Chapter 22: That’s a fucking romantic second date.
Thursday night
This is what being deep in the weeds feels like:
You scoop ice into a plastic pitcher, stick it under the sink to fill, and while you wait, you search for a clean fork because the kid at table nine dropped his, but you realize there are no clean forks, and the teenager with the backwards baseball cap standing in front of the dishwasher is full-on sweating, and his hands are chapped to a bright red and he has a sink full of dishes, so you grab a fork and wash it by hand, dry it on your apron, turn the sink off because the pitcher’s overflowing at this point, and you snatch the pitcher on your way back to the dining room, only to hear “Order up!” just as you shoulder the door open to exit the kitchen.
And in the comparatively cool dining area, there’s muzak playing, quiet laughter coming from the young couple in the corner, louder laughter coming from table nine, where the mom and dad have had one too many beers and the kid’s still waiting for his fork. And the hostess glances over at you; her eyes are wide and rolling like a panicked horse, chewing on her bottom lip as she looks between you and the lobby full of patrons waiting for a table, and as if you’re playing a game of connect-the-human-dots, your eyes bounce from the hostess, to the knot of waiting patrons, to the bus boy hustling to clear the table by the window, to the young couple, back to table nine again. The kid at table nine’s looking your way expectantly, trying to catch your eye, and you know he’s waiting on the goddamned fork, so you plaster on a smile, carry the fork and the water pitcher their way, gaze darting from the wife to the husband to the kid with no fork to the screaming baby sister in the high chair while you refill their waters and apologize when, in your haste, a bit of ice water splashes out onto the table.
“I think we’re going to order dessert,” is what the wife says, and you’re looking at the fat rolls that hide her elbows thinking, Lady, the last fucking thing you need is dessert, but you just smile even bigger and say,
“Sure, what do you want?”
and you listen and mentally count up how many more clean forks you’re going to need to bring them, and then head back for the “Order up!” that’s still waiting in the kitchen for the young couple in the corner.
It’s this wolves’ den of pure chaos, with me and Gerry trying desperately to turn tables, the hostess doubling as an extra bus boy, and even the unflappable Becker utterly silent as he tries to keep up on the hot side of the line, that Amy walks into about seven-thirty.
From the corner of my eye, I see her excuse me, pardon me, scoot around the families waiting in front of the podium, and weave her way over to my station in the corridor, where I’m swiping a credit card.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey, Amy. Listen, I know you were hoping to do something tonight, but I — ”
“But you’re deep in the weeds and there’s no way you can get away.”
“Yeah,” I say, and I try to convey my disappointment with my voice and eyes as I look down at her.
“You guys have a clean apron back there?” she asks, nodding at the kitchen.
“A clean apron?”
“Yeah. I told you I’ve been a server before. I can help.”
“Amy, you don’t have to — ”
“No, I don’t have to. But…” She lifts her shoulders. “It’s still better than sitting in the hotel by myself.”
“You don’t know the menu.”
“So? I don’t need to take orders. I’ll just help out. Run food, fill drinks, bus tables.”
“You’re serious?”
She nods. “If this is the only way I can spend time with you tonight, I’ll take it.”
My face splits into a grin, and I’m wondering to myself how she always manages to elicit these dumb fucking smiles from me. “Okay. Clean aprons are hanging from the shelf in the office.”
She nods once, struts into the kitchen like she owns the place.
#
It’s two more hours of straight-up hustle before things slow down again and we all have a chance to catch our breath. By the time it’s over, Katie, our high school hostess, looks totally fucking traumatized, like we told her that her puppy got hit by a car. But Gerry looks like he’s having a blast; Becker’s smiling; Emir and the dishwashing kid are joking around in Spanish.
And Amy…
She pops up on her toes and gives me a quick peck on the cheek in the shadows of the corridor next to the wait station.
…Amy’s fucking amazing.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” she says. “I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.”
I’m about to thank her for the fourteen millionth time and inform her that she has a pretty fucked-up idea of fun, but she spots an empty glass and darts off with a pitcher of ice water in one hand and a carafe of fresh coffee in the other. She walks with purpose towards the table, like refilling an empty glass is serious goddamn business. As if she’s a career waitress and not a globe-trotting software executive.
As if she’s serious about how much fun it all is, and she actually truly enjoys running around Soul Mountain and smelling of curry and cumin and collards and cornbread.
I chuckle and shake my head and turn back to the credit card machine.
#
It’s just after ten when Katie finally turns on the overhead fluorescents, the universal restauranteur’s signal to customers that Okay, we’re really happy you came and ate with us and all, but now get the hell out, alright? and the last table of patrons looks up in surprise, blinks a few times, and then they’re shuffling into jackets and grabbing purses and making their way to the exit.
I slump into an empty chair as Gerry finishes wiping the table down with a greying rag.
I feel a cool hand on my neck and I tilt my head up, not surprised to see Amy standing next to me.
“So I guess we got to do something tonight after all,” I say. “Though this wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind for our second official date.”
She lets go of my neck, glances at her watch before shrugging. “It’s only ten,” she says. “Night’s still young.”
I start to say something else, but Gerry strides back over, sticks out his hand to Amy. He claps her on the back as he shakes her hand.
“You’re a fucking lifesaver,” he says, sitting down across from me. “I can’t believe you jumped in like that.”
Amy smiles, looking pleased with herself, which makes me smile, too.
“It was no big deal. I think I’m getting too old to do it every night, but it was kind of fun.” She glances between Gerry and me. “So — you’re Anika’s brother, right? We didn’t really get an official introduction.”
“Yeah, I’m Gerry. Around here they call me the ‘bad brother.’ And you said your name’s… Amy?”
She nods. “Amy Ellis. Guilty as charged.”
He laughs, points from me to her. “So… you guys know each other from high school or something?”
I shake my head. “No. We, uh, we met on the plane from Toronto to Cleveland a few days ago, actually.”
“Oh,” Gerry says, and his eyebrows travel up his forehead a little as he studies Amy more closely.
I can tell he’s putting two-and-two together and arriving at four, and normally I’d feel a little embarrassed, because it sort of makes it seem like I came all the way back to Ohio just to hook up with some chick I met on the plane three days earlier, but for whatever reason, I don’t feel embarrassed about Amy. If anything, I’ve got to say I’m feeling kind of proud. Like Hey, lookit me, I’ve got good goddamned taste, and I can still turn a few heads.
Amy’s face brightens with a new idea. “Do you guys want to grab a drink or something? Once we close up?”
Gerry shakes his head. “I don’t really drink anymore.” He adds quickly, “But you two should totally go. In fact — just go ahead and get out of here. We can handle closing without you.”
“No, no. Closing can be a bitch,” Amy says, shaking her head. “I didn’t work all night just to skip out on you guys at the end.”
Gerry looks at me. “Seriously, sis. Get out of here. I’ve got this.”
“You’re sure?” I say, but I’m caving already.
He nods reassuringly, punches my arm lightly. “Go.”
I push up from the table, tug at the string of Amy’s black apron. She pulls it off, hands it to me.
“Your jacket’s in the office?” I ask.
“And my purse.”
“I’ll be right back.”