The Third of July: A Romantic Holiday Story

by Rusty Fischer

herself. “Don’t you?” she blurts, and it’s so sudden, so unexpected, I laugh myself.

  “Listen, maybe it’s too soon for you to be looking for work,” I say. “Do you have any savings?”

  She sniffs and smiles back at me. It’s a pretty smile, open and warm and vulnerable. “Is this still part of the interview?” Her voice is soft and husky.

  “No,” I admit.

  “I’ll be fine,” she sighs, grabbing her purse and drawing it close to her, as if she’s about to get up and leave any minute now.

  “Well, wait, I mean… do you have any experience waiting tables?”

  She sighs, shaking her head. “I’ve had one job for the last twenty-two years, Mr. Regis—”

  “Please,” I interrupt her, holding up my hand. “Call me Milo. I always feel funny when someone… well… you know…”

  I inwardly groan. Nice one, Milo.

  She just snickers. “You mean when someone older than you calls you ‘Mr.’?”

  “I, no, I mean… well…” Even as I blather and mumble, I can feel my whole face growing hot.

  She sighs and returns to her tale, ignoring my blushing red cheeks. “Well, Milo, I’ve had one job for the last twenty-two years, and yes I loved it, and yes I left it, and here I am. I’ve never waited on a table in my life, but I’m smart and determined and I know I could fit in here. I just know it. But I understand if I’m not Buccaneer Bob’s material…”

  As if on cue, a cluster of waitresses in their red, white and blue tank tops and clingy spandex shorts saunter inside, giggling over some cute guy at one of their tables. They’re all in their 20s, and sound like they’re in their teens.

  “No, no,” I rush to caution. “It’s not that at all. It’s just… it’s summer here, things move fast, usually folks who apply have at least a little experience in their background?”

  I’m throwing her a line, her chance to fib a little and tell me she served turkey dinners in a soup line on Thanksgiving or something. She just smiles. “I wish I had, Milo, but I haven’t. And I understand, really.”

  “No hard feelings?” I ask, reaching to shake her hand.

  She shakes her head, then takes my hand, tugging it strongly, meaningfully. “Before I go, can I ask you… would you hire me even if I had experience?”

  She’s still clinging to my hand, palm moist as our fingers finally untangle. “I’m not sure,” I lie and then, unable to avoid her wounded brown eyes, blurt suddenly, “not really, Elliot, no.”

  She nods. “Can I ask why?”

  I nod. “I’m just not sure you’re ready for this kind of work yet.”

  She smiles, at last, eyes moist again. “Thanks for your honesty,” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s being ironic or sincere. “Can I… can I ask you one last thing?”

  I nod. At my back, I can feel the restaurant getting busy, and outside on the deck, the sun is setting, our special holiday celebration about to begin. I’m antsy, but I owe her this much at least.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Is this… I mean… have you ever interviewed anyone before?”

  I snort, blushing and laughing at the same time. “No,” she says, hands up defensively. “I mean, don’t take that the wrong way, but…”

  Her voice trails off and I nod. “Yes, Elliot, you were my first interview as a new manager here. Is it that obvious?”

  She bites her lip and nods. “I guess I can say this now, since I’m not getting the job, but… I hope one day when you’re a little older, and have lived a little longer, and maybe suffered more, you’ll give folks a chance. Not me, maybe, but… sometimes folks just need a chance, you know?”

  My throat is dry and when she stands, I follow her to my feet. We face each other awkwardly, her eyes wide and moist, chin trembling. I feel something crisp and stiff in my pocket and almost gasp with relief.

  “Oh,” I say, reaching for it. “I… this may sound weird, but I hope you can stick around.”

  She gives me a “seriously?” expression as I hand over the cardboard invitation. “It’s a ticket,” I say, “for the Third of July event happening tonight.”

  “The Third of July?”

  I nod, and explain for the thousandth time all week, “The city does their big fireworks display on the Fourth of July, so all the restaurants here around Heron Cove get together every year and put on our own show, on the Third of July. It’s a little tradition we have…”

  My voice trails off and she stares down at the invitation.

  “For me?” she asks.

  “Yeah, sure, of course!” I kind of crowd her and point to the card. “It’s kind of a VIP pass; all you can eat, drink, access to the big fireworks show, free T-shirt, the works.”

  She looks up at me, our faces close. “Are… are you sure you want me to have this?”

  “I feel bad,” I confess, backing away to get one last glimpse of her sad, brown eyes. “The least I can do is make sure the trip down here to Buccaneer Bob’s wasn’t a total loss.”

  She stammers a little, backing away. “Okay, well… I appreciate it…”

  “Again, I’m really sorry about the way—” Just then a family stumbles in from the outside patio, red, white and blue beads around their necks, laughing and chuckling and asking me for directions to the fireworks display.

  “Oh, gosh, find a seat and plant yourself,” I tell them, instantly reverting to “customer service” mode with a fixed smile on my face. “They shoot them off over the Bay, so any spot on the deck is going to be perfect.”

  They smile and beam and pat each other on the backs and turn back around and out the door. I turn to find Elliot but she’s gone, nowhere to be seen.

  “Milo,” says Eva, out of breath and looking frazzled, the glittery red stars of her headband bouncing and crooked. “What happened with the new girl?”

  “Uh, yeah, that didn’t work out,” I confess, and she rolls her eyes.

  “We have to hire somebody,” she says.

  “Somebody with no experience?” I ask. “At all?”

  She frowns. “Okay, maybe not, but… next time don’t take so long with the interviews, huh? At least, not on a big night like this!”

  I nod and follow her and from that moment on, for the next five hours straight, we’re slammed. In the weeds doesn’t begin to cover it. Manager-schmanager, I’m back to my old tricks of delivering drinks and running food and handling complaints and refilling ice teas and bussing tables as an overflow crowd jams the waterfront deck as the sun sets and the evening fireworks fast approach.

  And then, as if by magic, as the countdown begins… the orders stop. “They magically forget about eating and drinking,” Eva explains as we stand near the bar, staring out at an empty restaurant. “Let’s run out and see the fireworks before they remember?”

  We stream onto the deck, fighting the standing room only crowd as the first of the fireworks light up the sky over Heron Cove. They sizzle and boom, lighting the sky with every color of the rainbow.

  I’m standing near the beer cooler, kind of hiding out, hoping no customer ignores the fireworks to ask me for a “Red, White and Boom” shot or a special order of American cheese poppers.

  When no one does I settle in, watching the fireworks and leaning back against the cooler, resting for the first time all shift.

  “Look at that one,” says a familiar voice, softly, brightly, from a few feet away. “It’s a smiley face.”

  A couple kids giggle and coo and when another firework bursts in the night sky, the voice cries, “Look… a giant cauliflower!”

  More giggles and I lean forward, spotting a gray streak running through raven black hair. Elliot.

  It’s Elliot!

  She’s smiling, waving her arms, a red, white and blue Buccaneer Bob’s Third of July shirt tugged over her cheap blouse, a matching trucker cap crooked on her head, red, white and blue beads jingling around her neck, all compliments of her special VIP pass.

  “Swirly-swirls,” she
says, narrating the fireworks show for a gaggle of adoring fans, none of them older than twelve, every one wearing a bright, summertime smile. They stand around her, a dozen or more of them, faces sweaty, shirts stained with red, white and blue summer treats, watching her every move, hanging on her every word.

  “Weeping willow!” she cries, pointing to a dazzling white cascade of sparkles drifting down through the night sky. “Cherry tomato!” she shouts as a bright red circle lights the sky. “Basketball! Snowman!!”

  The children giggle and laugh and I find myself inching closer; I’m not alone. By the time I join her, Elliot’s “audience” has grown by at least twice as many as little kids cluster around me, eager to get close to her.

  We cheer and clap and clamor as Elliot narrates the last few minutes of fireworks, reaching a feverish pitch as the sky fills with bursts of purple, red, yellow and green all at once. Boom, pow, smash, crash and she narrates each one, smiling, waving her hands, until, finally, face flushed and out of breath, the children begin drifting away, back to their parents’ tables, and our eyes meet.

  “Oh,” she says, covering her mouth with a flat hand. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “That was amazing,” I