One More For The Road
Page 22
“Should I get you a gold star for telling me what I already know?”
“But you’re Frances Renner!” he stated again, still enthusiastic. “Your name is famous in my house. You’re basically a legend. My mother and aunt talk about you all the time! How you dropped out of school despite your parents’ wishes.”
“I’m taking a little break.”
“How you were arrested at the local pool for public intoxication.”
“It was a victimless crime.”
“How your parents continue to make scandalous, patched up donations to cover for your notoriously wild behavior.”
“That one sounds about right.”
He started to laugh again in big, gut busting chuckles. “I can’t believe I finally get to meet you! I’ll have to tell mom all about it. I’d started to think you were just some cautionary tale parents tell their children when they want them to behave.”
“I’m not a cautionary tale.” I started walking again, more determined this time. “I’m not a legend. I am, however, tired of being laughed at. Goodbye.”
I was nearly at the door to the employee’s entrance when he caught up with me. “Wait,” he called, reaching to brush my frozen arm with icy fingertips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”
“Well, that was one hell of a knee-jerk reaction.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated genuinely. “That’s not how I wanted to come off at all. I’m not really a jerk, I promise. Let me make it up to you. How about if I take you out for coffee sometime?”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “You want to take me out? Like a date?”
“Yeah. Like a date. You’re beautiful and clever and the most interesting person I’ve met tonight by a mile. And if the conversation lags, I know you’ll have a few scandalous stories up your sleeve.”
I looked him over, the neatly pressed pants, the broad shoulders covered by his dinner jacket, the fine blonde hairs that curling just under his ears.
What the hell.
“No coffee,” I answered finally. “Every coffee house in a twenty-mile radius has a wanted poster hanging on the front door with yours truly on it.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“That’s a risk you’re just going to have to take, I guess.”
“Alright then.” He grins. “How about I meet you here tomorrow and we can decide where to go from there? Sound good?”
I nodded. “I work until three, but I should be able to meet you after I get off.”
“Perfect.”
“Good,” I replied, smiling quite a bit myself. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I do believe my fifteen-minute break should have ended ten minutes ago. Sean’s either wondering where I am or attempting to sneak my sports bra out of my locker without my noticing. Either way, I should probably head back.”
I’d never even made it inside to the warmth of the party. But for some reason - a blue eyed, tuxedo-wearing reason – I wasn’t annoyed. “It was really nice meeting you—”
I stopped short. He never told me his name.
“Andrew,” he filled in the blank.
“Andrew,” I echoed with a smile. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You most certainly will.”
And then he was gone, back to the party, to the riches and society and the industrial heating of the indoors. I headed back around the hotel to the valet stand, biting my lip to stop the slow spread of a silly grin across my face.
“Frances! There you are!” Sean called as I turned the final corner, clutching his side as though he’d been running laps around the premises. “Your break was over ten minutes ago, and Roberts has been on the warpath!”
Roberts was the valet manager, originally named Alvin Roberts, though no one used his first name for obvious reasons. He was a huge, sulking man who I assumed never learned to smile and was currently neck deep in a nasty divorce battle with his second wife.
This did not bode well.
“What does he want?” I asked, trying to keep my cool as I brushed past Sean who was forced to turn a speedy 180 to keep up with me.
“He told me to inform you not to bother coming back to the station unless it’s to turn in your vest.”
I stopped in my tracks. “I’m fired?”
“Apparently.” He looked depressed even as he said it. “You locked Mr. Sampson’s keys in his Hummer, and he doesn’t have a spare on him.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“The engine’s still running.”
“Okay, so it’s a little bit my fault.” I shrugged. “Fuck. I didn’t even know that was possible.”
I slipped the vest off my shoulders without a fight, exposing myself to a blast of icy wind. “It was nice knowing you, Sean,” I said, flinging the vest at him and spinning on my heel toward employee parking.
I slipped my cell out of my back pocked and pushed speed dial two.
Ring…
Ring…
“Hello?”
“I got fired again.”
“Hey, Frances,” Katie sighed into the phone.
“Who is it?” a male voice called from the other end.
“It’s Frances!” Katie shouted back, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece. “She got fired again!”
There was a moment of silence before she returned. “John wants me to tell you we understand.”
I nearly vomited. “Please inform John that he is not part of the collective we.”
She ignored me. “What are you going to tell mom and dad this time?”
“I don’t know. Something about injustice and a desire to start a valet union, I guess.”
I didn’t know what I would tell them. Then again, I also didn’t care. My mind was already preoccupied with the thought of my upcoming date, though I would never tell my sister that. Not yet, anyway. There was something about this new guy, this Andrew. Something about him was different, and I couldn’t help but feel it would lead me to something important.
I smiled and bit down on my lip.
Big things were happening.
20.
The air smells of sea water and smog. I grin and inhale deeply through my nose.
I made it.
After spending an evening sleeping on a bench outside of our hotel, I’d managed to catch a ride to the nearest bus station with a group of hipster millennials — Nina and Nick, James and Seamus — two couples who were so kind I hadn’t even considered making fun of their layered scarves or questionable use of suspenders.
From there I’d spent my last dime purchasing a one-way ticket out of the city. I’d had just enough to cover the cost of a single seat to San Francisco, which, luckily, left that afternoon, and even though I’d tried to sleep, I’d spent the majority of the ride trying not to think about the empty seat to my right, and how if things had been different, if I had been different, I might have spent the time kissing a pair of full lips or napping with my head resting on a set of broad shoulders.
I wish I weren’t alone.
I regret it the second I think it. I can’t dwell on what is gone. I have to focus. There’s no one to fall back on, no one to a protect me if something goes wrong. I have to soldier on, take care of myself, and try not think about a muscular torso carved of lean marble or the crinkle at the corners of a pair of dark chocolate eyes.
Fuck.
I shake away the mental image of Jesse — stop saying his name, idiot! — and walk past Union Square, storing my hands in my pockets, keeping them clenched around the adrenaline and nerves building in my fingertips. I’m not sure where I’m going exactly. I hadn’t thought this far ahead. A hotel? A hostel? The local shelter? None of them seem like great or even plausible options, even as I realize my choices are limited. I could stand on the street corner and entertain the late-night crowds, telling jokes, singing songs, painting myself silver and pretending to be a statue as they throw enough money at me to buy another bus ticket.
But a ticket to where?
I keep walking neither direction nor outcome in mind. I march the length of Union Square, my hands gripped around the strap of my bag, realizing after a few minutes that I’m headed toward Chinatown.
The district is bustling, the world around me vibrant with life. Banners and lights stream across the streets and alleyways. Chinese lanterns hang from every corner, red, yellow, and green squares swaying back and forth in the evening breeze.
Sounds come at me from all directions. A quick, rapid language I don’t understand echoes off the walls, friends chat on street corners, mothers call their children in for bedtime as the kids pack up their games and head home. The smells of the area hit my nostrils with a sly barrage I don’t notice until I’m completely immersed in their scents. Mixtures of sweet and spicy, earth and man, duck sauce and engine exhaust, wonton soup, sweet drying laundry served with dim sum.
The narrow streets and alleys of Chinatown are crowded to near capacity, each doorway a makeshift vendor, every vendor selling something different. I make my way up the smoggy main road, politely declining offers for newspapers, fruits and vegetables, fresh fish, home remedies, jewelry, clothes and even snapping turtles.
A few more directions from generous locals, and I find myself heading East to the Embarcadero, passing coffee houses and quaint delis, the Transamerica Building and Telegraph Hill, all the while hearing the bells of the coming and going trolleys, rattling up and down the hills, carrying groups of tourists and locals alike.
Maybe it’s naïve of me, but I can’t help but feel a great sense of community with this new city. It’s as if I’m being welcomed with outstretched arms and a warm smile, as if it knows I should be here.
I cross the street and follow my feet to one of the many, long wooden piers jutting out over the bay, held over the surf by strong beams fixed into the surf. Groups of people line the railing, families, friends, couples, taking photos of the picturesque ocean, enjoying the beautiful summer morning.
I keep going until I reach the very end of the pier, the farthest place I can go, and rest my forearms on the cracked railing. Water stretches endlessly out in front of me, the horizon forever out of reach, like no matter how far I go, no matter how long I run, I’ll never reach it.
The waves rolling in from the vast stretch of ocean crash and break against the legs of the pier, dissipating into sharp bursts of white, salty foam. A light mist rises from the surf with each crash and I find myself drinking in its splendor, its smell, its taste, its color. The humid, soft sea breeze whips around me, tousling my hair, drying the droplets of sweat on my skin. I lean my head back, up towards the sun. I want to reach out and touch it, to bury myself in its rays.
I remain on the pier for hours, staring out at the waves as the sun sinks into my skin, warming my tired bones. I stand. I sit. I lay on the rough, splintering wood. be anywhere else in the world. I allow my mind to empty, to become blissfully blank, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t imagine myself anywhere else in the world.
Ring…
Ring…
Ring…
Ring…
“Hey, Katie. I guess you’re not in right now. I just wanted to let you know I made it to California, and I’m safe. This trip hasn’t been easy… none of this has been easy, but I’m okay.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You probably don’t care about California. My being there, I mean. Not the state as a whole… Fuck, I’m starting to ramble.
Listen, I’ve been thinking about it, and I just wanted to say… thank you. For being my sister, I mean. I know being my older sister couldn’t have been easy. It wasn’t easy for me either, not with our parents being… you know. They didn’t make my life a picnic or anything either, but… Shit. I’m not trying to make this about me, I swear. I wanted you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. And I don’t mean with just this whole runaway bride… thing. I mean, all of it. Thank you for putting out the fires, and for not giving up on me through all the mess. And I’m sorry I make life difficult, and I’m sorry I feel like a chore sometimes instead of a sister. Oh, and I’m sorry I told everyone at my engagement party you were our maid. Although, look on the bright side. You did get an awful lot of calls asking for your prices on carpet cleaning.
You were right, you know. Maybe it’s best if I stay gone for a while. I’m not saying I won’t ever come home, but San Francisco suits me. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I think I’ll stay here and see how things work out. If they work out. One of the locals told me about a restaurant a few blocks over that’s hiring wait staff, so maybe I’ll investigate getting a job there.
Anyway… I just needed to tell you… well, I needed to tell you I love you. And thank you.
I promise I’ll call again soon.”
21.
The day is slightly overcast, but warm for autumn, the sky coated with thick cloud-cover as the sun tries it’s best to break through. The plastic shopping bags strain and stretch against my fingers with the weight of the groceries I agreed to pick up for Mrs. Wen on my way back to the restaurant. I don’t mind running errands for her. She was kind enough to hire me when I had nowhere else to go, and besides, it’s another excuse to get out and see the city.
I’d spent my first night in San Francisco sleeping on yet another park bench, my bag fluffed beneath my head, my neck and shoulders swaddled in three layers of t-shirts to protect me from the evening chill coming in from off the bay. I’d woken the next morning, stiff and hungry, and stumbled into the first restaurant I could find, The Singing Dragon, nearly collapsing at the nearest empty table. I don’t know why I’d chosen a restaurant. It wasn’t as though I had any money to spend. Maybe I thought merely the smell of food might get me through the day. The poor waitress, a young girl with sleek, dark hair, had sprinted into the back to fetch her boss, no doubt so she could check if I was still alive.
The woman, Mrs. Wen, had taken pity on me, sliding a plate of something delicious — I don’t even remember what it was; I was too hungry to do anything but wolf it down — toward me as she sat in the chair on the other side of the table.
She’s older than someone might assume at first glance, in her late sixties or early seventies, the temples of her black, and now braided hair faded to a soft gray. Her friendly eyes are lined with crow’s feet, her mouth creased with laugh lines.
“You look like death warmed over,” she’d said, filling my glass from a pitcher of ice water.
I felt like it. But I’d simply nodded and continued stuffing my face with whatever was on my plate. She wasn’t wrong. I’m sure I did look terrible, dark circles of exhaustion beneath my eyes, skin sallow, hair matted and unwashed, shoulders slumped, heart shattered.
“You want to tell me what you’re doing here?” she’d asked.
I’d shrugged and swallowed down another mouthful.
“That’s okay,” she said. “You can tell me on your break.”
I don’t know what compelled her to do it, maybe I looked too tragic to ignore, but she hired me right then and there, even though I had little to no waitressing experience, and wasn’t a prime candidate to work in a Chinese restaurant. I finished eating and was taken into the back by one of the other waitresses, the one who’d found me slumped over the table, and given an apron and a notepad. She — Jun, I’d later learned — took my bag before explaining how to take orders, where to fill drinks, where to put the dirty dishes. I learned the ropes as I was dangling from them, having no choice but to sink or swim on my first day. Luckily, Mrs. Wen and the other members of the
staff showed me nothing but goodhearted patience, until, within a day or two, I found my footing.
Jun was even gracious enough to let me stay with her until I had enough saved to find a place of my own. I sleep on her pullout sofa, telling myself the creaking of the ancient springs and the pinch of the mattress is far better than suffering through another night out in the cold. I’m grateful for the hot showers, for the homecooked meals, shared with no expectation of reciprocation, for the roof over my head. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such kindness. Fuck knows my karma isn’t good enough to cash a check like this, but I’m grateful for my second chance. I’m grateful for Mrs. Wen, Jun, and for the city itself, which after a few weeks, doesn’t appear nearly as daunting as it had my first night.
Eventually I save up enough for a small, single bedroom apartment. The six-story walk up is nothing to write home about, cramped and smelling vaguely of cabbage, but it’s mine and it’s enough.
I find myself slipping into a pattern in San Francisco. My work at the restaurant is simple but earnest. I waitress Monday through Saturday, alternating morning and evening shifts, and run errands for Mrs. Wen whenever she needs me to go.
I visit Coit Tower and Telegraph Hill on my days off, the Transamerica Building and the entire financial district. I see the opera house, Russian hill, and the Victorian Housing district. I spend an entire day at the Golden Gate Bridge. Occasionally I head north, up Van Ness to the popular tourist spots like Fort Mason, Ghirardelli Square, and Fisherman’s Wharf, where I’m surrounded by tourists coming off the ferry, at least half wearing orange Alcatraz t-shirts, all smelling like fried fish and onions.
I see Aquatic Park for the fiftieth time and can make my way through the Mission and Presidio blindfolded. The smells and sights of Chinatown become as familiar as the back of my own hand; the delivery boys, the steam-houses, the crates laid out on the sidewalks in the morning filled with produce - carrots, cauliflower, cabbage, melons.
It isn’t long before the city by heart. I begin to feel less like a lost tourist and more like a local, learning what time the papers are delivered, how early my favorite bakery on Vallejo opens, what time the dance halls and bars close in the evenings.