“Nope.”
“None?”
“None.”
“Wow. You must don’t have any friends.”
That was offensive. “I have plenty of friends. Too many.”
“Then why don’t they call you Will or Bill or Willie or Billy or some other name like that?”
Because they all worked for him in some capacity and their very livelihoods depended on him. That was the real reason. Affection for him had nothing to do with it. Even the ladies he occasionally dated only wanted what they could get out of him. But it had been that way his entire life. “William is as informal as it gets, I’m afraid.”
“Nothing to be afraid about. Maybe ashamed about, but not afraid.”
William gave her a harsh look. “Why would I be ashamed of people calling me by my actual Christian name?”
“Because it’s so formal like you said. What kind of friends are they really if they’re so formal with you?”
The presumptuousness of this young lady was beginning to irritate him. Nobody dared to ever try and psychoanalyze him. Who did she think she was? He said nothing more on the subject.
Joy stared at him. She could tell he was pissed. “So what’s your story? You ever worked double shift before?”
“If by double shift you mean long, long hours? Then yes. Most of the time.”
“I’ll bet you don’t pull sixteen-hour days most days though.”
“Do you?”
“Not as much as I want to. Or need to,” she added.
For some reason that admission bothered William. “When do you get a chance to live if you’re working sixteen hours per day?”
“I live whenever I’m not working sixteen hours that day,” she said with a grin.
William smiled too. “Why do you work so many hours is perhaps what I meant to say?”
“I’m trying to stay a few bucks ahead of the poor house. That’s how Gramps put it. Trying to make ends meet is how I put it.”
“Ever thought about applying for a better-paying job?”
“Are you kidding me? That’s all I do when I’m not working. I apply everywhere.”
“But?”
“But nobody wants me.”
William found that an odd way to say it. “Why do you think they don’t want you, as you phrased it?”
“I guess it’s because nobody views waitressing as a marketable skill. But that’s the only skill I have.”
“Not marketable? That’s nonsense! You have the best skill of all. You have a great work ethic. It’s the work ethic that counts far more than how many hours you sat in a classroom or stood on a job.”
Joy smiled. “I agree! Thanks, William.”
“Netta?” Her manager’s voice could be heard in the distance.
“Oh boy,” said Joy. “Ma’am?” she yelled back.
