Chapter 10
Nova
"Dear, would it be possible to have a little less meat in my meatballs?"
I blink uncomprehendingly into the face of the pocket-sized woman sitting in front of me.
"I'm not sure I understand. Are you saying that the meatballs are too big? I can bring you a knife to cut them into pieces if you'd like. "
Her annoyance increases. "You're not listening—it's not a question of size. It's just too...meaty."
"Okay, you mean the meatballs taste too much like meat?" I try to speak as politely as possible but my nerves are already starting to feel the strain.
She nods, seemingly relieved that I finally understand her complaint. I bite hard on my tongue. This woman has already sent two orders back to the kitchen. The Alfredo had too much sauce. The caprese salad was too cold. I'm trying to be diplomatic but there's only so much a girl can take.
"I'm sorry but our meatballs are standard meatiness and there's really nothing we can do about that."
"This is just unacceptable." She pulls her napkin from the collar of her blouse and slaps it down on the table. "This place obviously doesn't deserve its raving reviews!"
"Would you like me to bring you the bill?" At this point, my tone is all snark.
The customer is not always right. Sometimes the customer is a freaking nut job.
The little woman is fuming. She pushes against the table and rises to her feet. "Donny, let's go."
Her tall, wiry husband looks up from his ravioli which he seems to be enjoying judging by how much of it is sitting on his chin. "But I'm not done, Melinda," he protests meekly.
"I'll make you a tuna sandwich when we get home."
She doesn't look back. She just grabs her cane and wobble-stomps toward the door as her husband stuffs his face with pasta.
"Donny!" she yells from the exit.
The old man startles and nearly trips over his own feet as he shovels one last bite into his mouth. I give him a sympathetic smile. He nods ruefully then leans his tall frame toward me and cups a hand around his mouth. "Send help! The woman's crazy!"
I sniggle through my nose as he places a few crumpled up twenty-dollar bills on the table and ambles away.
This job will be the cause of death listed on my death certificate when I’m laid in my early grave.
“Nova!”
Ugh! Misery knows no bounds in this place.
I try not to roll my eyes at the irritating grate of my boss’s voice. “Hey, Mr. Gallo!”
His gut leads the way as he marches over to me, as charming and affable as always. “I’m going to visit Nonna Lucia," he tells me. "She has a craving for pepperoni today. When I get back, the clean silverware in the tray at the waiter’s station better be wrapped and I want all the glass partitions in the dining room to be shining.”
“Sure thing!” I give him the docile smile of a model employee.
He narrows mistrustful eyes at me. "I mean it."
"Of course.”
I stand there and watch the man as he plods out the back door. The minute he’s gone, I fly into action.
"Tiffany, would you watch my tables for me?" I say to my coworker. "The tips are yours.”
As usual, she gives me a nod along with a cutting look. She may not like me (especially since the incident in the changing room), but in exchange for my tips, she’ll cover my tables for as long as it takes.
Racing to my locker, I grab my guitar and hurry back into the dining room, my heart thumping with excitement.
I sidle up onto the narrow platform in the corner of the restaurant and switch on the microphone. “Hi everybody…” The eyes of the many patrons turn my way with interest. “I hope you’re enjoying your meal. My name is Nova and I’m one of your dedicated waitresses today. I’m going to be providing a little bit of entertainment while you eat.” A curt round of applause rings out. I dip my head and smile as my fingers slide along the strings of my guitar and the melancholy riff fills the room.
Mr. Gallo would never admit it out loud but he knows as well as I do that a lot of our regulars come by, not only for the kitchen’s delicious offerings, but for my impromptu performances as well. Still, I only perform when he’s not around because his angry demeanor is a real buzz-kill.
As I drift away with the music, my eyes slide shut. I float off to a place where I’m not a waitress at a small town restaurant. I’m a singer. By profession. Performing for big crowds at outdoor concerts. I’m an artist, showing off my work at grand exhibitions in big cities. I’m a photographer, watching my photos in acclaimed publications. I’m a cartoonist with a hungry base of loyal fans eager for my next work.
I feel myself smiling. Just for a moment, I allow myself to forget my reality. Just for a moment, I live in my dream.
As the song comes to an end, I let my voice fade. My fingers slow over the strings. My eyelids lift as the patrons’ contented applause rings out and the room slides back into focus.
My heart skips a beat and my smile widens even more when I see Charlie standing by the front door, cheering the loudest.