by R. J. Blacks
But all of that is of no consequence to me now. As reality sets in, I realize I need to come up with a plan to get back on my feet. I have a little money saved, but I could not depend on it indefinitely. I need to find employment, that is, until I come up with a more permanent solution.
I hate the thought of going back to Sid’s. Not because I didn’t like working there, but because I would be a standout among the remaining staff. It’s not that they don’t care about me, they do. It’s just that I would be the subject of their whispers behind my back; how I was “kicked out” of the university. It would be impossible to relate to them the complexities of procuring a PhD in the face of a hostile industry response. The alternative, take a job at another local restaurant is not something I want to do either. If Sid found out, and he would, he would wonder why I had abandoned him. I owed Sid better than that.
I gather my things, decide to pay Sid a visit. As I make my way down the sidewalk, shop owners clear off the snow, optimistically hoping they can recover much of the business that was lost during the snowstorm. And they have only three days to do it. After that there would be practically no one around until a few days after the new year has begun.
I approach Sid’s, and of course, old Sid is out front shoveling snow. He really should let a younger man do that, but that’s Sid, never wanting to give up anything. It was always the same; the following day, he would complain to all of us about his aching muscles, but we all knew he was just showing off his battle scars. He was proud of them. He sees me approach, stops shoveling, and gives me a hug. He leans the shovel against the wall, and then, invites me inside.
As we pass through the front door, Sid does what I’ve seen him do a thousand times before. He touches a small brass icon attached to the door frame then kisses the fingers that touched it. When I first started working at the restaurant I had noticed him do this several times a day, whenever he would pass through the threshold. After a couple of weeks, I finally worked up the courage to ask him what it meant.
“It reminds me what’s important,” he said, and that was it. He never brought up the topic again and I never asked, but it was obvious it meant a lot to him because he never once missed doing it.
We go inside and the place is practically empty, but that’s not unusual at this time of the morning. It’s only 10:00 AM so the lunch crowd has not yet responded to the growing hunger in their stomachs. The early staff rushes around, back and forth, in and out of the kitchen, hastily preparing for the inevitable rush that occurs at noon. A few of them recognize me, wave. But they are too busy to stop and talk. Sid looks at me with the intensity of a father.
“How the heck are you?” he asks.
“Fine,” I respond.
“If my memory doesn’t fail me, you should be graduating this week.”
Oh damn. He would have to bring that up. How do I explain to him, my biggest supporter, I wouldn’t be graduating.
“Come, please, sit down,” he says, as he slides into a booth. He orders two coffees.
“On me. For old time’s sake.”
The waitress, someone I didn’t know, sets two coffees and a coffee cake on the table.
“Please,” he says, pointing to the cake.
I take a slice, nibble on it, agonizing over how I can tell him, in the nicest way possible, my situation.
“I have a little dilemma,” I say.
“You’re not in trouble, are you?”
“I wouldn’t call it trouble. It’s more like... well, a change in plans.”
“You didn’t drop out of school, did you?”
Sid had a way of getting right to the point; never pulled any punches.
“No... well, not intentionally.”
The smile fades from Sid’s face. He sits there, staring at me, a worried look in his eyes.
“It’s like this, there was a problem with my dissertation. But it’s not something that can’t be fixed. I just need time.”
Sid doesn’t say a word. He just stares at me. I feel like running away, like I let him down. And from the look on his face, I know he is thinking the same thing.
“I need a job. Until I can get things back on track.”
Sid’s eyes lower. He stares at the table for a long time. I sense something is wrong; this was not like Sid.
“You know, Indi,” he says. “If I was to hire anyone, you would be first on my list. But business has been slow lately, on account of the snow. I already have too many people, and God help me, I never could lay anyone off.”
Sid was telling the truth. Even when business was slow, during the summer months when most of the students were away, Sid would never lay anyone off. He would take the loss rather than submit someone to financial difficulty. But if someone wanted time off, for personal reasons, as long as it was slow season, Sid had no problem with it. He treated all of us like family and we loved him for it.
“Why don’t you come see me after New Year’s. Things should pick up by then. Even if they don’t, we’ll fit you in somehow.”
That was old Sid. Always trying to help someone in need. I understood completely. I knew I would be jeopardizing someone else’s job if he hired me now, and I didn’t want that. Sid gets up, reaches behind the counter and produces two Styrofoam boxes, the kind they put take-out lunches in. He places them in front of me.
“Why don’t you go in the back and fill these up with whatever you want,” he says. Then, to make me feel like I’m doing him the favor, he adds, “We have extra today. It’ll probably only go bad anyway.”
I knew he was only saying that so I wouldn’t feel guilty taking the food. But I’m getting hungry and who could turn down an offer like that from a restaurant that has won “Best of Philly” five years in a row.
Sid places the Styrofoam boxes stuffed with food in a plastic bag as I gather my things. He orders an extra-large coffee then places that in the bag also. I wave goodbye to everyone and give Sid a hug. “Don’t forget to see me after the holidays,” he says. I nod yes, then quickly walk out the door.
The sun was beginning to melt the thin layer of snow left behind by the plows revealing sections of black asphalt. It was a perfect day, cloudless, as it usually is after a heavy snowfall. I think about Will and how he would be so thrilled to get a warm meal along with some fresh-brewed coffee. I pass through the black-iron gates and onto university grounds. Students are everywhere, hustling to their finals, which had been rescheduled due to the snowfall. It would be a hectic day for everyone, with the university trying to squeeze five days into four. I see Ben and sprint over to the bench. Arriving, I see two students sitting on Will’s bench but no Will. I scan the area, still no sign of him.
I approach a security guard; what luck, it’s Stan, a friend. He works part time for the university while he pursues a degree in engineering. I met him a couple of years ago at the library late at night. From the way he was tossing crumpled-up paper into the trash can, one after another, and slamming his pencil on the table, it was obvious he was desperate. Finals were only two weeks away and I could see he was having trouble with his chemistry. Fortunately chemistry was my favorite subject so I offered to help. He was elated. I tutored him the entire two weeks meeting him every night at the library.
The day after the exam he called me; he had aced the final! He was so happy he treated me to dinner at “Le Bec Fin” the most exclusive restaurant in town. He spared no expense. Nothing ever came of our relationship though. He was cute and a good conversationalist, but not really my type. He was heavily into sports, and not just ordinary sports. He relished the ones with the highest risk. Things like snowboarding, bungee jumping and skydiving. The bigger the risk, he used to tell me, the better the rush. My idea of a rush is poking my head out the window of a ten story building, and then looking down. And I even avoid that! In spite of our differences, we’ve managed to remain friends. Stan sees me coming, waves.
“Seen Will around?” I ask.
“I think he’s at the emergency room.”<
br />
“What happened?”
“The night watchman found him face down in the snow,” he responds.
“Is he all right?”
“Don’t know. All I know is they took him away on a stretcher, about 2:00 AM I believe.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
“Where is he now?”
“My guess would be General.”
I knew General very well. It was only a couple of blocks from here. I had done volunteer work there three years ago.
“Thanks Stan, have to go,” I say, then make a mad dash for the hospital.
I slip through the entrance of the ER then go right to the front desk. In front of me is a woman complaining about a pain in her leg and how she needs more Oxycodone. The clerk checks a computer then tells her she’s already been here twice this week. The woman insists it wasn’t her, and that she’s in terrible pain, and if she doesn’t get the Oxycodone, she’ll pass out. The clerk refuses; the woman insists, threatening to call 911. Finally the clerk tells her to have a seat and the woman walks away. I rush up to the counter.
“Do you have a Will registered here?” I say. “Came in last night, about two.”
“What’s his last name?” asks the clerk.
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you a relative?”
“A friend.”
“Can’t give out personal information to anyone but a relative,” she says.
“But I’m the only one he has,” I plead.
“Rules are rules.”
“Just let me know if he’s still here.”
“Sorry, no personal information.”
“How will I know if he’s okay?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I think, searching for a way to get around those darn inflexible rules. Her patience wears thin.
“Would you kindly step out of line so I can help the person behind you,” she says.
I step to the side disappointed, contemplating my next move. I peer into the back area, straining to see, hoping to grab a glimpse of Will. And then I see him, Dr. Torroja. He’s interviewing a patient, taking notes on a tablet computer. He looks up for a moment; I wave. He sees me, winks in return. I return to the waiting area, take a seat. I’m certain Dr. Torroja, Rafael as I call him, will come and see me when he’s finished. We’re old friends.
I met him about three years ago, when I was volunteering at the hospital. He walks up to me on my first day and announces in a Spanish accent: “I am Dr. Rafael Eduardo Francisco Torroja, and if it be your pleasure, I would like you to be my assistant.” He rattled it off like he was royalty or some famous doctor. He was, in fact, an intern, but not just any intern. He stood there, in front of me, with an oversized tan, black hair, flashing eyes, and a certain old-world masculinity you seldom find in American males. He had a way of making me feel important and sexy and like I was the most beautiful woman on the planet. I was instantly in love. We dated a couple of times and then he dropped the bombshell. He explained, in no uncertain terms, that upon completion of his residency he would be returning to Madrid to marry a girl picked out by his parents. It seems he hails from an old Spanish family and they have a history of arranging weddings for over four hundred years. It’s just the way they do things over there.
I asked him: “Do you love her?”
“She’s very beautiful,” he answered.
“But do you love her?”
He thought about the question for a very long time then answered: “Love does not come in a day. I have known this girl for a very long time, since we were children. She is from a good family. And she presents herself very well in public. But if you ask me if I love her, I would have to say... no.”
“Then why will you marry her?” I ask.
“Because I am a Torroja,” he answers. “And a Torroja must follow his family tradition.”
He recited it like it had been drummed into him since he was a boy. I didn’t think he would really go through with it—our love was too strong—so I continued to date him. But as time went on, the realization sank in he was committed to his pledge, that he would marry that girl in Madrid. It was pointless to go on. I could never be more than his number two and the more I thought about it the more it skeeved me. I finally decided I would end it. But the response I received was not what I expected.
“I’m very pleased you have come to this decision,” he said, carefully forming the words in spite of his accent.
The thought entered my mind, maybe he was seeking to end it also, and this was just the excuse he needed.
“You don’t love me?” I ask.
He thought about it for a long time.
“True love is not selfish, just wanting someone for themselves,” he says. “True love is desiring the other person to be happy also, no matter what the cost. That is what I feel for you.”
It was his way of saying if it was up to him, he would keep our relationship going. But he was bound by tradition, and there was no way out for him. It would be better to end it than for me to always be wanting what I could not have. I took his hand, gently caressed it. I understood completely and he understood I understood. To this day we remain friends. We have lunch or coffee a couple of times a month to keep up on things. But we both know the day will come when he will travel back to Madrid and be a loyal husband to his wife and we will probably never ever see each other again.
Rafael finishes up with the patient then approaches me.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“Well, actually, no,” I respond.
“Then what is it?”
“I need a favor.”
“Of course, anything.”
“A man was brought here last night. I need to know what happened to him.”
“The desk can help you.”
“No. They won’t tell me anything because I’m not related.”
“A friend then?” he asks, with a hint of jealousy.
“Yes, just a friend. He’s homeless. I’m bringing him some food,” I say, showing him the bag.
“Let me check the log,” he says, walking towards the back. He signals me to follow him. Rafael stops at a computer.
“What’s his name?”
“Will.”
“His last name.”
“I don’t know.”
“Last night you say?” he asks, scrolling down the list.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Ah yes, there’s a Will Franklin, logged in at 2:30 AM.”
He points to the entry on the computer screen.
Franklin... I wonder; is that why he hangs around Ben’s statue all the time? Maybe he imagines himself to have some sort of kinship with Old Ben.
“I think that’s him. Is he here?”
“It only says, Transferred.”
A lump forms in my throat. I worked here long enough to realize there are only three ways out of the ER. You either get admitted to the hospital, discharged, or transferred to the morgue. I feel my hand shaking.
“Did he pass away?”
“If he passed away it would say ‘Expired’. It only says ‘Transferred’.”
“What does that mean,” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Let me find out.”
Rafael approaches a male nurse. I can’t quite hear what they are saying, but I make out Will’s name. Rafael comes back.
“That nurse was here last night. He remembers Will. He says Will was dehydrated and his glucose was low. The combination apparently caused him to pass out. He also suffered a little hypothermia. They treated him then released him.”
“Released him?”
“They transferred him to St. Mary’s.”
I knew St. Mary’s. It was a shelter for the homeless, only a couple of blocks from here.
“Thanks Rafael. I owe you a dinner.”
“You owe me nothing. For old time’s sake.”
Rafael was such a gentleman. There were no hard feelings between us. He was such a great friend.
&
nbsp; I rush over to St. Mary’s, burst through the front door, and then, dash up to the front desk. St. Mary’s was not like the hospital. The nuns liked to have visitors for the “guests” as they called them. They offered not only food, drink, and a bed, but tried to raise their self-esteem, make them feel like they were special, like they were loved. I approach a nun dressed in a traditional black and white habit.
“Is there a Will here?” I blurt out.
“Oh, Will,” she says. “Yes, they brought him here last night. He’s upstairs.”
“May I see him?”
“Of course, follow me.”
She leads me up some stairs to a white-washed room filled with four bunk beds, a crucifix on the back wall, and little else. All the beds are empty, except one. I recognize Will; his eyes are closed. The nun approaches him.
“Will, wake up,” she says. “You have a visitor.”
“Please, let him sleep. I’ll come back later.”
Will opens his eyes, sees me, smiles.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“He’s doing fine, aren’t you Will?” says the nun.
He nods his head in agreement.
“I brought some food; can he eat?” I ask.
“Oh I’m sure he can. He’s been sleeping since last night. How about it Will? Ready for lunch?”
Will nods his head again.
“I have to get back to the front desk. Spend as much time as you wish,” she says, and retreats from the room.
I set up a folding tray next to his bed and place the Styrofoam box and coffee cup on the tray. I open the box revealing the most excellent slice of prime rib money can buy. Will’s eyes light up as the aroma of the food permeates the room. I put a knife and a fork on the tray and he wastes no time slicing off a piece and placing it in his mouth.
“What happened?” I ask, as he gobbles down the steak.
