by Dalya Moon
I shook my head at Courtney. “You totally say those double entendre things for his benefit, don't you?”
Courtney winked and did her crooked smile. “He's married with kids, so we're all he's got. It's practically charity.”
Someone whistled for service, so we broke away from our window grouping and went back to work.
At the end of my shift, after the other serving staff came in to relieve us, Courtney and I sat in the back by the tiny window facing the alley and counted up our tips. The weather was nice, so we had the window cracked open for fresh air.
“Did you steal some of my money?” I asked Courtney. “Like for a joke? I have almost no tips. I made way less than usual.”
“Tough break,” she said. “Need a loan? No interest.”
“I don't understand. I was so nice to people, all day. Like, SO nice. I listened, and I didn't tell people what eggs they wanted, or make fun of their hats, and there were some seriously weird hats today. Did you see the guy who looked like a sailor? I totally let that go.”
“Let me think,” Courtney said, tugging at her thick row of false eyelashes and then smoothing them out. I'd worn falsies once before, and they're not comfortable, so I could only imagine how vain you had to be to wear them every day. But … if they made Courtney happy, who was I to interfere?
“You were too nice,” Courtney said. “You were ingratiating, which doesn't fly, and doesn't get you tips. You have to act like you hate them, so they buy your approval.”
“The world shouldn't work like that.”
She patted me on the knee. “Your youthful idealism is totes adorbs. The real world will crush that out of you soon enough. Now what are you going to wear to this art show date?”
“It's not a date and I'm not going.”
“You like Crossword Guy. What's his name again?”
“I forget,” I lied. His name was Marc, with a C at the end instead of a K, and I desperately wanted to google it and see if that meant he was French or what.
“You'll go. You like him,” she said.
“I don't like him. I never liked him.”
Courtney went back to counting her money, setting aside the portion for the kitchen staff.
I peeked again at the postcard and tried to push the idea out of my mind. I didn't really like him. I'd simply been thrown off by the sudden, unexpected friendliness. My head was light that day, and it was making me act like an airhead.
I didn't really like him.
Now, you're probably wondering what type of idiot I am for disliking an attractive, nice-smelling man who gave me my only generous tip of the day, plus invited me to an art opening. Contrary to how it may appear, I'm not one of those girls who can't tell when a good guy likes her. I don't hate myself like that.
The thing is, up until that particular Monday, Crossword Guy—Marc—had never been anything but rude to me. Because he didn't like me.
He even used the crossword puzzles to antagonize me, I swear. When I came by, he'd give me a clue, like, “Seven letter word for a ditzy girl. Starts with A.”
“Airhead,” I'd say, because who can resist solving an easy puzzle?
“I knew you would know that one,” he'd say smugly.
“Yeah? Well, if your face were the clue, it would be a completely different word starting with A.”
He'd tap his coffee cup. “Why, yes, I would like a top-up.”
Most of our interactions went pretty much like that. “Four-letter word for grouchy waitress,” or “Eight-letter word for lemon cat … I'm thinking sourpuss, what do you say about that?”
I didn't think he was teasing me in that oh-he's-doing-it-because-he-likes-you, schoolyard way, which—incidentally—is utter bullshit. No, he really didn't care for my particular flavor of personal expression, and antagonizing me seemed to give him enjoyment. Perhaps it was subconscious on his part that he only asked me to help him solve negative, insulting words. He didn't seem like a mean or cruel person, just thoughtless.
Hate is too strong, but I'd say I disliked him.
And then, on that Monday morning when he smiled at me, things changed, and something had gotten over the chain-link fence around my heart. He'd scaled the razor wire with some tiny gestures of kindness.
After that day's shift, I'd gone from disliking him to being open to the possibility of liking him. Despite saying I wouldn't go to the art show, I had a feeling I might. I could get some of Courtney's false eyelashes, all the better for batting at him.
Let's fast-forward to Tuesday. Not the art show—not yet—but the morning at work and what happened that kicked me in the teeth and changed everything.
The morning walk in was windy, and my newly-fluffy hair kept flying in my face, making me consider shaving it off. I'd raided my mother's closet again, choosing a pretty flower-patterned dress, paired with my black leggings and my least-mannish boots. I'd had the time to put on proper makeup, but with a twist. I'd followed the instructions from one of my favorite YouTube girls: base all over, pale gold on the eyelids, and smudgy brown eyeliner instead of my usual thick, black liquid eyeliner. I never used blush, so I didn't own any, but I used a dab of lipstick to put some red on my cheeks.
On the way to work that morning, I stopped approximately three hundred times to admire the pretty girl in various reflective surfaces—the pretty girl who had a kinda-sorta date that night.
When I got to The Whistle, Courtney was already there, rolling up utensils in napkins, and the first thing she said was, “Are you sure I can't get you to switch teams? You are foxy, sweetcheeks!”
The funny thing about gay people—or at least the ones I know—is that even as they insist they were born that way, they will still make tons of jokes about converting you, as if it's a choice. It's kind of a cute double standard, if you consider it flattering that they'd want you on their team. Nobody wants to be the last one picked for teams, after all.
“I'm not going gay,” I said. “Furthermore, don't think I've forgotten all those times when we were kids and you got me into the bathtub with you, pervert.”
“I swear, I wasn't checking you out, and I didn't know I was lez.”
“Like hell.”
“I love that little birthmark on your hip.”
I dipped my hand into the water in the bar sink and spritzed her. “Stop flirting with me. Don't you have a girlfriend?”
Courtney stammered and looked down at her feet. “You can meet her tonight. If that's okay. Oh, I hope you like her, but I know you will. She's ah-mah-zing.”
“I hate her name. I want to punch her in the face.”
“What's wrong with her name?”
“What isn't wrong? It's the name of a country. Her parents are clearly pretentious douchebags, and she probably is too.”
Courtney slammed a handful of silverware down. “And you wonder why I'm afraid to introduce you both. Honestly!” She pushed past me out of the space behind the bar, marching in the direction of the ladies' room.
“Courtney, I'm just joking! You love my comedic stylings!”
The door slammed. Making fun of her girlfriend's name was probably too far, but how could I stop myself? The chick's named Britain. Our favorite comedian, Margaret Cho, is against bullying, but I suspect she would have approved of my making fun of someone named Britain. I have a dumb name too, so it's fair game, like how a person of one ethnic group can make fun of their own, and they beg for more. Speaking of comedians, I went to a Russell Peters show with Courtney, and I swear I was the only white person in there. I didn't get all the jokes, but I love when he does the Stern Indian Dad voice and says, “Someone gonna get-a-hurt real bad!”
Comedy makes life better. Comedy would help me get through meeting someone named Britain, I hoped.
I finished filling up the mini creamer pitchers and did a once-over around the tables, picking up some stray crumpled receipts left behind from the previous night's closing shift.
The sound of the traffic outside muted ominously, and
seconds later our first group of the day walked in: three guys with paint-flecked overalls, probably doing a renovation in the neighborhood.
When it comes to tips, a group of all guys is the best you can get, provided the group's not big enough to hide one scammer who offers to throw in last and uses the tip money to cover his own lunch. There's a special place in Hell for people like that.
A group of women with fake Luis Vuitton purses and ridiculous manicures is going to be the worst for tips, especially if they get a shared bill, because if one is a generous tipper, surely another will insist she take some money back, as though she's doing her friend some special favor, and not taking my hard-earned cash out of my hands.
I know some waitresses who aren't very cute, and they don't do well with tips from guys, but the women are a little more charitable with them. Gorgeous waitresses, however, have it the worst, because despite the good tips, guys are constantly hitting on them and the guys' girlfriends are always giving them the dagger eyes. If you're stunning, you should probably be working in a club, where you can get the bigger tips, and not wasting your time in a diner with people like me and Courtney.
By the way the three painters were looking around, I knew they hadn't been in before, so I was charitable and gave them the lowdown.
“Welcome to The Whistle, guys, where bad behavior is not just tolerated, but encouraged. If you want something and can't catch my attention, feel free to whistle and someone will be at your side to change your diaper in a hot minute. The cook doesn't whistle because it's unhygienic over the food, so he pushes a doorbell that makes a sound like a locomotive engine. If you don't like our coffee, which is dumped and fresh-brewed once a week, minimum, you can bring your own in paper cups from down the street, but I'll warn you there is a dollar surcharge, a dollar twenty-five if it's Starbucks.”
The three painters stared at me with frozen grins, their brains processing all the information. That particular moment, before the light of understanding blinked on, always gave me a sense of compassion for my high school teachers and how it must have felt to stare into similarly confused eyes, day after day.
“Are there menus?” the oldest of the group asked.
Oh, but I was ready for him. My previous day of being nice and flirty to everyone, and the subsequent poor batch of tips, had taught me a lesson—no more nice waitress today.
I tossed three laminated menus on the table in front of them. “That's what these rectangles with the squiggly lines are. If you get stuck, sound the words out letter by letter. Now, who's brave enough for coffee?”
They looked back and forth at each other until one of them guffawed, breaking the awkwardness. “I'll try some of that coffee,” the big guy declared, beaming, and the other two asked for some as well. In a minute, they were all laughing. The ice had been broken, and we were all going to have a nice time, with them enjoying the entertainment and me enjoying their adulation. Our relationship would be reciprocal. More things in life should be reciprocal.
I put the order in to the kitchen and got comfortable behind the bar counter, parking the edge of my bum on the lower counter. We waitresses aren't supposed to congregate in the area, but we do.
There's a feng shui to workplaces. If you walk into any restaurant or retail store, you can spot the most comfortable area for staff, usually behind the barrier of a counter. Groups of staff will congregate there with relaxed posture, drinking their waters and gossiping, as though they're invisible in their little home base. Feng shui people could probably be brought in to make sure a new restaurant doesn't have one of those spaces, but the staff would be miserable and not stay long. We don't have a lot of turnover at The Whistle, and you can't say it's due to the wages.
Courtney came out of the bathroom and walked straight into me for a hug, pinning me to the counter. “I'm sorry,” she said, her little honey-shampoo-scented head nestled near my armpit.
“Don't you apologize. I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have made fun of England's name. I mean Scotland. I mean Great Britain.”
She let out a big sigh.
The traffic sound muted and someone else came in the front door. Crossword Guy. Marc.
“He never comes in Tuesday,” Courtney said.
My knees got weak and I crouched down, pretending to pick something up off the floor. “Please take him in your section. I can't go all tongue-tied and nice again today.”
“His feelings will be hurt.”
“I'll still drop by to say hi.”
She ran her fingers over a lank of perfectly-straight, perfectly-black hair. “You owe me. Remember this tonight when you're meeting Britain.”
I agreed and, still crouching, patted her on the leg. I slowly rose, peeking over the edge of the bar counter. True to her word, she did seat Marc on her side, but not before they both turned to look at me, with her pointing my way. Once spotted, I had to stand.
As Marc peered in my direction, I got that sensation you get in middle-grade, when you have a crush on someone and your best friend immediately goes and tells the guy that somebody she knows likes him, but she won't say who, and then she looks right at you. Then Scott Weaver knows you like-him like him, and he uses that information for humiliation.
Why is it so embarrassing to admit you like someone? It should be a compliment to them, and even if they don't like you back, they should at least commend you on your refined taste. You should be allowed to bond over your mutual love of their dreamy eyes, you from afar, and them by staring at their webcam screen or searching out their face in every group shot uploaded to Facebook.
Instead, admitting you're attracted to someone is this horrifying thing you must endure on the path to love. It's so … public.
Them knowing is equivalent to you saying, Hi there cutie, I've been fantasizing about rubbing my private parts on yours.
Ugh. Just shoot me.
Courtney returned to the waitress station and put a cup of coffee on a tray, then doubled over. “Cramps. Oh the humanity. Oh, crampy-cramps. Can you take that coffee out to my table? I'm about to have a tampon emergency.”
I was pretty sure she'd used that excuse the week before, but I figured I could check on my three house-painter guys on the way back, and it would be rude to not even say hello to Marc, who was so nice.
At his table, I set down his coffee and said, “What brings you here on a Tuesday? Did your regular Tuesday place get closed down due to health violations?”
He itched his nose and gave me a perplexed look.
“It's Tuesday,” I said. “You normally only come in on Mondays.” As the words cannon-balled out of my mouth, I knew I was saying the wrong thing. He probably came by to see me, to be friendly, and now I was going to force him to admit it? Smooth move, Perry. Why didn't I just bring out a medical diagram of a naked woman and ask him to point to the parts he'd been thinking about touching?
“It really is Tuesday,” he said.
“That's what my underpants say.”
“You were my waitress yesterday.”
“Yes, but I was having an off day and I didn't verbally abuse you. You only got partial service, and for that, I apologize.”
He tilted his head and rubbed his ear, his voice squeaky as he asked, “How long have you worked here, exactly?”
“Since last summer. You know that.”
“Right,” he said, nodding. “And you used to have dreadlocks, but now you don't.”
I fluffed my hair. “That is a fact. And my name is Perry, short for Peridot.”
“Perry. The smart mouth waitress.”
The train whistle blew—the one that means there's a food order up. I didn't have to look to know it was the breakfast burgers for my three painters.
“Thar she blows,” I said, and I turned to walk to the kitchen window, leaving a surprisingly flummoxed Marc behind me with his coffee.
Now, you're probably way ahead of me here, and you've figured out exactly what went horribly wrong on Tuesday, besides Courtney getting
ticked at me.
Let's review the facts: I'd just had a rather dramatic hairstyle change, and I'd been wearing no makeup the day before. Coincidentally, Marc had gone from treating me rudely to suddenly being sweet and nice, as though I were a completely different person.
The world filled up with water and I moved in slow motion, my feet thudding on the brown and black checkered floor. The skin of my face felt like it was trying to slide off my cheekbones in horror.
As I reached the kitchen window, it all locked together. Marc had been friendly to me the day before because he thought I was a different person. He fell for a mirage, a character.
As I loaded all three plates on my left arm and grabbed the ketchup with my right hand, I felt a flicker of anger in my belly.
How dare he like a version of me that wasn't the real Perry?
I peeked over at him, with his cute face and even cuter glasses. He had really good lips—not too thick or thin. They were the kind of lips you could imagine kissing, and, girls, you know what I mean.
I dropped off the food for the three house painters, who were so hungry, they began grabbing for fries before the plates were even on the table. Normally, I would have said something about their manners, but my mind was elsewhere.
Marc may have confused me for someone completely different, but now I wanted to be that girl. I wanted to kiss him. And what's more, I wanted to take off his glasses and invite him to touch me on my bathing-suit areas, where I'd never been touched before.
You know how sometimes you don't realize how hungry you are and you order a Diet Coke, but when your friend's cheeseburger arrives, you are suddenly famished? That sweet look Marc had given me on Monday had been like … well, a whiff of cheeseburger.
And I'd been hungry a long time.
More people came in the front door—some singles for seating at the bar, as well as some four-tops. I got busy seating, serving, and sassing, relieved the morning rush was starting and I could lose myself in my work, not thinking about my personal life. Courtney worked her side, and soon we were deep in the magical flow of foodservice, trading off tasks and working as a team, dancing and weaving between the chairs, as graceful and entertaining as The Cirque du Soleil, except with airborne salt shakers instead of flaming sticks.
