The Cocktail Waitress

by James M. Cain

  “O.K., suits me fine. But this week you take the station next to the door, so you can greet them when they come in, the patrons I mean—they’ll all be strangers to me.”

  “That’s how we’ll do it, sure,” she said. Then:

  “Got to go—here comes Mr. Four-Bits, always our first customer. You’d think, the way he rolls out his two quarters, they were solid silver, from the Philadelphia mint.”

  I looked, and Mrs. Rossi was bringing a customer in, an important-looking, middle-aged man in gabardine slacks and sport shirt. Liz motioned, and Mrs. Rossi started to seat him at her station. But when he saw me he stopped, stared, and said something. Bianca looked surprised, and brought him over to me. It was my first meeting with Earl K. White, and I was just as startled as Liz.

  4

  He was a tall man, rather pale, and obviously someone important. I went over, handed him a wine card, with of course the cocktail list facing, and asked: “May I get you something, sir?” He asked for a tonic on the rocks, without even opening the card, and when I turned to the bar, Jake was already opening a bottle, and putting it out beside a highball glass with one rock in it. “Hold on to your tray at all times,” he said, “and watch the cork center. It’s to keep stuff from sliding around, but if you’re not used to it, tricky.” I went back to the table, put down the glass and poured, and took the bottle back, throwing it into the box under the bar. Then I walked past Mr. Four-Bits to my place near the men’s room. But he turned and motioned me to him. “You’re new here?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir—this is my first night … If you have to know, you’re my first customer.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mrs. Medford.”

  At last, after watching it all day, it slipped out on me, but at once I corrected it. “Joan.”

  “You gave yourself away.”

  “… I already said it’s my first night.”

  “I can’t say I’ve found many cocktail waitresses called ‘Mrs.’ It sounds more like the way a lady announces herself.”

  “I am a lady, I hope.”

  “That may be; not every waitress is.” He said it with a glance in Liz’s direction. I couldn’t imagine what he found unladylike in her deportment or manner and not in mine, unless it was that I had called him sir. We were wearing the same outfit, after all, with the same fraction of the buttons on our blouses unbuttoned and the same lack of concealing fabric underneath.

  “The ones that I know are,” I said. “And I imagine most of them are. Being a waitress and being a lady are not incompatibles.”

  “That’s a very big word for a waitress.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, if you prefer smaller ones, let’s say a person can be both.”

  “… Well, then, what do you want me to call you?”

  “Whatever you wish, sir.”

  “Mrs. Medford?”

  “… I admit in a bar it sounds a bit silly.”

  “I agree. I’d rather call you Joan.”

  “Then, please do.”

  We both were sounding self-conscious, and our eyes locked. His gaze wandered down to my legs, and then locked with mine again. I knew that, in spite of our small clash, or perhaps because of it, this man was attracted to me. I waited, and then, in a faintly personal way, asked him: “What do you want me to call you?”

  He waited, while his mouth twitched in a smile, and then very solemnly said: “I’m Earl K. White the Third.”

  He spoke as though I should know who Earl K. White the Third was, and perhaps even fall down from surprise, but I’d never heard of Earl K. White the Third. However, hating to disappoint any man well-off enough for there to be three of him, I pitched my voice as though greatly impressed: “Oh? Really?”

  “Yes. Now you know.”

  “Mr. White, I’m honored.”

  “Mrs. Medford, Joan, likewise.”

  Then, after looking me up and down once more, especially down, he added: “If I may be personal, Joan, I’d say your husband’s a lucky man.”

  I knew it was really a question, and I waited a moment before answering. Then: “Mr. White,” I told him, “I don’t have a husband— I’m recently widowed, I’m sorry to say. But I do have a child that I have to support, a little boy three years old, which is why I took this job, and came out in this outlandish garb. I may say I applied for work on the restaurant side, but then was told I was wanted in here, or more qualified for work in here, whatever it was. I don’t myself quite know the reason for my transfer—unless they thought I looked well in the uniform. Or costume. Or lack of costume—whatever it is.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s most becoming.” Then: “Joan, I judge you’ve been through the wringer—may I express my sympathy? Belated, but sincere. I’ve been through the same wringer. I’m widowed too— my wife died a few years ago.”

  “Oh? Then I express my sympathy too.”

  “Thank you, Joan. Thank you very much.”

  It was all stiff, self-conscious, but we managed to get it said: I was free, and he was. Then, as though to switch to casual things, he said: “Beautiful weather we’re having.”

  Now my mother had said to me once, “You’ll be told: Don’t talk about the weather. Joan, always talk about it. It’s the one thing everyone has in common with everyone else, and often the only thing to talk about. Talk isn’t always so easy—talk about what you can talk about.”

  “Oh it certainly is,” I answered. “I read somewhere there are more quotations about June, about the weather we have in June, than about any other month. A day like today you know why.”

  “That’s fascinating, Joan, I’ll have to look it up in Bartlett.”

  Who Bartlett was I had no idea, though next day I found out. We talked along, about the difference a fine day makes, and then suddenly he asked for his check, and I went to the bar and wrote it. When I brought it to him, he took out a five-dollar bill and put it down, but when I reached for it he covered my hand and put it aside. Then he picked up the five, returned it to his wallet, and took out a twenty that he put down in its place. I took it to the bar, rang up 85 cents on the register, and took out his change, three fives, four ones, and 15 cents in nickels. Then remembering about the four bits, I put one of the ones back and took four quarters out. Then I put the fives, ones, and change on a pewter change tray that was there, and went back to the table with them. I confess it was in my mind, as a way of being on purpose quite personal, to decline the two quarters he’d give me—“Please, Mr. White, not from you.” Because, I don’t mind saying, a rich widower who liked me wasn’t someone to treat as a customer. “I think of you as a friend,” I was going to let myself stammer—but he crossed me up. When I put down the change he waved it off, being already on his feet. “That’s even, Joan—thanks for a most pleasant visit. I’ll probably be in tomorrow, and look forward to seeing you then.”

  I couldn’t make myself give back $19.15, I needed it so.

  He left, and I noticed for the first time a man in chauffeur’s uniform waiting for him in the foyer. I knew I’d made a strike that could be important to me, but what stuck in my mind was: I wished I liked him better.

  5

  If Jake saw me stuffing the bills in my pocket, the pocket I found in my trunks, it didn’t show on his face, but Liz saw me doing it, and gave me a squint-eyed look, that wondered at once what the meaning of it was. Maybe I wondered too, just a little. However, the time for wondering passed, as all of a sudden the place began filling up, and there was no time for anything except drinks. Of course, some of those people, instead of moving on to the dining room, decided to eat where they were, and I had to serve them dinner. For that, I had to meet the chef, a barrel-chested Lithuanian named Bergovizi whom everyone addressed as Mr. Bergie, so he could explain how things were done in the kitchen, especially how to “call it” for him, as he said. It had to be done in a certain way, especially on stuff like sauce—if the customer wanted it separate, like the meuniere on fish, I had to say “boat it,�
� not “serve the sauce separate,” or anything complicated. Or if the customer didn’t want sauce I had to call: “Hold the sauce.” I knew there was a reason for things like that, and put my mind on it to remember, but it was all quite a strain and soon, after all I’d gone through that day, I began to wilt. Jake noticed it, and whispered: “Take it easy, Joan. There’s no rush—let ’em chaw on their Fritos.”

  It made me laugh, and helped, and it helped still more when Liz gave me a pat, telling me: “You’ll get a break around eight, then go have dinner yourself—Mr. Bergie will fix you up.” Still, they kept coming, as Mrs. Rossi kept bringing them in, being her own maître d’, or maîtresse d’, I suppose I should say. Around eight-thirty things slacked off and Liz told me to eat, and I did, seating myself at a folding table set up between the six-burner stove and the propped-open pantry door. It was the first proper meal I’d had in months. Mr. Bergie cut me a thick slice of roast beef, and I had it with a baked potato, a dish of vanilla ice cream I dipped myself from the freezer box, and coffee, and it freshened me, especially the coffee, so I felt I could go through the rest of the night.

  I was doing all right until just before closing time, when a man with a party of six began to give out about oil, and said it with gestures, one of which swept every glass off the table onto the floor. I wanted to scream, and couldn’t face getting that mess up. But then Jake was there with towels, and Liz was down on her knees, mopping up before I could start. I got down on my knees too, not being upset anymore. When the man paid his check, which with drinks and food for six had come to just about $50, he left an extra $15, and I split it with Liz and Jake, feeling warm and close and friendly. By the time we had it clear Mrs. Rossi locked the front door, toted the registers and counted the cash. Mine checked out O.K., and next thing I knew, I was in Liz’s car, and she was backing out of the lot. I still had on my uniform, as she had suggested I wear it home, “so you can dress for work there tomorrow, and skip the locker-room bit.”

  We were halfway home, and she hadn’t said too much. But then suddenly she started to talk. “Joanie,” she began, “something happened tonight, that made me wonder about you. You know, how you feel about things.”

  “Liz, make it plain. What happened tonight? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Mr. Four-Bits. One girl’s tips are strictly no other girl’s business, and girls don’t tell what they get, even to other girls. Just the same, I happened to see what he gave you—a lot more than he ever gave me. Well, all right, you’re less than half his age and pretty as hell, he’s entitled to like what he sees. But, I notice you took it.”

  “… Well? Wouldn’t you have?”

  “Are you being funny?”

  “Well, you would have, wouldn’t you?”

  “The point is, you did. And of course I wondered why. I mean I have that kind of mind. So, I get to it. Joan, do you take a broadminded view? I mean, when he ups and propositions you, you’re not going to smack him down?”

  “I hadn’t got that far with it.”

  She stopped talking and kept on driving, but then started up again. “What I’m leading to, Joanie: I get propositioned, myself. Time to time, I mean. And some passes I don’t turn down. Well? It’s fifty bucks. So what I’m leading to: Often, the guy, the one that likes my looks, has a pal, and wants to know if I have a sidekick, some girl who would care to make it four. Well, Joanie, what do you say? The comment I got tonight, you stirred up plenty of interest, and the subject is bound to come up. So, hit the nail on the head, what do I tell that pair that asks? Do I have a sidekick or not? Or in other words, it’s nice work if you can get it, and does it appeal to you?”

  “You catch me by surprise. I never thought about—” Then: “You really do this? Let a man take you out and, and…”

  “When opportunity presents, Joanie, and assuming I don’t mind his looks.”

  “But don’t you ever get … in trouble?”

  “If you mean what I think you mean,” she said, throwing my words back at me, “any girl can, whether there’s money involved or no. You just have to know where to take care of it if it happens.”

  I thought back to my situation three years earlier, my ignorance of such matters. I’d lived a lot since then, and not all of it good, but I still was an innocent on some topics. “You can get that done here?”

  “Here? No, of course not. But up in New York, if you know the doctor to call, and I do. But if you’re careful it never comes up. Hasn’t for me but once.”

  “I … I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “O.K., take your time. Think about it, Joan.”

  And then, after perhaps three seconds: “O.K., you’ve thought it over, what do you say? Yes or no? You want one of them dates or not?”

  By now, she had pulled up in front of my house, and sat there looking at me. And I sat looking at her, with a mixed feeling of love and terrible pity, that she’d even think of such a thing, and wondering why. In the bar she must have done well, as I was doing so far, and she was certainly good-looking enough to have a man of her own, without having to be dating strangers on the basis of passes made in a bar, by men she barely knew. And then suddenly, I thought I’d better tell her how things were with me, and why I couldn’t say yes, “at least at this time.” So I started off: “Liz, I couldn’t. I just buried my husband today. I’m Joan Medford—the girl that was in the papers this week, that put her husband out, and—”

  I got no further.

  “… Oh! Oh! Oh! The one who died in the car wreck? And they said his wife was—oh!”

  She was warm, tender, and wonderful, taking my hand in hers, kissing it, patting me on the knee, doing the things you would want. “I read about it,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me the rest—and you’re her? You came down today, and worked?”

  “Liz, I had to. I had to get money, quick.”

  “Well you got some, Joanie. I’m proud of you.”

  “I tried to do as you showed me.”

  “You did wonderful. Now Joanie, would it help if I came in with you? I mean, put you to bed? Made you a cup of tea? Or—you got some Scotch in the house?”

  “I don’t drink, Liz.”

  “Me neither. I got weaknesses, but not booze.”

  “Just let me sit here a minute.”

  “Sit all night if you want.”

  She kissed me when I got out, then waited while I unlocked the front door before driving off. I went in and lit a candle, as of course my lights were cut off, and started to count my money. But then I collapsed into tears, as a crying spell hit me, not from feeling bad, but from feeling so happy all over. That may make no sense, but it did, in a way, because from feeling so utterly sunk, so unable to think what to do, except to get some work mowing lawns, here I was with a job, with friends that warmed to me, and money, cash money, bulging my velveteen pocket, in these silly trunks I had to wear. By candlelight I knelt, by the side of my bed all alone, and counted the money I’d brought home. With the $19.15 I’d got from Mr. White, my $5 share of the last tip I had got, from the man who knocked over the glasses, and the other tips, I had $61—an amount I couldn’t believe. And I had the prospect of making more the next day, the day after that, the day after that, and as many days as I wanted. It seemed too good to be true. I tried to remember Ron, how I had felt for him once, when I’d first met him and he was at his most charming, and I suppose I did manage to summon some memories suitable to the day of a man’s funeral—but my tears of joy kept coming. At last I put the money under my pillow, took off my trunks and blouse, crept into bed with no clothes on, and slept.

  6

  Next morning I got up, made coffee for myself over the flame of a chafing dish, a skill I’d learned ever since the gas had been discontinued, and put on pants and a blouse. Then I sat down at the dressing table and wrote three checks, one to the gas company, one to the electric, and one to the phone. Two of them I put in a drawer, as I wouldn’t have money to cover; but one
of them, to the phone company, I put in my bag and I went out. I walked down to the bank, reserved $10, and deposited the rest, more than $50 in all. Then I walked up the hill to the phone company, which had offices near the bank. They sent me up to Mr. Wilson, on the second floor. I handed him my check, tucked into the last bill we’d received, marked “Third Notice,” and asked him: “Mr. Wilson, how soon can the phone be turned on?”

  “… Just a second. I’ll see.”

  He left the room, but then in a short time was back. He sat down and pushed me his phone. “Will you dial your number?” he asked.

  “Mr. Wilson, my phone is cut off. Perhaps I should have mentioned, it happened some time ago, when I didn’t pay my bill, and—”

  “Well, try it anyway.”

  I dialed my number. “Oh!” I yelped. “It’s ringing.”

  “I thought it would.”

  He laughed, and I hung up so I could clap my hands, though I loved hearing the ring. He gave me a little pat on the arm, and once more I felt happy and friendly. Then I walked down the hill, crossed the street, and a half block up went into a luncheonette in the middle of a big parking lot, where I ordered breakfast—a big, real breakfast, of orange juice, fried eggs sunny side up with a slice of ham, buttered toast, and coffee. For the figure, it’s not recommended, but for the soul, when you haven’t eaten like that, at least at breakfast time, for so long you can’t remember the last time you did, it’s wonderful. I took my time, and chewed every bite. When she brought me my check, the girl asked me: “Didn’t I see you last night at the Garden? Didn’t you serve us our drinks? Me and my friend?”

  “That’s right, I remember. You were in the blue dress.”

  “First night out in a while.”

  “Did you find the service O.K.?”

  “Little too good, I’m sorry to say—especially how well the friend liked it. He’s not my boyfriend, exactly, but since he was taking me out, I could have done with a little less looking. Not that it was your fault.”