tai for table six!" I shouted over the simulated monsoon as I scurried behind the faux-bamboo bar. The bartender, a wiry guy named Pete with a lip piercing, nodded and set to work. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with a sleeve already damp from the café’s perpetual humidity. The whole place was like a sweat lodge for stuffed animals, with its plush jungle creatures and vinyl-leather décor.
I loaded a tray with nachos and something called a Tropical Heatwave, then navigated the serpentine paths that cut through the dining area. A life-sized toucan dipped from the ceiling, its beak opening and closing with the hydraulic whine of an iron lung. I glanced at my tables, noting which ones had full mouths and empty glasses; an acute skill I'd honed during my time as a professional drifter.
"Mommy, look!" a small girl shrieked. She pointed at a glass enclosure where a mechanical boa constrictor twitched with all the menace of a short-circuited Roomba. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes; once upon a time, I'd found that thing terrifying. Now it just looked tired. We had that in common.
I deposited the nachos at table twelve, exchanged pleasantries, and checked my watch. Another ten minutes and I could sneak a break. My stomach growled, but I knew better than to feed it with anything from the menu. Eating Rainforest cuisine was like pouring molten lava into a sinkhole; it promised more explosive work for the plumbing later.
With a practiced smile that felt like stretching old taffy, I greeted a new table and took their drink orders. My mind drifted as I scribbled on my notepad, the sounds of the café blurring into a single, droning note. I was on autopilot, a state of being I'd grown too comfortable with lately. Life had become a series of repetitive tasks: wake up, work a shift, go home, rinse, repeat. The adventure I'd once craved now seemed as distant as a half-remembered dream.
The drinks for table six arrived, and I hurried back to deliver them, sloshing Mai Tai and Piña Colada over their rims. I distributed them with the precision of a drone strike, then booked it to the server station to check the seating chart. We were packed, as usual, and the rush wasn’t dying down anytime soon. Great.
My watch beeped, signaling the end of its life and the start of my break. I silenced it with a flick of the wrist, then made my way to the employee lounge, a grandiose title for a broom closet with a mini-fridge and two wobbly chairs. I pulled out my worn notebook and a pen, then hesitated. Flipping through the pages, I saw sketches of dragons, elves, enchanted forests—all the things that had once ignited my imagination. Now they just mocked me.
I closed the notebook with a sigh and leaned back, letting the rain seep into my consciousness. Maybe this was it. Maybe I was destined to be the guy who took your order at a themed restaurant, forever stuck in a loop of mechanical wildlife and overpriced cocktails.
I slipped out of the employee lounge and into the main dining area, finding a small table in the corner. The banter of customer chatter blended with the café's synthetic soundscape, creating an ambiance that was both oppressive and surreal. It was like eating dinner inside a gaudy nature-themed snow globe, minus the charm.
Settling into my chair, I pulled out my notebook and pen again. The cover was peeling, and the pages had taken on a wavy texture from years of being stuffed into various pockets and backpacks. It was my one constant, a poor man's grimoire filled with doodles and daydreams.
I flipped to the last page and started sketching. A phoenix, its wings ablaze, rising from a pile of burnt takeout menus. Art had always been my way of coping, of transforming the mundane into the magical. Growing up, I’d drawn myself into countless adventures: as a knight, as an astronaut, as the lone human in a world of orcs and goblins. Each sketch was a portal to somewhere better, somewhere more interesting than here.
These days, the drawings felt more like therapy sessions than escape plans. I traced the phoenix's beak with the tip of my pen, wondering how long it would take for my hand to cramp. Probably less time than it took for me to ruin my last few half-baked masterpieces.
The truth was, I was dissatisfied. Not just with the job, but with life in general. Wasn't that supposed to kickstart an adventure?
I glanced at the envelope again. Maybe this was it—a call to action, a quest, an invitation to something grand. Or it could just be a bill, dressed up in schmaltzy trappings to make me open it faster. I laughed at myself for hoping.
Just as I was about to stow the thing back in my fanny pack a burst of warm, humid air announced someone entering the café.
A woman stood at the entrance, momentarily backlit by the setting sun. The light cast a halo around her tall, wiry frame, making her look like a rebellious angel sent to take names. She wore a long, velveteen coat the color of absinthe, with brass buttons that ran asymmetrically from her left hip to her right shoulder. A gaudy fashion statement, but it worked.
What really caught my eye was the hat. Perched jauntily atop her head was a small, pointed thing that could only be described as a witch's hat, though it looked more like something a five-year-old would craft from construction paper and glitter. Her hair was a tangle of gray and silver, the kind of unruly mass you’d get if you stuck your head in a birdcage and shook it around.
She paused, surveyed the room, and I expected at any moment for an animatronic parrot to squawk "Ahoy, matey!" The woman unfastened her coat with slow, deliberate movements, each flick of a finger measured and precise. I found myself leaning forward, curious, as she draped the coat over her arm. She wore a corset underneath, lace-trimmed and faded, like something pulled from a grandmother’s hope chest. A cameo brooch adorned her neck, the silhouette unrecognizable from my distance.
No one else seemed to notice her, which was odd given how conspicuously out of place she looked. This was suburban strip-mall territory; the most exotic attire anyone dared to don was a Hawaiian shirt from Target. The woman’s getup was pure anachronism, like a walking time capsule from a steampunk convention.
She started toward the host stand, her footsteps silent against the tile. I expected a clatter from the heels of her Victorian booties, but there was nothing—just the perpetual drizzle of the sound system and the low murmur of dinner conversation. The host was busy seating a large party, and the woman halted a few paces away, waiting with an air of serene impatience.
I couldn’t stop staring. Something about her screamed "out of place," but in a way that was deliberately calculated. Like she wanted to stand out and be noticed—except by everyone here.
The host finished seating the large party and turned her attention to the woman, who produced a slip of paper from a tiny purse at her waist. She handed it over with the kind of nonchalance you'd expect from an heiress distributing calling cards. The host glanced at it, then at the woman, then back at the paper. Whatever was written on it must have been interesting, because the host shrugged and pointed in my direction.
The woman didn't thank her or acknowledge the gesture. Instead, she turned and made a beeline for my table, her movements as fluid and unhurried as a specter. I sat up straighter, anticipation tingling in my fingertips. Had she come to explain the envelope? To deliver news in person?
She stopped at my table and looked down at me, her eyes a piercing, unwashed-blue. Up close, she had the gaunt but sturdy features of a pioneer woman, the kind who'd survived three famines and a wolf attack. She didn't smile, but there was an almost grandmotherly kindness in the way she regarded me.
"Mr. King," she said. Her voice was soft, yet it cut through the din of the café with eerie clarity. "You are cordially invited."
With that, she produced another envelope from her purse and set it on the table. The stationery matched the first—ornate, old-fashioned, with an embossed crest that caught the light. She lingered for a moment, as if expecting me to say something, but my tongue was tied in a Gordian knot of confusion and curiosity.
"Wait," I managed to croak, but she was already walking away, her body dissolving into the crowd like a dab of oil in water. I watched her move toward the entrance, half-expecting her to mount a broomstick and take flight when she hit the parking lot.
I looked down at the new envelope, then picked it up and felt its weight in my hand. It was heavier than paper had any right to be, like it carried the mass of the whole nineteenth century with it. I glanced toward the entrance; the woman was gone, vanished into the strip mall's twilight.
Cautiously, I peeled open the envelope and slid out a single piece of parchment. The edges were scalloped, and the surface had a pearlescent sheen. Calligraphy swirl across the envelope in deep, iridescent hues:
For your act of courage the House of Wisenforth requests your presence
Bothwell needs all its allies.
Join us, Tyler King.
My eyes widened. Bothwell. The name struck a chord, a dissonant note in a forgotten melody. I read the rest of the invitation, which detailed a location and time—both of which were uncomfortably soon. There was even a small, hand-drawn map.
My mind raced with a thousand explanations, none of them making a lick of sense.
I read the invitation three times, each pass slower than the last. The script was immaculate, almost inhuman in its precision. How had they written this? With a laser? An enchanted pen? The words "Wisenforth" and "Bothwell" stuck out like sore thumbs, throbbing with an otherworldly importance.
Carefully, I slid the parchment back into its envelope. The raised crest tickled my fingertips, and I traced its lines, trying to decipher the symbol. It looked like a combination of a wand and a staff, with a starburst where they intersected. The whole thing had a subtle shimmer, like it was woven from threads of starlight.
I pulled the first envelope from my apron and compared the two. They were identical, right down to the texture and color. These weren't knock-offs or hastily made copies; each was a genuine article, crafted with a level of care that bordered on obsessiveness.
My thoughts wandered to the woman. Who was she? Some kind of sorceress? A time-traveling grandmother? And why had she come to me? The idea that this was a prank played by someone at work briefly crossed my mind, but it didn’t hold up. No one here knew about Bothwell. Hell, I barely remembered it myself, and I’d lived through the whole bizarre experience.
I flipped the new envelope over in my hands, mesmerized by its unearthly glow. Was this real? Could magic actually exist, waiting for me just beyond the veil of everyday life? The sheer absurdity of it all made me grin.
The sounds of rain and animal calls faded to nothing, and for a brief, intoxicating moment, I felt that old spark.