Kindergarteners filed into the little cement-block room beyond the counter and now waved to us as the silver separator between the outer room and the kitchen went up. The buzz of excitement told me they had been taking in the scent of the cookies we'd baked earlier. The buttery fragrance of fresh baked goods, mingling with a combination of vanilla and chocolate, wafted through the hallways and into the classrooms like incense. It was prevalent even over the latent smell of greasy food always hanging in the air, forever partnered with the odor of the bleach water and vinegar we cleaned with.
I scanned the line. Two boys pretended to trade blows behind the back of a red-headed girl, who appeared to be doing the cha-cha while singing to herself. One little guy, who was sporting more hair product than I was (and that was saying something as, at last count, I was up to seven), clutched his soft-sided, Spiderman lunchbox tightly to his chest. No doubt he was squeezing the insides out of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich his mom so carefully slipped into a baggie next to his chocolate chip cookie and now-crushed chips. I sauntered around the serving table to stand next to Sam. "Look at that cutie," I whispered to my friend. "The third one in line." I nodded in his direction.
Sam smiled then grunted. "Geesh," she returned too loudly. "Check out the one behind him. Don't his parents own a comb?"
"Shh." I chuckled, elbowing her in the ribs but searching out the party in question. The little towhead's hair was in such disarray I could picture a family of snakes nesting in it. Luckily, he was too busy bossing the little girl in front of him around to hear Samantha's comment. He ordered his classmate to get her silverware and then instructed her on the correct way to put it in its particular slot on the tray.
I turned my attention to my first customer. "Hey. How are you today?" I stared into the face of an angel, ringed in dark curls.
She gazed up at me with big blue eyes twinkling in the fluorescent light. "What's for lunch?"
"Well now, let's see..." I crouched so I was closer to the girl's level. "It appears to be pizza, apple slices, carrots, and a cookie."
"Yum. My favorite."
"Hey." I placed my hands on my hips as I rose. "Didn't you say that yesterday?"
She giggled, and continued on.
"Dumas," Samantha muttered, but I ignored her, though stifling a giggle. While she tried to act the tough Southside Chicago girl she was, Sam was probably the softest when it came to the kids. When she called the kindergarteners dumb asses (or Dumases) she was playing up her stereotype and trying to crack me up. Admittedly, it was March and the kids should know the routine by now, and, sure, already two of them turned back around to get the napkins they forgot to pick up, but there were lots of distractions today. For instance, Bethany was sporting the laminated birthday crown, and Charlie Calhoun obviously had a run-in with something bigger than him on the playground, as he was pressing a frozen sponge in a sandwich baggie to his eye.
I addressed the next in line. "Did you guys just get back from recess?" The answer was obvious as the rather round fellow's face was beet red and his hair was wet from sweat.
"Yep."
"Did you play football, by any chance?" I queried, raising an eyebrow as I noted the grass stain on the left shoulder of his uniform shirt. I could picture his mom shaking her head as she plucked it out of the dirty clothes hamper at home.
"Nah. Four-square."
"I see. That a full-contact sport these days?"
Sam smirked at my comment. At least we provided our own entertainment.
"Huh?"
"Never mind, sweetheart. Have a good lunch."
The boy walked away befuddled, which was the way a lot of the kids left when we teased them, not that it stopped us. In fact, a lot of grown-ups had the same reaction to us. Apparently, not many people got us, but it really wasn't much of a problem as far as we were concerned.
The line halted while Sam got out another tray of pizza; it was a slow serve. To bide the time, I looked at the next girl in line, who had long, straight, blonde hair and a winning smile. "And for you today, Sophia, we have..." I paused dramatically before handing her a tray. "Pizza!" I exclaimed with delight. Sophia grinned at me, used to the weird lunch ladies. In fact, she was one of our fans. People either loved Sam and me, or they hated us, and we weren't sure where our boss fell on the question, but we hoped it was the former.
"And for you, Mr. Costigan..." I always mixed the two youngest Costigan boys up, so I hedged by using their last name. "Pizza."
He shook his head with a frown. "You guys are cwazy."
"Yes, we are," Samantha commented proudly.
"And, I don't know, Mrs. Neaman... I thought at first this child had pizza written all over him, but now I'm not quite sure. Hmm..." I placed a gloved fist to my chin to study the child in question and then we bent our heads together to whisper nonsensical sounds loudly to each other. We nodded simultaneously. "Pizza."
"And look who we've got here," Sam sang out as the last child in line approached.
"Hey, baby." Warmth spread through me.
"Hi, Momma," my little Tabitha squealed. "I have a picture for you."
"You do?" I asked with faux-surprise, sneaking a wink at Samantha. "Thanks, hon." I reached across the line to give her a squeeze and a kiss. Tabitha flashed a glowing smile as I squatted and rested my elbows on the tray-line to talk to her. "You eat all of your carrots now, okay?"
She wrinkled her cute little nose, then rolled her eyes. "Okay." She trudged off, her golden curls bouncing.
I straightened.
"Ten bucks says it's a rainbow," Sam said out of the corner of her mouth as we watched her walk away.
"I'm not taking that bet." I unfolded the picture, and, sure enough, it was a picture of me under a rainbow with a huge TO: MOMMY, heart—TABITHA C. I chuckled. Like I would be confused as to which Tabitha was sending me a card addressed to Mommy. "Wow. This is even better than yesterday. Check out that perfect rainbow."
Sam took the paper and glanced at the picture. "Dani, rainbows generally have more than three colors, and—"
I grabbed the picture back. "That's only because Tommy Nunez ate all her other crayons."
Sam busted out laughing. "Ate them?"
"Yeah. Bet the little turkey has rainbow-colored poop, too."
Sam cocked her head. "Let me see that picture again."
I hesitated but handed it over.
"At least you have hair today. In fact, four of them."
I growled and snatched it back. "Clearly you have no appreciation for art." I put the rest of the pizza in the warm pass, and turned to her with my most charming smile. "What you do have an appreciation for, though, is music."
She eyed me. "Uh-huh..."
"We need to go to another Chase Hatton concert. He's playing again in Chicago in Tinley Park Amphitheatre."
Sam cocked her head. "Yeah, 'cause what, it's been a whole week?"
Maxine and Alexis, our coworkers, were listening in on our conversation with amusement. Max was the Boss Lady, we called her B.L., for short. Tall and slender, with a champagne blond pixie-cut hair style, she ruled the kitchen with an iron oven mitt. In contrast, Alex was shorter, with shoulder-length, curly, brunette hair, with a tinge of red in it.
"Come on. We've never seen him in an outdoor venue."
"And that makes a difference because...?"
"It just does. Say you'll go with me," I begged, my excitement at the prospect getting the better of me.
"This wouldn't have anything to do with that cute roadie, would it?"
I blushed. Was I that transparent? "What are you talking about?"
"Come on. You only talked about our little two-minute interaction with him about a dozen times on the way home."
I wiped at an imaginary spill on the counter. "It's about the music," I insisted, steering her away from the subject. "And Chase. I have no divided loyalties. Can Bill get us tickets again?" Her ex was a ticket broker.
She grinned, the first chink in her armor. "
I'll see what I can do." After a quick phone call, the tickets were ours.
"Why don't you call Kyle and ask him if he's going to the concert?"
"Good idea."
Soon we had Kyle's answering machine on speakerphone.
I strained to listen. "What's it playing now?"
Sam smiled. "I think it's Metallica."
He called us back a half-hour later. Sam held the phone out in front of her and Max, Alex, and I gathered around.
"Sorry, girls. I was at the gym."
"Yeah, right," I teased. "That sounds like a line." I pitched my voice low. "Sorry, ladies." I sniffed macho-ly. "I was out lifting. Yeah, I bench press about... eight hundred—"
"Dani, anyone my size trying to bench press eight hundred pounds would be killed instantly."
We all giggled.
"Okay, who's there? Sounds like more than you two bozos, eh?"
"The other lunch ladies," Sam answered for us. "The Boss Lady, Max... and Alex, the Angry One." Alex thwacked her arm. "Ouch!"
Alex leaned closer to the phone. "Hi, Kyle. I'm not really angry."
Sam waved the phone at Max, who yelled, "Hi, Kyle."
She brought the receiver back to center. "Where are you right now?"
"I'm home, in Alberta."
"We're calling you in Canada?" I assumed he was on the road somewhere. "Now that you mention it, your accent is much heavier. I don't even remember you having one when we met you."
"I guess I pick it up more when I'm home. And, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I won't be going to the Chase Hatton concert. I'll be in Hawaii." An oven buzzer sounded, and I gravitated in that direction, Max behind me.
"Hawaii? You'd go to Hawaii rather than hang out with us?" Sam asked. I lost the conversation in order to get more pizza out of the oven. Sam finished talking to him until we got officially sucked into the daily operations of our job.
That evening I joined my neighbors at a park for a jazz concert. My friend Tammy—who lived directly across the street from me—and I kept goofing around and getting shushed. I wasn't really into the music that much, so I decided to text Sam instead.
HELP! I'VE BEEN KIDNAPPED AND FORCED 2 LISTEN 2 JAZZ MUSIC.
Within seconds, I had my reply.
WHO IS RESPONSIBLE 4 THIS ATROCITY?!
I chuckled quietly, glancing sideways to see if I would be hushed again, but no one seemed to have noticed. I typed:
THE NEIGHBORS! AND I THOUGHT THEY LIKED ME, 2! I REALLY NEED A CARDIGAN SWEATER 2 FIT IN W/ THIS CROWD. I THINK I'M THE YOUNGEST 1 HERE.
I sent it, sat back, and tried to enjoy the music. It was a beautiful evening, but I found my mind wandering to other places. I wondered if the roadie liked jazz, and then laughed at myself for thinking that. I picked up my phone.
THEN AGAIN, IF I HAD A CARDIGAN SWEATER, I'D PROBABLY HANG MYSELF W/ THE BELT RIGHT NOW!
I laughed as I hit send, scootching farther down in my chair to be more discreet. A few seconds later, a buzz tickled my lap and I snatched up my phone, smiling in anticipation.
I'VE GOT THE GETAWAY CAR. NAME THE PLACE. WHAT KIND OF MONSTERS R THESE PEOPLE?! I THINK THEIR FUN FACTOR IS "0."
I snickered quietly and sent another message back.
THEY'RE PLAYING A SONG CALLED THESE DARN DREAMS. I THINK THERE'S A ROCK VERSION OF IT CALLED THESE DAMN DREAMS... THERE'S ANOTHER NAME FOR THOSE KINDS OF DREAMS, AND YOU PROBABLY SHOULDN'T WRITE SONGS ABOUT THEM.
I waited patiently for her response, trying to appear like I was behaving myself.
LOL! KYLE ASKED ME 2 GO 2 HAWAII W/HIM.
I gasped, earning a frigid glare from the couple beside me.
NO WAY! R U GOING?
DUDE–IT'S LIKE A 10 HOUR TRIP. U KNOW HOW AFRAID OF FLYING I AM.
It was true, I'd felt so sorry for her when she took a trip with a few girlfriends to Vegas. Samantha started drinking as soon as she dropped the kids off at school that day, she was so nervous, and she didn't sleep for weeks preceding it.
BESIDES, I DON'T EVEN REALLY KNOW HIM. WE MET AT A CONCERT AND HAD A DRINK, THAT'S ALL.
So much for my hopes of getting them together.
TRUE. I REALLY LIKE KYLE THO. I HOPE WE SEE HIM AGAIN SOME TIME.
Sam responded—
YEAH. HE IS NICE.
Should I push it further, I wondered?
AND CUTE.
There was a longer than usual pause between messages.
AND CUTE.
I could tell she really liked him. If only I could get them together somehow...
"What are you doing?" Tammy leaned over to ask.
"Oh, nothing. Saying good night to a friend."
NEIGHBOR SEEMS MIFFED. BETTER GO. LOVE YA, GIRL!
She responded—
DITTO. DON'T FORGET YOUR CYANIDE TABLETS NEXT TIME THEY ASK YOU OUT.
A month later, we were again headed up to Chicago for a concert. We met Bill at an exit to get the tickets, which had a sort of drug-running feel to it, and he told us a bad accident up ahead was slowing traffic, and he would reroute us. Bill gave us a map and his Garmin, with directions to not turn it on until we were two miles past a certain junction, and then made us repeat each step back to him. We told him goodbye and thanks and rolled up the window of Sam's SUV.
"He thinks I'm a complete idiot," Sam commented with a laugh.
I smirked. "And you wouldn't have it any other way." We got back on the highway headed north. I was irritated with Sam as she waited until the last minute to leave town. The concert started at six, and it was now quarter 'til. One of the opening bands we'd heard before, and they only had one good song anyway, so I wasn't too concerned about missing them. But the other two bands I was way into, and I wasn't sure what the order was going to be. I promised to wring her pretty little neck if we missed any of it. "I told you we should leave plenty of time in case of an accident, or bad weather, or construction..." I fumed.
"Yeah, you jinxed us."
"Oh, so this is my fault?" I could never stay mad at her for long. I could be irritated with her, jealous of her, and even downright pissed at her, but never for long.
"Yes. How about this bad weather we're experiencing?" She flicked the wipers on and squirted some cleaner on the windshield. "Damn, this is bad. I can't see anything."
"Yeah, right." A few minutes farther down the road, Sam honked at a car she deemed too slow. "I see not only do you have the mysterious ticking noise in the back," a feature since the first time I rode in the vehicle, "but now you have one coming from the engine as well."
She glanced in the rearview mirror, which was sealed with duct tape, and switched lanes like we were at the Indy 500 and she was Dale Earnhardt. "Yeah. But it is really easy to fix. Watch this." She cranked the radio up, giving me a sunny smile. "See? All better."
I snorted. "Boy, I never knew you were so mechanically-inclined."
"Oh, yes. Most people don't know you can fix almost any car noise that way." Sam's phone rang, and she flipped it open, steering with her knee for a minute. I gave a little squeak as she began to veer toward the back end of a semi-truck on my side before she corrected her steering as she answered, mouthing to me, It's Bill. "We're at..." she squinted trying to read the green sign up ahead. "...exit 94. Hey, that's our exit." She turned the blinker on. "Oh, I can understand your drawing now and how the exit ramp loops back... okay, thanks." She closed the phone and sat it beside her again. "He wanted to make sure we took the right exit," she said with a shake of her head.
Five minutes later, after assuring me again we weren't going to miss anything and we were "almost there" the phone rang.
"Bill says we should be coming up on Laramie soon." We peered at the next street sign. It read Laramie.
"Okay, that's really weird. Is he following us?" We both threw a glance back, but no Bill was tailing us.
Ten minutes later, well after the start time now, Bill called again, right before our next turn. "This is getting spooky," I commented. But five minutes after that we
were pulling into the lot with a bunch of other cars. I was excited now because Chase and my roadie were not far away. I asked the parking attendant giddily if they held the concert for us.
"It doesn't start until 6:30," he answered straight-faced.
"But I thought the tickets said 6:00?"
"They pushed it back a half-hour because of a bad accident."
"I told you we'd be on time," Sam sang out. I shook my head. Only Sam-luck could have done that.
We reached our seats with our eleven-dollar brews right as the opening band played its only good song. I grinned. "We didn't miss anything."
"Told you."
The concert was awesome. Chase was even better than the first time we saw him, and while we weren't on the floor, I still enjoyed the hundred dollar seats Bill got us for fifty. We made friends with the people around us, and one enemy, with the security person who didn't appreciate Sam's critiquing her job and asking her if she owned stock in Midwest Bank, the owners of the Tweeter Center. "You are taking your job way too seriously."
After the concert was over, I took charge, heading toward the stage until someone directed us to one of the exits. I zeroed in on a young, cute security guard and began to flirt shamelessly with him and beg him to let us in. He politely turned us down. Ducking around a corner, we snuck past two female guards, but they saw us and called us back. I watched as a lady with a queer hat—which I'm certain she thought was funky, but was just queer—and a pass, addressed a guard. "It's this way," I heard him say.
"Come on, Sam. Let's follow them." It started to drizzle, but I wasn't going to let anything dampen my plans to get backstage. I'm not sure what possessed me. I guess it was simply the idea they were so close.
The lady with the stupid hat—who was so unworthy of a backstage pass it wasn't even funny—was led through a gate in a wooden fence. I scanned the area. The fence was about twenty feet tall, but the way it was angled, the far corner was out of sight of practically everyone.
I set my jaw. "I've got to get backstage."
"What's your plan?"
"I'm going over that fence."
To her credit, Sam didn't bat an eyelash. "I'll cover you. Once you meet the band, let me in."
To Hell in a Coach Bag Page 7